Crowchanger (Changers of Chandris) (16 page)

She took a step back, her hands on his shoulders, and studied his face.

“You have got so tall,” she said, stroking his hair and pulling her hand back as if embarrassed. “You are taller than your father now. Almost as tall as your grandfather, I think.”

She had never spoken to him of her family, and he wondered if Aithne had mentioned his question from the previous night. He wanted to ask her more—if his grandfather had been so tall, had he been an uplander like Erlach?—but time was short. Before long the village would stir and people would emerge to go about their chores. The well was an obvious place for the two of them to meet, but also the first port of call for most householders in the morning.

“Are you well?” Had she suffered for his mistakes?

She nodded. “The better for seeing you. You leaving was so hard for me, but I see it was the right decision. You look so healthy. And apprenticed to a healer.” The pleasure was written all over her face. “That is an honest profession. Are you full changer now?”

“Not exactly.” How to tell his mother of failure heaped upon failure? “But Mistress Ayriene has promised I can go back to the Aerie soon to pick up where I left off. She says I am good enough to be a healer myself someday.”

“Ayriene?” She seemed thoughtful.

“You have heard of her?”

Zynoa didn’t answer, but took the linandra necklace from around her neck and held it out to him.

“You must take this now,” she said. “I offered it to you once before, and you refused it. You cannot refuse me this time. Aithne will have told you of our troubles. It is only a matter of time before the men take the beads to pay for swords or daggers, and I will not have my necklace used for violence. Or the soldiers will come. If I am caught with these in my possession, they will think they are stolen. Hide them at the Aerie if you can, or carry them with you. But I can keep them no longer. You may need them one day, Sylas. Take them for me.”

The reasons why he could not take the beads stood: they were too precious; he might be robbed; by rights they should go to Aithne. But before he could argue he happened to look out of the village, along the road he and Ayriene had travelled the day before. In the distance rose the plumes of ash and dust that announced horsemen approaching. The lord holder of Lucranne would never send his riders to Namopaia this early in the morning, unless he intended to catch everyone unawares.

Unless it was a raid.

Chapter 16

“S
oldiers coming!” cried Sylas, trying to gauge how long they had before the horsemen overran them. They seemed to be moving steadily, more concerned about the welfare of their mounts than speed on the rough surface of the desert road. All to the good.

He looked over the rim of the well. His mother could not have linandra beads in her possession if she was searched—not with the way things stood. He could hide them in Ayriene’s pack, but even a healer might not be immune to inspection. If he dropped them down the well they might never get them back. He had no idea how deep the water was, but the bucket never seemed to hit the bottom. Put them in the bucket and lower it? No, the soldiers would want water for their horses, and themselves. They would be found. Think, Sylas, think!

“Give the necklace to me. I’ll hide it,” he said. Zynoa nodded. She trusted him. He had failed everybody and everything, yet still she trusted him. “I need you to go. Fetch Aithne and hide in the kiln. If there’s trouble, I want the two of you well away from it.”

She gripped his arm, then reached up and embraced him. “I love you, Sylas. Take care.”

He ran for Aithne’s house, waking Ayriene as he clattered through the door.

“Get up!” he said, never minding that he was speaking roughly to his mistress. “Soldiers are coming. You must go.”

“They would not hurt me,” she said, instantly alert. “I am a healer. Even soldiers respect healers.”

“If it is a raid I want you safe. Even healers get hurt in raids. For the love of the Lady, Mistress, you are the only living healer talent. I would not have you come to harm in my village, maisaiea-yelai.”

“What will become of you?”

If he had learned to change, he could have flown with her. But they would have to return to reclaim their packs and have the whole village know him for a coward who would not face the holder’s soldiers.

“I will take my chances with the rest of my people. The Lady has decided that I must be a Chesammos today.”

She crouched, readying herself for the transformation; Sylas stood aside from the open door.

“Come back when the soldiers go,” he said. “There may be injured for us to tend. I’ll save the packs.”

He never failed to be awed by the transformation. Where Ayriene had crouched was now a falcon—her higher bird form. She could circle the village, watching events unfold, and none of the soldiers would think anything of a lone bird in the sky. Surging forward, the falcon took flight.

Back at the well, Sylas looked around. People were emerging from houses, pulling on breeches and tunics and looking up the road towards the soldiers. He had to be quick before anyone noticed him. He put the necklace around his neck to keep it safe, then climbed up onto the side of the well and lowered himself into it. His arms and shoulders were still strong from the wrestling, but even so this seemed like a quick way to a long drop. With luck, he could conceal the necklace well enough to keep his mother safe, but so it could be retrieved later.

His feet scrabbled for a hold. He was tall enough that his feet rested on rock, not the ash brick of the well wall, but his hands were another matter.

