Tales of Golmeira- The Complete Box Set

by Marianne Ratcliffe

  ‘Wake Hanra up again. Get her to tell you what she means,’ she told Dalbric.

  ‘She won’t like that.’

  ‘Tough.’

  Hanra took some rousing. She had no recollection of what she had said about steam, nor why she had said it.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she yawned. ‘I must have been dreaming.’

  ‘You mean there’s nothing we can do?’ Dalbric tugged at his hair in horror. From Etta’s throat came a horrid whistling sound, like the wind trying to force its way through a narrow crack in the wall. Her eyeballs began to swell. Dalbric grabbed hold of her hands again and sucked in air, as if he would breathe for both of them. At that moment, a rap at the door made them all jump. Zastra shot across the room to open it. The stocky form of Lindarn stood dark against the morning mist. She had never been happier to see anyone in her life. Wordlessly, she dragged him inside. The healer took one look at Etta and dug into his bag and pulled out a small brown bulb that looked like a miniature onion. He asked for a knife and chopped the bulb into tiny pieces and threw them into Zastra’s pan of boiling water. A pungent scent filled the room and Zastra almost gagged. Lindarn carried the steaming pan to Etta’s bedside, careful not to spill any and signalled for her to breathe the fumes. Within moments Etta had stopped wheezing and was able to lie back, weak and shaken, but capable of breathing at last. Dalbric sobbed with joy. Findar, who had been howling the whole time, jumped up onto her bed and flung his arms around Etta’s neck.

  Zastra eased her brother away. ‘We must let Etta recover.’

  Lindarn took the opportunity to examine the patient. He listened to her chest and asked questions in a low voice.

  ‘Well?’ Dalbric enquired.

  ‘Miner’s lung,’ was the verdict.

  ‘But Ma doesn’t work in the mines.’

  ‘I did once,’ Etta admitted, with a weak cough. ‘Me and your father met working the fire-dust mines. We both needed the money. His family was starving and my first herd of goats had died from foot-rot. But the mines are no place to bring up a child, so when I was pregnant with you, we saved every tocrin to buy our first pair of goats and moved here.’

  ‘Da.’ Dalbric looked at her thoughtfully. ‘I remember now that he used to cough a lot. Was it the same thing?’

  Lindarn nodded. ‘Most likely.’

  ‘Is there a cure?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’ Lindarn began to pack up his bag. ‘But the yaya-root infusion will help Etta to breathe better, if used regularly. It was fortunate that I had some on me. Lucky too you had some water on the boil.’

  ‘Somehow, I just knew.’ Hanra flushed with pleasure. ‘Wait ’til I tell Ma how I saved Etta’s life. Maybe I’ve a natural gift for healing.’

  ‘I’ve prescribed Geort yaya-root before,’ Lindarn remarked. ‘Perhaps you saw your father breathing the steam when you were a littlun?’ Hanra looked crestfallen at such a rational explanation for her apparently miraculous knowledge.

  ‘Where can we get this yaya-root?’ Dalbric asked.

  ‘The herbalist in Kirkholme may have some. It’s expensive, mind.’

  ‘No,’ Etta croaked. ‘We can’t afford it.’

  ‘Stop it, Ma! Just stop it.’

  Etta gaped at her son and Zastra thought it was lucky she was still weak from her ordeal. Dalbric would surely pay later for raising his voice. When Lindarn left, Dalbric accompanied him to the path. Zastra knew he would be arranging to pay for the healer’s service. If I have to hunt every night until next Moonscross to fill Lindarn’s larder, I will, she vowed. She did not like to imagine what would have happened had Lindarn not turned up when he did. Fin reached up and stroked Etta’s hand. ‘We’ll make you better, won’t we, Layna?’

  ‘We’ll do everything we can, little man.’

  When Dalbric returned, he looked oddly calm. He knelt down beside Etta.

  ‘When were you going to tell us?’ he asked softly. ‘You must have known what this cough meant, after what happened with Da. Were you ever going to tell me?’

  Bright tears leaked down his cheeks. Etta, for once, could find nothing to say. Dalbric stood up, took Zastra’s crossbow from its hook and left the house, not bothering to close the door behind him. That night, he did not return home.

