Scrivener's Tale (19 page)

‘Angelina!' he called, his voice cracking as it shattered the silence, recalling suddenly a blade and blood … then blackness.

I am with you, Gabe. You must not fret.

He swung around. ‘Where …?' He didn't finish, her voice hadn't come from nearby — it had come from within.

I am here. Inside you
, she said and he could hear her satisfaction that she'd shocked him.

‘Inside? What are you talking about?'

You can feel me if you try hard. You brought me with you. I know you are thinking about the knife and all that blood, but it wasn't really me, Gabe. I tried to tell you that. I was never truly of that world … but then neither are you.

‘I don't understand any of this.' He leaned against a tall stand of sheaves.

You released me from that body. Made me free to come here. I won't stay long with you. I will find a new host
.

Gabe had no patience for the nonsense in his head and yet couldn't explain Angelina's voice. He was either spiralling into madness — perhaps she'd drugged him? — or, more likely, he was in a nightmare. He had always dreamed vividly. He pinched himself. He felt the bruise of it, but didn't wake — the barn did not disappear. ‘Where am I?'

That man just told you. Harpers Riding.

‘Where is Harpers Riding?'

He told you that too.

‘I heard him. But I am not familiar with these places. I want to know exactly where I am.'

‘Not far from Ramon,' said a new voice — a gruff one. It belonged to a huge man carrying a sharp-looking tool. He was dressed in leather motley. ‘Ramon is a biggish town in the far southwest of a realm called Morgravia,' he continued. ‘Morgravia's capital is Pearlis, arguably the principal city of the triumvirate of Morgravia, Briavel and the Razor Kingdom … or should I say former triumvirate? To say empire these days is to be hopeful rather than truthful. It teeters on a knife edge.' He smiled.

Gabe was on his guard. Nothing was making sense.

‘Are you … are you Flek?'

‘I was. Not any longer.' The man grinned and Gabe could see whiskers of milk at the corner of his mouth. Hadn't Pel said Flek was taking his quart of milk?

‘Aphra?'

‘I am well, beloved,' Gabe said but while it was his voice, he hadn't spoken. Angelina had. He gagged, coughed.

Flek laughed.

Gabe felt lightheaded. Nothing was making sense: not this conversation, not these surrounds, not the voices talking at him, nor the tithe keeper before him, nor Angelina talking in his head and using his voice.

‘You see, Gabriel,' the man continued, shocking him by knowing his name, ‘while Flek was handy, he is a dangerous vessel for me because he is known. But you … well, you are “clean”, for want of a better word. You can move around Morgravia unnoticed by anyone or their magic — at least for a while.'

‘I don't —'

The man stopped him speaking by holding a hand in the air. ‘It doesn't matter what you understand.' The words were sympathetic but neither the man's tone nor his expression were. ‘We hunted far and wide for you. And of course my beautiful Aphra found you. You're perfect. There's barely a handful of people like you in your world, who dream as you do, but you trespassed into our world because you worked so hard at your dreamings. That cathedral of yours was perfect in every way, except that you couldn't touch it. And the reason it was perfect was because you were seeing it in a different reality. Am I making any sense to you?'

‘None at all.'

‘Oh well,' Flek said jovially, ‘it's of little consequence. Now I need you to kill me.'

‘What?' Gabe shrank away, shock trilling through him.

Be calm, Gabe. It's just like before
, Angelina, or the voice in his mind that the tithe keeper called Aphra, soothed.
It won't hurt. He is already dead. What you see is simply a shell
.

‘Stop it, both of you. Whatever you are, whatever you're doing, it stops now.' His voice shook.

‘Run this blade across this man's throat, Gabriel, or I will do it to yours. It's a simple choice,' the tithe keeper threatened.

Gabe realised he was trembling. Vulnerable and naked, he was struck by how many of his patients must have felt a similar fear. Alone, isolated, in danger.

‘Let me go back.'

‘Too late. Nothing to go back for.'

You're a murderer now, Gabe
, Angelina said.
They will have found my body, stabbed with that ugly blade, blood everywhere in your apartment. No, there's nothing in Paris for you. But you can help us. You've always wanted to help me. You've begun by bringing me back — thank you. Now I need you to help my master. You have no choice. Kill or die. Either way, he lives. Your body might as well live, too
.

