Tales of Golmeira- The Complete Box Set

by Marianne Ratcliffe

  ‘Then how will we ever escape my uncle and those black ravens of his?’ cried Zastra in despair. ‘I’m just not strong enough. Dobery was teaching me but he had to leave. He always said I had to control my emotions more, but it’s so hard.’

  ‘Control your emotions, eh? Yes, I supposed that often helps, when you need to maintain focus. But here’s a little tip for you – sometimes a strong emotion is the best way to defeat a mindweaver.’

  ‘Really?’ asked Zastra. ‘How?’

  ‘Once a mindweaver is in your head, he or she can see what you think and feel what you feel. I have learnt that if you catch them unawares with a strong emotion, like pain, or sorrow, then it can throw them right out. If you can harness that emotion and let it out in one burst just at the right time, it’s very powerful.’ Gil paused, before continuing with great tenderness. ‘I suspect that you have a good store of sorrow my dear.’

  It was dusk when they clattered onto the streets of Gorst Town and they only just beat the curfew. Zastra was relieved when the soldiers waved them through without stopping them. Seeing the look on her face, Gil winked at her, tapping his head with a smug look.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘I can take care of the soldiers. We’ll stay at an inn tonight and in the morning, you can decide what to do.’

  That night, Zastra slept deeply on a mattress that, although thin and coarse by the standards she had been used to at Golmer Castle, felt to her like the softest featherbed ever to have existed. The next morning, Gil and Dray treated her to a large breakfast of toast and honeyed porridge. Once her belly was full, Zastra consulted her map. Despite the kindness of the two men, she felt bound to stick to the plan her father had outlined. It was his last command to her and she would not fail him. The main road skirted the Evergreen Forest, heading southeast out of Gorst Town. About twenty leagues from Gorst Town, the main road divided, one fork heading south towards Seacastle, the other due north up the valley to Lyria. However, following the road until it split would take them out of their way before they could head north. Zastra reckoned if they left the main road and headed northeast on foot, they could cut across a large spur of forest and find a more direct route to Lyria.

  She rode with Gil and Dray in the trap until Gorst Town was well behind them. She then asked Gil to stop the cart long enough for her to dismount and say her goodbyes. As she tried to express her heartfelt thanks to the two cloth merchants, Dray turned away, burying his face in a large white cloth.

  ‘He doesn’t mean to be rude,’ said Gil, ‘he just hates goodbyes.’

  He handed down her bag.

  ‘Be careful my dear,’ he said. ‘If you ever need a friend in the Far Isles, come and find us.’

  She nodded and waved at the trap as it disappeared down the road. She found a small track that seemed to head in the right direction and set off. She made good progress. The food and rest had done her good and her body was beginning to adjust to the physical demands placed on it. She had become used to carrying Findar and even her blisters had begun to heal. Nevertheless, they travelled all day without reaching the forest. In the gathering gloom she came across a large barn, where she found a pile of straw and she and Findar bedded down for the night. They were rudely awakened next morning by a woman waving a pitchfork.

  ‘Get out!’ she yelled. ‘I’ll not have beggars and brats hanging around my barn. Go on.’

  Findar began screaming and Zastra scrambled to collect their belongings. Keeping Findar well away from the sharp prongs, she skirted the woman warily and hurried away.

  ‘Don’t come back!’ yelled the woman.

  ‘Don’t worry, we won’t,’ muttered Zastra, heading as quickly as she could for the welcome cover of the forest. The ground began to rise steeply as the landscape changed from rolling hillside to steeper, more mountain terrain. Before long, they were back under the deep green blanket of the Evergreen Forest and heading towards Lyria.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Brutila paced up and down Riverford’s great hall, cursing with impatience. They had wasted far too many precious days in this stinking city and were no closer to the truth. Yet they had been within five days of catching Zastra and the twins. Of course, that flekk Finton hadn’t helped, with his lies and deceptions.

  A hard ride and relay of horses had taken Brutila to Trindhome within two days of leaving Highcastle village. They had found Hedrik’s hovel easily, and she hadn’t even needed to use mindweaving to get answers. Hedrik’s wife had been most helpful. Brutila curled her lip in disdain.

