Chapter 8

Cathryn perched on the edge of her chair in the living room of the town house she shared with Ailona in Fœna, close by the castle walls. She looked around at the oil paintings on the walls and ornate statuettes dotted around on sundry pieces of furniture. Ailona stepped through the door, clad in two towels, one covering her wet hair, and the other wrapped around her body.

“I have to go back, Allie.”

“Cathie, it’s only been three days since you were exiled, and anyway, why would you want to go back to Gilhœd?”

“Not Gilhœd, don’t be mad. I have to go back to Elshaw. The boy I met there could be useful.”

“You met a boy.” Ailona’s tone was full of shock, disappointment and a certain amount of disgruntled unhappiness. “A boy? What about me? And you’re too old for a boy anyway.”

“Not a boy, and not like that, you know I love you. He was, what, nearly eighteen? And I’ve never liked men in that way.” She slipped off the chair and wrapped her arms around Allie’s waist, “Stop being daft.”

“I wasn’t, you said you met a boy. And you know what that normally means. So who was he?”

“A boy, a...miller’s son.”

“A miller’s son. So you already met the family Miller then. Oh, Cathie. What have you done?”

“Nothing! Not yet, anyway.” Ailona stepped away.

“Not yet? You aren’t going to do anything, ok? If you get yourself locked up, killed or whatever, I won’t be there to get you back.” Cathryn winced at the veiled threat.

“I’m not going to do anything that’ll get me killed. Or locked up.” She muttered

“Good, because I’ve had it up to here with you and your disasters. I love you, Cathie, but I can’t stand your irrational behaviour anymore.”

“Irrational behaviour? MY irrational behaviour? What about yours? Coming running after me wherever I go? Making threats to leave me if I put my life at risk again – without me would you even have a life?”

“Cathie! For crying out loud! Why are you so mean? I only do it because I care, but if you don’t want me to love you then fine. I’ll leave right now.” Ailona moved away even further and grabbed a slender figurine from the bookshelf, “you can take your stupid birthday presents and stuff them!” she hurled it at the floor, grabbed her cloak and stormed out of the door. Cathryn took one deep breath and ran after her into the street.

“ALLIE!” Ailona stopped mid stride, and Cathryn saw her frame shake with sobs. She ran up to her and took her by the arm, “I know it’s because you care, but I had to help mother.”

“By getting yourself arrested? By nearly dying yourself? Oh, Cathie, for goodness’ sake, look after yourself. I think we’ve proved that I’m not good at it.”

“Yes, you are, don’t you ever say that. Come inside now, come on.” Ailona blinked at her wetly.

“Not just now. I think I’ll go for a walk. I’ll be back in a bit.”

“Oh...ok, then.” Cathryn bit her lip as Ailona brushed past her and stared down the street in a daze as she turned up an alley. Cathryn hardly remembered going back into the house, but when she came to, she was kneeling in front of the shattered remains of the beautiful ceramic statuette she’d given Ailona for her last birthday. A statuette of two slender figures wrapped around each other. The sculptor had called it ‘forever one’. Ha. As if.

When Ailona finally returned late that night, she found Cathryn curled on the hard floor, staring at the empty fireplace.

“Cathie?” Cathryn didn’t move, so she crept closer. “Cathie, I’m sorry.” She realised Cathryn wasn’t blinking. “Cathie? Cathie, what have you done?!” Cathryn shivered and glared at her.

“I haven’t done anything.”

“Good.” Ailona sat beside her, not quite touching. “I’m sorry about what I did. And what I said. It was wrong of me.” Cathryn huffed and frowned harder at the grate. “Cathie, please...” She struggled to keep the wobble out of her voice. “I know I was wrong, and I’m sorry, I really am. Please don’t ignore me.” Cathryn shifted to look at her.

“I was wrong too, you know. But if you don’t like me helping mother, then...I don’t think there’s a future for us.” Neither of them spoke as Cathryn watched the tears well up in Ailona’s eyes and spill over, trickling down over her cheeks and dripping off her chin. She looked so...vulnerable.

“Allie, I –”

“You want to break UP with me? But...we never argue about anything...that was the first time...I was trying to tell you how much I love you, and you took that to mean I don’t support you? I just want you to always come back to me, you silly woman. I don’t want...” she tailed off miserably.

“Don’t be daft. I didn’t mean we...I...I didn’t mean I don’t want to be with you. I just meant I need know I have you behind me one hundred percent, that’s all. I need you.”

“Oh...” Ailona blushed. “Well, that’s not what you said, but that’s ok.”

“No, but I’ve never been much good at saying what I mean, have I?”

“Mmm, no, not really.” They smiled tentatively at each other, the recent fight still too close for comfort.

Chapter 7

Kyra smoothed a stray hair from Luke’s forehead and smiled at him. He grimaced back. It had been two weeks since the duel with Cruthen and Cathryn’s botched attempt at murder, and many of the wounds received were beginning to heal, if a little slowly. Luke had only seen his father and siblings infrequently in the weeks since the clash, and the few times they had met it had only served to remind him of what he had come close to losing. Insufferable guilt racked him when he thought of how close he had come to dying, and the pain he would have caused by throwing his life away; his one constant reconciliation was Kyra – a reminder of what he had served to gain and protect by fighting. Today he was to face not just them, but the entire village at the start of his Rites.

He slipped a brown embroidered tunic over his creamy shirt and leggings, pulled leather boots onto his feet and stood by the door of his room in Griffin’s house. Kyra came to stand beside him, clothed in a long forest green gown, her long auburn curls free and hanging down to the base of her back, her woollen shawl over her arm. They ran together down the stairs and met Griffin at the bottom, from where Kyra sped off to join her parents, and Griffin and Luke headed towards the clearing behind the chapel.

