Silvermay

by James Moloney

  I picked Lucien out of the makeshift cot Mrs Wenn had made for him using cushions and blankets, and told Miston to move the cushions to a chair at the table. Then I placed Lucien on the cushions and gently drew his right arm out to lie flat on the surface before him. He looked down at his arm, puzzled, and tried to tug it away.

  ‘Hold his arm still,’ I ordered while I got the pot of ink and the needle ready.

  I placed the patch of skin beside his arm where I could glance at it whenever I needed to. Lucien made a grab for it with his free hand and I only just beat him to it. He looked unhappy that I’d snatched away a new toy, but didn’t cry.

  ‘Good boy,’ I cooed, smiling and ruffling the silky hair across his scalp. In a very different voice I told Miston, ‘You’ll have to hold his other arm as well.’

  Lucien didn’t think much of this. He wriggled until it was clear Miston’s steely grip had him frozen in place and then seemed to resign himself to the greater force. Meanwhile, I studied the bird and decided which part to do first. It was time to get started.

  I chose the needle with the finest point and rolled it carefully between the pads of my fingers and thumb to find the best grip. There was Lucien’s unblemished skin waiting only inches below for the first prick. He had no idea what was about to happen. My mind rebelled again, then just as quickly repeated those undeniable words: It’s got to be done. I focused my eyes on the best place to begin and pressed downwards.

  Lucien screamed. Even though I’d been ready for his pain, I hadn’t expected him to cry so loudly.

  I snatched the needle away and massaged the spot with the thumb of my other hand, appalled by his wide open mouth and the tears that had already begun to spill from his beautiful eyes.

  ‘You didn’t draw blood,’ said Miston.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You didn’t press hard enough. You can only be sure you’ve gone deep enough if you draw blood.’

  I stared at him in disbelief. ‘But it hurt him!’

  ‘Not enough,’ he said, in what to my ear was a tone of the coldest cruelty.

  ‘Not enough!’ I shouted, making Lucien even more distressed.

  ‘I didn’t mean it to sound like that, Silvermay,’ Miston apologised. ‘It’s not how much it hurts, but whether all the pain will be worthwhile. If you don’t draw blood, you haven’t gone deep enough and the ink won’t stay in his skin much longer than the stain on my palm. All this agony and all the tears will be for nothing.’

  I brought the needle close to Lucien’s skin again. He knew this time what that needle would do to him and he bucked against Miston’s restraining hands. He might as well have tried to break a dungeon’s shackles. I pressed down again, harder, heard the scream that I knew would come and, through my own tears, saw a tiny bead of blood appear on Lucien’s skin.

  ‘Again,’ Miston urged. ‘You must keep going until the entire symbol is repeated on his skin.’

  ‘I can’t,’ I bellowed at him like a madwoman.

  The needle dropped from my fingers and I reached for Lucien, sweeping him out of Miston’s arms and into my own. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I whispered into his ear, and when he snuggled against me, seeking comfort from the one who’d hurt him, my tears turned into a storm more violent than any that had blown in off the sea yesterday.

  Miston watched me with little expression on his face. ‘What will you do, then, when you get to Erebis Felan?’

  ‘We can’t go. I’ll have to find some other way to save him.’

  Miston rocked back in his chair to consider what I’d just told him. It was news to me, too, because I had only realised what I’d decided when I spoke the words.

  ‘How will you avoid King Chatiny’s men? How will you keep Lucien out of Wyrdborn hands?’ Miston said.

  I had no answer, but I guessed his question had a motive of its own. ‘You’ve done enough for me, Master Dessar, and I’m grateful. You don’t have to stay with us any longer. I understand. If we are captured — by Wyrdborn or commonfolk, it doesn’t matter which — chances are they’ll kill me straightaway and anyone else who’s with us.’

  ‘Your best chance is Erebis Felan.’

  ‘Not without the tattoo, and you saw me just now. I can’t bear to hurt him, even once.’

  Miston stood and walked to the window where he lingered, his eyes apparently on the fishing boats as they lolled in the sun. His stance told me he barely saw them for he was deep in thoughts of his own. I couldn’t help thinking at that moment, that what he said next would determine whether Lucien and I lived or died.