  Chapter Nine

  Ixendred had been summoned to Grand Marl Thorlberd’s office. As he approached the door, he found his path blocked by a slender young man with dark hair and a thin beard carefully shaped to give definition to his pale features. He was handsome and well aware of the fact, judging by the self-assured way he swept a lock of hair away from his eyes. Ixendred bowed low.

  ‘My Lord Rastran,’ he said with utmost politeness. The young man stared at him insolently.

  ‘Hello, Ixy. Come to see Father, have you?’

  ‘Indeed I have, my lord.’

  Rastran flung open the door.

  ‘Look who I’ve found skulking in the corridor, Father.’

  Ixendred ground his teeth but knew better than to protest. Anyone in Thorlberd’s service knew not to make an enemy of Rastran. He presented his report. Thorlberd frowned.

  ‘Your conscription activities in the Border Mountains has given us fewer recruits than anticipated.’

  Rastran smirked.

  ‘Tut, tut, Ixy.’

  Ixendred forced himself to take a moment before replying. He kept his voice neutral.

  ‘Word spread quickly amongst the villages and some of the young people escaped. I have put in place a secondary plan to soak up the dregs. I guarantee we will get all the recruits we need.’

  Rastran heaved himself nonchalantly onto the edge of Thorlberd’s table and crossed one leg over the other.

  ‘I don’t suppose you found a girl among them? About eighteen, she’d be. Chestnut hair. Vicious as a migaradon that hasn’t been fed.’

  ‘Silence boy!’ Thorlberd barked. ‘And stand up straight in my presence, instead of lounging about like a Far Islander.’

  Rastran leapt off the table as if he’d been bitten. Ixendred’s curiosity was piqued.

  ‘There were many girls,’ he remarked. ‘If you tell me what is so interesting about this particular one, I might be able to find out more.’

  ‘It is of no matter.’ Thorlberd’s abrupt response put an end to that particular line of conversation. Ixendred tucked away the information in a corner of his brain. Interesting. A girl, someone Thorlberd did not want to discuss. Could it be that Leodra’s daughter, Zastra, had not been killed after all? There had been rumours at the time, but anyone gossiping about such things had tended to disappear. She would be about eighteen by now. Thorlberd broke into his thoughts.

  ‘When will you be ready to move on Sendor?’

  Ixendred noted the sudden change of subject, but knew better than to show it.

  ‘Just give the word, Grand Marl. The supply lines are already in place. The Kyrgs are ready for some real fighting. We will make a feint from the west with a small Golmeiran force, while the Kyrgs attack in strength from the north.’

  ‘Good. Take Rastran with you. It’s time my son learned something of the art of war, rather than idling about here.’

  Ixendred indicated his assent with a tiny inclination of his chin. Rastran’s eyes shone.

  ‘At last you’ve listened to my requests to lead our army in battle. I shall enjoy giving those animals what they deserve.’

  ‘Ixendred will be in charge. You are there to watch and learn. Do not let your enthusiasm get the better of you. Remember, we have need for Sendoran prisoners. Alive, not dead.’

  ‘Yes, Father.’ Rastran responded with a meekness that Ixendred felt pretty sure was faked. ‘The Murthen Island project. I hear we are making great progress.’

  Ixendred pricked up his ears again. He considered himself well informed, yet he had nothing of this Murthen Island. More secrets. He felt Thorlberd’s attention on him, and had a sudden concern that the Grand Marl might be reading his mind. I am loyal, I swear! Thorlberd gave hi
m a level stare.

  ‘We have various schemes in motion, designed to ensure the continued glory of Golmeira. I prefer to keep them known only to a few. I’m sure you understand, Ixendred.’

  ‘As you command, my lord.’

  ‘Yes, Ixy. Since you aren’t a mindweaver, you can’t be trusted,’ Rastran crowed. A tempting idea began to form in Ixendred’s mind, but he reluctantly decided that strangling the Grand Marl’s heir was probably not the wisest move if he wished to remain Master at Arms.

  ‘Quiet, boy!’ thundered Thorlberd. ‘You will learn discretion if I have to beat it into you. And don’t think I won’t. Do as Ixendred tells you, or you’ll answer to me.’

