Tales of Golmeira- The Complete Box Set

by Marianne Ratcliffe

  ‘I did try to tell them that,’ Myka muttered.

  ‘We’ll go once you’ve pledged to join us,’ said Nerika.

  Orwin made the motion of strangling someone’s neck. ‘Blast you! Even if I say no to you, Rastran will know that my heart is really with Zastra.’

  ‘You want to help?’ Myka asked in disbelief. The mattress creaked as Orwin sat down heavily on his bed.

  ‘I was Leodra’s friend when we were young. Zastra came here after Thorlberd’s ascension, looking for my help, but Lichinara persuaded me to turn her in. The guilt has tormented me ever since. But what can I do? The instant they read my mind, they’ll execute me and put one of Rastran’s toadies in my place.’

  ‘Myka and Gildarn can protect your mind. In return, you will agree to resupply our army.’ Nerika spoke as if the deal was already done.

  ‘Lichinara won’t like that,’ Orwin said.

  ‘Surely that’s even more reason to do it?’

  Orwin emitted a choking sound, something between laughing and crying.

  The next day, Grand Marl Rastran arrived with a retinue of a hundred soldiers and ten mindweavers. A migaradon circled overhead. Orwin and Lichinara greeted them in the courtyard, arm in arm, a picture of wedded bliss. Gildarn positioned himself at Orwin’s elbow. If anyone wondered why Orwin had suddenly acquired a silk merchant for an attendant, no one mentioned it. Only Strinverl, the cadaverous highmaster, seemed at all suspicious. His gaze rested on the supposed merchant for longer than necessary as the introductions were made. Myka, as befitted a servant, watched from the shadows. He saw Gildarn flush under the highmaster’s examination. Gildarn was a strong mindweaver but he was protecting Orwin as well as himself and Strinverl was rumoured to be very powerful indeed. Myka held his breath until Strinverl levered himself down from his horse. Rastran sprang elegantly from the back of a dark brown thoroughbred and flung the reins towards an attendant. Gildarn had passed the first test. Myka retreated to the chamber that had been set up for the grand marl’s reception and slipped behind a conveniently placed arras.

  ‘I knew it! You’re a… rebel, aren’t you?’ Myka almost leapt out of his skin. He was not alone.

  ‘Podrik? Is that you? What are you doing here?’

  ‘Listening, same as you.’

  ‘You do know Rastran’s a mindweaver? And Strinverl?’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m good at hiding. Even my thoughts, if I have to.’

  Myka sent out a probe. Nothing. It was as if the alcove was empty, except for himself, and yet he could feel the warmth of Podrik’s body beside him.

  ‘Nobody ever thinks a… cripple like me could have talents,’ Podrik said forlornly. ‘Never even been tested. Waste of time, they said.’

  ‘Lucky you.’

  ‘Oh yes, I was born lucky,’ Podrik remarked even more forlornly. ‘One good eye and one good arm. What’s to complain about?’

  ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean—’

  ‘Shh, they’re coming.’

  Orwin and Lichinara, smiles fixed on their faces, led their visitors into the chamber, Gildarn following as part of Orwin’s train. Through the narrow gap between the wall and the arras, Myka saw Strinverl lean into Gildarn and whisper something. He was too far away to hear what the highmaster said or make out Gildarn’s brief reply.

  ‘Some spiced wine, grand marl?’ Lichinara took a wine-filled decanter of cut crystal and poured a generous amount into a goblet. Myka would lay bets it was the first time she’d ever helped anyone to a drink. Rastran swirled the wine and sniffed.

  ‘I am looking forward to the banquet tomorrow night,’ he said. ‘I hear your cook is the best in all three of my domains. If that’s true, I might just steal her from you.’

  Myka felt Podrik stiffen beside him.

  ‘I am sure you will not be disappointed,’ said Lichinara smoothly. ‘We pride ourselves on our hospitality, don’t we Orwin dearest?’

  ‘Yes, my love,’ said Orwin.

  ‘You can cut the act,’ said Rastran. ‘I know what a fake marriage looks like. I don’t even need mindweaving to see how much you detest each other. But that’s your own business, as long as you are loyal to me. You heard about Marl Cruskin, of course?’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Lichinara smoothly. ‘It is reassuring to have such a strong, assertive grand marl leading us. I have great hopes for the future.’

  Rastran narrowed his eyes. Lichinara reddened under his gaze.

