Malice

by John Gwynne

  ‘Reluctant?’ said Nathair.

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing personal,’ Heb said. ‘I like Brenin well enough, I just like the pleasures of my hearth more. And I hate long journeys.’

  Veradis coughed to cover his laughter.

  ‘Ignore him; he lies,’ Brenin said. ‘I would have had to tie him down to keep him away. He’s far too inquisitive to have stayed in Ardan.’

  Nathair took Rhin’s hand and kissed it. Her skin was mottled, papery thin, blue veins standing proud. ‘You look beautiful, my lady.’

  ‘Flatterer,’ Rhin said, though she smiled warmly, the flickering torchlight turning her lined face into a place of dark gullies.

  ‘I speak the truth as I see it.’

  ‘Really? A dangerous practice for a prince. If I were ugly, would you have told me so?’

  ‘No,’ Nathair grinned. ‘I would have focused on some other virtue.’

  ‘If you could find one.’

  ‘All have something worthy about them, if you look hard enough.’

  ‘Well said,’ Rhin smiled. ‘Keep looking for my virtues and I think you and I shall get along very well.’

  ‘Please, Rhin, stop playing with the boy.’ Owain spoke now, the King of Narvon. He was a dark-haired, sharp-featured man, his smile showing little warmth. His realm bordered both Rhin’s and Brenin’s, if Veradis remembered his maps right.

  ‘I don’t play at anything,’ Rhin said, her eyes fixed on Nathair. ‘Besides, he is doing very well for himself. So far.’

  Veradis decided he did not like this Rhin. There was something predatory about her, about the way she looked at Nathair. That’s not right. She’s so old.

  ‘Careful, Nathair, you are swimming in dangerous waters here,’ Owain said, draining his cup. ‘Before you know it, Rhin will sweep you away and have you handbound.’

  ‘Hardly,’ Rhin snorted. ‘Variety is what keeps me young. Though for the right man . . .’ She smiled.

  ‘And how do things stand in your homeland?’ Nathair asked her, his neck flushing red.

  ‘Well enough,’ Rhin laughed. ‘As most of the realms that border my lands are ruled by one relative or another, so times are stable. A little dull, but stable. Apart from the giants in the north, of course. They are always determined to test my warriors’ mettle. Still,’ she turned to her champion, ‘I am never in danger, even when the giants are feeling more ferocious, not while I have Morcant here to guard me.’ She ran a long white finger down the curve of his cheek. He smiled back at her. Something about the gesture made Veradis blush.

  ‘If what we heard in the council today is true, it will take more than one man’s blade to keep you safe,’ Nathair said. ‘I must confess, I had hoped to see more support my father.’ Nathair looked at Rhin and Owain. ‘I do not remember seeing either of you stand today.’

  ‘That is because I did not,’ Rhin said. ‘I am old, Nathair, and there are lessons that age has taught me. One is that rushing is overrated. Much of what your father said strikes a chord in me, but I am not yet convinced. Also, I felt a little unsure, shall we say, of your father’s counsellor and his findings. There is something unsettling about him.’ She smiled, brushing a strand of white hair out of her face.

  ‘I am not the most trusting of people – one of my faults, I fear – but I find it hard to take the word of one man on such claims. So I shall wait, see what Midwinter’s Day brings us. Besides,’ she added, ‘all of this talk of Gods and demons, maybe we do not need to look so far afield for conflict and war. There are those here that would be better served paying more attention to what goes on in their own realms, instead of wishing faery tales come to life.’

  She’s a clever one, Veradis thought. Who was that intended for? Brenin, Owain, Nathair. All?

  Brenin raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Heb smiled, as if watching an entertaining game.

  ‘Please, speak plainly,’ Owain said. ‘I have drunk too much wine to untangle your riddles.’

  Rhin clucked her tongue. ‘No tact, Owain. I am sure Brenin will explain it to you.’

  Brenin chuckled. ‘Leave me out of this.’

  ‘Very well. Speaking plainly, I have heard that you both have had troubles of late.’

  ‘Aye, true enough,’ said Brenin. ‘Lawless men, striking out from the Darkwood. Braith is at the heart of it with his band of outlaws, I believe, though I have not the proof yet. I hope it will be waiting for me when I return.’

