Waterborne Exile (18 page)

“Yes, your holiness. I believe they will make good candidates. If you wish to inspect them for yourself–”

Durstan waved his hand and the monk fell silent. “All in good time. What progress have you made with the soldier, Pius?”

“He is always biddable, your holiness. He asks no questions, never speaks out of turn. His strength is returning – each day I see an improvement in him.”

Durstan nodded. “Then he has passed the most critical stage. When will he be ready to travel?”

“To travel, your holiness? I do not understand.”

“Pius will be accompanying me on my journey, Curwen. I need him as an example of our work, to show our king Vasic what benefits would accrue to him if he were to take the order under his kingly wing. Pius will be the proof I was unable to offer Tresilian or his father before him. What monarch would not welcome an elite guard, not only blessed by the Goddess, but loyal to the death?”

“Your holiness, this is an ambitious plan.”

“It is time the order was brought back into the light. We will skulk no more at the edge of the kingdom, but take our place at the heart of all things, that the Goddess shall receive her dues once more as is her right. The whole of the Peninsular Kingdoms will return to the one true faith.”

Curwen murmured, “Praise be to the Goddess. Bringer of life and bringer of death.” He shuffled his feet. “Holiness, I have heard it said that many call this Vasic a usurper and would sooner bend the knee to the Queen Alwenna than swear loyalty to him.”

“That is why we must find the Lady Alwenna before anyone else does, Curwen. And that is why Vasic might be persuaded to provide us with the funds to do so. As long as she lives she will be a thorn in his side. And as long as she lives she will carry the power that she has stolen from the grey brethren. We will have that power back, Curwen. And then none can hope to stand in our way as we re-establish the old order of the Goddess.”

“But, your holiness, how can we hope to achieve that? We have not food to carry us through another–”

“The Goddess spoke to me in a vision, Curwen. She spoke to me, and told me we have her blessing. And she told me what we must do, every last detail. If we prepare our ground carefully and remain faithful we cannot fail.”

Curwen bowed. “Praise be to the Goddess.”

“Praise be to the Goddess,” Durstan echoed. “And now, Curwen, we have much to do if I am to set off for Highkell in timely fashion. Show me these two soldiers. We will treat them as we did the man Weaver, and by the time I return they will be ready to serve the order.”

Durstan strode over to the door, throwing it open and stepping out into the corridor. He’d set Curwen’s doubts to rest, now a bold stratagem needed bold gestures to carry it through. The corridor was empty, but he could have sworn he heard the swish of skirts as someone hurried away.

The image of the priestess Miria sprang unbidden to his mind. This was becoming unsettling. He must repeat his devotions to the Goddess, and perform them nightly, to rid his mind of this spectre. He would not be turned from his purpose by any living woman, however much she preyed on his mind. He would remain true to the Goddess.

Jervin’s library was a place of peace for Drew. He suspected Jervin hadn’t the faintest notion of the true worth of half the volumes in his collection. There was a rare gazetteer listing the reports of a high seer and his clerics who had examined all the precincts in Highground, itemising the value of tithes and comparing the merits of their various buildings. This orderly, who hailed from Lynesreach, had taken a dim view of the provincials with whom he found himself breaking bread as he did his rounds.

Sometimes Drew turned to the listing for Vorrahan and read through it, comparing the pictures in his mind’s eye to the rather basic description.
“A refectory building, of rudimentary structure but more commodious than the size of the community at Vorrahan currently warrants.”
The prelate had been reprimanded for excess and a replacement sought as a matter of urgency. The refectory had been draughty enough, certainly. Always a chilly contrast to the heat of the kitchens where Drew had been given duties on first arriving at Vorrahan. The librarian had requested a likely young novice to help him sort and catalogue the collections and Drew had been only too glad to escape the bustle of the kitchens, not to mention Brother Irwyn’s less than kindly attentions.

The librarian had never spoken of it, of course, but Drew guessed he knew… Yes, the library had always been a place of peace.