  He turned and nodded towards the table where the needle and the pot of ink lay discarded. ‘Bring Lucien.’

  ‘I’ve already told you, I —’

  He cut me off. ‘Bring the boy and hold him like I did.’

  He was already on the move and, by the time I’d taken two steps, he was seated where I had been earlier. He reached for the needle.

  My body began to go numb with cold, as though I’d stripped off my dress and walked outside into falling snow. Somehow I found myself in a chair beside him at the table, with Lucien’s arm stretched out like before. Poor Lucien; he knew what this meant and he’d already begun to cry.

  ‘Hold his arm still,’ said Miston. To Lucien, he cooed softly, ‘Now, little man, this won’t hurt as much as you think it will,’ and for a long moment he held Lucien’s eyes with his own until I felt the little body relax in my grip.

  The needle began its work. Lucien wailed and bucked but not as badly as when I had made my clumsy jabs. After a while he settled to fitful sobs, seemingly prompted more by watching Miston’s rapid fingers at work than the sting each movement was surely causing him. Every few minutes, Miston stopped piercing Lucien’s skin and dabbed ink from the pot onto the tiny wounds using a cloth. Then he returned to his intricate task.

  I looked at Miston’s face and was assailed by a new shock. His eyes saw only Lucien’s arm and the needle he guided into the skin, jab, jab, jab. His face, his cheeks, the mouth that I expected to be drawn back in a grimace of horror at what he was doing, all were as unmoved as though he was stroking a cat’s fur.

  I would not put anyone through such torment again for all the riches in Athlane. But there was the tattoo on Lucien’s arm, the talisman that would change his life. By the time Mrs Wenn came back, weighed down by a heavy sack but unburdened of her gossip, no doubt, Lucien had stopped crying. Hidden by his sleeve, the tattoo was complete in every detail and, for better or for worse, would remain on his skin as long as he lived. If I could get him to Erebis Felan, he would live a long time.

  There would be no hope of that different life if not for Miston Dessar. What would I have done without him?

  Having worked the needle with a face of stone, Miston now watched over Lucien like a doting grandfather.

  ‘I said I was grateful before,’ I reminded him when Mrs Wenn retired to the kitchen, ‘but even more now, a hundred times more.’

  He waved my sentiments away as though they would make him blush and continued to watch, fascinated, as Lucien explored the room. He had mastered the art of crawling by now, and, unsatisfied with this feat, was learning to pull himself upright using the leg of a chair. How long could it be before he was walking? Such a thing was unheard of at this early age and an ominous reminder to me of why we needed the sorcerers of Erebis Felan.

  I went to the window and asked Miston, ‘Can you show me the boat we’ll be sailing in?’

  He took his time to answer. When I turned, he seemed so absorbed in Lucien’s antics I thought he hadn’t heard me.

  ‘The boat, oh, yes,’ he said, coming to himself. ‘A ship that size can’t moor in the harbour. It’s lying at anchor in a sheltered bay just round the point. By the time we walked round to the bay, it would be dark. Don’t worry, it will be standing offshore waiting for you in the morning. I’ll row you out to it myself.’

  And that will be the end, I said to myself. All the protection he has given Lucien and me
will row back to shore with him and we will be in the hands of a captain I’ve never met.

  ‘I hope you’ve found a man I can trust,’ I said, then immediately regretted betraying my uncertainty.

  ‘You may trust him as you’ve trusted me, Silvermay. Have no doubt of that.’

  A silence fell between us until I said, ‘I haven’t always known who to trust.’

  ‘No, well, so far your mistakes haven’t proved fatal,’ he said in the wry tone of a father marvelling at a youngster’s good fortune. Then he sat forward and looked into the fire. ‘I’ve been thinking, Silvermay, about the task you have taken on. I’ve been privileged to help you along part of the way, but the job seems … unfinished … yes, that’s the word. I don’t think my part is over yet. If all goes well, you will reach Erebis Felan before much longer, but it would be a tragedy if you fell short for the want of a little help. I’d be honoured if you would let me come with you.’

  It was what I wanted, even though I hadn’t quite put the need into words.

