Betrayal

by Fiona McIntosh

  When he spoke his voice was vaguely effeminate, its high pitch always a surprise for new listeners.

  ‘Good people, it’s been a while since we last visited. I see you have rebuilt the alehouse.’ He nodded towards the White Hart.

  The inn had suffered the firebrands of the hated Inquisitors three winters previous. The sweating innkeeper groaned. Goth’s small, sharp eyes picked him out instantly.

  ‘Ah, Innkeeper Pawl,’ he cooed, ‘fret not. This time I’m sure the village will give me what I want.’

  His fellow riders, dressed in their black cloaks and purple silks, sniggered.

  Tor sensed a movement to the back of them and noticed a lone horseman turn into the street. He was old. Wispy grey hair struggled from beneath the brim of his hat and flapped around a silvery speckled beard. The rider paused, taking in the scene ahead before urging his fine black stallion forward.

  Rhus, Goth’s second, had also noticed him and signalled his chief. Goth turned, lifted his eyes in irritation and cursed.

  The stranger spoke. ‘What evil do you do here, Goth? Tell me, has some poor child seen animal shapes in the clouds and frightened you in your sleep? Or perhaps that poor creature I see at your feet had some profound ability to…what? Sniff out bones from the air, maybe?’

  Somebody choked on a laugh but most of the village folk remained silent. No one who challenged Goth lived long enough to tell the tale. Tor shifted to get a better look and was glad to see Goth’s complexion now almost matched his expensive purple silks.

  ‘Like you, I carry out the King’s work, Physic Merkhud.’ Goth was struggling to remain calm, hating the royal healer for his untimely appearance.

  The old man sneered. ‘Never compare my work to your ignoble doings, Goth.’

  ‘Oh, I’ll be sure to pass on your sentiments to his majesty,’ Goth replied sweetly, regaining some composure.

  The older man shook his head. ‘Don’t trouble yourself. I shall tell him myself when I share a meal with their majesties next.’

  Merkhud knew that would sting. The Inquisitor may ride under the King’s banner but Merkhud was the King’s oldest, dearest friend. He promised himself he would take up the matter of Goth more vigorously with King Lorys.

  The Inquisitor was obviously at Twyfford Cross for a bridling, Merkhud thought sourly. Lorys’s loyalty to this barbaric law to punish all sentients was primitive. Surely the centuries of persecution of these empowered innocents must soon end. Innocents may well be the very people to save Tallinor’s precious throne in years to come, he concluded to himself.

  A stable boy appeared and took his horse’s reins but Merkhud did not move. He had eyes only for the Chief Inquisitor. Goth’s ire was at boiling point; Merkhud had ruined his fun. All pretence at civility fled. He waved Merkhud aside and addressed the villagers, his shrill voice carrying loudly.

  ‘We come for the woman known as Marya.’

  A woman cried out and more wails joined with hers. He loved to hear them scream. He lifted his voice above the din.

  ‘She is sentient and has no place in our society. In the name of King Lorys, I pronounce she be embridled. Bring her forward immediately…or this whole village will be torched.’

  Heads turned towards a group of four women. The eldest began to yell a stream of helpless abuse, beating her chest as she sank to the dust. This amused the riders; more so when her daughters began crying. Only the youngest refused to break down, a plain woman with languid dark eyes that hardened as she stared at Goth.

  Tor could sense it coming though her power was weak. He felt her about to hurl it uselessly towards the Inquisitor when a calm voice spoke via a suddenly opened mindlink.

  It’s no good, Marya. They are shielded well with archalyt. Go quietly and your sisters and mother will live. If you fight, he has the excuse he wants to kill you now along with your family. The voice was firm but tender.

  Tor was rocked. He looked wildly around. Who had spoken with this power? Before he could check himself he began following its magical scent, reaching out with his own senses, scrambling after a barely remaining trace…back to the old man. Tor locked on for just a moment and then, petrified at what he had done, snapped away. He was too late. Tor saw the shock of discovery register on the stranger’s face. He looked away, back to Marya who was being forced to her knees in front of Goth’s horse. The retreat was not fast enough; the stranger was equally gifted at chasing a scent.