As important as Griffin was in the village, two persons garnered more respect and consequence within the small community; the village elder and the high priest. The role of village elder traditionally fell to the eldest sentient member of the community, with highest standing within the village. As a result, the title was normally inherited, and had been in the same family for the past hundred years.

Jeptha, the current village elder, was waiting at the clearing for Luke and Griffin. The two old men exchanged nods, and took up positions on either side of Luke. All the villagers were crowded at one end of the green, Kyra’s parents standing proudly beside his father and siblings.

Seven of the villagers were standing away from the rest – they, along with Jeptha were to represent the Gods and Goddesses of their faith in the first of the Rites. Each would set him a short task to complete – designed to prove symbolically that he was suitable to become a part of the adult community in the village. Once he had completed and passed each task, he would be presented with a small token from each representative. These tokens were as important to the people of Elshaw as their identity papers were to the Commission.

Jeptha and Griffin led Luke to the separate group, constituting of Jeptha’s wife, Marie – representing Haia, the Goddess of fertility; the temple musician, Wuld – representing Wunjol, the God of music; Kyra – representing the Goddess of love, Hindri; Jeptha himself represented the God of fertility, Wejun; Luke’s aunt Helen represented the Goddess of family, Haisheth; Griffin’s daughter, Eloise, was representing Halil, the Goddess of health; Grayson, the village smith and weapons master represented Wahil, God of war; and the village look-out and resident weather know-all, Harold, represented Wokshan, God of weather. Griffin was there to ensure the tasks were carried out correctly.

Jeptha took his place in the line of representatives, and Marie stepped forward. She, along with Griffin, took Luke to another area of the green, where a woven screen separated them from the rest of the villagers. The Goddess of fertility was concerned with matters such as children and conception. Marie smiled gently.

“Before you worry, Luke, I’ve done as many of these ceremonies as I would care to remember, and my ma before me, and hers before her, and my daughters after me. There’s nothing I haven’t seen or done, so don’t go getting embarrassed either. Nothing to worry about.” Griffin stepped forward and stripped Luke of all his clothes. He smiled slightly as he saw Luke’s muscles tense in the effort to not cover his manhood. Luke stared at the top of the screen, relaxing only as Griffin muttered in his ear that he could dress. The three of them trooped out the other side of the screen, and Marie turned to the assembled villagers.

“I, and through me Haia, am satisfied that Luke is sound of body.” She dipped her hand into her apron pocket and produced a leather cord, and placed upon it a small wooden disc carved with a circle and an arrow pointing through it. This she passed to Luke.

They walked back to the group, deposited Marie in her space, and collected Wuld. He took Luke and Griffin to another area, where he had placed a stool and his own harp. He asked Luke to sit, or stand as he preferred. He stood, and Wuld took up position behind the harp.

“When you’re ready, Luke, begin, and I’ll follow on.” Griffin watched as Luke took a long, shuddering breath, and calmed down. He took another deep breath and began to sing one of the traditional Rite chants. The harp fitted its tune to his, and the threads of music wound their way across the village green and entwined themselves around the hairs on the back of the villagers’ necks. None of them had known Luke could sing. He came to the end of the chant, and Wuld stood up, walked Luke and Griffin closer to the villagers and spoke.

“I, and Wunjol through me, am satisfied that Luke is fit to magnify the Gods and Goddesses through song, and is fit to join the council of the temple.” He dipped into his pocket and produced a small wooden oval, marked with a symbol like a dot with a line sprouting vertically from the top of its right-hand-side. This Luke added to the leather cord round his neck.

Griffin and Luke accompanied Wuld to his place, and were joined by Kyra. It was traditional for the young men of the village to propose on the first day of their Rites, and they were no different. Luke took Kyra’s hand, and led her to a small shaded copse in the middle of the green, sat her on a bench under a small willow, and knelt before her. He produced a slender gold ring set with a small sapphire from a pocket in his tunic and presented it to her.

“Kyra, daughter of Stephen and Matilda, will you accept this ring as a symbol of my love for you and my wish to join with you in matrimony?” Griffin was standing watching them from a close distance.

“Luke, son of John and Miranda, I accept this ring as a symbol of your love for me and your wish to join with me in matrimony. I present you with this kiss of peace as a symbol of my willingness to enter knowingly into this contract.” They kissed chastely, and Luke slipped the ring onto the heart finger of her right hand.

Together they walked back towards the villagers, their respective parents stepping forwards to join them halfway.

“I, Matilda, mother of Kyra, do agree to this marriage.”

“I, Stephen, father of Kyra, do also agree to this marriage.”

“I, John, father and sole parent of Luke, do agree to this marriage.”

Griffin stepped away from the family.

“I hereby declare that I am satisfied, and through the bodies of Kyra and her daughters that Hindri is satisfied, that the match is fit, and the betrothal binding.” The parents stepped back into the group of villagers, and Kyra re-took her place in the line-up. Jeptha stepped out of line to join them.

He walked them back to the copse, but round to the side where a farm labourer had dug through a patch of ground. Luke’s father strode up, bearing a tray of seedlings.

“I declare that these plants were reared by the hand of my son.” Luke plucked each sprout from the tray, and planted them well in the finely churned soil. Jeptha took his arm, and declared to the amassed community:

“I, and through me Wejun, am satisfied that Luke will provide for his family, and is capable of caring for the land he lives on, and I also hereby present Luke with the land his parents bought for him when he was nought but a babe, the land behind the farm of Jared and Jared’s sons, and the house which used to be that of Jared’s eldest son’s wife’s mother before she died, may she rest in peace, and which is on the afore-mentioned land is now officially that of Luke, Kyra and their family.”