  ‘Yes, I’d like that,’ I said, afraid to say any more in case my relief turned into the embarrassment of girlish tears.

  27

  Figures in the Fog

  Silvermay, where is my kiss? Why didn’t you wait in Ledaris like we agreed?

  Even as the words rang so playfully in my head, I knew it was a dream.

  Leave me alone, I said, but when the demand pained his beautiful face I relented. If he’d appeared at Mrs Wenn’s door, I would have gone to him and rested my foolish head against his chest.

  I was still warm with the feel of him when Mrs Wenn woke me.

  ‘Is he here?’ I asked, sitting up too quickly.

  ‘Not yet, but the light is growing stronger. He won’t be long.’

  To Mrs Wenn, ‘he’ meant Miston, of course, while I had asked about a man she knew nothing of.

  Awake now, I gave thanks that it would be Miston Dessar who came for us and not Tamlyn. The first would see us to Erebis Felan, while the second would cast me aside like a tool he didn’t need any more and turn Lucien into a monster. A surge of indignant anger spurred me out of the warm bed.

  ‘It’s cold,’ I said, shivering in the nightdress Mrs Wenn had lent me.

  ‘It’s the mist,’ she replied. ‘Always seems coldest when the fog rolls in from the sea. Not a breath of breeze out there this morning. Take a look for yourself.’

  She pointed me towards the window, where I could just make out the nearest boats moored at the edge of the harbour and an outline of the stone jetty. The opening to the sea was entirely hidden.

  ‘A shroud,’ I whispered, remembering her comment of two days before. Was it that word or the cold that made me shiver?

  Mrs Wenn was in the same clothes as yesterday, complete with an apron dusted with flour. ‘Didn’t you go to bed at all?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, plenty of time for sleeping after you’re gone. You have a long voyage ahead of you and that baby will need more than fish. It’s all ready for you when you come downstairs,’ she announced, and off she went to do as she promised.

  Lucien was as floppy as a rag doll when I picked him up and so warm I couldn’t help standing there sharing that warmth for a full minute before following Mrs Wenn. She was waiting with a shawl in her hand, the one she’d made me take during my walk around the harbour.

  ‘It’s yours to keep,’ she said. ‘And I think these will fit the boy.’ She held up a pair of woollen leggings. ‘They were going to be for my grandson but he can wait while I make another pair.’

  There was a little vest and socks to keep his feet warm, too. I hugged her in thanks and stripped Lucien out of the lengths of cloth I’d been winding him in for weeks now because clothes didn’t fit him for very long. These gifts wouldn’t, either, but I didn’t tell Mrs Wenn that.

  Miston tapped on the door. He took his turn thanking Mrs Wenn for the supplies she kept bringing from the kitchen; so much he would have trouble carrying them all to the rowing boat waiting for us at the jetty.

  ‘It’s time to leave. We must catch the tide,’ he said at last.

  ‘The tide — oh, you have hours yet,’ said Mrs Wenn, but I think she just wanted to delay our departure.

  Miston wasn’t in the mood to dawdle and became impatient when I let Mrs Wenn hug Lucien and then me one more time.

  ‘I’ll come with you to the jetty,’ she said.

  ‘No,’ Miston insisted. ‘Better to say your goodbyes here, where it’s warmer. We won’t want to stand on the jetty for any longer than we have to,’ and he pulled a coat he must have bought from someone at the inn closely around him to remind us of the cold.

  Finally, we freed ourselves from Mrs Wenn and her farewells and left her weeping on the doorstep. I carried Lucien in my arms, rather than in the harness on my back, and he clung tightly to me, hugging my neck, as though he had detected the urgency in what we were doing.

  ‘Don’t worry, Smiler,’ I told him. ‘I’ve got a good hold on you.’

  He wriggled a little so he was nestled even closer against me.

  We were halfway to the jetty before I turned my attention from him and truly took in our surroundings. ‘The world has turned to silver,’ I gasped.

  Even the houses that lined the harbour were blurred by the mist that had already begun to bead our clothes with the finest pearls. Cats called mournfully to one another, water lapped lazily at the harbour’s edge and our shoes clicked and clacked on the cobblestones. On foggy mornings in Haywode, I’d sometimes go out into the stillness to enjoy the sense of standing in an empty world, as though not being able to see the things around me meant they weren’t there at all. I had the same feeling, that final day in Greystone.