  Physic Merkhud’s gaze burned into the side of the young scribe’s head…the intruder. Tor needed to escape. This was exquisitely dangerous. How could he have been so stupid after years of control? Although the exchange had occurred without note from the Inquisitors, Tor realised he was now indelibly marked by someone infinitely more subtle in the use of the Power Arts. Someone who could conceal the use of magic like he could.

  ‘Father, we must leave,’ he said and hurriedly bent to pick up his paperwork, nodding apologetically towards the Widow Ely. She only had eyes for the grisly scene unfolding in front of her.

  Jhon Gynt grabbed his son’s arm. ‘Torkyn…he expects an audience for the bridling. I like it not either but we must remain for fear of stirring his anger.’

  Tor looked over at Merkhud and this time their eyes locked. The surprise had still not left the old man’s face.

  Goth had taken the opportunity to outline to the gathered how he had tracked the girl down, homing in on her magic and marvelled at her stupidity in using it so carelessly.

  Finally he gave the command. ‘Bridle her!’

  Marya became hysterical, struggling and scratching at the men who held her. She was sending strikes of power at all her captors but, as Merkhud had warned, they and their horses were shielded by the mysterious archalyt, which reflected her power back at her.

  Tor could not bear to watch her agony. Without further thought he cast a spike of his own power at her which stunned her temporarily. He could sense the old man’s horror at his audacity but refused to meet his eyes.

  As the girl slumped to the ground, her mother cried out loudly to the heavens, begging the gods to unleash their wrath on the scum who would take her daughter.

  Fortunately, Goth was too immersed in watching the dull leather bridle, studded with the same archalyt, being lifted from its sack to hear the mother’s scorn. Several of his men busied themselves with unnecessarily pinning down Marya’s limp body whilst another lifted her head. Rhus pulled the headpiece onto her face, slipping the metal bar between her teeth. Marya regained consciousness and began whimpering, her tongue pinned down painfully by the bar. They snapped the lock at the back and hammered the two pins firmly into place. Rough hands pulled her to her feet and ripped her clothes from her body. She stood unsteadily; naked, bridled and trembling, silenced by fear.

  Many of the men from the village who knew her looked away, ashamed for the girl’s bared flesh and of themselves for not being able to protect their own.

  Torkyn could feel himself losing control when the soothing voice entered his head again. This is not your time boy. Do not reveal yourself now, it warned.

  Once more Tor sensed the stranger’s eyes boring into him from across the street. He was so taken aback by the intrusion on his thoughts that the well of power within him temporarily subsided. As he watched, the village blacksmith was escorted to the humiliating scene. He carried a brand bearing the mark of a sentient: the hated star sign.

  ‘Now brand her as you’ve been instructed, blacksmith…or die.’

  The smith knew Marya well. His only son, a serious lad, was very fond of the girl and had begun to talk of marriage. He could not move.

  ‘Do it!’ shrieked Goth, his high voice almost snapping with the tension.

  He leapt down from his horse in a fury when the command was ignored for the second time, and pulled the smoking brand from the blacksmith’s limp grip.

  ‘Kill him,’ he said.

  Rhus did not hesitate. He hacked off the smith’s head with such force it rolled do
wn the street, coming to rest next to the mangled Boj. People began to scream. Goth barely paid any notice to the twitching, headless body from which the lifeblood gushed. Making sure two of his men were holding Marya firmly by the arms, Goth savagely pressed the smoking brand against each of her small breasts. As the smell of fresh blood mingled with that of smoking flesh, he finished his handiwork, pressing the brand between her legs.

  Goth addressed his pale, shocked audience. ‘Another evil one, safely delivered. Now she’ll tempt men no more to spawn evil sentient bastards.’

  Satisfied, he threw the brand aside and suggested to innkeeper Pawl that he and his men had acquired quite a thirst from this afternoon’s dusty ride. The trembling man gestured towards the door of his inn.

  Marya’s wreck of a body was thrown into a waiting wagon by two of the riders. One by one the villagers ignored the risk and covered her with their own clothes, touching her tenderly and whispering promises to take care of her family. She heard none of them.