  ‘You’re a practical woman, Lichinara. I like that,’ Rastran said with a smirk. He turned to Gildarn. ‘She thinks you are smugglers.’

  ‘She’s mistaken,’ said Gildarn smoothly. Myka sensed Rastran’s probe and added his power to bolster Gildarn’s defences.

  ‘Hmm. I will look at your consignment once we’ve finished the loyalty testing. The honour of outfitting your grand marl will be sufficient payment, I’m sure.’

  ‘Of course,’ Gildarn said with a bow.

  ‘Strinverl, I want everyone in the castle probed. Work through the night if necessary. I wish to enjoy my banquet in the knowledge that any traitors have been dealt with.’

  A young serving girl presented herself to Lichinara. Her face and hands had been scrubbed clean and her hair was brushed to a shine.

  ‘Bow to our honoured guests, Ursolina,’ Lichinara instructed. The girl dropped into a low bow and stayed there until Lichinara pulled her up.

  ‘Ursolina will be Highmaster Strinverl’s personal serving girl at the feast tomorrow.’

  Strinverl circled round the girl. ‘Delightful,’ he said.

  ‘Grand marl, perhaps you would also like to choose a companion? We have many pretty boys and girls in our employ. Or I can send out to the villages if there is nothing to your taste within our humble walls.’

  Rastran sipped his wine. ‘I don’t consort with commoners. My tastes are more refined.’

  ‘We meant no offence,’ Orwin broke in quickly. Rastran leaned towards Lichinara and inhaled deeply.

  ‘A delightful perfume you’re wearing,’ he murmured, resting his finger on her bare shoulder. Lichinara didn’t move, but Myka noted the hem of her gown was trembling.

  ‘M… My lord may command as he wishes.’ Lichinara sounded as if someone was tightening a noose around her neck.

  Rastran stepped back and laughed, long and loud.

  ‘Relax. I’d hardly be interested in a wrinkly old crone like you.’ He retired to the chamber that had been prepared for him, still chuckling at his little joke. Lichinara was left standing, stock still, her neck and face turning red.

  ‘Careful, my dear,’ Orwin murmured.

  ‘Careful?’ She rounded on him. ‘If I didn’t have such a spineless jellyfish for a husband…’

  Myka hoped she was wrong about the state of Orwin’s spine. If he let something slip, they were all done for. But watching their host cower beneath his wife’s onslaught, he wasn’t sure. He wasn’t sure at all.

  Chapter Sixty-one

  Brutila woke from a restless sleep. Her brazier had died down to leave faintly glowing embers. It was still night. She sensed a disturbance nearby and pushed out with her mind. Whatever it was, it wasn’t human. Something clawed at her consciousness, eager and yet fearful. Instinct told her to back away, but curiosity won and she opened her mind a fraction.

  Come, gather, hunt! Scrittals. She joined with one as it padded across the snow, part of a large pack. Ahead was the scent of Kyrgs, a hundredfold stronger and more pungent than Brutila’s human senses could detect. They were near the encampment. Brutila withdrew her contact with a shudder. Scrittals were usually scavengers but something was driving them to attack. It must be another mindweaver. Findar, perhaps? The lad could communicate with animals, she’d seen the signs. But why would he do such a thing? There were screams from the edge of the settlement. Brutila risked another foray into the minds of the animals.

  Bite them, chase them! She sensed the unseen order as the screams grew closer. The scrittal pack reached the rondavels
and split up. Some scrittals dived beneath the cloth doors, others scrabbled up the stone walls and wriggled past the stretched skins that served as windows.

  Who’s there? The sharp question echoed in her head. Whoever was driving the scrittals had detected her presence. Brutila instantly broke the connection but their brief touch would be enough for the mindweaver to locate her. Had they come for her? She immediately dismissed that idea. No one cared enough about her to mount a rescue, certainly not Rastran. More likely he’d sent the mindweaver to kill her. She strengthened her defensive walls.

  ‘Well, look who it is!’ A male voice echoed round her small prison. Above her, a curly-haired shadow blocked the stars.

  ‘Florian? Or is it Fester?’ She recalled Rastran’s favourites with distaste. Arrogant little boys.

  ‘I thought you were supposed to be keeping Anara prisoner, not the other way around?’ Whichever twin it was gave a mocking laugh.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘We need to find Anara.’