  ‘I told him there’d be trouble,’ the peasant woman had said, bitterly. ‘He came back from Highcastle with those brats, wanting us to hide them here. Stupid soft-hearted fool. I made them leave. He sent them off to Riverford with Hilfrik.’

  ‘When did they leave?’ asked Brutila.

  ‘Must be, what, four, mebbee five days ago,’ said the woman.

  ‘And where is this Hilfrik?’

  ‘I don’t know. He came back here but then left again yesterday, heading west with a big load.’

  Brutila hardly needed to scan the woman’s mind to know she was telling the truth, although she made sure all the same. It never paid to take chances. A decision had to be made quickly. Should they go on towards Riverford, or backtrack to try and find this man Hilfrik? In the end the choice was simple – they most go on. Speed was of the essence if they were to catch the children. Too much time had already been wasted by Grindarl’s ineffectual efforts. She would leave instructions for the guards to stop and question Hilfrik when he returned. She sent back another soldier to carry the news of her progress to Thorlberd and then, wasting no time, she called for a fresh horse and was on her way to Riverford.

  That had been six days ago. The first delay had been at the Westgate, where they had failed to recognise her authority. Brutila shook her head. They would learn. Soon her name would be feared throughout Golmeira. Thorlberd was right; you had to gain both fear and respect from the people to rule effectively. The beardless youth who had dared to try and scan her mind had paid the price. He was even now writhing in the agony of the perpetual nightmares that she had planted in his head. Brutila smiled inwardly. She had enjoyed making the soft-bellied fool pay for his presumption. Since she had begun her routine of taking cintara bark every morning with her chala, she felt invincible. Thorlberd might counsel caution but it had been his genius to revive the old custom to ensure they had the advantage over Leodra’s council. Of course, weak-willed fools had succumbed to its madness, but they deserved their fate. She herself had the strength to control the cintara. One dose a day, despite the continuous desire for more. It was only those who broke this rule that risked losing themselves.

  After an inexcusable delay, she had been granted an audience with Finton, self-styled Prefect of Riverford. Brutila had noted with disdain the large personal guard of Kyrginites that Finton felt he needed. Clearly, he was unpopular and even more clearly he was a coward.

  ‘My dear Master Brutila,’ he had gushed. ‘It is a pleasure to welcome you to Riverford. Let me assure you that we shall extend you any possible courtesy. Tonight, I shall lay on the best banquet that Riverford can offer, and I—’

  ‘That will not be necessary,’ she snapped, cutting him short. ‘I have an important job to do and no time to waste. We are searching for the foul offspring of the traitor, Leodra. They must be caught and dealt with. Nothing must interfere with the succession of Thorlberd and his line.’

  ‘Of course, of course,’ agreed Finton, bowing and plucking nervously at his ridiculous outfit of gold-embroidered trousers and a clashing yellow tunic. ‘Tell me what you require and I shall order it done.’

  A close examination of the Westgate log indicated that Hilfrik and his wagon had entered Riverford five days earlier, but there was no record of a boy or girl with two babies leaving via either gate, suggesting that they were still within the city walls. Brutila ordered that the gates of the city be closed, and a thorough search be carried
out. Finton acceded to this request, although rather reluctantly, in Brutila’s opinion. A three-day search had failed to uncover the fugitives, although a good many people had been added to the already overcrowded dungeons.

  ‘They must have gone,’ said Finton. ‘We must re-open the gates at once.’

  ‘But there are no records of them leaving, correct?’ said Brutila. ‘Are you certain that you have searched everywhere?’ Finton swallowed nervously, wilting under her stare. What was he not telling her? She searched his mind and saw something which worried her.

  ‘You are having trouble with blue fever?’ she asked.

  ‘Who told you that?’ She merely fixed her wet-eyed glare more firmly upon him and at last his eyes widened in understanding.