The body that belonged to Flek advanced on him and Gabe gave a frigid yelp. He was so frightened he couldn't run to save himself. He realised he was still holding his quill, which in an instinctive, defensive gesture, he now held in front of him and felt it press against the chest of his attacker. In his moment of panic, he heard a sizzling sound and the smell of scorched flesh, but then the keen blade of a farm tool he didn't recognise flashed before him.

When Pel returned he was astonished and deeply saddened to see a naked body lying among the sheaves. As he ran over he presumed it was the stranger with the quill. But he leapt back shocked when he pulled at the shoulder of the fallen figure to see someone he recognised. It was Master Flek, the tithe barn manager. Flek's blood was being hungrily drunk by the sheaf of barley the body had been slumped over. A distraught Pel sucked in a breath.

‘Shar's pity, Master Flek, what befell you?' he murmured, terrified by the gaping wound at the man's throat. Pel shook his head, ashamed that he'd taken the naked man for a decent one. ‘Murder,' he whispered, guilt-ridden. ‘But why? What could you give him other than your clothes?'

He ran from the tithe barn as fast as his old legs would move him, down the hill again. He had noted the stranger's features and he would be able to describe him to the authorities. They would catch him, and Pel would stand at his trial and point him out as a cold-blooded killer of one of Ramon's most honest men.

Fynch could not be persuaded. He was seriously weakened and Cassien was loathe to argue with him.

‘Go on alone!' Fynch demanded. ‘I am now a liability to you.'

‘And where will you go?'

‘Never you mind.'

‘How will you go if you can't even sit on a horse?'

‘That's not your concern. I have my ways,' Fynch said breathlessly. ‘Now help me up, please.'

Using Cassien for support, Fynch hauled himself upright and stood there for a few heartbeats, winning his breath back, finding a reserve of strength from somewhere. He looked like all the wind had been punched out of him, his skin was waxy pale and his limbs had a tremor.

‘Are you weakened through sadness, or are you physically injured by the news?'

‘Both,' Fynch wheezed. ‘The message of Aphra travelling is delivered through magic. It sucked all my strength … to reach me, for me to hear it, for Reynard to send it. Ravan will be travelling too. I have no idea where he will emerge but he will not be well for a long time.' He shook his head grimly. ‘Cyricus cannot have this land as his playground!'

‘Verily!' Cassien replied almost as a chant, using the old language of Shar's scripts to acknowledge something as right or true.

Fynch continued. ‘We are fighting an unknown enemy and we don't know his strengths or weaknesses. We are the only two people walking this land who know that he's coming.'

‘Then we go to the queen and we tell her,' Cassien tried again.

‘And who must she fear? He could be you, he could be me; he could be her wine servant or her page, the stable master or her chancellor. He could be her chambermaid or the cook … her seamstress or the woman who draws her bath. Do you understand the magnitude of our problem?' He coughed, weakened from the effort of speaking.

Cassien nodded unhappily. ‘Then what?' he asked, opening his palms in submission.

‘This weakness of mine is potent. I didn't foresee it and I am sickening fast.' It was true. In just the last few moments, Fynch's complexion had worsened from pale to sallow, bordering on grey. All the light and geniality had fled, so his face appeared almost a mask of itself. ‘I am a burden and a risk because of my magic. I don't know if Cyricus will be looking for it, but I can't take the chance that he is. We must keep him under the illusion of secrecy until we work out who he is.'

‘For me to kill.'

‘Precisely.'

‘If we follow the pattern of Myrren's magic, can he then not just become me?'

‘Normally, yes. But you have your roaming magic. This is what makes you so important, my boy.'

Cassien looked at him puzzled.

‘Let me sit down,' Fynch said, pointing to a fallen tree. ‘I don't have much time.'

‘Before what?'

‘Before I must leave you,' Fynch said, gasping as Cassien helped him to sit. ‘I'm no good to you now. I have the breath only to say this once. Go to Orkyld. Do what you must. Then go to Florentyna and convince her that she must have you as her paladin. She's a queen of her era and doesn't go in for these old-fashioned ideas. I don't care what it takes for you to persuade her. Be at the side of her majesty. Keep her safe.'

