The Ragged Man (41 page)
Authors: Tom Lloyd
‘All the more reason for us to be quick about it then,’ she said with a mock-stern tone. ‘There’ll be no wriggling out of it this time, my love.’
Vesna smiled and allowed her to take his arm and lead him to the door.
‘I remember once,’ Tila added with a sly smile as she closed to door to the shrine, ‘being told to treat my husband like a God on my wedding night.’ She patted his black-iron vambrace. ‘It is good I won’t have to pretend now.’
Mihn woke with the sense that something was out of place. This was an exhausting existence, not just caring for the two of them and hunting enough to feed a white-eye’s appetite, but being constantly on guard, alert for dangers both natural and unnatural. Most mornings he drifted into wakefulness slowly, but today he found his eyes wide open and staring at the crossbeam above his bed. He had hung a blanket over it to give one end of the bed an element of privacy, though still able to keep an eye on Isak during his nightmares. He found it oddly comforting.
Now he peered at Isak’s bed, and immediately reached for his boots as he realised it was empty. It was early, still chill, and the pale dawn light was just seeping into the cottage. He set the boots aside and instead pulled on a thick woollen shirt and trousers. As he slipped silently outside the charms tattooed on the soles of his feet glowed warm on his skin. The rising sun was hidden behind a low bank of mist, while the eastern horizon, over the lake, was as dark as a thundercloud.
Isak was standing by a crooked willow fifty yards away. Though old, the tree jutting out over the water was no higher than the white-eye. The puppy Hulf nosed through the hanging fronds at Isak’s feet, a broken stub of wood jammed in his mouth like a cigar. When he saw Mihn, Hulf gave a snort and scampered over, his tail wagging furiously. The bark had been stripped off his little branch by his increasingly powerful jaws. He dropped it at Mihn’s feet.
‘Isak, could you not sleep?’
Isak watched the insects skittering over the near-still lake surface for a while, making no sign that he had heard Mihn.
At last, ‘I once loved sleep,’ he said wearily, ‘and now it stalks me.’
From the trees came the warbling song of dozens of birds, all saluting the dawn. Mihn looked around to see a robin sitting on the topmost branch of the willow, watching Isak, its head cocked as though trying to puzzle out what he was and where he came from. Like all the robins he’d seen in Llehden, this one had a green cap, as bright as its red breast — something he’d never seen elsewhere on his wanderings.
‘Do you want me to leave?’
Isak shook his head. ‘You’re as much a part of it as they are,’ he said, looking back at the insects briefly.
‘A part of what? The Land?’
‘The patterns I see all around me. The threads that bind you to the tapestry.’
Mihn frowned. Isak’s maudlin thoughts were often followed by listlessness and a deep gloom and he’d hoped today to be able to get the damaged white-eye up and working; exercising those still-powerful muscles and helping him continue his journey back to the man he’d once been.
‘Come back to the cottage,’ he urged, ‘I’ll make some tea — you must be cold out here.’
Isak was wearing only a thin robe, tied at the waist with a braided belt Xeliath had once worn. The scars on his throat and chest were plain to see, duller now that the day they had returned from Ghenna but no less terrible.
‘It’s strange,’ Isak said, looking Mihn properly in the eye for the first time that day. ‘I don’t feel part of that pattern. We cut the threads that bound me. We had to — there was no other way.’
‘I know,’ Mihn said soothingly, seeing Isak’s face tightening with anxiety. The witch of Llehden had cut many memories from his mind, leaving great holes there. Some things Isak remembered perfectly, but he sensed the frayed edges of his memory. ‘We freed you. It was hard, but we freed you.’
‘We cut too many,’ Isak said with an abrupt, strangled cough of laughter. ‘Ham-fisted wagon-brat, that’s what she used to call me.’
‘Tila? Aye, and Carel too.’
‘Carel?’
Mihn shook his head hurriedly. ‘Just someone you once knew,’ he said, a dagger of guilt driving deep into his heart.
Merciful Gods, he cannot remember Carel? How do I ever forgive myself for taking that memory from him?
