Betrayal

by Fiona McIntosh

  ‘Tor.’ His voice was raspy. ‘Where have you found these, boy?’

  Tor sounded as though he was speaking from faraway. ‘I dreamed about them last night, I think.’

  He moved his fingers and the orbs weaved gently around them, their fiery colours glinting and sparkling as they caught some of the candlelight. Then he snapped his hand closed. ‘Do you know what they are?’ His voice was normal again. He was focused.

  Merkhud knew now he had been right about Tor. He lied once more. ‘No, no, I don’t, but they are certainly beautiful. Have you no idea?’ he asked hopefully.

  ‘I don’t. I just know that this dream, your arrival and the way I feel right now all point me to going with you.’

  Tor had already decided he would be taking Alyssa with him too, but he chose to keep this to himself for now.

  The old man sighed deeply. The Host had told the truth. Someone was here to save the land. His search, the first part of his quest which had spanned fruitless centuries, was over.

  Now for the difficult part, Tor told himself. He found his parents sitting quietly in their small room. He noticed—perhaps for the first time—how very sparse it was. There was nothing fancy about this room. It was where hardworking, honest people found their rest and their humble pleasure. Only the bed was soft—his mother loved a soft mattress—other than that the furniture was hard and ever practical.

  The only item of whimsy was a small series of drawings Tor had done as an infant, which his mother had bound into a leather file. They leafed through the primitive pictures from time to time, laughing together. It amused his parents that Tor had always drawn the family as four. As a young child he had insisted he had an older brother, drawing him as a large and menacing figure, sometimes even talking to the imaginary person. There was no brother. The Gynts put it down to Tor’s longing to have one, but that was impossible. The local physic had made that painfully clear to them.

  Tor did not know what to say, so he shrugged apologetically.

  ‘It’s all right, Torkyn, this is the right decision.’ Jhon Gynt was comforting himself as much as his son.

  Ailsa started weeping again and Tor crossed the room in two strides. He could not bear this from the woman who was always in control of the situation. He rocked her gently. Soon he felt his father’s strong arms wrap themselves around them both and hold them tight, all but keening with his own despair.

  Tor lost sense of time. He could not tell how long they remained like that or when the tears finally subsided. Afterwards they talked of nothing of consequence for a few minutes; awkward conversation he would not be able to recall later. Finally, as silence once again hung heavy between them, his father took Tor’s hand in his own as his mother did the same on his other side.

  ‘Mother and I must share something special with you.’ Gynt cleared his throat. ‘This is difficult, Tor. It’s a secret we have kept for fifteen years. I had hoped we would never have to share it with anyone, least of all you, but now that you are leaving, it’s our duty to tell you.’

  Tor felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up in anticipation of what was coming. For some reason, he just knew it was going to be bad.

  ‘Tell me nothing. I don’t want to hear this…please. I—whatever it is, it doesn’t matter to me.’ He searched his father’s face but found only resignation and a weighty sadness.

  ‘You must know this, Torkyn.’ Jhon pulled his son close. ‘Although you bear our name, child, I did not sire you and your mother did not birth you.’

  Tor felt his world spin momentarily into a dizzying darkness, and out of its inky depths three brilliantly coloured orbs hastened towards him. The sensation was menacing and he must have yelled out for the sound helped him return to his parents. His father was shaking him by the shoulders.

  Tor shook his head in disbelief. He could see his father talking, yet he could hear nothing save the faint thump of his blood pounding in his ears. He shook his head again to clear it.

  ‘Tor, are you listening to us?’ His mother’s red, weepy eyes implored him as much as her words.

  ‘Look at me, son, and hear my words,’ Gynt said as he held Tor’s face and stared directly into his eyes. ‘A woman came to our town fifteen winters ago. With her she had a magnificent baby boy, all swaddled up and crying he was.’ His father smiled ruefully in memory. He let go of Tor’s face and dropped his hands to his lap.