  ‘It is the same for me,’ Owain grunted. ‘All along the border of the Darkwood I am raided.’

  ‘Maybe this alliance is the answer for you both, then,’ Rhin said. ‘Perhaps working together, and with King Aquilus’ help you could deal with these lawless men.’

  ‘I am capable of keeping my own lands safe,’ Owain snapped.

  ‘Really? And yet you are here, while your lands are raided, robbed. As are you Brenin.’

  ‘Ever the same, Rhin,’ Brenin said, shaking his head. ‘You will not bait me, try as you might. I will not be part of your amusements.’ With that he strode away, Heb close behind him. Tull nodded at Rhin’s champion, then followed his King, winking at Veradis as he passed him by.

  Soon the Prince excused himself, taking Veradis in search of wine.

  ‘Dry work, this politicking,’ Nathair said as they drained their cups.

  ‘I am thirsty just listening to it,’ Veradis said.

  ‘What do you think?’ Nathair asked.

  Veradis shrugged. ‘I do not know. In truth, Nathair, much of this talk bores me. I will gladly follow you around such gatherings, but only so that I know you have a sword to guard your back.’

  Nathair laughed. ‘You are a tonic to me, Veradis, amidst all this guile and bickering and these guarded words. But since you will not tell me what you think, let me tell you what I think, O sword that guards my back.’ He bowed low.

  ‘The kings of the Banished Lands are like children. They squabble and they swagger, but they will not stand together. My father is deceived by the dreams of his heart. He cannot forge an alliance here that will last. It is a fraying rope that will break when pulled tight, after tonight of that I am certain.’

  ‘Then how will we stand against this Black Sun when he comes?’ said Veradis.

  Nathair looked about him, but they were far from anyone. Nevertheless he lowered his voice.

  ‘Empire . . .’ he breathed. ‘There must be an empire. This land needs to be united and strong if we are to be ready when Asroth comes. That will never happen while the Banished Lands are governed by a score of bickering children. An empire, with an army such as the ants we saw, that fights together as one to defeat any foe in its way. I will make Father see this truth. Out of the ashes of his old dream a new one shall be born, and I will give my life to see it come to pass.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CORBAN

  The sun was just a line on the horizon as Corban stepped carefully amongst the trees surrounding Brina’s cottage. The sound of running water drifted through the alder grove, a breeze rustling branches above him, all else quiet and still.

  She is only a healer, he told himself, not for the first time since he had left his companions and headed towards the cottage.

  How did I get myself into this? he thought, but then Rafe’s sneer flashed in front of his eyes. He took a deep breath, pushed down his fear and peered out from behind a tree at Brina’s cottage. Green turf capped the wattle-and-daub building, a thin line of smoke climbing faint against the darkening sky from its single chimney. A light flickered from an open window, spreading a warm orange glow into the twilight.

  A shadow passed across the brightly lit window and Corban ducked behind a tree, holding his breath. When he had counted two score and ten he dared to look out again.

  She must be in the room with the light in. So, I just need to climb through one of the dark windows, grab something and go. Without losing my soul. He shuddered.

  He scurried across an open space of grass and wildflowers, throwing
himself to the ground underneath the window. Eventually he steeled himself, gently tested the shutters and breathed out in relief when they opened. Quickly he climbed over the rim and slithered to the floor on the other side.

  On the far side of the room he saw a small wooden bed. Next to it was a low table with dark objects scattered about, indistinct in the darkness. A thin rim of light outlined a doorway on the far wall.

  He scuttled lightly across the floor, stooping, reached the low table next to the bed and grabbed the first thing that he found. Holding it up he saw it was a bone comb. Quickly he stuffed it inside his shirt.

  ‘STEALER,’ a voice rasped behind him.

  Corban spun around. Footsteps thumped, and before he could make his legs move, the door flew open, flooding the room with light. Brina stood outlined in the doorway.

  Corban felt hot and cold all at once, beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Brina asked in a low, terror-inducing voice.

  Corban opened his mouth but nothing came out. Then something moved next to Brina. Corban squinted and suddenly realized it was a huge black crow jumping up and down on a perch beside the door.

  ‘STEALER, STRANGER, STEALER, STRANGER,’ it croaked repeatedly.