For the fifth time, Griffin and Luke ferried back to the group of representatives, and came away with Helen, Luke’s aunt on his mother’s side. She cut a small slit in the side of her left hand, and so did Luke. Griffin held the cuts together, as Helen proclaimed:

“The blood which runs though mine veins runs in Luke’s and will run in his children’s. I am satisfied that Luke will be an exemplary husband and father, and will do his utmost to care for his family.” Griffin moved their hands apart and bound them with thin linen strips. Helen dipped her bandaged hand into her pocket and passed Luke a wooden circle, marked with a droplet shape.

Griffin and Luke took Helen back to the others, and collected Griffin’s daughter, Eloise.

She walked them to a flat piece of grass on the green, and asked Luke to perform a series of movements, bending and stretching, to test his balance and flexibility. Having completed two levels of the Priest’s Dance as the movements were called, she made him stop. She turned to the villagers and spoke.

“I, and Halil through me, am satisfied that Luke is healthy.” She dropped a rectangular token into his hand, carved with an anatomically correct image of a heart.

She preceded them back to the small group, and they collected the second to last person, Grayson Smith. He led them back to the flat piece of grass, and threw Luke a new blade. They sparred for a short while, and then went to the archery range on the far side of the green. Grayson passed Luke three arrows and his bow. He had three chances to hit the bulls-eye. He took the first arrow, notched it, and drew back the string until the fletching ticked his ear. He focussed solely on the bulls-eye and released the arrow. It shot straight and pierced the target in the centre of the bulls-eye. He repeated this with the second and third arrows, each time hitting the centre of the target. The villagers were impressed but not surprised; Luke had an incredible reputation as a flawless hunter. Grayson also spoke to the villagers.

“I, and through me Wahil, am satisfied that Luke is competent and capable of defending himself, his home, his family, his village and his Gods and Goddesses.” He went back to the sparring area and picked up the sheathed sword, and slid it onto a sword belt. “I hereby present Luke with his own sword, scabbard and sword-belt, and a new quiver of arrows.” Luke fastened the belt around his waist, the sword hanging at his left hip, and slung the quiver across his back. He un-strung his bow and fit it into the quiver along with the arrows.

The three of them went back to the small group, deposited Grayson and picked up Harold. He presented Luke with a weather vane and barometer and asked him to interpret their behaviour for him. This he did and passed.

“I, and through me Wokshan, am satisfied that Luke is competent in weather prediction and will be able to face whatever is thrown at him.” He passed Luke the weather vane and barometer with a grin. They yet again trooped back to the small group and left Harold there. Luke, Kyra and Griffin went to the villagers and collected their parents and Luke’s siblings, then went to the chapel.

The priest was waiting behind the main altar, and as the two families approached, he came and stood at the altar rail. They all knelt and received a blessing. There was a conspicuous absence from the group, as Emily had not fully recovered and as the year was rapidly descending into winter it had been decided it might be better for her not to attend and to hear about it later. Luke was invited to step beyond the altar rail, where he was tested by the priest in matters of conscience, morals, and standards. As before, he passed, and the priest gave him a small bag of gold coins with which to set himself up a trade and business.

“I hereby declare Luke clean of spirit and mind, and present him with the means to carve himself a notch in our community and to forge himself a future.” He also passed Luke the key to his new home.

Luke rejoined the families at the altar rail, and they all went outside to assemble the rest of the village to a feast on the green.

They fell to happily, and as mead and ale were drunk, and a hearty roast consumed, laughter and song rang out across the village in the gathering dusk. As darkness began to fall properly, the village disbanded, each heading for their own home. Kyra hung back for a moment with Luke, her hands resting on his upper arms as his hands wrapped possessively around her waist.

John watched his son and future daughter-in-law talked quietly to each other and felt a sense of peace filter over him. He only had to go through this once more – girls had less of a ritual about coming of age, and it was generally much simpler – and that was in four years time. He smiled as Luke and Kyra kissed gently, then more passionately and let go of one another. Kyra ran after her parents, and Luke turned to him.

“Come on, Luke. Home.” They grinned widely at each other, and as Perry and Bess ran up to them, they turned and headed back to the mill.

Once over the threshold, John sent Perry and Bess to bed, and drew Luke into the living room. He made his son sit down in the big armchair while he built up the fire and lit the candles.

“Now the official part of the Rites is over, son, I can give you something your mammy left you. As soon as she knew she was dying she wrote you a letter, and set about finding a gift for you for your Rites.” John went over to the big chest beside the fire and unlocked it. He threw back the lid and rifled through the contents – pieces of paper and small trinkets mainly. He finally surfaced clutching a slightly-yellowed envelope, with ‘Luke’ written across the front in faded blue ink. He passed it to Luke.

"Look after it. It’s all we have left of her.” Luke nodded absently, and reached for the paper knife on the mantle-piece. He carefully slit the envelope, and pulled out the pages from inside, and pulling with them a small portrait. He slipped the portrait back into the envelope, and drew the pages closer. He glanced at the page and a half of the familiar neat flowing script and felt a lump build in his throat. He leant closer to the candle and began to read.

To my darling boy,

By the time you read these words you won’t be a boy anymore, but a man. It’s hard to imagine my little boy being so old! I suppose it is only four years, but what a difference those four years will make.

It won’t have been easy for anyone, and I’m so sorry you had to grow up without me there. But I had you for fourteen of your years, so I was lucky in that respect. I never stopped loving you, my eldest son. Perry, Bess, and Emily could never compare to your birth. But you could never compare to theirs either. Each of you is so special; it hurts to think about you.

I miss you every day, even though I’ll be dead when you read this. I hope you think about me, but not too much. You’re still living, and you have a life to lead.

It’s hard to know what to say. I’ll have missed out on four years of your life; you won’t be the boy I know, though you’ll still be the boy I love. All I can say is I hope they haven’t been too bad, not too hard. And I hope the future gets better. I hope you’re well, and I hope you stay that way.

By this time you will be betrothed. I wonder who to? I hope you love her, Luke. Look after her and treat her well. Make sure you never scorn, spurn or hit her – women are considerably gentler and milder than men, and you’d do well to remember it.