“A curiosity on the lower slopes of Mt Vorrahan is the chamber whence the holy well springs forth from the ground, gathering in a capacious chamber wherein it forms a pool. This pool has a local reputation for promoting visions of the future. As such the Order of Seers has long had a presence allied to the precinct on Vorrahan. Once a popular site of pilgrimage, the spring chamber has fallen into disuse of recent years. The prelate has requested a suitable seer be sent to serve the precinct and instructions have been sent for a candidate to be chosen and prepared without delay.”

This may well have been the process that led to Brother Gwydion’s selection. Drew reckoned up the years – it would have made Gwydion seventy years old at the very least by the time Drew had come to Vorrahan. He had never imagined it would be such a mundane process to select a high seer – far from the spiritual journey he had imagined. The whole book seemed to be a record of imagined slights and petty grievances, with concessions demanded to appease the pride of those affronted by the high seer’s findings. And yet Gwydion had truly been gifted with the sight – Drew had no doubt of it. Gwydion had told him of the Lady Alwenna’s journey in the weeks before her arrival. No, Drew thought, Gwydion had been a true spiritual, dedicated to serving the Goddess. Had he foreseen the disasters that would overcome Alwenna if she had returned to Highkell? If he’d had some hint of it, that might cast the agitation of his final days in a different light.

Drew had the distance now to see that the precinct’s treatment of Gwydion had been lacking. The seer had been given scant respect by Garrad and kept at arm’s length from the main precinct. Even his dedicated servants had been looked at askance by their brethren. And he had even been sent to Vorrahan at what seemed little more than a whim by a higher authority. What might Gwydion have been if he had remained in the south and not been sent into effective exile on the grey, windswept island? Or was this how destiny worked – through such trivial chains of consequence? If Alwenna and Weaver had tarried even one day more on the road to Vorrahan, Gwydion might have died without passing on the knowledge of ages. Or Drew himself might have been the recipient.

A raucous burst of laughter intruded upon Drew’s thoughts. The traders from Ellisquay were downstairs in Jervin’s study, ostensibly discussing important business. They disturbed the evening calm of the house. Jervin had made it clear to Drew that he was not included. Sensitive matters were involved, he had said, that must go no further than the walls of the room in which they were discussed. Their business didn’t sound sensitive. Not at all. It sounded drunk. It didn’t sound anything like business at all. Drew tried to concentrate on his book again, but rather than distract him the subject matter served to vex him. He might go and select another from Jervin’s library. It was far too early to think about going to bed and sleep was doubly unlikely with Jervin’s noisy visitors in the house.

Mind made up, he hurried down the stairs. The hallway was empty, all the servants clearly having been banished as he had. He could listen at the door and there would be nobody to see him. He took a couple of steps past the library door before doubling back. What was he thinking? Ten to one he’d be caught peering through the keyhole as a servant brought more refreshments for the party. Jervin had impressed upon Drew the importance of providing generous hospitality for one’s business associates. No matter how tight times might be, he had said, it was vital such connections should see only success: a man at the top of his game; a man they wished to be associated with; a man whose wealth couldn’t help but rub off on them simply because of that association.

From the household accounts Drew had seen that wealth wasn’t so much rubbing off on them as being poured straight down their gullets. And – going by those same accounts – those traders from Ellisquay had an appetite second to none. With a sigh he opened the library door and stepped inside. The voices were almost as distinct in here as they had been in the hallway. He set his book down on the table, considering. There were built in cupboards flanking the fireplace that backed onto Jervin’s study. Shelves in the top half housed Jervin’s collection of ceramics from all corners of the peninsula and beyond, the whole being protected by glazed doors. The bottom half contained cupboards, closed off by pairs of panelled doors.

The sound was far more distinct from the right side of the fireplace. Drew hesitated, then stooped down and gently opened the cupboard doors. The cupboard was more or less empty, containing a few folded cloths and nothing else. And when he peered through to the back he could see a tiny chink of light from the room beyond. On closer inspection he realised that side was closed off by a wooden panel which had split along the grain. It was through this crack the sound of conversation was reaching him. He couldn’t help himself now, and leaned closer.

