Silvermay

by James Moloney

  ‘We’ve got to have the talisman, then.’

  Arnou shook his head. ‘You heard me read from that book, Silvermay. Haylan Redwing wouldn’t tell my old teacher what the talisman was, not a word of description. All we can guess is that it’s something small enough to hold in the hand or hang on the body somehow.’

  ‘And Redwing was killed before he revealed any more,’ said Tamlyn.

  ‘Yes, long ago and by his own son.’

  Tamlyn sighed. ‘That’s what I was told also.’ The confirmation seemed to weigh him down.

  I couldn’t let this wonderful chance go, though. There simply wasn’t any other way, after all, and it was only luck that we had even this one. ‘The talisman could still be with his family, couldn’t it?’

  Both men turned to face me and I wondered what I’d said that made them so solemn-faced.

  ‘They are sure to be Wyrdborn,’ Arnou explained. ‘They will have no interest in helping you.’

  ‘Master Dessar’s right, I’m afraid,’ said Tamlyn. ‘For a Wyrdborn, to need something from another person is a weakness. Our way is to take what we want.’

  What a miserable world the Wyrdborn inhabit, I thought. Poor Tamlyn. No wonder he’s found it so hard to laugh at life’s joys. I would make him laugh again before too long, I hoped, but for now it would have to wait.

  ‘This is the only hope we have,’ I said. ‘We have to find Haylan Redwing’s family. That book mentioned the town he lived in.’

  ‘Ledaris,’ said Arnou Dessar and, as he said it, his eyes flicked nervously towards Tamlyn.

  ‘Why that look?’ I asked.

  Tamlyn let out a long, disheartening breath then replied for them both. ‘Even my father calls Ledaris a den of villains, the worst in Athlane.’

  17

  Treachery and Monsters

  In Vonne

  The same chamberlain who’d first shown Gabbet the way to Coyle Strongbow’s room many weeks before stood aside to let him enter, then took up a silent stance by the door.

  The room hadn’t been made any more cheerful since Gabbet’s last visit. He preferred small comforts himself: a cushion to soften the hard seat of a chair; curtains that shut out the worst of the summer’s heat but pulled back in winter to let in the sun. This chamber had no rugs to soothe his aching feet, no flowers to bring a splash of colour, just the unadorned table of the man who brooded inside its chill grey walls.

  Coyle was waiting impatiently for his report, which Gabbet delivered simply, in the words he’d rehearsed all the way from Nan Tocha.

  ‘You saw her with your own eyes?’ said the Wyrdborn, glaring at him with an intensity that made him want to take a step back. That would be a mistake, he knew. Show weakness in front of this man, hint at the fear that the Wyrdborn fed upon so cruelly, and he would lose the prize he hoped to claim.

  ‘Yes, my lord. She is thinner than I remember and looks rather sickly, but there’s no doubt it is her.’

  ‘The woman you saw here in my household last year? The one who looked so much like the picture you brought me from the diggings?’

  ‘It is Nerigold. I would not have come all this way if I wasn’t sure.’

  ‘And she had a baby with her, you say?’

  Gabbet nodded. ‘Another woman seemed to have the care of it, a peasant girl, although she was dressed differently from the women of the mountain tribes.’

  He wished he’d taken notice of the girl so he could tell Coyle more, but it had been difficult to think of anything else once he saw Nerigold holding the child in her arms.

  Gabbet told himself to relax. He’d brought Coyle news he was desperate to hear, and the man seemed pleased, as much as a Wyrdborn was ever pleased about anything. It was best to keep his wits about him still, in the presence of one so powerful and with such a reputation. All the same, he couldn’t help anticipating his reward. A bag of gold, at least, he calculated. Judging by Coyle’s reaction, he wondered if it might be two. With that much, he could quit his post as a clerk and buy a farm with its own workers to do the ploughing and herd the sheep. He would still spend his days counting coins and writing letters, but the coins would be his own and the letters would order life’s luxuries for himself from the merchants of Vonne.

  ‘If it was truly Nerigold you saw,’ said Coyle, ‘there would have been a man with her; one you’d surely recognise since you spent a year here in my household.’