  ‘And this beautiful boy had no parents. Both had been killed; a fire we were told, which had claimed everything they had bar the child who had been spared. There was no other family. The woman had happened along whilst the village folk were fighting the fire. Someone had put the babe in her arms and she nursed it through the night. The next day no one stepped forward to claim the child. It was a poor village, you see, and one more mouth to feed, another body to clothe, was just too much.

  ‘The woman found herself with a few-months-old babe and she herself simply passing through on her way to Tal.’

  Tor wanted to stop the words but his father continued.

  ‘She took the boy, travelling many miles with him before arriving in Flat Meadows where she paid for a room overnight at the inn. Well, you know Mother Gynt—she took pity on the woman and her heart almost burst to see the child, homeless, without the love of his mother and endlessly whimpering. She had an instant bond with him which soothed his wails. As is your mother’s way, she fell hopelessly in love with the boy and begged the woman to let her keep him.’

  Ailsa took over. ‘You were irresistible, Torkyn. I loved you from the moment I set eyes on you, and with each passing year I loved you more, child. Your father and I could not get with child, you see. We had tried for so many years.’

  She threw a knowing glance at her husband, who returned it as he remembered the nights of love in this same bedroom.

  Tor looked at his mother. ‘And she gave me to you?’

  ‘Yes. You were helpless, homeless and unwanted. We were not wealthy but we were comfortable. We had no children but so dearly wanted a child of our own. We wanted you. It wasn’t a hard decision, Tor, you were so easy to love.’

  ‘Nobody asked any questions?’ Tor asked incredulously.

  ‘Why, yes, of course. Lots of questions were asked by the Flat Meadows folk,’ his father replied. ‘We told the truth and before long the questions stopped and you were accepted as Torkyn Gynt, our son.’

  ‘And the woman?’

  ‘She moved on to Tal, I imagine. She seemed very happy to find a good home for you and she left immediately. We’ve never heard from her again.’ Ailsa looked at him uncomfortably. ‘Why, would you prefer we had let you go on with her and live what sort of life, I wonder?’

  ‘No, but this is such a shock. I…well…have you ever thought of finding out more about my real parents? Who they were? How the fire happened?’

  It was his father’s turn to look uncomfortable. ‘No, Tor, we haven’t. You were a blessing—a gift from the gods.’

  Tor shuddered involuntarily at his father’s words.

  ‘They were dead. We had no reason or business to go in search of ghosts. You were ours. We just wanted to give you a home of love and laughter,’ Ailsa said gently.

  ‘And that you did.’ He squeezed her hand tightly. ‘Is there any more to this tale?’

  Jhon Gynt stretched. ‘No, son. That’s the only secret we have ever kept from you. But your mother and I knew this day of reckoning would probably come. From the early days we knew you were special, but we ignored it. You were sensitive enough to realise you are blessed with a dangerous gift. I have to say, after talking at length with Physic Merkhud, I trust him. He will protect you as you tread your own path now.’

  ‘When do you leave us, child?’ Ailsa wondered aloud, not really wanting an answer.

  ‘Merkhud has given me a purse. He wants me to buy a horse and some stout boots and come when I’m ready. He leaves tomorrow but I thought I’d wait a few days and help you with the letters over at Beckynsayle…er
, perhaps leaving Sixthday…’ Tor’s voice trailed off.

  Ailsa poked her husband in the ribs. ‘What about the stones?’

  ‘Oh ay, the stones. Almost forgot.’ Jhon Gynt tut-tutted to himself and reached over to a small cupboard. He rummaged through the drawers and pulled out an old sock from which he took a small pouch of very soft animal skin, the contents of which clinked together. Tor looked puzzled.

  ‘Yes, well, I’m as curious as you to know what these are all about. The beautiful woman with the golden hair told us these were tied around your neck when they rescued you.’

  Gynt tipped the contents gently into his palm: three small, dull spheres clunked into his hand.

  ‘She was very clear, though, with her instructions. You were to have these when you were…of an age, she said.’

  Ailsa stared at the orbs. ‘We asked what she meant by of an age, but she only said we’d know the right time to give them to you.’ She looked up. ‘I imagine this must be the right time, my child.’ Her voice was soft.