  There was a moment of awkward silence before Rastran sidled out. Ixendred followed, trying not to let his mind show how very much he hated the idea of babysitting the Grand Marl’s eldest son. He had work to do, information to gather. If Leodra’s daughter was indeed alive and living in the Border Mountains, Ixendred would be the one to find her. Thorlberd was sure to be grateful. He decided to send extra mindweavers to scan every conscript. If Zastra was among them, the mindweavers would find her out.

  Chapter Ten

  Frecha sent word that all their wool had been woven into cloth and was ready to take to Kirkholme. Not a day too soon. The axe had finally broken and they would soon need to begin laying down wood stores for the winter, so that the logs could have enough time to dry out before the cold weather arrived. They also needed a new firering. The one Zastra had been given, many years ago by a man called Hedrik, had been whittled away to just a few small fragments. Most important of all, Etta needed her medicine. However, there was a problem. In previous years, Dalbric and Etta had taken their wares down to Kirkholme using Haq’s donkey and cart, but Raurak and the donkey had never returned. It was suspected that Raurak, like Gonjik, had been captured by Kyrgs and forced into service in the Golmeiran army. Any hopes of recovering the donkey and cart had long since faded.

  ‘Dalbric and I will have to carry everything down to Kirkholme on foot,’ Zastra said.

  ‘It’s too dangerous,’ protested Etta. ‘What if you are recognised? That’s why we never let you go before. What if the Kyrgs are still around? I don’t think either of you should go.’

  Dalbric gave her a hard stare.

  ‘I’m going, Ma, and there’s nothing you can say to stop me.’

  He rooted around inside the large store cupboard.

  ‘Anyone seen my large pack?’

  Zastra pulled two backpacks from behind a stack of jula oil barrels and handed one to Dalbric.

  ‘I’m coming with you. There’s no way you can carry everything yourself. We’ll just have to be careful.’

  Etta reached out towards Dalbric, but he pulled away. Ever since Lindarn’s visit he had been distant, particularly to his mother. Etta picked up one of the barrels of jula oil and handed it to her son. The spring crop had been a good one. Dalbric had spent many evenings pressing out the oil, and they had two spare barrels to sell along with their cloth.

  ‘Promise me you will come back safe.’

  Dalbric shoved the barrel into the bottom of his pack.

  ‘I promise, Ma,’ he mumbled eventually. Fin ran into the kitchen and flung himself at Zastra’s legs.

  ‘Don’t go,’ he begged. ‘Bad soldiers catch you.’

  Zastra bent down and levered him up into her arms, pretending to groan with the effort.

  ‘You’re getting too big to lift, little man.’

  Her brother buried his face in her neck. Zastra kissed the top of his head. His hair felt soft against her cheek. She steeled herself and prised him away.

  ‘It’s good you’re so big, because I need you to do something very important. I need you to take care of Etta while we’re gone.’

  Her brother looked at her with a serious expression. Zastra rummaged around in the pocket of her trousers and pulled out the last two pieces of her broken firering. The ends of the two fragments fit snugly together. She gave the smaller piece to Findar.

  ‘See how they link together? If you touch this whenever you are missing me, I’ll do the same. It will be like we are connected.’

  Fin eyed the small tube of metal in his palm, his forehead creased into a frown. Zastra and Dalbric packed their bags quickly, before Fin could make any other protest and before Etta could think up a way to stop them.

  ‘Fin, you be sure to do exactly as Etta tells you,’ were Zastra’s parting words. Her heart cracked at the sight of her brother’s woebegone face staring at her from the doorway. They headed down the mountain, stopping at Frecha’s only long enough to pick up the wool. The bundles of cloth were large and when added to the heavy oil barrels, there was no space left for food or water.

  ‘We’ll just have to get what we need from the forest,’ Dalbric remarked bluntly. They bid Frecha and Hanra farewell and set off.

  It was a four day journey, much of it beating against the strong winds of the high mountain passes. Zastra formed a healthy respect for Haq’s donkey as the straps from her heavy pack dug into her shoulders and her thighs trembled under the weight. They trudged on, mostly in silence, conserving all their energy for carrying their burdens. When they could walk no more, they made camp by the nearest stream or spring. Too tired to hunt, they made do with small meals of tree fungus or nuts and berries plucked as they travelled, before falling asleep by a small fire that they sunk into a pit to screen it from prying eyes.

