Silvermay (26 page)

Later, by the fire, as the long day ended, I gave my only remaining companion a warning. ‘You must be careful, Master Dessar. Nerigold is dead, and so is your cousin. Now Ryall has joined them. Aren't you afraid you'll die as well if you stay with me?'

Most men would feign bravery to mask their fear. Not Miston Dessar.

‘That has crossed my mind, and it's a fate I'd rather avoid,' he said with an honesty that shook me. ‘But I
offered to see you safely onto one of those sturdy fishing boats and that's what I'm going to do.'

The journey to Erebis Felan had barely begun and those I'd counted on to get us there had already fallen by the wayside, some through death and one through betrayal. What choice did I have but to place my shattered trust in him?

 

Our journey to the coast took two more days. With every clop of the horse's hooves beneath me, I thought of poor Ryall falling further and further behind us in the forest.

No, that wasn't quite true. Every mile, or was it half a mile, or was it at every bend in the road, I thought of Tamlyn, too. I should have been boiling with anger; I should have hated him … I told myself that I did. It would have been easier if I had. But a part of this foolish heart of mine wouldn't surrender him, no matter what he'd done to Ryall, no matter how he'd betrayed me, no matter the evil that ruled his Wyrdborn heart.

Miston had no traps, no skills to make any and no rope to craft them with even if he did, but, like Ryall, he went off in the lowering light of that first evening in search of something that might keep us going for another day. To my surprise, he came back well supplied with yet another rabbit and some eggs for Lucien. The rabbit's throat was neatly cut, I noticed.

‘How did you catch it?' I asked, but he just shrugged and muttered something about finding a burrow not far away.

On the second night he produced a chicken and, of all things, a pitcher of milk.

‘Let me guess, the pitcher was basking carelessly outside its burrow and you pounced on it. Is that right?' I said.

My taunting didn't earn even the hint of a smile. In fact, he looked even less eager to tell me than the night before.

‘What's the secret?' I said. ‘Did you steal it? I'm hardly going to denounce you in the next village we come to, am I?'

‘Oh, all right. I bought the milk and the chicken from a farm not far from here,' he said. ‘And before you ask me, I'll confess last night's rabbit and the eggs came the same way. I didn't say because it seemed an insult to young Ryall who worked so hard to feed you.'

That was thoughtful of him, to say the least.

‘I'll pay you back for whatever you've spent,' I said recklessly.

He shook his head and came to sit beside me while I fed the milk to Lucien. ‘Silvermay, if you get this little one to Erebis Felan, the entire kingdom will owe you a debt it can never repay.'

‘I hope they try, with a few trinkets of gold, at least,' I said, doing my best to sound serious.

If his eyes hadn't remained so scholarly and cool, it would have been like joking with my father.

 

The next morning, the woodlands gave way to rolling green fields dotted with sheep and ruled into regular patterns by walls of pale grey stone. My first thought was to turn to Ryall and ask what he thought of farmland like this. In the mountains he would never have … But there was no Ryall any more. The dead take a long time to leave us, it seemed to me then, and suddenly I knew with painful insight why people imagined they saw ghosts, especially when a loved one had died tragically.

About noon, we caught our first sight of the ocean, and by then the temperature had begun to drop noticeably as a fresh breeze flapped at our clothing. Cottages made of the same grey stone clung to the hillsides that bore the brunt of the salty wind. Their thatched roofs marked the way for us, until we rounded a bend and I stopped in my tracks. I'd heard of the great oceans around Athlane many times; I was even planning to sail out upon their waves; but I had never seen the blue expanse of the sea with my own eyes.

‘It can be both friend and foe,' said Miston when he saw my amazement. ‘Its power is beyond anything man can imagine,' he added wistfully.

Why do men speak so much of power?
I wondered as we continued towards a village below us on the shore.
Power doesn't bring happiness, it doesn't bring love.
If it did, the Wyrdborn would not be the miserable souls I'd come to pity as much as I feared them.

When we were close enough to feel sea spray on our faces, Miston called to a passer-by, ‘What's the name of this village, friend?'

I had to laugh when the stranger called back, ‘Greystone.'