‘Master Fynch, I don't even know who I'm looking for.'

‘Look for whoever has the most to gain. He is a demon and arrogant. While he could easily be the stableboy or the baker, he is likely too proud and would want nobility. I will help if and when I can.' Fynch sighed to himself. ‘I wish I had given the possibility of dying some consideration,' he said with a sad chuckle.

‘You can't die, Fynch,' Cassien said, sitting next to his companion and taking his hand, which was cool, the skin papery.

‘Oh, I can. And I might. But I'm hoping the gods grant that this is not yet my time, although my time is surely overdue. You know all that is important now, Cassien.' Fynch touched his cheek affectionately. ‘You are strong here,' he said, moving his hand to Cassien's chest. ‘The heart of a wolf. But strongest of all here,' he added, tapping a finger at Cassien's temple. ‘Use your magic wisely. Gifts from the gods always come at a price.' He gave Cassien a lingering look before he nodded. ‘Now go, my boy. Ride for Orkyld. Ride through the night if you must. You have two horses now, both big-hearted.'

‘But you —'

‘I have no need of horses,' he wheezed and his voice had dropped to a whisper. He was fading before Cassien's gaze.

‘Fynch …'

‘Go, Cassien. Leave me now.' It was not a request.

He stood reluctantly, watching Fynch slump.

‘Don't make me beg,' Fynch pleaded. ‘He will win if neither of us acts. And our Crown is in jeopardy. That's your path.'

‘It's only because of the oath I took to the Brotherhood that I leave you now.' Cassien finally turned on his heel.

The horses whickered as he bound one to the other. He would not be having any roast chicken tonight, he thought with regret. He climbed into the saddle.

‘How will I find you?' he demanded, knowing the anger in his voice was worry but wishing it didn't sound so harsh. He hoped Fynch understood.

‘I will find you, if Shar permits it,' Fynch said cryptically. He raised a hand slightly but couldn't raise his head. ‘Farewell, my boy.'

With his heart hurting and his mouth set in an angry slash, Cassien turned the horses and left without another word. Below him the lamplight from the village twinkled charmingly, oblivious to his fears.

Everything always looks better in the morning. Who said that to him? Was it his mother? No, he couldn't even remember her. Was it Brother Josse? Possibly. His childhood was so blurred, but he remembered he had a brother, if not much else about him. It was his brother's existence he remembered, and his determination that one day they would both make the pilgrimage to the cathedral and discover their mythical beasts. Whatever happened to their family? Why was he given to the Brotherhood in the first instance?

If he survived this test he would find his blood family. It comforted him to think that people might exist out there who belonged to him and he to them. Lost in his thoughts, and with the wind in his face, Cassien didn't hear the soft growl in the distance behind him.

Orkyld, a place Cassien had always wanted to visit, was no small, sleepy town. It felt like a city and all of its noise and colour assaulted him. He was holding his breath as he guided his pair of horses toward its toll-gate until he realised no-one — least of all the toll-man — was paying him any attention.

Cassien flipped the toll-man a coin to enter the thriving town and gave him no time or reason to share words.

The coin was caught nimbly and he heard its soft ring as it hit the rest of the coins in the small sack. Clearly, Orkyld was flourishing. He carefully dismounted his horse, still amazed that the weapons he carried were silent, in order to walk and consider who to ask directions from. Who would be the least interested in him?

He saw a sandy-haired lad with a sack of something that was obviously heavy across his back and shoulders. The youngster was nearly bent double.

‘Hey, boy, I'll give you a coin if you'll stop and give me some directions.'

‘Where do you need to go?' the boy asked, breathing heavily with the effort of pausing.

‘What are you carrying?' Cassien asked, looking at him in amazement. ‘You'll break your back.'

The lad managed a grin beneath his load. ‘Tapestries, sir. I'm delivering them to one of the noble houses.'

‘I hope they pay you well. I'm looking for an inn. But the town looks so busy I don't know where to begin.'