Climbing was not a skill that desert Chesammos children learned, but he had seen some of the Aerie’s children daring each other to climb higher and higher up the tower walls. They had reached for each foothold and handhold in turn, making sure of its safety before committing their weight. Now he would see if he could emulate them. He would have given a lot to have Benno here right now. That boy would have been over the side like a monkey.

His heart thudded, his chest so tight he strained for each breath, and bright dots swam before his eyes. Lady help him, he could not panic; he could not. If he survived a fall from that height he would likely drown. Desert Chesammos didn’t learn to swim, either. He drove the picture of his body floating in the dark water below from his mind.

Happy that both feet rested securely on rock, he forced himself to let go of the edge with one hand. Reaching down inside the well, he felt for a hold with his fingertips. The ash bricks were regular, with hardly a gap between them. The well had been there before his father’s birth, but he cursed the brick-maker who had done his job so diligently. Questing fingers found a gap in the brickwork, and he hoped it would hold him—that straining muscles would not fail him.

He could hear shouting above—men raising the alarm. The first job of the morning for the older children would be to fetch water. He hoped that just for once, they were being excused from their chores. With a small moan of fear, he let go of the top with his other hand, searching for another gap to cling to. His muscles were trembling already, effort and terror making him weak. Maybe he should have buried the necklace in the ash and hoped that feet and hooves did not uncover its hiding place.

Two more shuffles downward and he was satisfied that no one leaning over the edge would notice the necklace by chance. He felt around him. His hands were just above ground-level, he estimated, his feet well below. He reached about with one hand, then the other, feeling for something from which to hang the necklace, or a gap in the bricks into which he could place it.

Sylas found a protrusion—a metal peg, or similar—perhaps the remains of an earlier well structure. He looked up to the sky. It was brightening by the minute. The necklace could do with being lower still, to remove the chance of the sun at its highest glittering on the stones and betraying their presence. Still, it couldn’t be helped. Most water was drawn early in the day when, Sylas judged, the sun would not have come round enough to play the traitor so. The peg was long enough to hold the necklace without fear of slipping, yet close enough to the wall that the bucket would not catch it by accident.

This would be the hard part. He had to let go with one hand long enough to take the necklace from his neck and loop it around the peg, and his arms trembled with the strain of holding himself. He felt for a better foothold, then handhold, trying to make himself more secure before letting go with his left hand. One small fearful noise escaped him as he let go, drawing the beads over his head and clinging to the bricks again with both hands. He looked nervously into the blackness. He could not see the water. It was a long way down and the sun did not yet give enough light to illuminate the well shaft. Swallowing hard, he let go, hoping his arm would hold him again, maisaiea-yelai. Once, twice, he wrapped the necklace cord around the peg, then flattened himself to the well wall, gasping with the effort.

Reaching for the handholds he knew were there, he pulled himself up, but before he could reach the top a man leaned over the side. He yelped, almost letting go in his fright, but an arm reached to grasp his hand and help pull him up and over. Pietrig. Thank the Lady.

“What in the name of the Lady are you doing down there grunting like a hog? No, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. Crazy brickmaker, get out of here. The lord holder’s soldiers are coming.” And before Sylas could say anything, Pietrig had slapped him across his shoulders and pushed him away from the well. Trembling, dripping sweat, Sylas walked a few paces back towards the village, then bent, leaning on his knees to get his breath back. By the Lady, he hoped never to do that again!

Now he had to be a man, pierced ear or not, and stand with his people. He straightened and walked through the first few houses to where the villagers had gathered to face the soldiers. Some of the villagers cast him sidelong glances, but several moved to make room for him, and one shook his hand.

The horses clattered to a halt and the leader removed his helmet and swung from the saddle.

“People of Namopaia. His lordship of Lucranne has received information that you are withholding linandra. I have orders to search the properties of Skarai, elder of the village, and Ilend, leader of the dig team, as well as any others I deem necessary. I require those men to step forward and make themselves known to me.”

Skarai stepped forward despite his wife hanging on his arm trying to pull him back. “I am Skarai. No withholding of linandra happens, or will ever happen, in my village.”

“Then you will have no objection to our search. Where is team leader Ilend?”

Ilend stepped from the crowd, less confidently than Skarai had. If Pietrig had been right, Sylas thought, this was the man who had instigated the hoarding of linandra to fund an uprising. He certainly looked guilty enough, the muscles at the corners of his eyes twitching, his tongue sliding sideways to moisten dry lips.

“I am Ilend. You will find no linandra in my house.”

Sylas stared across at Skarai’s family. They were all there: his wife, Fienne, and his six younger children. Pietrig had rejoined them. He seemed to feel Sylas’s gaze on him and slowly turned his head. If Sylas had been in any doubt the stricken look on his friend’s face would have told him. Pietrig knew where the linandra was hidden. Not in the elder’s house, surely. Pietrig was smarter than that.