Greystone earned its living from the sea, a fact made clear by the many small fishing boats that bobbed gently in the harbour. Beyond the man-made walls that formed this refuge, the ocean frothed and fretted.

‘I can't reach a distant land in a boat like those,' I protested.

‘Certainly not. They are for fishing close to shore. The hardier men go out into deep water, I'm told, and in larger vessels. That's why I've brought you here, Silvermay. There are none to see today, perhaps, but they all return sooner or later to land their catch and that's when we'll find a willing captain.'

‘That might take days, even a week. Where will we
stay?' I felt ashamed that my words sounded so much like a complaint. ‘We can't sleep outdoors like we've been doing. It's much colder here, and rain seems to blow in off the ocean rather often.'

I knew this because we'd already dodged two showers since our first glimpse of the sea, the second not very successfully, and I didn't want Lucien to get any wetter than he already was.

‘We'll see if there's an inn,' said Miston and he led me further into the village.

It was about the same size as Haywode, although there was no high road cutting through the middle of it. Here, the focus was the tiny harbour. Among the homes and smokehouses that huddled in a half-circle around it, we found The Jolly Fisherman. Jolly! What a joke. As we studied its rotting window frames and the plaster peeling from its walls, a man burst through the door. It seemed at first he was flying because no part of him touched the ground. But he was no bird-man and landed with a heavy thud on the cobblestones in front of us. A second man appeared in the doorway, a filthy apron tied around his waist and his sleeves shoved roughly up his arms to reveal muscles it was best not to argue with. He glared at the man he'd thrown out, then glared at us with equal malevolence before going back inside.

‘Perhaps not,' said Miston and we moved on down the street.

We hadn't gone far before we came across three women with their skirts tucked above their knees while they hammered at shirts and britches in a small stream that emptied into the harbour. They were happy to stop and talk to us.
Any excuse to rest
, I thought, remembering how much I'd hated doing our washing in the stream at home.

‘The Widow Wenn's the place you want,' one of them told us. She pointed to a well-kept stone cottage a little further around the harbour.

Mrs Wenn turned out to be a big woman in every sense. She was tall and broad, with a voice that could have called boats in off the ocean, and, as she eyed us on her doorstep, a face like the squall that was blowing in at our backs.

‘I'll take you in, but I don't hold with girls spending their nights with men they're not married to,' she said, staring at me. ‘Especially when the man is twice her age and she's already got one baby, even if you do say it's not your own.'

I went red from head to foot and was about to tell her what she could do with her spare room, when Miston said in his ever-calm tones, ‘Quite right, too, Mrs Wenn. I will stay at the inn. I have enquiries to make and it will be a good place to start.'

Mollified, Mrs Wenn stepped back to allow us inside. She'd only just shut the door when the rain began to pelt hard against it.

‘That's the third time today,' I said, staring out through the ragged rivulets streaming down the window panes.

‘Yes, there's only two kinds of day in Greystone: windy rain or dead calm with a shroud of mist all the way to the shore,' replied Mrs Wenn.

A shroud! All the more reason to be safe and warm, and the house was certainly that, thanks to a well-banked fire. The most delicious aromas drifted in from the kitchen, too. She might be a stern old thing, but I felt more secure in Mrs Wenn's home than anywhere I'd stayed since leaving Haywode.

Once the squall had passed, Miston took his cloak from where it was drying by the fire and said, ‘Time to begin my search. The Jolly Fisherman is no place for you, Silvermay, but it's where the men of Greystone meet and do business, I suspect.'

‘My husband never set foot in the place,' said Mrs Wenn.

‘And neither would I if I didn't have to, my lady,' Miston said, with a mocking bow from the doorway that she mistook for respect.

I watched him stride away along the wet street before I returned to the comfortable chair beside the fire.
Lucien was busy charming yet another heart, this one inside the formidable chest of Mrs Wenn. The chair felt so soft and the warm air around me was like a blanket. It would be best for us if Miston came back tonight with news of a boat, but, to be honest, I hoped it would take a few days. And I would spend as much of those days as I possibly could right there by the fire.