  ‘Of course, of course,’ he smiled, attempting to cover his fear with nervous joviality. ‘Just a trivial little problem. There have been a few fatalities in the poorer areas and we have had to seal off the southwest quarter to prevent the fever from spreading. It’s only beggars and vagrants who have been affected to date, and we wish it to remain that way. We don’t want to spread panic across the city, so we are trying to keep it quiet. Rumours of blue fever are bad for trade.’

  ‘This is no time for worrying about your tax revenues,’ snapped Brutila. ‘You should have told me this as soon as I arrived. We must search the quarantined areas immediately.’

  ‘Yes of course, Master Brutila. I shall see to it at once,’ stammered Finton. He scuttled out of the room in search of the Captain of the Guards. Brutila shuddered inwardly. She had no fear of soldiers or mindweavers. But contagion, foul and indiscriminate, that was different. She would have to be careful. The door opened and Finton came slinking back in.

  ‘Well?’ she snapped.

  ‘I’m afraid the Kyrgs are refusing to enter the southwest quarter,’ Finton said, apologetically. ‘They are afraid of catching the fever.’

  ‘They shall fear me more,’ said Brutila. ‘Send me your mindweavers.’

  The two remaining mindweavers of Riverford were brought to Brutila and she explained her plan. Both were eager to help. They had no wish to share the fate of their young compatriot from the Westgate. Together they forced the Kyrginite soldiers into the fever zone. Any children were hauled to the temporary palisade that had been erected to close off the quarantined area. Brutila stationed herself on the safe side of the barrier. Wave upon wave of children were brought forth, several with the tell-tale blue lips of the fever. Using her mindweaving skills Brutila determined that none were the ones she was after. It was an exhausting and disgusting task. When they had finished the Kyrgs attempted to leave the fever zone. That could not be allowed. Brutila and Riverford’s mindweavers tried to force them into obedience but there were too many Kyrgs for so few mindweavers. Finton instructed his archers to shoot anyone who tried to cross the barrier, but the Kyrgs looked as if they feared the fever more than arrows. Brutila swiftly turned her attention to Finton’s large tattooed Kyrg and took control of his mind, burrowing past his fear to boost his pride and desire for command. She forced him to bark out a set of orders and his compatriots within the quarantine zone obeyed instantly. They made no further attempt to leave, but the effort left Brutila exhausted. Her supply of cintara bark was running low, and she’d only taken half her usual dose that morning. A mistake. She might have saved Riverford from being overrun by the fever, but she was still no closer to her aim. Perhaps Leodra’s brats had caught the fever and died. It would explain why no one had seen them. If the bodies had been burnt, as many had been, there would be no way to identify them. It seemed as if she had reached a dead end. However, Brutila refused to deal in possibilities. She required facts. Just that morning, she had ordered the gate records be re-examined for any discrepancies and steeled herself for a round of deeper probes into the minds of the guards. If she could get into their memories, she might be able to spot the children herself. Such an exercise would be extremely challenging since memories were changeable and not always accurate. Even with an extra evening dose of cintara bark, she would struggle to retrieve what she needed. Her reverie was broken when Finton dashed into the room carrying a large, leather bound ledger.

  ‘I think we may have got something,’ he cried, as eager as a small child trying to please its mother.

  ‘Well, what is it?’

  ‘Here, an entry the day after we believe the chil… the traitors… entered Riverford. A woman, Nula of Borsha, is recorded leaving with a large family. Nothing unusual there, you might say. But see here, her entry three days prior lists her with six children but on the way out she had eight.’

  ‘Eight?’ enquired Brutila. ‘Not nine?’

  ‘Ah, but listen,’ said Finton. ‘The mindweaver Ilursa remembered this woman and said that she was certain she had at least two young babies with her.’

  ‘Bring Ilursa to me,’ ordered Brutila. The plump mindweaver was brought before her, pale-faced and trembling.

  ‘I’m sorry Master Brutila,’ she stammered anxiously. ‘I had no idea that these might be the ones. The weaver is well known around these parts for her unruly brood. We had no reason to suspect them.’