  ‘I saw no man, my lord.’

  Coyle’s face darkened, making Gabbet instantly afraid. Fear can cripple a man’s mind, or it can spur him to quick-witted survival.

  ‘They did seem to be waiting for someone, my lord. Perhaps this man you speak of had gone hunting or —’

  ‘That’s enough,’ Coyle snapped. ‘I’m only interested in what you saw, not what you suppose. But Nerigold couldn’t have travelled so far without the man I’m thinking of. Your story has been a great help to me … er …’

  ‘Gabbet, my lord.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Do you know The Wayfarers Inn near the city gate?’

  ‘I’ve passed it many times, my lord, but I’ve never stepped inside,’ said Gabbet.

  It was a rough drinking house for coach drivers and stable hands; not at all the place for an educated clerk in a smart jacket.

  ‘Go there now and take a room,’ Coyle told him. ‘Tell the landlord that I sent you and he’ll give you the best he has, at the back, away from the noisy street. As soon as I can arrange it, I’ll send someone to reward you for your service.’

  It was exactly what Gabbet had been hoping for. He bowed low and turned to leave, giving way to the greedy smile that refused to hold back any longer. That smile would have quickly left his lips, however, if he’d still been facing Coyle.

  As Gabbet headed for the door, the Wyrdborn caught the eye of his chamberlain who’d stood guard during the interview. Nodding towards Gabbet’s receding back, he lifted his chin and drew his thumb sharply across his throat.

  ‘Be patient, Gabbet,’ he called as his visitor passed out of the room. ‘Your reward will find you before the sun is down.’

  Coyle stood at his desk for many long minutes, staring down at drawings made by the king’s artist — hastily made copies of the originals that had once lain across this very desk, although Chatiny didn’t know this. Disturbed by the discussion Arnou Dessar’s sketches had prompted among his scholars, the king had sent these copies to Coyle Strongbow to ask what he made of them.

  ‘Your face has betrayed you again, my pretty,’ Coyle said to one of the drawings, ‘but it’s not you who stands between me and the prize, is it?’

  As he spoke, his fingers touched the faceless child bundled tightly in the woman’s arms. He pulled the drawing aside, focusing on the bare wood of the table top, his thoughts straying a long way from this stark room.

  ‘Tamlyn,’ he whispered. ‘You stand in my way, but you can show me the way, too.’

  He looked up and again claimed the attention of his chamberlain. ‘Before you go off to perform your other … er, duty …’ he dipped his head towards the doorway through which Gabbet had so recently departed, ‘find my son Hallig and have him meet me behind the stables.’

  Hallig was slouched against a fence post when, half an hour later, his father strode across the courtyard and slipped through a narrow gap into a mostly forgotten part of the household. Hallig pushed himself upright without unfolding his arms and followed.

  ‘What’s this about?’ he said. ‘There’s nothing here but rotting thatch from the stable roof and the empty kennels where we used to keep the hunting dogs.’

  The hunting dogs had disappeared five years before. Taken out one afternoon to track down a stag, they’d simply kept running. Their handler was behind the escape. Appalled at how the dogs were mistreated by their Wyrdborn masters, he’d urged them on into the forest where his friends were waiting to bundle them off to more caring owners. Coyle had killed the handler, of course. Defiance should always be met with the harsh
est punishment. But he hadn’t really cared much for the dogs, and neither had Hallig, so they’d let the rest of the thieves go undetected.

  ‘They’re not as empty as you think. Take a look,’ Coyle said, inviting Hallig to go closer.

  The kennels were surrounded by a wooden fence too high for a man to peer over. There were gaps between the palings, though, and it was to one of the wider of these gaps that Coyle directed his son. Hallig leaned forward, one eye closed, the open one only inches from the narrow opening. Suddenly he sprang backwards as a frenzy of barking erupted on the other side and the whole fence swayed violently.

  Coyle let out a bark of his own; a throaty laugh at Hallig’s fright and to show that he’d known what would happen.

  His son was as furious as the creatures who’d startled him but he held his tongue. He forced out a laugh of his own, as if it was all great fun, and he looked again through the gap with a better idea of what he was seeing.