W
hen I brought Lucien downstairs the next morning, Mrs Wenn had cups of milk and apple juice ready for him and more bowls lined up than he could possibly empty. Somehow, he managed it, anyway.

‘Quite the little glutton,' she commented but with obvious approval.

He rewarded her with a long smile interrupted by a burp and promptly fell deeply asleep.

‘I'll bet you haven't had a moment to yourself since his poor mother died, have you, Silvermay?'

By then, I'd told her about Nerigold. I shook my head and made a face that showed I was resigned to it.

‘Well, he won't need you for an hour or two at least, and there's always me if he wakes up. Why don't you go
for a walk? I see the weather has made a liar out of me, after what I said yesterday.' She laughed as she peered out from her front windows at bright sunshine. ‘You might as well make the most of it.'

Why not?
I thought. I could explore the whole town and not move out of sight of Mrs Wenn's cottage.

She gave me a shawl in case the breeze blew up from the ocean and shooed me out the front door. The freedom felt unnatural at first, as though I could only be at ease with Lucien's weight on my back. Slowly, I began to enjoy the relief — no straps over my shoulders; no need to move cautiously in case I banged a little head on an overhanging branch. The sun turned Greystone into a pretty place, the harbour most of all, with its shimmering waters constantly in movement and inventing more blues and greens than I'd ever imagined. Such beauty should be shared and I knew instantly who I wanted to share it with.

I fought back tears with sheer will alone. When would my heart accept that Tamlyn had used my love to win Lucien's powers for himself?

A jetty, built of stone, of course, jutted out towards the narrow gap in the seawall, through which many of the small boats had set out to fish earlier that morning. A roughly built hut stood at the end and I made this my destination. As wide as the jetty and only four yards long,
it stored ropes and nets and anchors, as I discovered when a fisherman emerged just as I came close.

‘Good morning, miss,' he said cheerfully. ‘Haven't seen you before. Don't get many strangers in Greystone. Did you come with those men on the horses?'

He pointed behind me and, turning, I saw four horses tethered outside The Jolly Fisherman. Miston's chestnut mare wasn't with them; he must have left it in the tavern's stable at the rear.

‘With one man, on one horse, but not one of those. My friend is staying at the inn, though,' I added, just to be polite.

‘Oh, is he? The innkeeper will be pleased to have so many he can overcharge,' he said, and laughed as he walked off with a coil of rope over his shoulder.

He held the rope in place with his hand and his sleeves, ragged and torn, exposed his wiry forearm revealing a sea dragon tattooed in fine detail. It was hardly unusual for a fisherman to sport a tattoo on his arm. There were probably others on the ball of his shoulder or on his chest. It wasn't his particular tattoos that I was interested in, though. The sea dragon had reminded me of something far more significant. I took the square of Theron's skin from my pocket and studied it. The tattoo wasn't as elaborate as the one I'd just seen and I was grateful for that, because it had suddenly dawned on me
that Lucien had to carry this symbol on his skin, just as Theron had done. He would have to be tattooed.

 

When Miston finally knocked on Mrs Wenn's door that afternoon, he had exciting news. ‘I've found you a boat. The captain's a daring fellow who'd like to be more than a fisherman for the rest of his life, if I'm any judge of men. That's the sort of man you need. He's heard of Erebis Felan and often wondered if it was fact or fable, so a journey to find out appeals to him.'

‘How will I pay him?'

‘Ah, now that's something that's troubled me since I first learned of your plans, so I've had plenty of time to mull it over. I can help.'

‘But you've already spent freely out of your own pocket,' I protested. He had paid Mrs Wenn twenty royals and promised her twenty more if we stayed more than a few days. ‘This captain will want hundreds of royals, maybe thousands. You're a scholar, Miston. You don't have much and —'

He put his hand up to stop me. ‘You're quite right, scholars don't become wealthy studying our books — but we do have the ear of the king. I've promised the captain I'll get him a command in Athlane's navy and in return he's agreed to take you on board, tomorrow morning.'

‘Tomorrow!' I gasped.