  ‘I hope the ship is out there somewhere,’ I said. ‘Will you be able to find it?’

  ‘The rowing boat is tethered near the end of the jetty,’ Miston replied, urging me on.

  I could have done with a reply to my concern, some reassurance, but for once the calm that I envied in him had disappeared and he seemed as anxious as I was. I wondered whether he’d heard news of strangers in the district, or of the king’s men come looking for Lucien. Best not to ask. Once we were in the rowing boat, no one would stop us.

  Miston led me onto the jetty and along its narrow path. A shape began to emerge from the mist, a dark and brooding smudge that unsettled me until I remembered the little hut. Its rectangular lines soon showed themselves and the tension in my body eased.

  ‘Here it is,’ said Miston when we were twenty paces short of the hut. He pointed to a dinghy at the bottom of a short flight of steps.

  While I watched, he loaded Mrs Wenn’s generous supplies against the stern board and returned to the jetty to untie the rope from the stout iron ring set into the stone. Then he stepped aboard again, holding the dinghy steady with an oar while I descended the steps, ready to join him. The boat rocked a little from side to side, unnerving me, especially when I had Lucien’s weight to balance as well as my own.

  ‘Step across. I’ll catch you,’ he called, freeing one hand from the oar and reaching towards me.

  I needed only to grab hold with my free hand while the other arm held Lucien tightly to my hip. I was about to lift my foot when a call came from far away.

  ‘Silvermay!’

  Amid such curtains of grey it was difficult to judge direction, but my first response was to drop my arm and retreat a step up the stone stairs so that I could search without slipping on the wet surface.

  ‘Come aboard,’ Miston called. ‘Quickly, before he can stop you.’

  Before who could stop me? I turned towards the village, which had so far watched us slip away with an expressionless face. A lone figure was running along the edge of the harbour and, as I strained to see who it was, he reached the start of the jetty. But my heart already knew, well before any other part of me. When he called my name again, that same dogged heart leapt about in my chest. To placate it, I climbed another step away from the water.


  ‘No, Silvermay, come aboard before Tamlyn snatches the baby from your arms,’ cried Miston. ‘Hurry! We have to be gone into the mist so he can’t find you.’

  It was Tamlyn. He rushed towards me, shouting and waving his arms frantically. Why didn’t I step into Miston’s boat? He was right, after all. Tamlyn called my name, yes, but he was coming for Lucien, he was coming to make everything happen that I was determined to avoid. He had cheated me, tricked me, played me for a fool, and I hated him for it. So why didn’t I hurry to the water’s edge and step into the safety of the boat? Why did I want to run back towards the houses, towards Tamlyn, to look into his face and convince myself that Miston was wrong?

  Because my heart had not surrendered him to the Wyrdborn. That was why. In my mind, all the dreadful accusations made sense, they were real, they were the truth, but such things meant nothing to the one part of Silvermay Hawker I couldn’t control. I had to hear from his own lips that he felt nothing for me, that it had been a sham to get his hands on Nerigold’s baby. Only then would my heart let him go.

  I knew before Tamlyn was halfway along that jetty that I would stay and confront him, even if I lived only long enough to see him draw the sword that killed me. If he granted me just a few seconds’ reprieve, I would demand he tell my stubborn heart that it had wasted its love on a worthless wretch.

  ‘Silvermay, you must come now!’ Miston shouted, becoming desperate.

  The cry from close behind me dragged my eyes away from Tamlyn. There was Lucien in my arms, a helpless baby. Didn’t my pledge outweigh the duty to my wayward heart? I retraced my steps to where I could easily step aboard. Miston waited, his arm outstretched like before, but the decision was already made and I wouldn’t change it now. I would rather die.

  Miston knew. He had guessed what I was going to do. ‘The baby, at least. You must still save Lucien even if you’re determined to die yourself.’

  ‘Here, take him,’ I said, holding Lucien out towards Miston. ‘Get him to Erebis Felan, like we planned. He’s yours to care for now.’