‘Aye,’ said Garric sarcastically. ‘Whatever would we do if he’d been lost?’ He let Cade go, turned away and spat on the ground. ‘Children!’
Cade looked frantically around the room, and only began to relax when he was sure there were no shadows but their own. ‘I saw him,’ he gasped. ‘Azh Mat Jaal! I saw him!’
‘This place is deserted, friend. It was your own fears you saw,’ said Osman in calming tones. ‘That, and nothing more.’
‘Get him moving, Osman,’ Garric snapped. ‘He was supposed to be your charge. Perhaps you’ll do a better job shepherding him this time. Damned if I’ll go chasing after some idiot boy again.’
Cade was shamefaced. Far from returning as a hero, he’d only embarrassed himself. Fen looked at him with disdain, Osman with disappointment; even Grub was amused at his expense. But he’d take all of that happily, just to be back in their company. He never again wanted to be alone in this place.
Cade felt a bruise already forming on his cheek where he’d hit the doorframe. ‘I did see him,’ he muttered sulkily to Garric’s back.
‘Now who the big liar?’ Grub said, and walked away cackling.
38
The first things Aren became aware of were the crackle of the fire, the heat on his face and a deep ache in his bones. His mouth was dry, his thoughts fuzzy and his eyelids too heavy to open. He rolled onto his side and let out a groan.
Something hot and wet slithered across his cheek and the smell of rank, meaty breath filled his nostrils. He startled awake, eyes flying open. Inches from his face was a black wet nose and the shaggy grey muzzle of a dog. She licked him again, right on the lips this time, and he pushed her away with a cry of disgust.
‘Peace,’ said a low, weary voice to his right. ‘Ruck will not hurt you.’
A woman sat there, buried beneath a cloak of stitched furs, her face swiped with black and white paints. She was dipping a bowl into a pot that rested on a tripod over the fire.
‘Welcome back, Aren.’
Aren looked about dazedly. He didn’t recognise his surroundings at all. It was evening, and he was in a wide, empty room, packs and blankets scattered everywhere. The air was chilly and sharp and carried a faint scent of rot. Beyond the arched windows, the lower reaches of a strange island castle could be seen. He stared at its jumble of walls and angles and fought to remember how he’d come to be here.
‘Who are you?’ he asked, raising himself up on his elbows. The effort dizzied him and he swallowed down the urge to be sick. ‘Where’s Cade?’
‘I am Vika. Ruck, you have already met.’ Ruck barked happily at her name, sending another wave of reeking breath into Aren’s face. Vika pointed to the castle. ‘Your friend is yonder, and will be back before long, I hope.’ He heard concern in her voice. ‘It is getting late.’
‘He left me?’ Aren was surprised to find he was hurt by that.
‘He left you in my care, which is the best place you can be,’ said Vika. Despite her odd appearance, she wore a smile and her eyes were kind. ‘Had you been in any danger he wouldn’t have done so. As it was, I believe he had some pressing purpose. No doubt he will tell you himself when he returns.’
Aren was a little reassured by that, but he still felt an uneasy sense of abandonment, left helpless and vulnerable in the company of a stranger. Ruck lurched forward and slurped his cheek again, and he fought her off.
‘Ruck!’ At her name, the hound retreated and sat on her haunches, panting. ‘She likes you,’ Vika informed him. ‘You should be pleased. Ruck has good instincts.’
Aren wiped his face with his sleeve. ‘You’re a druidess.’ It was a statement, not a question; he’d heard enough about them to recognise her attire.
‘I am. Vika-Walks-The-Barrows.’
‘That’s a strange name.’
She blew on the soup. ‘It is my taken name. Once I was Vika of Tanner’s Fell, but no longer. When we become acolytes, we give up the names that connected us to our birthplaces, for we belong to all of Ossia. We seek our new names in visions. It is one of the first steps to becoming a druid.’
Aren winced as his head began to pound. ‘And what was your vision?’
‘I saw myself striding over grassy hillocks under a blood moon. Beneath my feet were the graves of kings and queens of old, and I felt them stir and mutter in their eternal sleep as I passed over them. At length, I came to a portal: an open doorway to an empty burial chamber, a barrow that was as yet unoccupied. From within, I heard a terrible voice, as of something ancient and foul. Bring me another, it said. I did not want to do what it said, but I knew, in the end, I would have no choice.’ Her gaze, which had become distant, sharpened again as she reached the end of her tale. ‘That is how I took my name.’
