Waterborne Exile (15 page)

“I very much doubt it, sir. I suspect we move in different circles.”

“Surely not. This is not so large a town, after all.”

“I work at the
Royal Hart
, perhaps–” She did not need to finish her sentence.

“That was you, last night, was it not?” His expression changed subtly to one of embarrassment. “I fear I must have left you with a poor impression. Small wonder you prefer not to acknowledge the acquaintance.”

“I imagined on the whole you would prefer not to be reminded of the episode, sir.”

His expression fell. “I had hoped my behaviour had not been so – at least permit me to thank you for your patient–”

A male voice, deep, broke in. “Step aside, Darnell. Let a man pass.”

Darnell stepped aside, moving closer to Lena. “Master Barrett, and Miss Barrett. Good morning.”

The young woman behind Master Barrett nodded distantly and her eyes flicked over Lena in rapid assessment.

The older man inclined his head with little attempt to be polite. “I see you haven’t let the grass grow under your feet, Darnell. Good day to you and to your fair companion.” He raised his hat in ironic salute and moved off while his daughter – as Lena surmised she must be – followed in his wake, keeping her eyes averted.

Darnell turned back to Lena. “Goddess, I’m so sorry. He’s no right to speak of you like that. I should have introduced you, but I still don’t, I think, know your name…”

“Can you truly not recall? It was the subject of much discussion last night.”

“I was three sheets to the wind last night, as you well know.” He glanced after Barrett. “Is there some less public place where we might continue this conversation?”

“I fear not, I must return to work. I’ve lingered here long enough already. Good day to you, Master Darnell.”

“Permit me to carry your basket, at the very least. And I promise this time to remember your name if you’ll be so tolerant as to tell me it again.” He took hold of the basket handle, and she released it with good enough grace. It was heavy enough to be an inconvenience, although nothing like as heavy as he had been last night.

“Lena is my name.”

“Delighted to make your acquaintance once again. If I’m to perform proper introductions, I’ll be needing your surname.”

“I cannot imagine the situation arising.”

“It did just now. What’s to say it won’t again?”

“A great many things, I imagine. They must be more than obvious, even to you in the throes of your hangover.”

“There are two things obvious to me this morning, Lena. One is that I made a damned fool of myself last night.”

They had reached the inn. Lena made to reclaim her basket, but he held onto it. “And the other, sir?”

“The other? That you are a highly unlikely inn servant. Everything about you speaks of high birth and a sound education.”

“I was fortunate to be raised in a wealthy household where education was held in high regard. I have enjoyed opportunities denied to many women in similar circumstances.”

“I enjoy solving a good mystery, Lena. I hope this will not be our last meeting.” He released the basket and she hurried indoors, with a pang of regret. Solving mysteries with Nils Darnell was the most tempting prospect she’d encountered in her time at Sylhaven. Maybe she wouldn’t leave just yet.

Marten and three slighter figures were hard at work on the flat floor of the valley beyond the old tree. His three sons each wielded a wooden training blade in turn as their father walked them through basic exercises. Alwenna was familiar enough with the forms from watching Tresilian training all those years ago. Sometimes – depending which fencing master had been teaching that day – she had been allowed to join in. She settled on one of the stones in the shade of the tree to watch. None of them had noticed her presence, and she was far off enough not to intrude. It was a peaceful scene, even though they were studying the art of war. And with Marten, as it had been with Weaver, it was indeed an art: the freemerchant moved with the same grace and precision. Of the three boys, the middle one, Brett, was closest to matching his father’s style. He seemed to have a natural aptitude for the discipline, soon mastering the footwork of the various moves Marten showed him. The youngest, Pieten, didn’t seem greatly interested in the finer points. His endeavours were mainly limited to brandishing the wooden sword and hacking wildly at his opponent and he laughed off Marten’s attempts to improve his technique. Malcolm worked stolidly and seriously, as he did at everything, but he lacked the speed and agility shared by his father and Brett. At the end of the session he joined Pieten, who had long ago abandoned any pretence of training and, ruffling his younger brother’s hair, they set off back towards the dwellings.