  ‘Thank you, Craf,’ Brina said, stroking the bird’s ruffled feathers. Slowly the bird’s squawking subsided, but it still shifted its weight from one foot to the other, beady black eyes staring at Corban suspiciously.

  ‘Now, boy, what are you doing in my house?’

  ‘I-I am sorry,’ Corban blurted.

  ‘I did not ask you how you feel,’ the healer snapped. ‘What. Are. You. Doing. In. My. House?’ She took a step closer with each word, until she stood almost nose to nose with Corban, who had backed away until his legs collided with Brina’s bed.

  Corban tried to say something, to explain, but all that came out was ‘Dare’, in a raspy voice.

  ‘You sound like my crow,’ the healer said.

  ‘Death,’ muttered the crow, drawing a squeak from Corban.

  ‘Not yet, Craf. It is not sensible to rush into something quite so permanent.’ She fixed Corban with her eyes. ‘Well?’

  ‘I’m here on a dare,’ he managed to say this time, trying to take deep breaths as Gar had counselled him when panic threatened to overwhelm.

  ‘Explain,’ she said.

  So Corban did, haltingly at first, but soon the words came tumbling out. Brina stood there, arms folded, listening to him talk about his colt, and Rafe, and his practice sword, and eventually the dare. When he had finished, the two of them stared at each other. Brina tapped her foot on the floor.

  ‘Death,’ rasped the crow again, staring balefully at Corban, who gulped.

  ‘I think not, my bloodthirsty friend,’ she eventually said. ‘Not this time, anyway. But w hat to do, eh, that is the question.’

  ‘Wrong, wrong, wrong,’ uttered the crow, beginning to hop from one leg to the other again.

  ‘Yes, you are right, Craf, he has done wrong, and he should make recompense. You do agree, boy, don’t you?’

  Corban nodded, a little uncertainly.

  Brina laughed. ‘Don’t worry, boy, I won’t turn you into a toad, or take your soul. Nothing quite so dramatic. I was thinking more along the lines of chores.’

  ‘Chores?’ repeated Corban.

  ‘Yes, chores. You’re not slack-witted, are you?’ she frowned, leaning forward and peering intently at him.

  He shook his head.

  ‘Good. Well then, chores. The collecting of herbs, plants, roots, various items that a healer needs. And maybe some tidying up too. The days seem to be so busy and I often run out of time.’

  Corban just stared at her.

  ‘Well?’ she snapped. ‘Are you prepared to do this, as a means of making amends for the terrible upset that you have caused?’

  Corban nodded. ‘Yes,’ he eventually managed, overjoyed that he was not going to die, suffer some lingering torment or spend the rest of his days hopping around and eating flies.

  ‘Good. Then be here at highsun tomorrow. Now, I think you had better go. We’ve all had enough excitement for one evening.’

  Corban looked around for a way out.

  ‘Perhaps you should use the door this time,’ Brina said.

  He nodded again and she ushered him out. As he stepped across the threshold he stopped, fumbled inside his shirt, pulled out the bone comb and offered it to Brina. She looked at it for a moment and then shook her head.

  ‘Bring it back tomorrow, I think.’

  ‘I will,’ he said. He stepped out of the house, then paused. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Go on, be off with you,’ the healer snapped.

  He managed to walk calmly for a few steps, but then broke into a run and sprinted into the alder grove, heart beating fast.

  A figure rose and ran towards him as he drew closer, and then Cywen threw herself on him, hugging him fiercely.

  ‘I was scared for you,’ she whispered.

  ‘No need,’ he grinned at her, and together they walked back to the rest of the group.

  Dath and Edana hurried over to him first, Rafe and Crain following more slowly.

  ‘Well, the hero returns,’ brayed Rafe. He held the practice sword in one hand, the jug of usque in the other. ‘Or is he a hero? Maybe you just sat in the woods and waited a while. How would we ever know?’

  ‘You asked him to bring back a trophy,’ said Crain.

  ‘That’s right, so I did,’ said Rafe. ‘Well, where is it then?’

  Slowly, dramatically, Corban reached inside his shirt. He gripped the bone comb and pulled it out with a flourish, holding it high before him so that all could see, a look of supreme satisfaction on his face.