Sylas held his breath, half expecting the officer to call his father’s name. If they knew the dig team had been saving the stones, did they also know about his mother’s necklace? He wondered if his mother and sister had made it safely to the kiln. If the soldiers mounted a systematic search they would be found, but if not, at least they would be safe if violence erupted.

The officer waved a hand. “Borden, take four men and search the elder’s house. Sysk, take another four to team leader Ilend’s.”

The remaining soldiers stayed in their saddles, their horses stamping and blowing. It was a long way from Lucranne to Namopaia and the animals needed attention.

“My men and their mounts will need water. You,” he pointed at Sylas, whose heart leapt in his chest at the snapped word. “Fetch water. Quickly now.”

On shaky legs, Sylas moved to obey. By the Lady, had he ever thought the masters at the Aerie intimidating? These uniformed men, swords at their waists and pikes by their saddles, were worse. Pietrig moved to help him, but the officer shouted. “I never told you to move.”

“The well is deep, sir. If you want water quickly for your men, he will need help. Each bucket will take several minutes, alone.”

The officer considered, then nodded and Pietrig joined Sylas at the well.

Sylas turned his body slightly to shield his face from the soldiers, but kept winding the handle to bring a full bucket of water from the depths. “Tell me there is no linandra hidden in your house. Tell me you weren’t that stupid.”

“What were you doing down there? Is the water safe? Did you poison it with some of your healer potions?”

“Never mind that. Are those damn soldiers going to find linandra stones in your house?”

Pietrig nodded, his posture a picture of abject misery. “They might. Ilend gave them to me to look after. He said the elder’s house was the safest place for them. That even the lord holder would not dare search the elder’s house.” He gave a short, pained laugh. “Looks like they were wrong. They wanted to keep me loyal. They knew I wasn’t convinced that this whole thing was a good idea. Having the linandra hanging over me—they thought I wouldn’t dare speak against them.”

Behind him, Sylas heard a villager’s voice, and he stiffened and stopped winding the rope.

“Who told the lord holder we had linandra here? Who has been spreading lies about our village?”

The officer looked down his nose, considering whether the question was deserving of an answer. He stroked his horse whip, and Sylas thought for a moment he intended to apply it to the speaker.

“Lord Garvan heard there were plans to steal linandra. He gave you time to amass enough stones to incriminate yourselves before acting on the information.”

Sylas’s skin turned ice cold and the hairs on his arms prickled.

“What’s the matter?” said Pietrig. “You’ve stopped winding. The officer will be wanting this water.”

“I… I feel sick,” Sylas muttered, leaning over the wall of the well.

“Don’t throw up into the well, for the Lady’s own sake. That would spoil the water for days, even if you haven’t poisoned it.”

“I’m not going—” Sylas broke off as one of the soldiers emerged from Skarai’s house, a leather pouch in his hands. One of the four with him had a grip on Skarai’s arm and a dagger at his throat.

“Omena’s wings,” Pietrig moaned softly, slumping against the well. He looked likely to be sick now, instead of Sylas. Sylas grabbed his shoulders and shook him.

“Run to the kiln. My mother and sister are hiding. They may not look for you there. Run!”

“No.” Pietrig was as pale as it was possible for a Chesammos to be. “If they search and find me there they will think your family are involved too. And I can’t hide myself while my mother and Fienne and the little ones are in danger. What sort of man would that make me?”

Pietrig pulled away, stumbling towards where Skarai’s wife and other children clutched at each other for comfort. The younger ones were sobbing, sensing their elders’ fear.

“It’s mine,” said Pietrig, approaching the officer. “The bag is mine. It’s my fault. Don’t blame my father. He knew nothing about it, I swear.” At Pietrig’s words his mother cried out and his brothers and sisters howled all the louder.

“How did you come by them? Did someone give them to you?”

Tell them it was Ilend, Sylas thought at his friend. The bastard murdered Yestro. Tell them it was him.

“I am on the dig team, sir. It is an easy matter to hide a stone or two each trip.”

Sylas screamed inside. Pietrig would end up hanged, if they even went so far as to take him back to Lucranne. More likely they would just run him through on the spot with one of their fancy swords. Had he come home just to see his best friend murdered, and likely Skarai with him?

“Dig team, eh? And these here are your family, yes?”

Pietrig closed his eyes, his chin dropping towards his chest. “Yes.”

“Then to help make up for the linandra you have stolen from the lord holder, this one can join you digging.” The officer pushed Pietrig’s brother, Kavan, towards Ilend. “He will go to dig with you, team leader. We will see if he is more honest than his brother.”

“He is only eleven,” Pietrig said, looking to his father for help. “Tell them, Father. See, he does not wear the bead in his ear. It is the rule that none can be picked for the dig team until he is confirmed into manhood.” He addressed the officer, “Please, sir. He is too young. He can’t be chosen for two or three years yet.”