Scrivener's Tale (36 page)

‘It what?'

‘Well …' He gave a long, slow sigh. ‘I know we're not supposed to, but I believe in the old stories that magic once roamed our land. I used to watch my grandfather at work — now there was a master sword maker. And later, when he was taking a long draught of the chilled water flavoured with leezel that he so enjoyed, I'd sit on his lap and he'd tell me about the existence of magic in our lives. He used to say that some of us were aware of it, while others travelled through their lives never knowing of magic, even if it touched them.' Wevyr stood and hobbled gingerly to a corner where an old broom leaned.

‘I'll do that, Master Wevyr,' Hamelyn offered.

‘I'm not throwing those peas away,' Wevyr warned. ‘Brush them into that pan and I'll rinse them.'

Ham set to while Wevyr returned to his chair and sat down carefully, nursing his aching joints no doubt.

‘Anyway,' he continued, looking back to Cassien, ‘Master Fynch is obviously one of those people touched by the magic that my grandfather used to tell me about. How could I deny him his wish? It was certainly odd, but it was harmless enough in the sense that it didn't hurt anyone and didn't offend me. He was paying for the weapons — a handsome sum, you should know.'

‘But you kept the weapons a secret from your sons, I understand?' Cassien remarked.

‘Ah, yes, that's true. It was part of the agreement between Master Fynch and myself. He paid an extraordinary amount of money to lure me from my retirement, to allow him to put his blood into my crucible and to buy my secrecy. I'm only telling you because you own them and as I said at the beginning, I've always expected the owner of those weapons to come and find me.'

‘Yes, and why did you expect that, Master Wevyr?'

Wevyr chuckled to himself. ‘Because of the dragon.'

‘Dragon?'

Wevyr's gravelly voice turned dreamy. ‘When I poured the molten metal into the crucible and Master Fynch bled — quite profusely — into the vessel, I thought I was seeing things. You know how you see shapes in clouds?' Cassien nodded, just to keep the man talking. ‘I saw the shape of a dragon forming as the blood bubbled furiously on top of the molten metal. And …'

‘And?' Cassien urged.

‘A voice, in my mind. To this day I believe it was my grandfather. He told me I was making something extraordinary and that its owner needed to know it, so now I'm telling you just that.' His voice lost its faraway tone and he was instantly alert again. ‘I saw other things as well, but I didn't understand them either.'

Cassien held his breath.
Them?

‘The Triad,' came the answer, except it wasn't Wevyr who spoke, but Ham.

Both men swivelled to regard the boy, who looked to be staring through them.

‘There were three people in your vision, Master Wevyr, weren't there?'

Wevyr looked astounded and could only nod.

Cassien leapt from where he sat and held Ham's shoulders. ‘How do you know this?' he murmured, equally astonished. ‘Was it the blades talking?' he said, vaguely embarrassed to ask in front of Wevyr.

Ham shook his head slowly, but it was as though he was no longer with them; he seemed lost momentarily. ‘I looked into the crucible too. The Triad is forming and the blood of the dragon will out,' he said, then Ham's eyes rolled back in his head and he fell forward, slumping into Cassien's arms.

Darcelle stood before Burrage with a look of incomprehension. ‘She's gone to see my mother?'

‘Queen Florentyna is paying a visit to the dowager at Rittylworth Monastery, yes, your highness.'

‘Why wasn't I told?'

‘She only left a short while ago with a few men. Forgive me, highness, I cannot say why she did not inform you,' he lied, knowing the queen expected this of him. ‘I suspect she wants to discuss your upcoming nuptials with the dowager.'

She gave Burrage an open sneer. ‘Now we both know you're lying,' she accused him. ‘Florentyna would rather choke on her own spit than have discourse with my mother over my wedding.'

Burrage blinked at the rebuke but maintained his poise. ‘I wouldn't know, your highness — that is simply a thought that has occurred to me,' he said.

‘You and Florentyna discuss everything, including me. I'm fairly certain you'd know why my sister took off in the middle of the night and stole away from the palace to see the one person she despises more than any other. And the fact that you're not telling me, Burrage, confirms my suspicions that Florentyna means my mother harm.'