  ‘But you scanned all of them?’ It was a statement rather than a question. Ilursa shrank before the amphibious gaze.

  ‘Of course. I recall she had foul and dirty thoughts.’

  ‘I don’t care about the woman. What about the children?’

  ‘I don’t remember,’ stammered Ilursa, ‘but I am sure I would have spotted anything unusual.’

  ‘I will need to look into your memories,’ commanded Brutila, moving closer to the mindweaver. ‘Do not resist me.’

  Ilursa closed her eyes and nodded once.

  Brutila accessed the memories without much trouble. The image of the large, strident woman and the sound of crying children were strong, but the children were faceless and blurred. It was no good. Brutila snarled with frustration.

  ‘Useless. You are not observant enough. All we can do is try to find this woman. You are fortunate that I have not the time or energy to punish you.’

  Turning to Finton, she demanded a guide to Borsha and two of the best horses to be found in Riverford. The Prefect was most happy to oblige and sent her on her way with a fawning bow.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Brutila looked around Borsha in disgust. It was a dirty village, full of stupid, dirty peasants. However, she was pleased to see the fear in the villagers’ eyes as they looked at her. No one dared to hold her gaze and they all slunk away as she rode past. It didn’t take them long to find Nula’s wooden shack. My, my Leodra, she said to herself, her lip curling. Your children really have been brought down to live in the dirt.

  Only two soldiers had been stationed at Borsha as the village was not considered of any strategic importance. They seemed reluctant to be roused from their present happy idleness, until Brutila’s guide explained things to them, at which point they sprang to attention. At her command, they emptied Nula’s house of its occupants, flinging them onto the street as if they were mere sacks of rubbish. Nula herself refused to move, and the soldiers’ ears stung from the various insults she hurled at them. They would have had difficulty removing her considerable frame, but the children were lighter, and Nula was drawn out of the house by their cries. Eyeing up the situation, she quickly determined who was in command and confronted the Brutila defiantly, hands planted on her ample hips. Brutila did not deign to dismount, casually leaning down to flick away an insect from her boot before speaking with dangerous mildness.

  ‘You assisted a boy with two young babies leaving Riverford. Where are they?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ responded Nula belligerently. ‘I demand an expla—’

  Brutila held up her hand, shaking her head in a pale mimicry of sorrow.

  ‘Come now. There is no point in resisting. It’s not you we want. Tell me what you know, and I’ll spare your children.’

  The woman wavered, looking anxiously at he
r children. This was the moment Brutila enjoyed; the moment they gave in.

  ‘So what if we did?’ Nula’s voice retained some of the bravado, but worry clouded her eyes.

  ‘They are traitors and must be apprehended.’

  ‘They were just children. How can children be traitors?’

  ‘That is none of your concern, woman.’

  Brutila narrowed her eyes, delving into the peasant woman’s thoughts. She had to swim through a swamp of crude thoughts and images, but eventually she found what she was looking for. She backed out in surprise.

  ‘There was only one baby? What about the girl?’

  ‘There was no baby girl,’ Nula admitted reluctantly. Brutila delved deeper, harder, causing Nula to cry out in pain, her knees buckling. A dark-skinned boy rushed towards Brutila and pounded at her leg.

  ‘Boltan, no!’ Nula cried.

  Brutila swatted at the boy, but he would not be shaken off and he grabbed hold of her left leg and tried to drag her from her horse. Brutila kicked him away and drew her sword. A crowd of villagers closed around them, muttering and glaring.

  Brutila was perplexed. She was certain the woman was hiding nothing. Nula had a good memory for faces and Brutila detected some of the hated features of Leodra in the “boy” Hedrik. Indeed, the choice of the name Hedrik was enough to give the game away. But then what had become of Kastara? She turned to the impetuous boy and pried deep into his mind. He had not the wit to assemble distractions in the way of his mother and Brutila was able to extract several images before the boy fainted under her probing. Two of these images had significance; the sadness in the eyes of the pretend Hedrik, which spoke of recent loss and the image of a small baby with blue lips, dying or dead on the streets of Riverford.