Oh my boy, I wish I could be there to be your mother, but I seem to have the same weakness of the chest as my mother, and her mother before her. These things seem to run in the women in our family. It’s a worry really, considering the fact I have two girls. Look after them. I know your father will try, bless him, but he was never much good at letters and numbers, and sometimes they come in more handy than more...physical attributes.

Things will never be simple in this life, Luke, but remember things will always have a flip-side. What seems hard now will make the things you have to face in the future that much easier. I don’t expect you to agree now, though. I know how hard it is to take advice when you’re young. I just hope this stays with you for longer than I did, because that means my work here is done.

I have very little time left in this world, my boy, so I leave you with a heart full of love and best wishes for the future.

Your mother

He looked up and sniffed, wiping the tears as they trickled down his face. His father perched uncomfortably on the arm of the chair.
“I never got to grips with me numbers and letters,” he said sadly, shaking his head, “and I wish I had. There’s nought left for me but fading memories and sadness.”

Chapter 6

Cathryn hugged her knees as she sat in the middle of her cramped cell. A frilly fungus was growing in one of the corners by the ceiling, and the walls were covered in sticky yellowy-green mucus. The floor wasn’t much better, being ingrained with dirt, but at least it was dry – in places. Water dripped from a crack in the ceiling, causing puddles of freezing water to congregate. The narrow cot was pressed against the wall, the only covering a thin and ripped blanket on the hard wooden slats, and at the end of the bed was a tin plate with a hunk of dry bread and a slice of mouldy cheese on it, accompanied by water with a peculiar smell. She sniffed again at the water. The chemical smell of the disinfectant masked a more acrid scent hovering over the surface of the liquid.

A loud rapping on her door made her lift her head off her knees and look at the door with dull disinterest. She tried to swallow and felt her fuzzy and dry tongue rasp against the roof of her mouth as her throat contracted. A guard poked his head around the door, and, staring at a point about three feet above her head, began to speak.
“Cathryn Tuyere, you are needed in court three for your first hearing. Stand.” She stood, not seeing that she had an alternative. The guard stepped into the cell, and bound her wrists and ankles as they had each and every time they had taken her from her cell in the week of her incarceration. Gilhœd had lived up to its reputation of having terrible prisons. Cathryn was in the city jail, on the edge of the city, but mostly in the slums. The cells spread in an underground network beneath the hovels which spread for two miles south of the citadel.

Most of the cities in Vranak were constructed around a central fortified citadel, in which the Lord or Lady of the province had their castle, their nobles had their homes, and visiting dignitaries stayed in the high-class inns. There were plenty of empty rooms lining the walls of the citadels in case of an invasion of the city; the citadels were made to hold the entire population of the city within the fortress walls, but this capability had rarely been exploited.

Cathryn stepped forwards, swaying from side to side, and leant into the guard as he grasped her elbow and frogmarched her from the cell. As they exited the cell, another guard grasped her other elbow, and a further six arranged themselves around the trio. They moved as a solid block down the stone corridor, the soldiers’ hobnailed boots making a cacophony of echoes as the hard noise reflected off the walls and low ceiling.

Together, they clattered quickly down the hall. Cathryn tried to remember the path they took: fifth left, third right, first right, second left...she soon lost track, and focussed on lifting her feet rather than be dragged along the passage like a limp ragdoll. It was obvious to her, and to her guards, that she wasn’t in a good way; they weren’t allowed to show empathy to their charges, but when they arrived at the third courtroom, one muttered inaudibly to the guard on the door, before handing her over and watching her being dragged inside.

Within the room, eighteen guards were stationed three metres apart around the edge; a central plinth bearing a large and ornate throne rose six feet into the air. Assassin vines wound round the doorway, twining at the apex of the arch, and vegetated the columns studded throughout the huge space. Thick tendrils waved, suspended in midair, coiling and writhing as Cathryn and her guards passed underneath. In places the vines were 20 feet high, and had a diameter of five inches.

Cathryn was dropped onto a low, crude wooden chair, facing the throne and placed in front of one of the columns, thick with vine. Her wrists were shackled to rings on the column, her ankles chained to the chair, and guards took up position on either side of her, staring resolutely ahead. One shifted slightly, the links in his mail shirt chinking against each other and scraping against his sword belt. An eerie silence ruled the courtroom. Not a muscle moved; each slight creak from the assassin vines’ movements seemed three times as loud as it should be. Hobnailed boots clattered down the corridor outside, coming to a riotous halt just outside the door. The three-inch thick oak door was pushed open silently on oiled hinges, and a crimson-clad figure strode in, closely followed by hunched men in black robes and four Drow. Cathryn winced as she noticed them; she had had several skirmishes with the dark elves in the past, and wasn’t eager to repeat the experience. A column of twelve further soldiers marched smartly into the courtroom, and took up positions around the throne as the red-robed man leapt lightly up the steps to the seat and settled, curled loosely. A slender band on gold encircled his portentous brow; his shoulder-length hair curled dark but streaked with grey framing cold, dark eyes and a strong hooked nose. He laughed delightedly at her weakness, cold flames of mirth lighting his black eyes.
“Oh, look, guards, Drow and magicians alike! The little murderess is sick and weary! What little fun she is going to give Lord Cruthen in her present state. Magi! Heal her.” Two of the hunched men shuffled forwards, their over-long robes dragging across the floor with a sinister rustle. Cathryn’s guards moved aside, allowing the magicians to stand on either side of her. They placed their hands over her head and began to chant quietly. She shivered as her skin prickled and wormed its way back into place, covering the lacerations from the manacles and whipping she had endured; she stifled a cough as the poisonous spores from the frilly fungus worked their way out of her lungs. Every hardship she had endured over the week of her imprisonment was revoked in a matter of minutes, and the magicians shuffled back to their spaces in Cruthen’s entourage.

