Consorts of Heaven (19 page)

‘I - I’m not sure,’ Sais said, uncertainly.

‘But it worked?’

‘I think so. I just feel . . . a bit odd.’

Cof Hlesmair sometimes left the subject a little confused. Einon put out a hand, not wanting him to leave without revealing something of what he had seen. ‘You should rest a while. I will fetch you a drink.’

Einon had wine left from lunch. He went into the reception room, where he had put the tray, and had just picked up the flagon when someone knocked on the door. He walked over and opened it, ready to tell the man to return for the tray later, but rather than a servant in the Reeve’s red and green livery, the person on the threshold wore travel-stained midnight blue, and he had one arm in a makeshift sling. He gave a small bow, then said, ‘Would you be Einon am Plas Rhydau?’

‘Aye, that is me.’

‘I have a message for you from Escori Urien. May I come in?’

Einon stepped back to let the monitor enter, closing the door behind him.

The man reached inside his jacket. ‘I must apologise for the delay: I had some trouble on the road.’ He proffered a letter, and Einon took it eagerly.

‘I was instructed to await your reply.’

‘Ah, I see.’ So it
was
urgent news. Einon broke the seal, which showed the pinnacle and five stars of the Tyr. He recognised Urien’s neat, precise handwriting and began to read.

Far from being clear orders on what Einon was to do next, the letter was full of trivial news: accounts of the preparations for Sul Esgyniad, observations on new acolytes, even comments on the weather. Confused, he raised his head from what appeared at first sight to be a shocking waste of both paper and the monitor’s time.

A line of pain clamped itself across his throat, cutting off his breath. He tried to cry out, but managed only a faint burble. Even as he raised his hands to claw at his throat, he wondered why the monitor was not rushing to save him.

The constriction tightened as his attacker pulled him closer, into a lethal embrace. He smelled dust and sweat. He stopped trying to get his fingers under the cord across his throat and instead elbowed his assailant as hard as he could. He was rewarded with a faint ‘whoomph’ of surprise, but the grip did not slacken.

A deep hum grew to fill his head and darkness began to creep in at the edges of his vision—

Suddenly he was shoved forward into the table. The carved edge caught him on the hip, momentarily distracting him from the pain around his throat. He staggered back, aware that - thank the Mothers! - he was no longer being strangled. He took a deep, rasping breath and put a hand to his neck, where he felt a thin line imprinted across it, but no blood.

As sense returned he realised he was hearing sounds of a struggle. Someone grunted near his feet. When he looked down he saw Sais and the monitor fighting on the floor; it looked like the monitor had got the upper hand, for he was pinning Sais down with his body.

Einon’s mind tried to make sense of what he was seeing. One of these two men had just tried to kill him—

The monitor got a hand free and reached for his belt. Einon saw the knotted thong still wound round his fist: a garrotte, the ultimate solution to the more extreme disputes in the Tyr.

Einon looked round for a weapon. The heavy earthenware flagon had fallen over and spilled wine across the table, but it had not broken. Einon snatched it up as the monitor drew his dagger and with the unnatural strength of the deeply terrified he smashed the flagon over the monitor’s head.

The man paused for a heartbeat, then slumped over Sais.

Sais struggled out from under the monitor, onto all fours, then into a sitting position. He looked up at Einon. ‘I was wondering what happened to that drink,’ he said breathlessly. ‘Are you all right?’

Einon, not trusting himself to speak yet, nodded. Then he staggered over and yanked the bell-rope.

 

This place was full of surprises, Sais decided, and most of them were nasty. Within moments of Einon calling for help, the priest’s rooms were swarming with servants and guards. Sais, his limbs quivering and his temples throbbing, took the opportunity to slip away and wobbled his way back to his own rooms.

He lay on his bed, willing himself calm, trying to drive the madness of the fight from his head. He had no idea who the attacker was or why he had tried to kill Einon, and right now, he didn’t care.

That unpleasant little interlude had interrupted him as he’d been coming to terms with the first real clue to his past. The therapy had been a success, with both his fears - of nightmares, and of saying the wrong thing to Einon - happily proving to be unfounded.