Merciful Gods, he cannot remember Carel? How do I ever forgive myself for taking that memory from him?
He had to cough and clear his throat before he could speak again. ‘Tell me how you know we cut too many.’
‘I’m not part of the tapestry, not any more. A few threads still hold me to life, but I died, didn’t I?’
‘You did.’ For a moment Mihn felt the weight of the Land upon his shoulders, but he shook off the mood. He didn’t know what price he would have to pay for the audacity of his actions, but whatever it was, it could not be worse than what Isak had endured. ‘You died, and we brought you back. We had to.’
‘To free me of the ties that bind,’ Isak intoned, ‘and that bastard Lesarl,’ he added. ‘Never liked him.’
Mihn forced a smile at the glimpse of the old Isak; he didn’t see them often, but they were coming more frequently now. The witch had been right to give Hulf to Isak. They were inseparable now and the dog, growing stronger every day — and starting to show the fierce spirit yet to reawaken in Isak — was tirelessly playful. Hulf was forcing Isak to remember his own love of silliness, running along the lakeshore with happy abandon, leaping over whatever was in his way, or stealing Isak’s shoes in the hope of being chased. It had taken Isak a while to keep up, but just as the growing dog was developing a wilful, exuberant personality, Isak was unearthing his own, buried deep, but not entirely cut away by their drastic measures.
‘Can you see the pattern?’ Mihn asked cautiously. ‘Do you understand it now?’
Isak’s gaze returned to the lake. ‘I see the wind. I see the sun — the threads that tie flowers to the sun and bees to the flowers. I see the spirits of the forest and the Gods that rule them. I see the threads that bind it all, the weaves and colours of all things.’
‘And me?’
Isak’s face went suddenly grave. ‘Especially you. You keep me in the pattern. I am the millstone around your neck.’
‘Isak, that is not true,’ Mihn insisted sternly. ‘We both made this choice, and I would make the same choice again.’
‘Would I?’ Isak wondered. ‘Do I have the strength?’
‘Your strength is something I will never doubt.’
Without warning tears spilled from Isak’s eyes. He stood there, unashamed, looking mournfully at Mihn. ‘We must remake the pattern; tear out the threads and bind them anew — and you will have to live with the consequences.’
CHAPTER 17
Legana felt the light of the fading sun break through the clouds and settle over her as she sat on a stone bench in the centre of Kamfer’s Ford. She turned her head a little to protect her sensitive eyes and waited. Life in the market square continued around her. The locals were used to the sight of her now, and had quite got over their nervousness, if not their awe.
‘Mistress?’
Legana looked up at the broad woman bathed in warm orange light. She recognised the voice of the innkeeper’s wife, a woman as respectful towards her as if Legana were the greatest witch in the west.
‘I thought you might like a cup of tannay,’ she said timidly, offering a small brass goblet. Legana smiled, and sensed the woman’s relief.
Quickly Legana wrote —
Thank you
on her slate and held it up before accepting the goblet. The local spirit was served warm to bring out the flavour.
Thank you
on her slate and held it up before accepting the goblet. The local spirit was served warm to bring out the flavour.
‘You’ve brought us enough trade in recent weeks,’ the landlady said. ‘Your guests all come to the inn, and never a word of trouble no matter how much they drink — and whatever Unmen Poller says at High Reverence, the wisewomen say you’ve frightened off every bad spirit for miles. It seemed only right to fetch you a cup in thanks. My ma always said tannay should be drunk with a spring sunset.’
Legana sipped the drink and felt its warmth spread down her throat. She’d tried other people’s tannay since she’d arrived at Kamfer’s Ford, enough to tell this was the finest yet. A smile spread over her face and she gestured to the other side of the bench, inviting the woman to join her.
‘Oh I wouldn’t want to disturb you . . .’
Legana gave a dismissive wave of the hand and the woman tailed off. The divine spark was strong enough inside Legana that when she gestured again the woman sat immediately.
—
I am Legana.
I am Legana.
‘Nanter Kassai,’ came the hurried response. ‘Mistress Legana, may I . . . may I ask you a question?’