In the week since his duel with Luke in Elshaw, Cruthen had taken hold of Gilhœd in order to prevent the King’s newly recruited soldiers from joining the rest of his formidable force in Navidon, a barrack city several leagues south west, on the eastern bank of the River Æolara. This he had accomplished by way of blackmailing the residing Lord into abdicating and then taking the province for himself. He had instated his own guards and group of loyal magicians and nobles who took up residency in the villages spread throughout the province.

Cathryn sat silently on her wonky chair, shivering slightly as slender tendrils from the assassin vines wrapped themselves in her short hair. Her guards inched away from the column as the thicker vines began to wave at them.
“Guards! Be still, or else face Lord Cruthen’s wrath!” Cruthen had developed a habit of referring to himself in the third person since rising to power. This annoyed his nobles, his subjects and his army, but he paid little attention to their irritation.

The guards stepped back to their original places, but recoiled slightly as finger-width vines began to entwine themselves in their helms and sword belts.

“So, so, so, so, so. little Cathryn Tuyere. Attempted murderess, one-time daughter of a Lord. And what happened to your precious daddy, Cathie? Did he die?”
“You don’t scare me, Cruthen De Malva. I grew up spending summers with you while you were a teenager in our castle; I know who you are and what you were and what you’ve become, but I also know how to bring you back down. I know you loved the daughter of a common mercenary. I know she married a humble miller and had a family with him. I know you’re jealous and scorned and hurt – hurt! By a woman! The mighty Cruthen, Lord Cruthen, crushed by a lily-skinned woman. Miranda’s dead, Cruthen. There’s nothing more you can do now. But of course! You hate all women because of one woman’s mistake. Well trust me on this, oh pious Lord. Killing me will only hurt another woman, no man will hate you for killing me, no man will do through what you went through; a woman will. I do not care for men, they have fleeting fancies and roving eyes. A woman’s love is more stable and long-lasting than a man’s.”
“Oh, Cathie, how you amuse me.” Cruthen’s eyes narrowed and he leant forwards in his throne. “Your Ailona’s here, with us. Do you want to see her? Bring in the other little slut!” The door swung open, and two guards staggered in, dragging the limp form of a woman with long blonde hair.
“Ailona!” Cathryn screamed and tried to stand, but the guards, manacles and assassin vines all conspired against her, and she was forced to remain seated. At the sound of her voice, the woman’s head lifted, and her blue eyes searched for the source of the sound. They landed on Cathryn and widened, filling with tears, and then she was dragged away to the base of the plinth. Cruthen descended from his ornate chair and squatted beside Ailona. He spoke in a menacing, carrying whisper, “Cathryn, unless you want your precious Ailona killed here, now, right before you, you will acquiesce and co-operate with me. You will be tried for attempted murder, you will be found guilty, but I will grant you bail. You will go back to wherever you came from with Ailona, and you will not go near that man again, understood? You will stay away from that accursed village and you will have nothing whatsoever to do with the family called Miller.”
“Why does it matter so much to you, Cruthen? I knew you had become as bitter and withered as the fruit from these vines and as twisted as the mind of a...a mulk, but I didn’t know you had changed to this extreme level.”
“Lord Cruthen is nothing like those foul-humoured birds!”
“Not to look at, no. But you are of the same temperament and you too feed off the misery of others.”
“Begone from the presence of Lord Cruthen, you tainted woman! Guards, put them together in a cell. They can reconcile their differences there.” Cathryn’s guards hacked themselves free of the assassin vine intertwined with their uniforms, and unlocked Cathryn’s manacles, pulling her free of the insidious tendrils; Ailona was lifted onto the back of another and carried from the room.

The guards returned Cathryn to her original cell, where she found Ailona lying on the bare boards. She settled beside her, fingers resting on the back of her hand.

She sat thus for several hours, waiting for Ailona to wake. As she waited, she looked around her cell. The frilly fungus in the corner had grown in the week she had been there. The puddles were wider, and the crack in the ceiling bigger. The walls had a thicker layer of mucus on them, but the floor was cleaner as most of the dirt had been transferred onto Cathryn’s clothing. The narrow cot was the same as it had been, where Cathryn had forsaken the splintering boards for the unforgiving stone floor.

Ailona finally awoke in the early hours of the next morning. She looked at Cathryn and frowned.
“What happened to you? You never came home.”
“Well I got to the village, and I cornered someone to help me, but he was of limited use – he did get me a room at the same inn as Aelfred though, so he wasn’t entirely useless. I went to try and poison my father’s murderer, but tripped on a floorboard in the dark, spilt cyanide all over his arm and dropped my dagger, all of which woke him up. So I jumped out of the window and got caught by the enforcement squad. They sent me up here with a contingent for Kædrid’s army, and I’ve been here ever since. That was my first hearing. But what happened to you?”
“I waited for you,”
They were both mute.
Allie, Cathryn thought.
Cathie, Ailona thought.
Before they had become lovers, when they were only a little closer than friends, both had thought that holding each other was vitally important; like realigning two halves of the same person and knitting together a wound neither knew they had. Afterwards, this had not changed.
Now, Ailona put steady arms around her waist while Cathryn’s held on to her upper arms and back. It did not have the normal anaesthetic effect. Ailona shifted a little, wondering at why she felt uncomfortable still. Feeling the thin, worn material of the shirt Cathryn wore, and the pronounced curve of her hip through that against her arm, she realized what it. It felt odd, her love wearing no more, no heavy jacket for travel, no protection against those who might do her harm. It was difficult to imagine Cathryn being without something on her back, which Ailona navigated with little difficulty when they embraced. For once she felt vulnerable, and Allie sought to rectify that. Cathie hated being assailable in any way.
For now, at least, I can do something about it, Ailona thought.
I... Cathryn thought, as she tightened her hold, but in a moment it was lost like so much vapour.
They kissed. And the world was contained in the corner of a cell. They breathed together, and felt no pain.
“Some word...” Ailona said, “Some letter...none came.” Ailona leant away, her arms tight around Cathryn’s waist. “And the day you were due home came and went, and I got suspicious. Then I heard a group of soldiers and a cart had been dispatched from Elshaw for Gilhœd, I thought you might be involved somehow, so I came here as fast as I could and then was captured yesterday by a handful of soldiers and was brought before Cruthen today.”
“I’m so sorry, Allie. I swear, it won’t happen again.”
“I don’t care very much, as long as you’re safe.”