  Dath gasped, as did Cywen. Edana just smiled at him.

  ‘That’s not the witch’s comb, it’s your sister’s,’ Rafe said, scowling. ‘She gave it to you just now, when she ran to you. You both had this planned all along. Don’t think you can fool me with your cowardly ways.’

  ‘It is Brina’s comb. I did as I was asked,’ Corban insisted. ‘Now give me my practice sword.’

  Rafe’s scowl deepened, looking from Corban to the wooden sword in his hand. He drank from the jar and passed it to Crain.

  ‘If you want it, come and take it.’

  Not again, Corban thought, fear tugging at him, a coiled, icy snake flexing in his gut.

  ‘Just give him his sword,’ snapped Dath.

  Rafe sneered at Dath and, quick as could be, backhanded him across the mouth.

  Something changed in Corban then; he felt it. The ice melted in a blast of heat that flushed his face and bunched his fists. He lunged forwards clumsily, forgetting everything that Gar had taught him, and threw a fist at Rafe’s head.

  Rafe sidestepped, a little sluggishly, and Corban’s fist swung through empty air. At the same time Rafe raised and snapped the practice sword out, catching Corban in the back of the knee, sending him sprawling face-first in the grass. With an animal snarl, Corban launched himself at Rafe, his sheer speed and ferocity catching the older boy by surprise, hoisting him into the air and hurling him to the ground. Corban stood over Rafe a moment, then a noise seeped through the blood pounding in his ears and he looked around. Dath was laughing, pointing at Rafe’s surprised expression, and the others quickly began to chuckle. Only Crain did not laugh. In fact he looked furious. Then Corban heard a rustling, looked back at the empty spot where Rafe had been and instinctively ducked. The wooden sword whistled through the air where his head had been. He threw himself at Rafe. This time he was not so lucky. The practice sword, catching him on the right shoulder, knocked him off balance, and then Rafe’s fist connected with Corban’s face, striking him high on the cheek, just under the eye. His legs turned to porridge and he fell, pain exploding in his head. Rafe took a step towards him, sneering, raising the wooden sword high. Then, with a soft thunk a knife flew into the ground just in front of Rafe’s boot.
>
  ‘Not another step,’ Cywen said, with another knife held high, arm bent back to her ear.

  ‘You wouldn’t dare,’ sneered Rafe.

  ‘Take another step and you’ll find out,’ she said, eyes glinting in the moonlight.

  There was a frozen moment.

  The tension went out of Rafe’s shoulders and he laughed.

  ‘Sister coming to your rescue again, coward,’ he said to Corban, then turned and strode away, swaying slightly, Crain following behind him.

  ‘Here, Ban,’ said Dath, offering his hand and pulling Corban from the ground.

  ‘You dropped this,’ Edana said, holding out the healer’s comb. He took it with a rueful smile. ‘Let me see your face,’ she said, and Corban winced as her fingers probed his skin.

  ‘I’m sorry, Ban, please don’t be angry with me, I thought he was really going to hurt you,’ Cywen said.

  ‘It’s all right.’ He was angrier with himself for being beaten again, but at least this time he had fought back, and he had managed to knock Rafe down. Also, Edana’s face was extremely close to his as she examined his cheek, and he was finding it hard to concentrate on anything else.

  ‘I think you’ll live,’ Edana said with a smile.

  ‘Very good,’ said Cywen sarcastically, ‘you should think about becoming a healer.’

  After his morning training, as Corban drank thirstily from the water barrel, Gar asked him about the bruise on his cheek. ‘Rafe did it. We had a disagreement, last night.’

  Corban went on to tell him about the dare, Brina’s comb and the fight. ‘I know I lost,’ he said, ‘but at least I didn’t just stand there, too scared to move. And I felled him once.’

  ‘That’s something, lad. But lost as a youth often means a bruised face and some wounded pride. Lost after your Long Night usually means dead. And you felt anger this time, you say, more than fear. Well, letting your anger rule you will most likely kill you as quickly as fear. There are some that can fight in a kind of red haze of rage. I knew someone like that, once. As it goes, his rage always looked after him. But most likely anger will just flood your mind and make you clumsy, unable to think.’