  ‘Here, Tor, keep them safe,’ Jhon said. ‘I’m stumped as to why she insisted you have them. All I can think is that they belonged to your birth family and for that reason alone I’ve always considered them precious. At least it’s something you have from them.’

  Jhon dropped them into Tor’s hand where the orbs blazed into spectacular colours.

  ‘Light strike me!’ Ailsa reached out her hand to Tor.

  ‘It’s all right. They feel safe…um…comforting even.’

  He shrugged to give an appearance of casual acceptance which he certainly was not feeling. Here they were: the very stones he had dreamed of the night before and later conjured in a vision for Merkhud. He was definitely making the right decision in going with the old man.

  His father looked uncomfortable at the sight of the magical stones blazing their colours, and held out the small skin pouch. ‘Put them away, Tor, and keep them hidden. It wouldn’t be a good idea for you to show those to anyone, not even Merkhud.’

  Tor tipped the stones back into the pouch and nodded. ‘No, you’re right, though how do you think I could find out what they are for?’

  It was his father’s turn to shrug. ‘My advice is to leave them. If they have a purpose, I’m sure it will make itself known to you. Promise me you’ll keep it as our secret; show no one. The golden-haired woman…’ Jhon Gynt stopped awkwardly then cleared his throat. ‘She said they were magical and were never to be shown to anyone but you. We were to impress upon you that they were to be kept secret.’

  He covered Tor’s hand which held the pouch of stones with his own. ‘I don’t understand any of it, son. Not your strange skills nor these, but I fear it is perhaps leading to something none of us can know or understand.’

  He smiled at Ailsa. ‘Well, come on, mother, no more sadness. Our boy’s off to the Palace. We should be proud not miserable. Let’s all away to bed, and tomorrow no work—we’ll go to Rymond for the day and sort out Torkyn’s horse, get him those boots and perhaps a new shirt for his journey. Who knows, we may find that yellow silk you’ve been lusting for, woman.’

  Ailsa did at least smile. Tor’s spirits lifted as well. He knew they were going to be fine, and he could not help but feel excited for his future. However, there was one more hurdle to leap and that was to convince Alyssa Qyn to come with him.

  As he could not reach her on the link, he would go to her village the day after tomorrow and tell her everything.

  4

  Alyssa Qyn Disappears

  Alyssa walked into the cottage and called to her father to see if he was home. Not that he would have noticed or cared anyway. These days he spent increasingly more time in a drunken stupor talking to his ghosts. She could forgive him the women. He had loved her mother, of that she had no doubt. Rather than fall prey to the number of well-meaning ladies who had called upon him in the early days, he had found his solace with the women who required no love from him, only his money.

  The tears came easily now. What could possibly have upset Tor so badly that he had yelled at her and forgotten all about catching the posy? She had been sure he was going to find the courage and ask her the question she longed to hear.

  Everything had been perfect until the old wretch with the wild grey hair had ruined it. Who was he? Worst of all, now she could not open a link to Tor, though she had tried many times. Her efforts to cast hit a mysterious blankness. Why was he punishing her?

  Alyssa washed her face in an effort to pull herself together, knowing her gruff father could stagger in at any moment.

  When Lam Qyn did return he was, as usual, very drunk. His daughter, ever wary of his moods, fell into a well-practised routine of cheery talk as she pulled off his boots and helped him to the table. A steaming bowl of soup was quietly placed in front of him. Then, as he sat staring into his dish, she kept up her quiet flow of meaningless conversation, hoping it would lull him into eating and finally sleep.

  She might have been successful if she had not begun humming to herself when she was clearing his plate away. His temper stoked lightning fast and his movements were surprisingly swift for a drunk man. Alyssa did not even see it coming. His large hand hit the side of her face with such force that the dish she held shattered itself on the opposite wall. Her knees banged painfully to the flagstones. She could not feel her cheek; it was instantly numb.

  ‘That would be your mother’s tune and I won’t hear it sung again in this house!’ he raged at her.

  Through her tears, she watched her father stagger back out of the cottage and disappear into the night. He would not be returning soon.