Chapter 5

As the first feeble rays of light stabbed the dark blue sky the next morning, John felt himself being shaken awake. He gripped the hand on his shoulder with the four remaining fingers on his left hand, and ran the three on his right over the mantle-piece in search of the meat hook.

“Father? What are you doing? Do you want me to stoke up the fire and heat more water?” Luke frowned down on his father as he struggled to stand.

“Sorry, Luke. Thought you were C-...someone else for a minute there. You do that, son, and I’ll get breakfast for Louise and Jacob.” As he left the room, John watched his son preparing the fire and hanging the big cauldron from the bar across the grate. He hardly knew how Luke had grown up so quickly. In just four years he had gone from a serious, dark haired boy to a long-limbed, good-looking young man who was only two weeks off his eighteenth birthday. He had heard the whispers in Elshaw that Luke and Kyra Keeps were getting very close, and the rumours made him smile – Luke could do a lot worse than the Keeps girl; she was slender, pretty, and knew how to run an efficient household. Yes, they’d do well together.

He slipped quietly down the stairs to where he had left the twins, coiled on the chair. He tapped them on the shoulder and, satisfied they were half-way to waking up, went into the kitchen to make their breakfast.

Luke was still upstairs with Emily, carefully building the fire to boil the water when Griffin arrived for the second poultice change.

“Morning, John. How’s she sounding this morning?”

“Her breathing seems a little easier, thank you Griffin. Luke’s up there boiling the water for you.”

“Oh, good; he’s a fine boy, John.”

“I know; I’m very lucky.”

Griffin clattered quickly up the stairs to tend to Emily and her poultice. As he came through the door, Luke turned from his position by the bed, where he was applying yet another hot compress to his sister’s forehead.

“Griffin! I’m glad you’re here. The water should be just about boiling now.” As he spoke, the water began to bubble vigorously, threatening to upset itself over the fire. Griffin lifted it onto the stone hearth, and added his herbs and extracts. He was just smearing the resulting paste onto Emily’s back, when there was a loud rapping on the front door the floor below. Luke jumped up from his kneeling position between the bed and window, and ran down to see who was disturbing the peace.

He arrived just as his father wrenched the door open. Standing framed in the doorway was a man. He was fairly tall, slimly but strongly built, with shoulder-length hair which must have once been black but which was now threaded with dark grey strands, and hard dark eyes.

“Cruthen,” John breathed. “What do you want here? Miranda’s been dead this past four year. What do you want to accomplish? Torture her children? Me? Or torture yourself with what you could have had, if you’d treated her right?”

“John Miller. I should have known you’d rather spar with words than swords. Do you even still own a sword? No, I didn’t think so. What did Miranda see in you, eh? A grouchy miller’s son who’d already lost fingers to the grindstones. How many’ve you got left, eh?” he sneered menacingly. “what, just seven? And that’s in total. What a poor showing! I came here for a reason, Miller. You and your scant provision as a husband killed her. I’m surprised your offspring are still alive. Not got them working in the mill yet?”

“I hope they will never work the mill, Cruthen.”

“Ah, a father’s last wish?” his mouth twisted in derision, “you’d better hope I finish you quickly, Miller. I’d bet you can’t duel to save your life, or your children’s.”

“You want to duel me, Cruthen? You’ve sunk to new lows over the years, haven’t you? We hear from the Roma travellers, you see. We hear what goes on in Fœna, and Gilhœd, and even in Kædrid‘s beloved Charack. Slavery was abolished for a reason, Cruthen.”

“You think I support the lily-livered king? Don’t act stupid, Miller; it doesn’t suit you. I want to…but I digress. Are you going to fight me, Miller? Or will you make your son do it for you. I can see him there – he looks like her; all dark hair and pale skin. I wonder if he bleeds like a mortal. She certainly did, in the end.”
“Cruthen, you go too far! –”

“- Father, he’s not going to go until you give in. You’re in no fit state to fight. I’ll do it.”

“But Luke! You’ve never fought – not with swords. He’ll run you through as easily as you’d kill a deer!”

“Actually, father…Grayson has been teaching me swordplay these last two summers.”

“Grayson Smith teaching my son to fight? But –”

“I’ll have a better chance than you, father.”

“No, I can’t allow it! You’re my son; I can’t let you play with your life like that!”

“Father, can you hear Griffin calling?”

“No. I’ll go and check.” If John had any misgivings about leaving Luke, they all came to fruition as he turned his back and heard the eerie scraping of metal on stiff leather as a sword was drawn. Cruthen threw Luke a blade; he stood impassively as Luke stuck out a hand and snatched it out of the air, settling into a low crouch and bouncing on the balls of his feet. Cruthen struck like a snake, his sword arm swinging easily through the air, only to be blocked at every turn by Luke’s blade or guard.

They whirled through every combination a pair of bodies and blades could, the early morning light flashing on the blades as they crashed together, more often than not being halted mere centimetres from taut skin. As swordsmen, Cruthen and Luke were evenly matched, despite Cruthen’s vastly superior experience. They tired at a similar rate, failing to evade blows and placing the blades at awkward angles to parry the other. They each scored hits on the other; Luke had received a nasty gash to the ribs when Cruthen feinted to his left and struck right, but had broken even by ripping a slice from Cruthen’s right shoulder and bicep. In a highly impractical move, Luke batted Cruthen’s sword aside, and found himself pressing the point of his own blade to Cruthen’s throat.