Brett clearly hadn’t had enough, and he and his father engaged in another bout, working through the set routines Alwenna was so familiar with. Just how long ago had it been when she sat and watched Tresilian sparring with Weaver at Highkell? It felt like a lifetime and more… She knew a moment’s dizziness, as if the sunlight had suddenly dazzled her, even though she sat there in the shade of the tree. She’d learned of late, somehow, to prevent the sight catching her unawares, if not being able to entirely stop it. This was just a reminder it was never far away, always watching her… Which was a foolish thought. The sight was a part of her, whether she welcomed it or not. As was her past. And it would always intrude on her notice when she thought she’d turned her back on it at last.

“My lady. Have we provided you with adequate entertainment this morning?” Marten saluted her with his wooden sword. He was looking more like the man she remembered from the summer palace, vital and alive. The man who’d sold her to her undead husband without turning so much as a hair. It didn’t hurt to remind herself of that at frequent intervals.

“The finest display of swordsmanship I’ve seen this side of the Peninsula.”

Brett grinned and blushed deep red.

Marten also grinned. “The only display of swordsmanship this side of the Peninsula.” The likeness between them was very apparent at that moment.

Sundry other boys were hanging around watching from a distance, while pretending not to be at all interested.

Alwenna stood up, dusting the ever-present layer of sand off her gown. She was aware of the vigorous weight in her belly as she stooped. She’d lost track of the number of days that had passed, but it must be visible to the casual observer by now. She pushed the thought away. “Tell me, Marten, have you no other pupils keen to learn your skills?”

Marten glanced up the hill to where the others were watching. “Alas, no. Not as yet.”

“I think they might be persuaded soon enough.”

“Their parents are against it. It’s difficult to…” Marten tucked the wooden sword under his arm and walked alongside Alwenna. “Freemerchant lore would have it the Hunter gave us weapons to be used as tools for catching and butchering our food, nothing more. I’m not only going against the old ways, but some of the basic tenets of our faith. Some say I’ve spent too much time in the towns of the Peninsula, drinking with soldiers and kings.”

“Do you think you have?”

“Perhaps, for all the good it’s done me.”

“But you’re still teaching your sons according to landbound philosophy?”

“I want to teach my sons to live in the wider world, because I fear one day it will come knocking at our door, whether we invite it or not.”

Alwenna’s gut knotted with apprehension. “So the elders have convinced you that I will bring disaster in my wake?”

Brett was tagging alongside them now, listening to their conversation.

“No such thing, my lady. Here, Brett, you take this sword back home for me. Let your Ma know we’re done, in case she’s been holding food back for us.”

Brett took the wooden swords and dashed off up the hill.

“He is very like you – I imagine you must have been just like him at that age.”

“I’ve been told that more than once.” Marten stopped. “And I’ve told you more than once to disregard the rubbish old Rogen spouted. The years haven’t been kind to him and he’ll look to blame everyone and everything but himself for any imagined slight. Pay no heed to the old fool’s words. He doesn’t have the backing of a majority on the council.”

“Don’t you realise, Marten? I’ve been told everything he said before. Growing up at Highkell there were constant jibes from the other children: I was ill-omened. And do you know who told me it most recently, before Rogen? Father Garrad. Just seconds before he turned that blade upon himself.” She paused to find the words. “I don’t want to seem negative when I say this, but I am beginning to believe there may be some truth in it. I– I’ve grown up with the knowledge of it. Ever since my parents died. Every childhood taunt… Recent events have given me enough evidence to think it may be true.”

“That’s nonsense. I’m sorry, my lady, but that’s the truth. You are no more a creature of ill-omen than anyone else here. I’ll grant you there has been dark power at work, but that resides in the blade, not in you.”

“Can you be so sure of that?”

“You are better since you have been parted from it, are you not? You don’t suffer the same visions and night fears?”

“You’ve been talking to Erin, I suppose.”

“It’s my business to find out the things I need to know. Had you forgotten?”

“You need not resort to subterfuge: you might simply ask me.”