‘Highness! Please, do not suggest such a thing. The queen would not —'

‘The queen, Burrage, slapped my face only yesterday. I can still feel its sting and I know you heard the blow because as always you were probably eavesdropping.' Burrage gasped. ‘Is that the action of a balanced person? Is this how we want our sovereign to behave, with her emotions out of control?'

Burrage frowned. ‘What can I say, your highness, to reassure you that the dowager is not in harm's way?'

‘Nothing you say could reassure me, Burrage, because you're the queen's right hand and I wouldn't trust a word from you, just like I no longer feel I can trust her. My mother said this would happen. My mother assured me that Florentyna wanted her dead and I've been the one promising her that my sister would not do any such thing. I was blinded by my own loyalty to Florentyna. But her actions yesterday, her demands that I treat Tamas with contempt, and now, taking a few men with her to Rittylworth, can only mean she is no longer trustworthy.'

‘What can I say to ease your mind, highness?'

Darcelle did not respond. She simply smirked at him and Burrage couldn't help but note a sense of cunning in her expression.

Rittylworth nestled in a comfortable valley, as though hugged in an affectionate embrace by its surrounding countryside. To its north were hills and beyond that the Razor Mountains. To its less barren south were fertile pastures which gave way to soft woodland flanking the River Tague. It was this river that Queen Florentyna and her men had followed.

She had wanted to travel as quietly and as inconspicuously as possible, choosing to ride, rather than travel in a carriage. But no sovereign and certainly no titular empress could arrive in small hamlets and not be noticed, given that she travelled with a retinue of impressive-looking guards. Florentyna had haggled with Burrage, who was insisting upon an armed guard of thirty men.

She'd laughed at him. ‘Let's throw in some heralds for good measure, shall we? They can trumpet my arrival through any villages and towns along the way.'

‘Majesty,' he had begun again patiently.

‘Burrage, I know, I know. But not this time. These are my wishes. Three guards, none in uniform. We will travel without colours — no dragon insignia of Morgravia, no imperial crest, no regal purple. No bowing and no formal greetings or meetings. I am travelling quietly. I will be plainly clothed so as to move as just another noble wife on a journey from south to north. The less attention we draw, the fewer questions are asked.'

Burrage's mouth had opened and remained open and wordless since she'd insisted on three men only. Now he just stared at her. She smiled as she watched him.

‘Are you in pain, Burrage?' she'd jested.

‘My heart will surely fail if you persist with this lunacy, your majesty.'

She'd cut him a wry smile. ‘Lunacy, eh?'

‘My queen, please, you must see reason,' he'd pleaded.

‘There is nothing to see. I am under no immediate threat,' she'd said, trying to ignore Fynch's warning. ‘If we do this well and with minimum fuss, then I believe it diminishes potential for any problem.'

She'd seen he knew she was right. Now she would compromise.

‘Burrage, if it makes you feel more at ease, send an extra number of men to escort me home. By then, people may know that I'm in the region and certainly Saria's demented howls will be heard throughout the realms,' she'd said smiling. ‘I may need some solid protection by then.'

‘I will do that, your majesty. You can count on there being two dozen of our house guard to escort you home.'

‘And a herald or two, don't forget,' she'd said, touching his arm affectionately. ‘Thank you for understanding. Now, not a word to anyone. I will leave the palace quietly. Brief Felyx and ask him to choose his most reliable pair of companions and that will make up our quartet to travel north.'

‘Understood, majesty. What about your maid and —'

‘No, Burrage. I am travelling without servants.'

‘But even a noblewoman would have a maidservant,' he reasoned and although he'd sounded calm, she'd been able to detect the panic underlying his even tone.

‘Not this one.'

Burrage had sighed worriedly and shaken his head, but he'd hurried away to find Felyx while the queen had moved at a far less frantic pace to her chambers to pack a few essentials, including a single gown in which to meet Saria.