Legana inclined her head and shifted in her seat to look Nanter in the face, who faltered at the sight of her gleaming emerald eyes.
Nanter had short auburn hair and a button nose that seemed out of proportion with the rest of her face. She cleared her throat and looked down. ‘I was just wondering, why d’you sit here every evening? I don’t mean to pry, Mistress Legana, but the women who travel here, they come at all times, but we never see you save at sunset.’
Legana considered the question a while, chalk in her hand. Eventually she began to write.
—
Do you remember the girl you once were?
Do you remember the girl you once were?
Nanter smiled encouragingly.
—
This is how I do it.
This is how I do it.
Nanter looked a little puzzled by the statement, but it was as simple as Legana could make it. At twilight the Gods withdrew from the Land and the part of her that was divine became a shade muted. The sounds of everyday life around her reminded Legana of what it was to be alive, while the sinking sun was a memorial to the Goddess she had lost.
Whether pious or merely conditioned to the routines and rituals, every devotee of the Lady had lost something of herself when the family that raised her had been broken. Some would not want another to take its place, but Legana was sure many would be glad of anything she had to offer. Most people craved belonging of one sort or another. While Legana had spoken her prayers through rote rather than joy, she had still been glad to work — even to bleed — in the service of her family.
‘Mistress, do you know how many there are of you left?’ Nanter asked quietly, terrified of prying, despite Legana’s invitation for her to sit.
Legana shook her head. She had been unable to reach the minds of any devotee beyond those she had brought to Kamfer’s Ford — two dozen now. She could feel them out there, glowing in her mind like candles in the fog. Those that had come at her call said they felt something in the night and been curious enough to investigate, which told Legana her efforts might at least serve as a beacon to those touched by the Lady.
Less happily, the newcomers had also brought tales of fanatical clerics turning on Fate’s priestesses. Some had already been burned, amidst rumours that Fate had been cut down by Death and her followers were now heretics.
‘How did it happen?’ Nanter whispered. ‘Did you feel it?’
Legana’s hand trembled as her body remembered the beating it had received the night Aracnan killed the Lady.
—
I felt it
, she wrote hesitantly.
I saw her murder.
I felt it
, she wrote hesitantly.
I saw her murder.
‘Who would do such a thing?’ Nanter’s face was white.
—
A daemon with the face of a child.
A daemon with the face of a child.
Nanter shivered. ‘Will it be hunting you?’
Legana shook her head. —
I am no threat, and it has other enemies.
I am no threat, and it has other enemies.
‘As do you.’
—
I know.
I know.
‘What will you do if the fanatics come looking for you?’
Legana gave her a small, inscrutable smile, and the emerald gleam in her eyes intensified momentarily. Nanter drew back in alarm, but managed to catch herself. With a great effort of will she kept her seat on the bench.
‘A Goddess’ blessing,’ she whispered, as enthralled as she was frightened, ‘a blessing on us all.’
—
Tell the unmen that.
Tell the unmen that.
‘We’ve tried,’ Nanter said sadly, ‘but he won’t listen. We are Godsfearing folk in these parts, but he drives away the most pious among us with his fervour.’
—
Worship without him.
Worship without him.
The innkeeper’s wife froze. ‘You want us to...? Are you saying ...?’
Legana realised what Nanter was failing to say and almost choked as she tried not to laugh. Her ruined voice and damaged throat meant that laughter was dreadfully painful, and barely recognisable.
—
I am no God
,
nor priestess
, she wrote when the coughing had subsided.
I am no God
,
nor priestess
, she wrote when the coughing had subsided.
The relief on Nanter’s face showed she had been right, the woman had been asking whether Legana intended to take Unmen Poller’s place as the heart of the town’s worship.
—
But I can get him away from the temple each evening.
But I can get him away from the temple each evening.
Nanter bobbed her head in thanks. ‘Thank you, Mistress.’ She was about to say more when she caught sight of something past Legana’s shoulder. ‘Mistress, I think more guests have arrived.’
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