  She hated her life. The only shiny part of it was Torkyn Gynt. Being able to talk to him while they grew up in different villages on either side of the river had been her only solace in a lonely, loveless existence.

  If only her mother had survived birthing the daughter she had barely lived long enough to hold close. Was that it? Did her father blame her for the loss of the woman he adored? Oh, how she needed her friend Tor now. She wept. Hours passed.

  Alyssa finally roused herself and made her way to the tiny room where she slept. She poured some water into the bowl from the jug on the rickety table. Although it was icy cold, she forced herself to put her face directly into it in an attempt to clear her mind.

  Using the flannel she cleaned herself thoroughly, rubbing pointedly around her neck where Tor had stolen a brief kiss and scrubbing her lips of his passion. Towelling herself dry, her grief hardened. She was very angry now. Something more than fear for the old man—more like respect—had burned in Tor’s eyes. Those large, mesmerising blue eyes. Alyssa shook her mind clear of his face.

  She pulled on some fresh clothes and went down the narrow stone stairs, hating her house and terrified her father might return. She poured a draught of water to steady herself, but it was no surprise that the pitcher slipped from her trembling grip and smashed on the flagstones when a figure appeared in the doorway. Alyssa tasted blood. She must have bitten her lip.

  ‘Dear me,’ a voice said kindly as its owner made a tentative entrance, pulling off a bonnet and shawl.

  ‘I’m sorry…I thought you were…’ Alyssa didn’t finish. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Oh, I was just passing, wondered if the family here might let an old lady rest in their barn for a short while.’

  Alyssa hardly listened. She sank to the floor, her skirts soaking up the spilt water, the tears of relief and frustration rolling freely.

  ‘Oh, my girl. Here, you must not cry. ’Tis only water and that old earthenware jug can be replaced easily enough.’

  The woman, old but surprisingly strong, firmly helped Alyssa up and, after seating her on a chair, set to cleaning up the mess. Alyssa watched distractedly. The old girl was no threat; if anything, the company was soothing.

  ‘You’re welcome to rest awhile here. There’s no one home but me.’

  The old girl nodded her thanks and began to hum quietly to herself. It was a lullaby a
nd her voice was like a balm for Alyssa’s pain. She did not remember the herbal tea being made but soon enough firm fingers wrapped her own around a mug, its contents sweetened with honey. Now where had that come from? The thought passed as quickly out of Alyssa’s mind as it had arrived. She sipped contentedly in her silence, concentrating on nothing other than the pretty tune.

  At some stage candles were lit, shutters closed on the moonlight and she felt herself being guided back up the stairs again. She was gently undressed, her hair tied back loosely with a ribbon, and then she was laid oh so softly in her own bed. The covers were drawn up and she was tucked in in the same way her father used to do when she was little and he loved her. She thought she smiled at that distant memory but she couldn’t be sure.

  The lullaby continued softly on the fringes of her mind. Her lids were heavy and sleep beckoned seductively. She slept dreamlessly and all the while the old girl sat quietly beside her bed, wrapped in a faded and well-used shawl, murmuring the same gentle lullaby tirelessly.

  Alyssa woke refreshed. The anxiety had not deserted her but a tantalising smell of hot cakes got her up and out of her bed swiftly. How had she got into this nightshirt, she wondered, as she pulled it over her head and felt the gooseflesh surface on her skin at the chill.

  She pulled back the shutters. A very light drizzle hung almost mist-like, with the sun nothing more than a bright smudge behind a blanket of grey cloud. She shivered and pulled on some warm clothes. They were worn, like all her few garments, but her new good humour prompted her to brush her hair vigorously and tie it up with the one silk ribbon she possessed.

  She remembered the strange but generous old woman who had appeared last evening, and presumed she must have stayed the night for her father had never learned how to cook. She wondered briefly where he could be and whether she should go looking for him.

  Alyssa would normally find him on the street or in a corner somewhere, recovering badly from the previous night’s carousing. She would clean him up, put him to bed to sleep it off, feed him later when he awoke, listen to his angry sorrows over his meal and then hopefully have him sober and clear-minded enough to tackle his various chores. She sighed. It was a pitiful life they both led.