  One of the village men picked up the smith’s head and reverently placed it on the chest of the pitiful, blood-drenched corpse, which was carried away quietly by his fellow folk.

  No one bothered with Boj.

  Tor knew he must get as far away from this harrowing scene as quickly as he could. Striding towards his father’s small wagon, he threw his belongings into the back and grabbed the reins. He dared not look at the old man. As soon as his father had climbed into the seat next to him, he guided Lady out of the village towards the safety of Flat Meadows several miles to the east.

  Tor and Jhon Gynt shared not a word on the journey home.

  2

  The Floral Dance

  The Midsummer Floral Dance was Tor’s favourite local event. In spite of his distracted, melancholy mood since the bridling, his spirits lifted greatly as he guided the wagon to Minstead Green that morning.

  One of his earliest memories was holding his mother’s hand, watching while the village girls weaved their intricate patterns of steps. He still loved the colour and pageantry of the festival.

  This was the first year he would attend Minstead on his own and the sense of freedom was seductive. It was made particularly intoxicating by the fact that Alyssandra Qyn would dance for the first time this year. She had reached womanhood and was permitted to take a husband if she chose.

  He longingly watched her gossiping with the other girls on the Green. She smoothed her honey-coloured hair; its golden glints sparkled in the sun. There had never been anything vain about Alyssa, though her radiance was plain to all. With her mother long dead and Lam Qyn in his cups most of the time, she rarely had the benefit of the invaluable parental guidance Tor enjoyed. Alyssa had virtually raised herself, caring for her drunken father as best she could, and now earned the family’s pitiful income from her salves and simple herbals.

  Tor had been captivated by her from the moment they first spoke. Dangerously, some years back, she had opened a link, cast out randomly and locked onto him. When it happened, the shock caused Tor to spill a pot of ink across a new tablet of paper which resulted in a fiery scolding from his normally good-natured father. Tor had no defence. How could he blame a cheeky nine year old who lived on the other side of the river? Through him she listened to the rebuke and when it was over whispered, Sorry, whoever you are.

  From that time they had linked daily, wondering with each conversation if the Inquisitors would sniff them out. As children, it had seemed vaguely dangerous fun. Now, older and wiser to the horror of discovery, they quietly marvelled at their invisibility. Both had agreed to restrict the link to each other, as it was obviously something about one or both that kept them safe.

  Tor sighed. There was not a prettier girl in the surrounding villages, though it was Alyssa’s strength and companionship he most adored. He revelled in the whispers of the ladies nearby agreeing that she was a great beauty but bristled at the suggestion that a wealthy merchant would sweep her off her feet one day soon.

  This was precisely why he intended to speak to her in earnest today. They so rarely saw one another and though they linked often he worried that she may not welcome his offer of marriage. Nevertheless, he had promised himself he would pledge his love and ask for her hand just as soon as he caught that damn posy of flowers.

  Tor imagined the culmination of the Floral Dance when the girls would close their eyes, then loft their flowers high over their shoulders. The eligible men would try to catch the posy belonging to the lady of their choice. The tradition of the dance held that any man who proposed marriage, without the flowers having left his clutch, would have his wish accepted. The girls believed that if they became betrothed on the day of the Floral Dance the marriage would be happy, their first child a son and their husband would remain faithful.

  This summer some forty women had gathered on Minstead Green with their bright meadow flowers held together by woven straw. Plain or beautiful, the spinsters of Minstead all looked lovely dressed in their finest cottons. Alyssa had chosen a soft green linen. Fashioned simply, it showed off her slim neck and tiny waist to perfection. It also cunningly matched her eyes. Tor knew she must have gone without many meals to afford the fabric.

  Tor was not the only fellow smitten by her charms and he realised this. A quick glance was all it took to confirm that too many of the young bachelors had eyes only for Alyssandra Qyn.

  She stopped fussing with her dress and hair, looked over and smiled. His heart raced.

  I’ll kill you Tor, if Rufys Akre catches my flowers! she said across the link.

  Mmm, imagine those gravestones for teeth waiting to nibble you each night.