“Surrender?”

“F-fine. Just get that sword away from me.”

“No,” he pressed it deeper into Cruthen’s neck, drawing a bead of blood. “I want you to swear that you will never come here again, no matter whose orders you’re disobeying, no matter the consequences. You will never come near my family again, understood?” Cruthen struggled weakly as the tip dug deeper into the flesh at the base of his neck.

“Yes, I understand, I swear, I’ll never come back. Just let me go!” Luke removed the sword from Cruthen’s throat. “Keep the blade. I don’t need it.” Cruthen struggled to sheath his sword, and hobbled over to the bag and cloak he had dropped when he first arrived, dragged the cloak up over his injured arm and picked up the bag, before limping away without a second glance.

Luke turned back towards the house, pressing a hand to his side, feeling hot blood soak through his shirt and drip over his fingers. His father ran from the doorway and slipped an arm round him.

“You stupid boy! What were you trying to achieve, fighting Cruthen like that?! -”

“I won, father…he’s sworn to…sworn to stay away-y from here…”

“You need help, Luke.” John shifted his grip, and lifted his son bodily into the air, just as he fainted. He carried him upstairs and set him on the second bed in the girl’s room.

“Griffin – pause in your treatment of Emily; bind Luke’s side for me?”

“Bind…?”

“He just duelled Cruthen.”

“Cruthen?” Griffin bustled over to his bag and withdrew a roll of linen bandages and a needle and thread. He cut away Luke’s shirt from his side, and stitched his side as best he could. The gash stretched from six inches below Luke’s right armpit to the base of his ribs, and had torn the muscle over his ribcage. Having sewn the muscle and skin back together, Griffin concocted another poultice and smeared it over the wound, and, padding it first with a linen pad, bound his chest firmly.

“Let me take the lad into the village – he can stay with me for as long as it takes for him to recover. It’s a bad idea to have him here with Emily still being infectious and consumptive – the lad’d soon catch it.”

“Fine, take him. Have him stay with you, but you will be here much of the time, changing Emily’s poultices and such, won’t you?”

“Yes, but I have the perfect lass in mind to nurse him.” With that, Griffin slung his bag into a corner, lifted Luke as easily as if he was a baby, and carried him downstairs and out of the house.

He carried him swiftly down the lane and onto the main street leading to Elshaw, carrying on his speedy pace as he neared the village. He passed his own house, and went on to the Keeps’ Inn. Going to the back of the building, he knocked on a door not many knew existed, and was answered by Kyra’s mother, Matilda.

“Griffin? What can I…who’s that?”

“Matilda, lass, is Kyra in?”

“Well, yes…I’ll just fetch…her.” Tearing horrified eyes from the limp body in Griffin’s arms, Matilda ran into the house, screeching for her daughter. Within minutes, Kyra had appeared at the door, eyes wide with apprehension. As she slowly recognized the body Griffin was carrying, she stifled a moan with her hand and struggled not to cry.

“It’s all right, lass, he’s not dead. Would you help me care for him? The little lass up at the mill’s come down with her mammy’s fate, and I can’t care for them both the whole time.” Kyra nodded slowly, and reached behind the door for her cloak. She stepped out of the house, and, stroking a stray hair from Luke’s face, fell into step beside Griffin. Her mother stood in the doorway, one hand on her hip, the other pressed to her mouth.

The little trio trooped through the village, back to Griffin’s little house. He led the way into the narrow hall and up the stairs. Dried herbs hung from the ceiling, their musky fragrances permeating the air.

Griffin pushed a door open on the upper storey, and placed Luke on top of the bedcovers. He removed the remainder of Luke’s shirt to access the bandages. He untied the end and unwound the long linen strip, pressing the pad over the long gash in Luke’s side, before trying to assess the rest of the damage wrought by the cold bite of Cruthen’s blade. Kyra had dropped her cloak in a corner by the door, and stood on the far side of the room, her back pressed against the wall and her eyes fixed on a sprig of lavender tied to a joist in the ceiling.

“Come here, lass. I’m sure he won’t mind you helping me. Just press this here pad down, gentle-like, on this wound for me.” She stepped up to the side of the bed, pulling her hair back with a ribbon so it was out of her face, and pressed the pad gently to Luke’s side. His eyes flickered and he let out a slight moan. She gasped and took a step back, but maintained the pressure on the linen pad.

“Eh, that’s right, lass. It’s okay, he’s just waking up, is all. None of these other scratches are serious – yet. I’ll mix you the first poultice – there’s not much too it – and leave you the herbs out. That side’ll need changing now, and then every six hours, and the bandages every twelve. When you change his side, wash all the old poultice off and start anew – don’t worry too much if it weeps a bit when you wash it, it’ll soon dry up.” As Griffin spoke, Luke’s eyes opened and flicked from face to face, trying to work out where he was. “It’s all right, lad, you’re at my house in the village. Young Kyra here’s going to be helping me look after you while I’m up tending young Emily up at the mill, all right? I’ve to go now, so I’ll just mix that poultice for you, Kyra, and then I’ll be on my way.” Luke’s eyes had latched onto Kyra’s as soon as Griffin had mentioned her name, and as Griffin turned away, he pressed his left hand to both of hers.

Griffin smiled as he turned away – if he wasn’t mistaken, there was romance in the air, and he was now surplus to requirements. He mixed the poultice as quickly as possible, and left them to themselves.