Their trip north had been uneventful. Certainly not boring though. Florentyna had been unable to remember the last time she'd ridden out of the palace grounds on a long trip on horseback. She'd realised with a silent groan that it was as far back as childhood, when her father had indulged her with a ride alongside him to Argorn for talks with the southern noble families. It had been a treat, before Saria had come into their lives and when Darcelle was little more than a cherubic, unbelievably pretty infant princess with only a few words to her repertoire. Her much-improved repertoire continued to burn in Florentyna's mind.

Now, as she stared at peaceful Rittylworth, she hoped with all of her heart that she could carry off this confrontation with the grace her household believed she possessed.

They had deliberately not hurried their journey, for galloping riders drew attention, but she was eager to get this discussion with Saria over and done with. Felyx ambled up on his horse from where it had been drinking from a small brook.

‘Beautiful, isn't it, your majesty?'

‘It is indeed. I regret that I've taken so long to visit. Burrage mentioned its history is a colourful one.'

The queen's soldier scratched his head. He looked so different out of the rich colour and heraldry of his uniform. The trio of men were well armed, of course, but they looked like hired mercenaries offering safe escort to a noblewoman. Florentyna looked the least changed because she was not one for rich brocades, silks and flounces and her courtiers were used to seeing her in more neutral colours and plainer-style fabrics. She refused to wear the face ‘paint' and jewellery that Darcelle used to enhance her features. Now, in her split skirt she looked like the Florentyna they knew from whenever she went riding. She'd taken the precaution of wearing a hooded cloak just in case some wily fellow traveller made any connection, but they'd come to Rittylworth without attracting much more than a second glance, including a night spent at Dryden Vale. Felyx had deliberately chosen that hamlet because it was celebrating its annual well-dressing. All the wells and springs of the region were grandly decorated with plants and flowers, some sites so ornate and picturesque that many years previously people had begun visiting from far and wide to view the spectacle. The gathering crowds and general festivities meant that strangers passing through were not an uncommon sight at this time of year.

They'd had little trouble in gaining refuge for the night in the sprawling home of a friendly noble who was unhappily having to miss the annual fair, but had gladly given permission for one of his cottages on the property to be used by ‘a friend of the queen'. Florentyna and her escort were not greeted by the family — as quietly requested — but the butler was on hand and a maidservant was provided. Florentyna and her escort were gone by dawn and were considered the perfect houseguests as a result, having left the place almost exactly as they found it, with the plentiful wine stores barely touched.

She now shivered slightly in the thin midday sun. Summer was still a couple of moons from warming the land. Their ride this morning had been short. The long haul had been the previous day but Florentyna was feeling every moment of it through her aching body.

‘You should ask Brother Hoolyn; I'm sure he'll be glad to relate Rittylworth's stories,' said Felyx as they gazed at the monastery.

She nodded. She'd paid attention to her history too. ‘Yes, including a blot on our own family's history.'

‘Not your family, majesty. As I understand it, it is King Celimus who shoulders the responsibility for that tragedy.'

‘How awful it must have been,' she remarked, remembering the tale that the men of prayer were slaughtered where they stood, their monastery burned, their senior monk crucified and torched, left to smoulder on his cross. It seemed unthinkable that a Morgravian sovereign would perpetrate such suffering upon his own. It was that murky time in the history of her forebears though, where inexplicable events occurred. They included her great-grandmother, Valentyna, marrying King Celimus, who was poisoned — and dead — within hours of the marriage by his own chancellor, who then mysteriously died. Then the new Queen Valentyna had taken everyone by surprise, declaring her love for the rogue King Cailech of the Razors, whom everyone thought had been executed, but she married him and began the new dynasty. No-one understood this clouded past, least of all the historians who had recorded what they knew and what witnesses had seen; events nevertheless remained shrouded in mystery.

‘You wouldn't know it now,' Felyx continued.

She returned from her thoughts. ‘No, the monastery looks so peaceful and beautiful. Soon it will have the shrieks of the dowager to contend with,' she said, with an arched eyebrow.

Felyx shrugged. ‘If it pleases your majesty,' he said and they both shared a quiet chuckle.