  On the evening of the third day, disaster struck. They had to ford a large stream, swollen by recent rainfall. The water flowed deep and strong and it took the last of Zastra’s flagging energy to wade through water that rose as high as her waist. She made it to the far side of the stream but as she scrambled towards safety, she slipped on the wet rocks and fell backwards, her backpack crashing down against a boulder. Dalbric helped her to the top of the bank, where a check of her backpack revealed that the barrel of jula oil had sprung a leak. The oil was gone. Worse, it had drenched one of the precious bundles of wool, which was now ruined. Zastra sank to the ground in wordless grief. Dalbric said nothing, but she could tell he was upset. They made camp by the side of the stream, but Zastra, exhausted as she was, could not sleep and lay awake for most of the night, silently berating herself for her clumsiness.

  At noon the next day they reached the long descent into the valley of the Thrashing River, at the head of which lay Kirkholme. Zastra shifted her load slightly to ease her aching shoulders.

  ‘If we hurry, we may be able to do our business today. We don’t want have to stay overnight,’ Dalbric said.

  They hastened down the track together and entered the outpost late in the afternoon. Zastra pulled a shapeless cap from her pocket and pulled it low over her forehead so that it shaded her eyes. It was unlikely that anyone in these parts would recognise her as Leodra’s daughter, but there was no point in taking chances. Dalbric also tried to look inconspicuous, raising the hood of his woollen cape, in case any Kyrgs were still about, looking for more young people to conscript.

  Kirkholme was a sizeable village, almost large enough to be called a town. The main streets were paved and filled with people, but Zastra saw no sign of Golmeiran uniforms or black-robed mindweavers. The noise and bustle seemed strange after the stillness of the mountains. Dalbric led her via narrow backstreets to a store belonging to Miray, the cloth merchant who always bought their wool. The silver-haired woman greeted them warmly. Running an expert hand over one of the bales, she offered two tocrins a bundle.

  ‘But this is the best quality goats’ wool,’ Dalbric protested.

  ‘I’m sorry, Dalbric. I don’t question the quality. That’s why I’ve offered what I have. Coarser wool raises only one tocrin a bale these days. Taxes are so high we’ve had to lower our costs and raise prices just to scratch a living. You can ask anyone else, they’ll tell you the same.’

  ‘Last year it was three, and the wool wasn’t as good.’

  ‘Look, I’ll giv
e you an extra quarter tocrin a roll, seeing as it’s such lovely wool. But only because it’s you,’ Miray offered.

  ‘So how much is that?’

  ‘Let’s see. Seven bales, that’s thirteen and a quarter tocrins total.’

  ‘Fifteen and three-quarters,’ insisted Zastra darkly.

  ‘Is that right?’ The merchant gave Zastra a sharp glance. ‘It’s a good thing they are teaching you counting now, up in the mountains.’

  ‘Indeed it is,’ returned Zastra. She wasn’t about to tell Miray where she had really learned arithmetic. At the chandler’s they sold their single remaining barrel of jula oil for three tocrins. Then to the blacksmith’s where, after a great deal of haggling, they purchased a second-hand firering and a new axe. Once they had set aside Frecha’s share of the wool money they were left with two tocrins. As they were looking for the herbalist’s store, Zastra caught sight of a flash of flaxen hair at the far end of the street. She grabbed Dalbric and pulled him into an alley and behind a stack of crates.

  ‘Ouch!’ Dalbric yelped. Zastra realised she was gripping him so tightly that her fingers were white. She released him and put a finger to her lips. Moments later, four Kyrgs marched across the end of the alley. Zastra and Dalbric crouched behind the crates until they had passed.

  ‘That was close,’ Dalbric whispered. ‘If you hadn’t seen them…’

  ‘Come on.’ Zastra pulled him to his feet. ‘The sooner we’re done here, the better.’

  They made it to the herbalist just as he was closing for the day. He had only one other customer, a thickset man in a green jacket who couldn’t decide whether to take a large or small bottle of a purple medicine.

  ‘Yaya-root is it?’ the herbalist said in response to Dalbric’s enquiry. ‘Very hard to get hold of these days. There’s a lot of demand.’

  ‘Do you have any?’ Dalbric looked in no mood for small talk.

  ‘I’ve only three bundles left. Very precious. Three tocrins per bundle.’ He opened a tin and placed a bundle of the tiny bulbs on the counter.

  ‘Three tocrins for that?’