  ‘Why? What do you want with her?’

  ‘None of your business.’

  ‘I’m Thorlberd’s representative here. Everything is my business.’

  ‘Haven’t you heard? Thorlberd’s dead. New ruler, new rules. Besides, it doesn’t look like you have much influence.’

  ‘Let me out and I’ll take you to her.’

  There was some whispering.

  ‘You’d better hurry,’ she said impatiently. ‘Your little distraction won’t last long.’

  ‘Oh, I think the scrittals will keep the savages busy for a while, but I suppose you could save us the effort of searching all those roundhouses.’

  There was a grating noise and the grid disappeared. The end of a rope landed in the embers of her brazier. Brutila grabbed it before it could catch fire.

  ‘Don’t think of trying anything. Lord Rastran warned us about you. Where’s the other one? I thought there were two of you?’

  ‘Higina’s dead.’ Brutila pulled herself out of the well. The settlement was in uproar. Light streamed from open doorways and torches flashed back and forth. Someone was barking orders, endeavouring to quell the panic.

  ‘This way.’ Brutila’s legs wobbled after days of disuse. Her first thought had been to make a break for freedom, but with legs this weak she’d never be able to move fast enough. She crouched down to catch her breath.

  ‘What are your orders?’ she asked, stalling.

  ‘Never mind that. Just take us to Anara.’

  Brutila was debating whether to obey when a slight figure ran towards them. Anara, you fool! You’ve run straight into their trap.

  ‘Brutila! I was coming to find you. I knew the scrittals would frighten—’ Anara came to a halt. ‘How did you get out?’

  ‘Is this her?’ Florian asked.

  ‘Yes. It’s her,’ Brutila said reluctantly.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Anara looked in astonishment as an iron manacle flew through the air and snapped around her wrist. Another attached itself round Brutila’s. A chain linked them together.

  ‘Let’s get out of here, Florian,’ Fester whispered urgently. ‘Someone is trying to calm the scrittals.’ He glared at Brutila. So, it’s him that speaks with animals.

  ‘Don’t look at me,’ she said. ‘It’ll be her son, Findar.’

  ‘Brutila, don’t let them do this,’ pleaded Anara, but Brutila had made her decision. The Kyrgs would surely kill her if they caught her. They wouldn’t care that the plan hadn’t been hers. Besides, this was her chance to get away from this hateful place.

  Kastara shuddered as a dozen white creatures rammed their heads against her invisible barrier.

  ‘Findar, can’t you do something?’ she cried. Her brother was standing next to her, in fixed concentration.

  ‘I’m trying to calm them,’ he said, ‘but they’re spooked bad and the Kyrgs aren’t exactly helping.’

  All around them, Kyrgs were stabbing at the creatures with spears, or swiping at them with flaming brands. Kastara couldn’t blame them. The scrittal attack had been ferocious and many of the Kyrgs had bitemarks on their arms and faces. At last the scrittals scattered and began to retreat back into the darkness.

  ‘You can let down your shield,’ said Findar. Her brother walked slowly through the settlement, scrittals turning away in response to his commands. Someone grabbed Kastara’s arm. It was Lungrid, accompanied by a group of hunters.

  ‘They have your mother,’ she said. ‘Come.’

  Kastara hurried after Lungrid. The snow was fresh and their prey hadn’t bothered to cover their tracks. Lungrid and her fellows weaved rapidly through the blackthorn and Kastara began to fall behind. A pair of high-pitched screams rent the night and the Kyrgs stopped dead. A thunderous beating of vast, membranous wings sent air whistling through the blackthorns. Migaradons. Lungrid pulled back her arm but her spear was ripped from her grasp, as were those of her fellow hunters. The spears performed an elegant loop in the air and darted towards their defenceless owners. Kastara quickly sent out her bubble and the weapons crashed harmlessly against it. But the distraction had been enough. Findar arrived as the cries of the migaradons were fading. Kastara reached out with her mind, searching desperately for Anara. She felt a fleeting connection, but it quickly faded out of range.

  ‘Findar, can you call them back?’ she pleaded.

  ‘They’re too far away,’ her brother replied, breathing heavily. ‘I’m sorry, Kas. She’s gone.’