Could it be true? This time tomorrow Lucien and I would be on the final leg of our journey. What had seemed next to impossible back in Nan Tocha was going to happen. I would fulfil our pledge.
My
pledge, a voice silently corrected me, since the other who'd made that promise to Nerigold had been lying.

‘Lucien needs to have the symbol on his body where the sorcerers of Erebis Felan will see it.' I took the curling square of skin from my pocket and showed it to him once more. ‘On his arm would be best. How is it done?'

‘With ink and a needle,' said Miston.

Mrs Wenn came in from the kitchen where she'd been concocting another banquet for Lucien. Miston called to her, ‘Is there one in Greystone whom the others go to for their tattoos?'

‘No one special,' said Mrs Wenn. ‘Mostly one man will do the job for a friend and have the friend tattoo him in return. It's not difficult if the design is simple enough. I did it myself for my dear husband, a smiling angel for luck, not that it brought him any. Swept overboard in a storm ten years ago.'

‘So you could do one for us?' Miston asked.

Mrs Wenn disappeared into the kitchen, returning minutes later with a small pottery jar and a wooden box. ‘Ink and needles,' she announced. ‘What is it you want to tattoo?'

‘This,' I said, showing her the patch of desiccated skin.

She stared down at it for a moment, studying the strange bird first of all, to judge how difficult it would be to copy, I supposed. Then she realised what actually lay in my palm.

‘Oh!' she shrieked. ‘How can you handle such a thing?' She shuddered and backed away, before returning a step, then two, as intrigue overcame her revulsion. ‘Where did you get it?'

I thought it best not to tell her I'd sliced it from a Wyrdborn's scalp with my own hands. ‘It was taken from Lucien's father after he passed away,' I said smoothly.

I glanced at Miston, who looked surprised by my audacity. ‘Nerigold wanted Lucien to wear the same tattoo, as soon as we could find someone to do it?' I continued.

Mrs Wenn stared at me in utter horror. Her face first went white then took on the stony mask of disapproval she'd shown us when we arrived on her doorstep. ‘I thought the tattoo would be for this man,' she said, nodding coldly at Miston. ‘Tattoo a little baby — it's outrageous! Tattoos aren't a drawing in the sand, you know. There's no way to take them off once they're done.'

She withdrew into the kitchen, then, before Miston and I had even had a chance to open our mouths, strode
out again with a scarf flung haphazardly around her neck. ‘I'm going to the market for some special things to feed to your little one,' she said.

‘Gone to tell the rest of the village what wicked people we are, more likely,' I said to Miston, who seemed to have recovered from the shock of my blatant lies.

The pot of ink and the box still lay where Mrs Wenn had set them down. I picked up the pot, removed the cork stopper and put my nose to the opening. The ink had no smell at all. I opened the box and saw the needles.

‘Do you know how it's done?' I asked Miston.

‘Prick the skin with the needle and press in the ink. It must go deep enough to lodge permanently beneath the skin.'

‘But that would leave just a single dot. How do you get a sea dragon or a bird like this?' I said, taking up the gruesome patch of skin from where I'd put it down.

‘By making hundreds of little dots,' came the reply.

‘And each one has to pierce the skin, you say?' I felt the blood draining from my face. I took one of the needles from the box and experimented on my own forearm. ‘Ouch! No wonder Mrs Wenn stormed off like that. A man would endure the pain to prove himself worthy, I suppose, but Lucien's only …'

I'd been going to say eight weeks old but, looking down at him as he stirred from his dreams, that seemed
ridiculous. He was as big as my sister's son on his first birthday. But whatever his age, whatever his size, he was still far too young to suffer such pain.

‘Could I paint it on?' I asked.

Miston dipped his fingertip into the ink and, careful not to spill a drop onto Mrs Wenn's furniture, rubbed it onto the palm of his other hand. After a few seconds he wiped it away and held up the result to show me. Only the faintest blue stain remained.

I took a breath. ‘Doesn't matter how much it hurts him, then, it's got to be done.'

I picked Lucien out of the makeshift cot Mrs Wenn had made for him using cushions and blankets, and told Miston to move the cushions to a chair at the table. Then I placed Lucien on the cushions and gently drew his right arm out to lie flat on the surface before him. He looked down at his arm, puzzled, and tried to tug it away.