Aren was about to ask what it meant, but a sudden memory jerked him upright. ‘The dreadknights!’
‘They are kept out by whatever lost sorcery guards the gates. We are safe, for the moment. Now you should eat.’ She began to get to her feet, to carry him the bowl of soup, but she stopped halfway with a hiss of pain. Aren watched as the spasm passed, and she drew herself upright and limped over to him, balancing the bowl carefully.
Aren took it and thanked her. It had only spilled a little. ‘Are you hurt?’ he asked.
She lowered herself down next to him with a rueful smile. ‘Merely reckless. But pain is good. I have hardly been able to feel my left arm and leg since I awoke, but I certainly feel them now.’ She lifted her hand and tried to flex her fingers. The tips twitched feebly. ‘It seems I will recover.’
She gave him a quick smile, but Aren saw the flash of fear beneath. Unless you won’t, he thought.
‘Will you tell me what happened?’ he asked.
‘Eat your soup.’
Aren looked about himself. ‘I don’t have a—’
‘Spoon, yes, a spoon!’ said Vika. ‘My apologies. I am still not … quite right. Ruck?’
Ruck scampered over to her blankets, picked up a wooden spoon in her mouth and presented it eagerly to Aren. Aren hesitated for a moment, then decided this wasn’t the time for squeamishness – or, evidently, hygiene – and took it.
The soup was herby and rich, floating with bits of dried meat and shredded leaves. After the first spoonful, his hunger overcame his distaste for dog slobber and he dived in. His headache began to fade, and as he ate, Vika recounted their flight to Skavengard and the battle at the gates.
‘You fought them? How did you beat them?’
An odd look passed over Vika’s face, an expression of almost childlike wonder. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I knew only that suddenly, I had to oppose them. As if I was a vessel for some other will. There was light … at least, I think there was light …’ She trailed away. ‘I have met the Aspects five times, but never since I was seventeen. For the first time in many years … it felt like …’
She ran out of words; her voice faded to a whisper and then silence. Aren wasn’t sure if it was passion or madness he saw in her eyes.
‘I …’ he began, stopped, and then made himself go on. ‘I don’t know your gods. I was raised by the light of the Primus. But of late, I’ve wondered if he casts his light for Krodans alone.’
It felt somehow dangerous to say it. He’d been taught that it was arrogant to question the teachings of Tomas and Toven and, in some unspecified way, he’d believed he or those close to him would suffer if he dared. But he’d defied the Primus in the mine at Suller’s Bluff and he was still here. So maybe that threat had been a lie, like so much else.
‘The Aspects are your gods, too,’ said Vika, ‘whether you worship them or not. The Aspects are Ossia. It was in Ossia that they first made themselves known. It was the Ossians they first freed from slavery and from here they raised the greatest empire in the world. They are all around you, in the very bones of the land. You belong to them, as they do to you.’
Aren found that unsatisfyingly vague. ‘I suppose … I don’t mean to insult you, but they always seemed s
o … primitive.’
Vika smiled. ‘I would say old. The Krodans fashioned a new god to suit them, a cold god of industry and rules, who demands you show yourself at temple on a certain day and mouth the same words over and over. But the Aspects are wild. They may heed your prayers, but they do not need your worship. Nor do they need ranks of priests and clerics to tally donations and preach to the people.’ She became grim then. ‘Perhaps that is why they are so easily forgotten. The Primus, at least, will not suffer himself to be ignored.’
Aren didn’t want to be drawn on the subject, but he felt compelled to argue. ‘Aren’t druids priests of a sort?’
‘Not in the Krodan way. We do not instruct or threaten. We are caretakers of the land. In freer times we would visit temples when we passed, and people would gather to hear such wisdom as we had gained on our wanderings. Bards listened to what we had learned and took our tales with them. We would heal and advise as we could. Once, kings and queens and Dawnwardens consulted with the best of us.’ Her face darkened a little. ‘But we have been aloof too long, I think, and ten years have passed since the last Conclave. I fear there are few of us left.’