Kyra removed her hands from Luke’s side, pressed his to it instead, and went over to the poultice pot, bowl of clean water and linen towel set by the fire. She brought it over to the bedside and gently peeled the linen pad off, wincing in sympathy with Luke as the threads caught on the stitches. As she revealed the ten-inch gash, she gasped, and frowned at Luke.

“What on earth have you been doing to get your body in such a state? It can’t be easy to rip your side like that.” He tried to laugh, but winced as the effort stretched the stitches.

“I was duelling -”

“- Duelling?”

“Yes. From what I gathered, the man was an old suitor of my mother’s. She’d left him for father, and now he was back to take his revenge for mother’s death – although how he could blame father I have no idea – and he wanted to fight father.” Luke paused for breath and smiled to see Kyra’s focussed look as she tried to understand. “Old Grayson from the forge has been teaching me swordplay over the past two summers, so I volunteered – I had more of a chance than father – he can’t hold anything that requires more finesse than a sack of grain. And, well, we fought, and I won. But not before getting this for my trouble -” he gestured at his side “- but I gave as good as I got – I ripped open his shoulder and upper arm.” He looked a little sheepish. “I’m not proud of what I did – but I only did it because my family was at risk.” He sought her eyes anxiously.

“I don’t think any the worse of you, Luke. It was so brave!” her eyes filled with tears. “I can’t believe you’d risk your life for your family like that...”

“I had to. Are you going to clean that or are we just going to sit here looking at it?” he smiled at her teasingly. She started, and dipped the towel into the hot water. Gently wiping away the caked-on remnants of poultice from the stitches, she tutted at Luke’s wriggling and muttering.

“Oh, for -. Luke. I have to get this off.”

“Yes, but that hurts!”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Would you rather it became infected?” she employed a sarcastic tone, and watched with satisfaction as he conceded defeat and allowed her to go on cleaning his wound.

He studied her face as she prised bits of flaked herb from the skin around the gash – her delicately shaped lips were pressed together in concentration, and her brow was furrowed as she frowned at the task in hand. He smiled, and then winced as she prodded an especially sore patch.

“Sorry.” She glanced at his face. “Nearly done.” He grimaced as she put the cloth back into the water and drew the poultice towards her.

Dipping her slender fingers into the thick paste, she scooped up a small amount, and went round to the other side of the bed to apply it to the smaller wounds first. As she gently patted the herby mix onto his skin with her fingertips, she felt the tension rising in the room. She struggled to ignore it and carried on applying the poultice to his cuts. Having covered the multitudes of smaller lacerations on the remainder of his chest, she returned to the long slash in his side. She smoothed the salve onto the stitched area and the slightly inflamed skin surrounding it. Grabbing a clean linen pad from the mantle, she pressed it to his side, and asked him to sit up. Starting from the top of his chest, she wound the long linen strip around his chest, from armpit to waist, and then tied off the end. She sighed, and perched on the edge of the bed. Luke leant back against the wall, watching her as she pulled on the ribbon constraining her reddish-brown curls.

As she released the knot, they dropped to the base of her back, settling in ringlets across her shoulders, and releasing a fresh scent into the room to mingle with that of the herbs. He reached out a hand, and wrapped a stray ringlet around his finger. She laid a hand on his knee and looked at him. He looked back, unsmiling. She dipped her head, and he let go of the curl, tucking the finger under her chin and raising her head so he could study her face. He leant closer, sucking in a breath as he pulled his side, and kissed her on the nose. She wrinkled it, smiling at him, and pressed a hand to the side of his face. Neither of them had said a thing; neither of them had needed to. Luke broke the heavy silence.

“Kyra...in two weeks I reach eighteen.” She let the statement hang, willing him to carry on – they had grown up together, were very close, and their birthdays were a mere two weeks apart; according to society’s rules a girl could become betrothed a month before her eighteenth birthday. From that day it was exactly four weeks until her eighteenth. “Father says I should be looking for a girl to marry and raise a family with. I don’t think I need to look very far, do I?” She gazed uncertainly at him. “What I mean to say is, will you – when I’m old enough to officially ask for your hand – will you...marry me?”

“Oh, Luke! Yes! I mean, I shall have to see what my parents think, but if they will take my opinion into consideration they’ll have to agree.” She smiled, a look of happiness transforming her features from beautiful to stunning. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted you to ask that.”

“And you have no idea how long I’ve wanted to ask you.” They sat on the bed, staring at each other. Luke slid a hand to the back of Kyra’s head, and kissed her gently on the mouth. The door slammed downstairs, startling them, and Griffin’s earthy tones echoed through the wood-and-stone house.

“Kyra? Luke?”

“We’re still here.” They smiled at each other, revelling in their secret. Griffin’s heavy steps thudded dully on the stairs as he made his way up to the room. He pushed the door open and walked in.

“How’s the pain, Luke, lad?”

“Not too bad, thanks Griffin. I’ll let you know if it gets any worse.” There was a sense of happiness in the room, and Griffin squinted from one to the other.

“What’ve you two been up to, then?”

“We haven’t done anything!”

“Hm. And I was born yesterday. Kyra, lass, you wouldn’t be smiling like that if something hadn’t happened.” He frowned at them. “If you two have been carrying on in my house, I’ll get the blame if you end up with a rounding womb before you marry. And if there’s no blood on the wedding night, I’ll get the blame for that too!” They blushed dramatically.

“We haven’t done anything! I swear.” Luke protested valiantly, “I...can I tell you this in confidence, Griffin?”

“Aye, lad, I’d say you can.”

“I’ve asked Kyra to, well, marry me when we’re both of age. Father’s been saying it’s time to look for a girl, but I only had to look as far as the village to find her.”

“You love-struck fools.” Griffin rolled his eyes but smiled broadly. “You’ll just have to hope to Haisheth and Hindri that her parents agree with you, aye, and your father too, Luke, lad.” Both Luke and Kyra grimaced at each other, then smiled – they both knew their parents had already supported the match.