  ‘Tamlyn’s dogs. I thought they were dead. They’re no use for hunting, not after what was done to them.’

  ‘Quite the opposite,’ said Coyle, staring through the gap at a snout that sniffed feverishly for its tormentors. ‘These have a job to do. That’s why we’re here.’

  He moved towards the gate, a hand outstretched to slip the rope from the post that held it closed.

  Behind him, Hallig stiffened. ‘Is that wise?’

  ‘Afraid? You, a Wyrdborn! One kick will throw them both against the fence if they attack.’

  Coyle unlatched the gate and stepped inside. Immediately the dogs rushed at him, snarling and baring their teeth. Then, just as quickly, they stopped short and cowered away into the far corner of the dingy kennel, growling still, but in fear rather than anger.

  Once they’d retreated, Hallig followed his father through the gate. He saw the dogs were larger than he remembered, each the size of a timber wolf, though their hair was shorter and their coats a creamy white beneath the filth.

  ‘They recognise your smell,’ he said to Coyle.

  ‘Yes, and they’ll surely remember Tamlyn’s, too. Put collars on them and find some stout chain to use as a leash. Leave the collars loose, too.’

  ‘Why loose?’ said Hallig as he found what he needed hanging from nails on the wall. ‘They’ll slip free. You can’t let them get at commonfolk in the street. That sort of thing upsets the king.’

  ‘It’s not commonfolk who need to worry,’ Coyle told his son.

  Before he could ask anything further, Hallig felt the air around them become suddenly chill. He knew what it meant and stepped back from his father. A discomforting yowl started across the kennel and the dogs began to snap at each other and writhe on their backs, caking themselves even more with thick mud. They threw their heads from side to side against the collars and the clinking, clanking leash.

  Hallig’s eyes widened. ‘What are you doing to them?’ he gasped.

  The dogs were growing before his eyes, their muscles filled out wherever there was a fold of skin; their snouts lengthened, their teeth became longer. By the time Coyle broke his enchantment and the dogs rose to their feet, they stood face to face with Hallig. Only the chains, securely fastened to a sturdy post, kept them from reaching him. They reared up like horses, with claws instead of hooves. Their jaws snapped at him, eager to snatch an arm, a hand, a head.

  Hallig was a Wyrdborn; he carried the strength of a hundred men in his muscles and the gift of magic in his blood. He had frightened the defiance out of commonfolk and beaten back other Wyrdborn in the name of his master, the king. But these two dogs that strained their chains to breaking point and growled their vicious intent into his face were the most fearful sight he had ever seen.

  Three days into our journey to Ledaris, I found myself in the stern of an open rowing boat with Lucien asleep in a wicker basket beside me. Rain had visited us once and clouds still hovered overhead, but, as I looked down at Lucien to be sure he wasn’t cold, the sun opened its eye like a late sleeper peeking out from under the bedclothes. Come on, Sun, show your whole face and let us dry out, I thought. It was a good omen, anyway, just like the gift of this boat.

  Well, it wasn’t actually a gift, since Tamlyn hadn’t given the owner a chance to show his generosity. He’d simply ‘acquired’ it yesterday at a mooring downstream from a village called Quickwater and we’d set sail without a single eye spotting us. The village was well named because the boat was shooting downriver on a gleeful current and, with Tamlyn at the oars as well, we were making better time than a horse on the trot.

  Ryall sat restlessly with his back to us in the bow. I’d insisted he go back to my aunt’s house, but he’d argued just as doggedly that he come with us.

  Tamlyn had solved the matter. ‘Let him come, Silvermay. We’ll need to stay off the road until we’re down from these mountains and Ryall knows every goat track in Nan Tocha, don’t you, Ryall?’

  Ryall had grinned because he’d got his way over me. I wasn’t going to let him make a habit of it though.

  I looked at the final passenger in the boat, the nanny goat, which sat on its haunches looking at the passing water. It hadn’t once tried to escape, thanks to the enchantments Tamlyn had placed over it; the same enchantments that made it lie on its side with its bulging udder exposed every time Lucien cried to be fed. The goat must have had enough milk to satisfy him because it stayed healthy.