Aren nodded to be polite, but the conversation was making him feel awkward. His belief in the Primus had been a house built of straw which had fallen at the first push. But the Aspects didn’t inspire him, either, and the stories of the Ossian gods sounded no different to the fables of dancing fish or shapechanging maidens that Cade was so good at telling. Vika fascinated him, for he’d never met a druidess before, but she spoke with too much certainty; he found it overbearing.
Fortunately, Vika changed the subject. ‘What is that mark on your wrist?’
Aren turned the spoon in his hand and looked, and a frown of puzzlement and alarm creased his brow. The bloody thumbprint left by Eifann had mostly flaked away during his convalescence, but there was something visible beneath. He rubbed the last of the crusted blood off to reveal a tiny red symbol hidden on the inside of his wrist. It had straight lines and regular curves, neat as a scribe’s hand. He stared, amazed and not a little worried.
‘A Sard put it there …’ he said, weakly. ‘But … I’m not sure how …’
‘Ydraal! Eifann is ydraal!’ A memory of the ragged boy sprang to mind, biting his thumb and pressing it fiercely to Aren’s wrist. ‘Lled na saan.’
‘I made three promises in that camp,’ said Aren. ‘One to Cade; one to a pirate; and one to that Sard boy. I have to help another of his kind, to repay my debt to him. But who or how, he didn’t say. It’s some custom of their people, I think.’
Vika studied the mark dubiously, then took the empty bowl from him with her good hand. He was beginning to feel invigorated, as if raw, glowing health was flowing into his muscles from his stomach. ‘What was in that?’ he asked.
‘A few herbs, a few prayers,’ she said. Then, with a twinkle of mischief in her eye, ‘A touch of the Aspects’ favour, perhaps.’
‘Who’d have thought the gods’ favour would taste so much like soup?’
‘Ha! Let that settle, and then you can have more. You’ll be up and about soon enough. In the meantime I would hear your story, if you’ll tell me.’
Aren was feeling considerably better already, and he found he wanted to talk. He’d hardly had a real conversation with anyone but Cade for months, having kept his distance from his fellow prisoners because he believed he and Cade were the only ones wrongfully incarcerated. He was ashamed of how naïve he’d been.
Vika listened as he began to tell his tale. He spoke of Sora and the ghost tide and how he’d ignored her brothers’ warning to stay away; of his father and his talk of the Hollow Man; of that day when Randill had been arrested by Overwatchman Klyssen of the Iron Hand, and died on the blade of a man named Harte.
There he faltered, and his throat became thick and his eyes stung. Vika said nothing, merely waited until he had himself under control again; but Ruck laid her head in his lap, and he put his hand on her head.
‘I don’t know why my father was killed,’ he said finally. ‘Was he a rebel? A collaborator? Or did he die because I was a stupid boy in love with the wrong girl?’ Aren felt tears rising again and gave up trying to hold them back. ‘He was afraid of Garric, deadly afraid, but that man came to Suller’s Bluff to rescue me. And Klyssen was there at the camp, I saw him, and he must have sent those dreadknights after us when we escaped. It all has something to do with me but I don’t know what, I don’t know what! I don’t know if my father was a hero or a coward and now I’ll never be able to ask him … I’ll never …’
The reality of his father’s absence crushed him like an avalanche and he wept uncontrollably, his nose streaming and his shoulders shaking, gasping and snorting, a torrent of ugly, unrestrained grief.
‘You poor child,’ said Vika, and put her arms around him. He buried his head in her breast, in the furs and the softness there, the smell of old sweat and dog and earth. He clung to her as he cried for the father he’d lost and the mother he never got to hold like this, and for the rage and injustice of a lifetime deceived. Everything that he’d held back in the camp, dammed up by the need to be strong for Cade, burst out of him in one scalding flood. He cried and cried until it felt like he’d never stop.
But stop he did, in the end, when he could dredge up no more sorrow. Vika kissed the top of his head, then stood and limped away to fetch wood, leaving Aren staring into the flames, drying his sore eyes. He felt washed out and empty, and for a time he just sat there, his gaze vacant. At last he sniffed, straightened and wiped his nose with the back of his hand.
‘Enough,’ he said quietly.