“I believe I just did. You assumed I’ve been questioning Erin.”

“I did. And you didn’t deny it.”

Marten smiled. “I didn’t, did I?”

It was impossible to hold a reasonable conversation with him. “I’ve been thinking about it though. The visions… I think they’re stronger when I’m near water. There’s so little of it here, not like it was at Highkell. Even at the summer palace, there was a spring in the fountain courtyard. And by the well…” She’d been overwhelmed by a vision as they’d tried to escape. And Marten had come to their rescue, only to hand them over to Tresilian after all.

Marten twisted his mouth, unconvinced. She hoped he hadn’t followed her train of thought.

“That could all be coincidence. It’s the blade, I tell you. It’s drawn the blood of your kin.”

“We could at least put these theories to the test.”

“How? Should we give you a bath?” Marten laughed.

“This is no time for levity. You should give me back the blade.”

Marten’s laughter died. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

Alwenna spread her hands wide. “What else are we to do? We’ve learned nothing here and we’re no further ahead than the day we arrived.”

“No, Alwenna. I can’t permit that.”

“Why not? Do you want the blade for yourself?”

“Goddess, no. Of course I don’t.”

“Well then, why not? We might learn something, at least.”

Marten shook his head. “It’s too dangerous. We don’t know how great the power of that thing is.”

“In truth, Marten, I think what you’re saying is you don’t know how great the power of the blade is when it’s held in my hand. Now tell me again where you believe that power resides.”

“It’s drawn the blood of your kin. I told you before.”

“Then let me take hold of it again. That blade belongs to me.”

“That blade would destroy you. Weaver told me what happened when you took hold of it. I saw for myself what happened at the summer palace. It would destroy you, and I will not let that happen.”

Always the menfolk talking and settling everything between themselves. Don’t let her do this or that, lest she hurt her silly self. “Maybe, Marten, I’m stronger than you think. Maybe I would rule the blade and not the other way around.”

“Maybe, my lady, that thought has already crossed my mind.” Marten’s expression was sombre. “Maybe that is what I most fear.”

There was a new routine to Weaver’s days, as the priests worked on him through the day, then administered the syrup they believed would make him sleep at night. It was just as the priestess had warned him it would be, but thanks to her he knew the right answers to their incessant questions, knew what was expected of him. He had no wish to be beholden to her, but until he recovered his strength he had little option. The less he tried to resist, the sooner the priests would leave him in peace. But, Goddess, he wanted to resist them. With every fibre of his being. It was one of his few certainties in that bleak time, and he clung to it. Those priests were his enemies, and one day he’d see them brought down. Then they’d pay for every slight against him. He knew he could not trust the priestess either, but she had been right: they needed one another if they were to fight free of this situation.

And focusing on that taxed him enough. There were so many questions at the back of his mind, but he refused to allow them space during waking hours. It was the only way to get through this. Once they’d broken free, then he might dare to consider the half-buried thoughts and memories that ghosted through his sleep. They were there now, gnawing at the edge of his consciousness, but he dared not grant them attention. Let them stay away, leave him in peace. He knew he wasn’t ready to deal with them. He may never be ready. The priestess had told him as much. It was usual, she said, for patients like him to need help after their recovery. Right now, his only certainty was relief that the pain was finally easing. In the night, when there was no one around to witness it, he rose from his bed to exercise. Somehow he had to reclaim his body from the pain and the weakness; somehow he had to rebuild his strength, ready for his escape.

Weaver stood now at the back of the altar chamber as the priest droned on. The prelate, highest on earth, he was supposed to call him. Old lopleg, the priestess called him. But there was a roomful of people standing in devout silence, listening to his words with rapt attention. Or perhaps, like Weaver, they chose to stand meekly and look as if they were paying attention while their minds wandered over more interesting terrain.

And Weaver was paying scant attention to the man’s droning. He was largely absent from the moment, absent even from his own mind. He was surprised when a young woman stepped forward to the dais where the prelate was holding forth, acclaimed by the prelate in a booming voice.