He’d done as Einon instructed: he’d visualised a room he’d slept in as a child. Even as he’d reached backwards under Einon’s gentle guidance, part of him felt uneasy, aware that he was venturing beyond the veil of his amnesia - but the main part of his mind, relaxed in the trance, just did as the priest asked. The recollection had the garish clarity of a child’s memory: a bright, spacious room full of unknown items, nothing he’d yet come across here. The quality of light was similar to that given off by Einon’s lantern. He couldn’t pin down details like the name or function of the items, only a feel for what they had meant to him: how he enjoyed playing with this toy, his preference for that item of clothing, the physical sensation of sitting in this particular chair. He did recall a window; unlike the narrow unglazed windows with their wooden shutters he’d seen so far here, this was a huge, single piece of glass, keeping out the pounding rain. Though whatever lay on the other side held little interest for his childhood self, he thought it might be significant to him now.

When night fell, he rang for a servant and gave his apologies for not attending dinner. Word of the incident in Einon’s room must have spread, as his excuse of a bad headache was accepted without question. He was too unsettled to eat the food that was sent up, but he drank the wine gratefully.

Einon visited him shortly afterwards to thank him for his timely intervention. The priest still looked shaken.

Sais asked if he had any idea of the reason for the attack.

‘Politics,’ said Einon grimly. ‘Matters I try to steer clear of, and which you, ah, would be wise to avoid altogether, Chilwar.’

 

That night the nightmares returned with renewed force. Time after time Sais woke sweating and gasping from dreams of pursuit, violation, suffocation. When he recovered enough to remember where he was he found himself torn between dread of returning to the dark chaos of the dream-world, and hope that his dreams might finally start to unlock his past, now the initial step had been taken.

He was awakened midmorning by a knock at the door: a servant, sent to check he was all right as he had missed breakfast. Sais sent his apologies to the Reeve and said he was still indisposed. As the door closed behind the servant it came to him: the window looked out over the
sea
. His room, the place where he had grown up, was near the sea - a word he hadn’t heard here, but which he knew meant a great body of open water.

Wherever that room with its huge window was, it was nowhere on Einon’s map.

Waking up at the star-season fair that first morning, Kerin felt joyous anticipation, tempered with apprehension and an ache of desire as yet unfulfilled.

She followed some of the others through trees laden with pink blossom down to the river to get clean. Damaru could not be persuaded to do more than wash his face and hands, after which he sat on a flat rock, watching the water. As she reached inside her shirt to scrub herself, Kerin decided her best course of action was to let Damaru wander wherever he wanted - once she’d made sure the mark of his status was clear - and she would follow him. That way he would be happy, and she could view the fair safely under the protection of her sky-touched son.

Back at the camp she changed into her skirt and re-drew the circle on Damaru’s forehead. Then they set off into the fair, Damaru in the lead.

She followed him out between animal pens where sellers and buyers haggled over the beasts until they emerged in front of a row of coloured tents with no fronts to them - stalls, Huw had called them. He had advised her against carrying her money, because she would either find herself spending it on things she did not need, or worse, have it stolen. She regretted her decision when she saw the tables laden with bread, honeyed fruits, fine cloth, wooden trinkets, scented unguents, leather shoes, fine-woven belts, glazed pottery . . . Everything she had ever dreamed could be sold or traded was here, and more besides.

Everyone they saw greeted Damaru with inclined heads and smiles of indulgence. As usual he gave little sign of noticing. Instead he wandered between stalls, picking up items to get a closer look, or re-arranging displays in a way that fitted in with his idea of the correct pattern. Kerin doubted such behaviour would be tolerated from anyone else, but everyone considered it lucky to gain the attention of a skyfool . . . although the man on the stall selling glass goblets was visibly relieved when Damaru moved on! They followed their noses to a griddle where festival cakes were being cooked. The stall-holder, seeing the now-smudged symbol on Damaru’s forehead, offered him a round golden cake and then, after a moment’s hesitation, gave one to Kerin too. The cake was made with a finer flour than Kerin was used to, giving a lighter texture, though the flavour was not as rich.