  Chapter Sixty-two

  Zastra reached the base of the Warrior Mountain and realised she was lost. She had taken a different route down to avoid the treacherous ice cliff, instead following the natural contours of the mountain. Towards the bottom, another snow storm had blown up, blurring the boundaries between ground and sky. She had used gravity alone to guide her as she slipped and slid down the steep slopes, trusting to luck that she wouldn’t fall into a crevasse or plunge over a cliff face. Hunger gnawed at her stomach and the skin on her face was raw. She tried to lick her cracked lips, but her mouth was so dry that her tongue stuck to her cheeks. She turned on the spot, hoping to find some shadow or other clue that might tell her which way was north or south.

  A distant cry broke across the white landscape. Was it real, or had she imagined it? She had heard nothing but her own breathing for days. The sound came again and she ploughed towards it. Two shapes loomed out of the whiteness, their heads impossibly large. She wondered what strange creatures they might be until they came closer and she realised they were Krygs wearing thick fur hoods. One dragged a sled.

  ‘You survived,’ said a Kyrginite warrior with a black cheek. Tholgrad. Zastra instinctively reached for her spear, but her frozen fingers closed round empty air. She must have lost it somewhere but she hadn’t even noticed it was gone. The second Kyrg swung the sledge towards her. It was Voghal.

  ‘Get on,’ she said. ‘We’ll take you back.’

  ‘How… how did you find me?’ Zastra’s voice cracked with disuse.

  ‘The Warrior often spits out his acolytes here. Most are in a bad way. We have been waiting.’

  ‘We scented you,’ Tholgrad said with a grimace as Zastra sank wordlessly onto the sled, her only wish to lie down somewhere warm and safe.

  It seemed only a moment later that Voghal roused her. They were back at the small rondavel where she had meditated before her journey. A fire crackled in the grate. Lungrid sat beside it, wearing a dark robe embroidered with hunting scenes. Three large candles flickered, brightening the interior of the rondavel and giving off a heady floral scent. Probably to mask mine, Zastra thought, sniffing tentatively at her armpit. Next to the candles stood a pot of dark green ink and a large needle, very like the one she had taken from the dead Kyrg. Lungrid offered Zastra a mug of steaming chala and a small plate of food.

  ‘Try to eat slowly,’ she said, as Zastra tugged off her frozen mittens and gulped the chala down so quickly it burned the back of her throat. Slowly, life flooded b
ack to her frozen core.

  ‘What did you find at the top of the Warrior?’ Lungrid asked. Zastra reached inside her coat and pulled out the leather pouch. Lungrid opened it and drew forth a circle of plaited hair.

  ‘It is well,’ she said. ‘This was Voghal’s trophy. She was the last to seek the wisdom of the Warrior.’

  ‘Does that mean I’ve passed?’ Zastra’s voice was still hoarse.

  ‘The test is not only physical. What did the Warrior teach you?’

  Zastra recalled bitter cold and loneliness, but also the beauty of the summit. Most of all, she remembered her dream. Her own naked figure buried in the ice cliff. Her fear that it would be revealed. It suddenly made sense. But the dream felt intensely private and she was reluctant to share it.

  ‘Anything you say here will remain between us,’ Lungrid said, as if reading her thoughts. Zastra stared into the fire.

  ‘I must stop being afraid to love,’ she said.

  Lungrid nodded. ‘It is well. Now we must ink you with the sign of the hunter, so all will know you conquered the Warrior Mountain.’

  She took Zastra’s left arm and turned her wrist so the inside was facing upwards. She began to make a tattoo. Zastra’s skin was so numb with cold she barely felt the prick of the needle. It seemed she was a now Kyrginite hunter as well as a ko-venteela fire-dancer. If Hylaz was to be believed, she was also part Sendoran. Did all of this make her less Golmeiran?

  ‘I wish to see my mother,’ she said. ‘I have much to say to her.’ Lungrid paused, and then continued until she had finished the tattoo, an intricate rendering of the snow-capped Warrior mountain capped by a circle of stars. When she had finished, she set aside her needle and looked straight at Zastra.

  ‘There is something we must tell you.’

  Chapter Sixty-three

  Lyria castle was large and sprawling, home to hundreds of servants and craftspeople. It also housed the militia. Even with ten mindweavers, the loyalty tests had taken all night and most of the next day. Myka had passed easily, thanks to his training. He had also been on hand to help Nerika while Gildarn stayed close to Orwin. More than two dozen men and women were less fortunate. To Orwin’s dismay, his personal valet was one of those who failed the loyalty test.