  He laughed as he cast this thought to her and Rufus Akre, standing next to him, looked at him strangely, wondering what was so funny.

  Just catch my posy because if desperate Rufus doesn’t, Eli Knox has already told me he will.

  Tor looked around for Eli and saw the handsome storekeeper talking with friends, his head nodding towards Alyssa as he spoke.

  Tor scowled. Don’t worry about me. You just worry about throwing it straight!

  There was never any doubt in his or Alyssa’s thoughts who would catch her posy. It would not have mattered whether there were twelve dozen men of a mind to win her attention that day; the posy belonged to Tor. He had magic on his side and he wielded it with exquisite subtlety that afternoon, guiding her clutch of daisies, bells and cornflowers through the air to his lifted hand at the completion of the Floral Dance. He clung to her posy tightly even though seven men blundered into him, knocking him backwards to the ground; a few even daring to wrestle for it, Eli Knox being one of them.

  Alyssa bounded over. ‘Claim your prize, my Lord,’ she said, effecting a terrible curtsy.

  This was the final insult for Eli Knox. ‘Your father’s pickled mind is rubbing off on you, Alyssa, if you believe a poor scribe like Gynt can give you a decent life.’

  Tor could not help himself. He spiked Knox who suddenly found himself unable to complete a sentence without a profound stutter.

  Tor mimicked him. ‘Oh, Kn-Kn-Knox, Anabel Joyse said you could have her f-f-f-flowers.’

  Anabel Joyse was an excessively large, ruddy-cheeked spinster of middle years with a thatch of flaming orange hair and just four teeth. She had given up the Floral Dance years previous but her terrifying legend lived on with the young men.

  ‘F-f-f-you, Gynt,’ Knox stuttered.

  ‘Oh and f-f-farewell to you too, Knox. Come on, Alyssa.’

  He grabbed her hand and they ran away from the Green, eventually finding themselves near the Minstead stables. It was the first time in many days that Tor had been able to laugh: the Twyfford Cross bridling had seriously unsettled him. Though he had daydreamed of it many times, cursing his shyness, he had every intention today of asking Alyssa if she would be his wife. He had the Floral Dance on his side. He could not fail now.

  She leaned back against the stable. ‘You nearly lost my posy, you oaf!’

  ‘But
would I have lost you?’ he asked, wanting to kiss her.

  Alyssa decided he was never going to pluck up the courage so she did it for him. Pulling him to her, she gave him no choice but to close his lips against hers. The kiss was so much more delicious than in his dreams. The reality was slow, deep and so passionate he lost all ability to hear. Silence reigned in his world. Only Alyssa’s sweet, soft mouth mattered.

  Alyssa finally pushed him back from her. They were both breathing deeply.

  She looked serious. Ask me, she said via the link.

  Tor was about to speak when he heard a horse shift in its stall. Glancing over her shoulder, his ardour died the second he caught sight of the fine black stallion bearing the royal Tallinese oriflamme. He stepped back from Alyssa, staring with disbelief into the murkiness of the stable, where lazy flies buzzed around the horses.

  Tor? Alyssa shook his arm. He did not respond but the alarm on his face was plain. She felt him snap their link shut.

  ‘Whatever’s wrong?’ she asked aloud, trying to see what he was looking at so intently in the shadows of the stable.

  Tor’s mind was spinning with fright. The grisly scene from Twyfford Cross came racing back. He unwrapped her arm from his and turned to face her slowly.

  ‘We have to go.’ He said it quietly but deliberately.

  ‘Go? Go where?’

  ‘Away from here,’ was all he said, taking her hand and pulling her back towards the Green.

  She switched back to the link, her irritation clear. Tor what’s going on? I thought we were—

  He cut her off. ‘No link,’ he said aloud, fiercely.

  He pulled her across the street and past the Green towards his father’s wagon where Lady was chewing contentedly on a bag of oats.

  ‘Stop it, Tor! You’re frightening me.’ Alyssa refused to budge.

  ‘We must get away from here, then I will explain everything.’

  Tor kept walking but Alyssa had not moved. ‘Tell me now,’ she said, confused, her voice filled with disappointment.