  It wouldn’t be here if Nerigold was still alive to be a mother to Lucien … and so the thoughts linked like a chain until I was standing at her graveside again, watching helplessly as Tamlyn tamped down the last of the earth that would lie over her forever.

  After three days of this I was learning ways to distract myself when the memories threatened to engulf me again.

  ‘Do you think Redwing’s family will give us the talisman?’ I asked Tamlyn as he rowed with steady, powerful strokes.

  ‘I told you, Silvermay, the Wyrdborn give nothing away. That’s what we’re like. We never help anyone unless there is some reward for ourselves.’

  ‘Could we buy it from them?’

  ‘What with? All we have are the coins Arnou Dessar slipped into my pocket before we left the diggings.’ He made a little music with them by jiggling his leg to make them dance inside his pocket. ‘The important question is, do they still have the tailsman. They’d have no reason to value it, after all. They might have dropped it into the sea.’

  I didn’t want to consider such a calamity. ‘If we do get hold of it, what then?’

  ‘We sail north to Erebis Felan.’

  ‘But only scholars like Arnou Dessar think it exists.’

  ‘And the sailors who told them about it,’ said Tamlyn, so promptly that I guessed he’d already thought of these things. ‘We’ll have to find one of those sailors and make him take us there.’

  ‘Do you think it’s true, Tamlyn? Can the sorcerers of Erebis Felan strip Lucien of his cursed powers?’

  ‘I have no evidence that I can hold in my hand, but I believe Haylan Redwing’s story. I believe they took away his strength and his magic.’

  ‘Will you ask them to do the same to you?’

  I’ve been thinking about it since before you asked me, since Arnou Dessar read us the story, in fact. Stripped of my powers, I would be no different from any commonfolk man.’

  ‘Is that such a bad thing?’ I asked. ‘You wouldn’t have to live with the deadened spirit that makes the Wyrdborn such miserable creatures, not just to others, but to themselves. You could feel happiness, Tamlyn, in the way I feel it, and all the others like me. You want that, don’t you? It’s what your mother was trying to give you, even though she struggled to imagine it.’

  ‘I know what I would become and I know what it would bring me, but it’s what I would lose that holds me back.’

  I didn’t understand. ‘The jealousy, the constant suspicion of your own kind, even your own family, the squabbling, the hatred, that’s what you’d lose.’

  Tamlyn’s eyes were
focused on something that no one else could see, but he’d heard me, every word, and he was weighing them carefully. I suspected he’d been silently arguing with himself all the way from the diggings.

  ‘Silvermay,’ he said finally, looking deeply into my eyes, ‘I keep thinking of Haylan Redwing and the way he died.’

  ‘Killed by his own son. You said it yourself.’

  Tamlyn nodded and the look on his face was the saddest thing I’ve ever seen.

  ‘Haylan Redwing became powerless in the face of his own family,’ he said, ‘just as I would become powerless against my own father.’

  18

  Killers Without Eyes

  In Nan Tocha

  Arnou Dessar was bent over the trestle table that served as his workbench. Three days had passed since the Wyrdborn had led his companions away towards Ledaris yet he still couldn’t push them from his mind long enough to concentrate on his work. That poor child. His life depended on the pledge of two determined young souls. What haunted his thoughts most cruelly was the fear that it would all be for nothing, that the blood-soaked scenes crafted so perfectly by the ancient sorcerers would one day become real.

  ‘Pray that you don’t live to see it, old man,’ he whispered.

  He was once again trying to concentrate on his work when a miner emerging from the cave cried out in alarm. Arnou feared a rockfall, but there was no dust swirling out from the cave and, besides, the man was looking away from the entrance, towards the road leading into the camp.

  Others began to shout. It was past noon and many of the workers were stretched out in the shady cool of the camp for their midday rest. Some were sitting up and it was they who had taken up the alarm. A few men leapt up and ran into the trees.

  Arnou turned and quickly knew why they had run. Two enormous beasts approached, sniffing at the ground constantly as though scent alone was enough to guide them. They seemed excited by what they could smell and tried to break into a charge, but a man on horseback had them restrained by chains.