At first Kerin was uneasy at being amongst so many strangers, even with Damaru, who evoked universal goodwill in those they encountered. But most people ignored her and after a few awkward moments, she learnt not to look anyone in the eye, nor expect them to speak to her.

They passed a wooden stage where gaily dressed men and women were acting out the story of Carunwyd’s Harper: she recognised the witch by her mask, and the skyfool bard who defeated her by the symbols painted on his face. The players broke off their performance to pay their respects to Damaru.

When he grew overwhelmed with the new sensations, they made their way back to the camp. A bullock had been butchered and was cooking in the fire-pit, filling the air with the delicious smell of roasting meat. Some of the drovers returning from the fair to share the feast already smelled of ale. Fychan had replaced his old scarf with a new eye-patch of fine leather. Free of the dirt of the road and wearing his best shirt, he looked as fine as any of the young men about the place. Cadmael wore a bright sash of what Kerin recognised as more of Sais’s fabric - he must have found it up at the mere before the drove left.

Most of the men returned to the fair after the evening meal to dance, and maybe find themselves some company for the night. Kerin would have liked to dance herself, but Damaru was tired. She stayed with him by the fire, watching the falling stars trace their paths in the dusk and wondering what Sais was doing.

The next day they visited the roped-off area at the edge of the meadow where drovers and townsmen were competing in games of skill and strength: running foot-races, demonstrating their accuracy with a slingshot or thrown spear or lifting yokes of weighted barrels. Kerin cheered on those Dangwern men who were competing. She was starting to become accustomed to the passing attention of strangers; the trick was to smile at people without looking straight at them.

When Damaru grew bored, they moved on to the stock-pit, where the audience watched showmen displaying their skills. They saw a man in motley being chased by a fully grown bull and cheered madly with everyone else when he got behind it, grabbed one horn and put the animal down with a deft twist of his wrist.

Mindful of Sais’s promise to come and see her in ‘a couple of days’, she left early to head back to the camp. Though anyone who saw the symbol would treat him with respect, Damaru sometimes wiped it off by accident, and a lone, guileless boy without the protection of Heaven might come to harm in the wild star-season evenings - but this meant nothing to him and he was petulant when she insisted he go back with her. But Sais did not come, though she stayed up late, listening to the faint sounds of merriment drifting across the torch-lit expanse of the fair.

The next day cloud covered the sky and the smell of rain hung on the air. Kerin decided to stay in the camp to wait for Sais; Damaru wanted to go back to the fair, and threatened to throw a tantrum when she said he must stay with her. She was wondering if she should let him go alone when Fychan strolled back into the camp. The chieftain’s son had not returned last night; the beribboned girl on his arm explained his absence. Fychan spotted Damaru and led his companion over. Damaru ignored them both. Kerin nodded a greeting at the girl and said, ‘Fychan, I have chores around the camp. Please, would you accompany Damaru today?’

She saw his expression flicker: he was tired from an evening’s enjoyment and none too pleased at Kerin’s request - yet what reason would he have to bring the girl back other than to prove his claim to be guardian to a skyfool? He straightened and looked at his companion. ‘Aye, I think we could do that,’ he said after a moment.

Kerin finished Sais’s shirt: the fabric had been so hard to work that it had taken far longer than she had expected. Then she cleaned some clothes and mended holes in their travelling gear. When the rain came on in the afternoon, she sat miserably in the shelter of a tree and wondered why Sais had not yet kept his promise to visit her.

The weather cleared in the evening, and the sun went down in a glory of gold. They were now halfway through star-season, and she had yet to dance. If Sais did come from the manor, he would have to pass the riverside arena where the dancing was held; she could keep an eye out for him. In the meantime, pining was doing her no good.

A little guiltily, she gave Damaru some bogwood with his evening meal; his attempts to join in the star-season dancing could be disruptive, and for once she wanted to enjoy herself. Once he was safely asleep, she accompanied the drovers to the meadow.