The Ellisquay traders were doing most of the talking. Drew struggled to follow the thick Ellisquay accent at the best of times, but now, well-lubricated, they were talking faster than ever, and talking over one another. He could make out odd words, but could not get the gist of what they were saying at all. Occasionally Jervin, seated at the far side of the room, interpolated a lazy comment in his low voice, but mostly he was letting them run on. Drew could picture him sitting there, glass in hand, smiling to himself as the drunken traders spilled their secrets. It was not the orgiastic scene he’d half expected to find – his initial flush of relief was rapidly followed by shame that he hadn’t trusted Jervin in the first place. Goddess, what was wrong with him these days? How could he have doubted him? Jervin was simply sitting there, smiling to himself, with murder in his heart.

Drew shivered and pulled back out of the cupboard. Where had that thought come from? He had no idea, but he did know he ought not be eavesdropping like this. He closed the cupboard doors as softly as he could, fastening them with care and retreated to the bookshelves where he grabbed another book at random and hurried out of the room, mortified by his own behaviour.

Kaith bowed low before Vasic. “I was unable to see the Lady Drelena at all, your highness, for she was indisposed throughout my visit. However, I have been reliably informed she is a great beauty, and I think you will agree this portrait bears that out.” With a flourish, he gestured to the servant who followed in his wake, clutching a fabric-wrapped bundle. The servant hurried forward and offered up the bundle to Kaith, who loosened the ties holding it shut and unwrapped the covering. Leaving the fabric in the servant’s hands he held up the portrait for Vasic’s inspection.

The portrait showed a round-faced young woman with a bright smile, dark, curling hair and not an ounce of Alwenna’s reserve. He couldn’t have found someone who looked less like his previous bride-to-be if he’d drawn up a detailed specification. “She appears comely enough. I imagine if she had a squint the artist would not have portrayed that faithfully.”

“I have never heard it said that she has a squint, highness. I think you need have no fears on that score.”

“Nonetheless I would sooner have had the evidence of your own eyes at this point, Kaith. I might as well have sent a letter for all the good this does me. This was not well done on your part.” He gestured to the portrait irritably.

“Highness, I did everything I could. The Lady Drelena’s rooms were kept well-guarded and the servants could not be bought. Her parents were most apologetic to me. But she had contracted one of those tiresome childhood diseases, and did not wish to be seen while she was woefully spotty, or so I was given to understand by the servants.”

“You managed to question the servants, at least?” Vasic studied the likeness. The artist had captured an enchanting smile. It would be disappointing indeed to find it was more the work of the artist’s imagination than real life.

“Yes, sire. It was clear they all held the young lady in close affection, and were somewhat downcast by her illness. These diseases can be far worse once the age of adulthood is reached.”

“It is all most dissatisfactory. We must hope her face is not disastrously pockmarked as a result.” Vasic pushed himself up out of his chair and crossed over to the window, peering down at the main gate. Builders swarmed there, busy completing a temporary footbridge. They were a severe drain on the royal coffers. Pockmarked or not, he’d have to make his new bride welcome. Kaith may have failed to catch sight of the girl, but the terms he’d negotiated with the lord Convenor Etrus were generous indeed. Vasic could not afford to prevaricate now.

“This matter must proceed with all possible speed. You will waste no time returning to the Outer Isles bearing my reply and suitable gifts.” Vasic glowered out of the window at the construction work. He would have to take his chance with pockmarks.

Peveril threaded his way through the market square. Market days were still deathly quiet, even though the footbridge had been opened for traders to bring in their produce. The once-fat purse used to carry payment from traders for their stalls was woefully slim today. Too slim for him to quietly take his usual cut before he carried it up to the counting-house. But that wasn’t Peveril’s chief concern today. More vexing was the ongoing absence of some of his more creative contacts. In particular, the goldsmith he’d hoped would pay a tidy sum for the necklace he’d acquired from the apprentice. That business was beginning to look like a deal of work for very little return.