‘Hold his arm still,' I ordered while I got the pot of ink and the needle ready.

I placed the patch of skin beside his arm where I could glance at it whenever I needed to. Lucien made a grab for it with his free hand and I only just beat him to it. He looked unhappy that I'd snatched away a new toy, but didn't cry.

‘Good boy,' I cooed, smiling and ruffling the silky
hair across his scalp. In a very different voice I told Miston, ‘You'll have to hold his other arm as well.'

Lucien didn't think much of this. He wriggled until it was clear Miston's steely grip had him frozen in place and then seemed to resign himself to the greater force. Meanwhile, I studied the bird and decided which part to do first. It was time to get started.

I chose the needle with the finest point and rolled it carefully between the pads of my fingers and thumb to find the best grip. There was Lucien's unblemished skin waiting only inches below for the first prick. He had no idea what was about to happen. My mind rebelled again, then just as quickly repeated those undeniable words:
It's got to be done
. I focused my eyes on the best place to begin and pressed downwards.

Lucien screamed. Even though I'd been ready for his pain, I hadn't expected him to cry so loudly.

I snatched the needle away and massaged the spot with the thumb of my other hand, appalled by his wide open mouth and the tears that had already begun to spill from his beautiful eyes.

‘You didn't draw blood,' said Miston.

‘What?'

‘You didn't press hard enough. You can only be sure you've gone deep enough if you draw blood.'

I stared at him in disbelief. ‘But it hurt him!'

‘Not enough,' he said, in what to my ear was a tone of the coldest cruelty.

‘Not enough!' I shouted, making Lucien even more distressed.

‘I didn't mean it to sound like that, Silvermay,' Miston apologised. ‘It's not how much it hurts, but whether all the pain will be worthwhile. If you don't draw blood, you haven't gone deep enough and the ink won't stay in his skin much longer than the stain on my palm. All this agony and all the tears will be for nothing.'

I brought the needle close to Lucien's skin again. He knew this time what that needle would do to him and he bucked against Miston's restraining hands. He might as well have tried to break a dungeon's shackles. I pressed down again, harder, heard the scream that I knew would come and, through my own tears, saw a tiny bead of blood appear on Lucien's skin.

‘Again,' Miston urged. ‘You must keep going until the entire symbol is repeated on his skin.'

‘I can't,' I bellowed at him like a madwoman.

The needle dropped from my fingers and I reached for Lucien, sweeping him out of Miston's arms and into my own. ‘I'm so sorry,' I whispered into his ear, and when he snuggled against me, seeking comfort from the one who'd hurt him, my tears turned into a storm more violent than any that had blown in off the sea yesterday.

Miston watched me with little expression on his face. ‘What will you do, then, when you get to Erebis Felan?'

‘We can't go. I'll have to find some other way to save him.'

Miston rocked back in his chair to consider what I'd just told him. It was news to me, too, because I had only realised what I'd decided when I spoke the words.

‘How will you avoid King Chatiny's men? How will you keep Lucien out of Wyrdborn hands?' Miston said.

I had no answer, but I guessed his question had a motive of its own. ‘You've done enough for me, Master Dessar, and I'm grateful. You don't have to stay with us any longer. I understand. If we are captured — by Wyrdborn or commonfolk, it doesn't matter which — chances are they'll kill me straightaway and anyone else who's with us.'

‘Your best chance is Erebis Felan.'

‘Not without the tattoo, and you saw me just now. I can't bear to hurt him, even once.'

Miston stood and walked to the window where he lingered, his eyes apparently on the fishing boats as they lolled in the sun. His stance told me he barely saw them for he was deep in thoughts of his own. I couldn't help thinking at that moment, that what he said next would determine whether Lucien and I lived or died.

He turned and nodded towards the table where the needle and the pot of ink lay discarded. ‘Bring Lucien.'

‘I've already told you, I —'

He cut me off. ‘Bring the boy and hold him like I did.'

He was already on the move and, by the time I'd taken two steps, he was seated where I had been earlier. He reached for the needle.