When Vika returned, she found him stone-faced and thoughtful. She sat on her blanket and looked towards Skavengard, scratching Ruck’s scalp. Presently they heard the creak of oars as the others returned from the lake. Running footsteps clattered up the stairs, and then:
‘Aren!’
Cade raced across the room, dropped to his knees and hugged him so hard it drove the breath from his lungs.
‘You’re back! You’re back!’ Cade cried.
‘Steady, you ox!’ Aren laughed. ‘I’m still brittle.’
‘Nine, you gave me such a scare! I reckoned you gone back there, I really did. I really …’ His eyes glistened with tears. ‘I reckoned you gone.’
‘Cade?’
‘Aye?’
‘I just need to know one thing.’
‘Aye?’
Aren grinned. ‘When did you become such a blubbering sap?’
Cade gaped, then burst out laughing as he recognised Aren’s revenge for his trick in the infirmary. He aimed a mock-serious blow at Aren’s head, but Aren threw up his hands and cried, ‘You can’t hit me! I’m sick!’ Then he saw the bruise on the side of Cade’s face and all the laughter drained out of him. ‘Who did that?’
‘I did,’ said Garric as he walked into the room, followed by the others. He glared at Cade. ‘And if I ever have to go looking for you again, I’ll do worse.’
‘Wasn’t nothing, really,’ Cade said to Aren, with a sheepish shrug. ‘My own fault. Hit my head on the doorway.’
But Aren wasn’t listening. He was staring over Cade’s shoulder at Garric, a knotted ball of anger gathering in his gut. Cade’s attempts to dismiss it cut no ice with him; Aren knew the truth. It was Garric who’d hurt him. He’d admitted it. Was proud of it. Not content with heaping accusations and derision on Aren, now he’d brutalised his best friend, and he’d done it while Aren wasn’t there to protect him. If Aren could, he’d have killed him right then.
Coward. Bully. Bastard.
His gaze was too obvious a challenge to ignore. ‘Something to say to me, boy?’ Garric snapped.
‘Garric …’ Keel warned, but Garric ignored him.
‘Well? Speak up!’
Blood rushed to Aren’s face and his heart hammered. He couldn’t fight this man, but nor would he look away. Let him know how much he was hated. Let him feel it.
&nbs
p; But he didn’t dare say it. Not yet.
He heard movement behind him. It was Ruck, who padded round to stand by his side. She squared herself, bared her teeth and growled at Garric.
‘It is brave work, to menace a sick boy,’ said Vika, her voice low and stern. ‘But he is under my care, and if you touch him you will answer to me.’
Garric held his gaze a moment more and Aren saw fury burning there. Then he looked away with a grimace.
‘The whelp’s not worth the beating,’ he said. ‘And that ruin is dead as the men that built it. Take what rest you can. Sick or not, at first light we go to Skavengard. And this time we’re not coming back.’
He walked from the room, past Fen and Osman, who stood aside and watched him pass with uncertainty plain on their faces. Keel shook his head and raised his eyes to the ceiling.
‘Are you cracked?’ Cade said to Aren, once he’d gone. ‘Picking a fight in your condition? He’s half your size again!’
Yes, he is, Aren thought in bitter triumph. But still he looked away first.
39
The next day, they were up with the dawn and ferried across the lake to Skavengard. It took them two journeys, for the boat was not large. Aren and Cade were in the second boat, with Grub rowing and Osman there to keep an eye on all three.
Cade looked back at the boathouse as they left, trepidation on his face. Aren knew his mind. It had been a bleak sanctuary, but he feared to leave it after what he’d seen in Skavengard. Aren suspected the shadow people had been his imagination playing tricks on him – it was not so long ago that he’d turned a glimpse of a wild pig into a giant she-warg – but Cade clearly believed in them.
Aren sat wrapped in a blanket as they glided across the weedy lake. Though weak, he was capable of travelling again; Vika’s brews had restored him with miraculous speed. His nose ran uncontrollably and he had a persistent cough, but he felt much better, though he was still dogged by a vague sense of shame. He’d been a burden these past days, and he’d let Cade down by not being there to protect him. The bruise on his friend’s face was a reminder of that. He’d faltered once; he wouldn’t falter again.
The Ember Blade Page 31
