Betrayal

by Fiona McIntosh

  Loud horns heralded the arrival of the Queen. Ceremonial music piped up and everyone began to bow in mock homage to their sovereign. From afar she was stunning. Raven hair was polished to a gleam and hung to just below her narrow shoulders. She was dressed in an almost transparent gown of palest green gauze which clung seductively to her narrow hips and small, high breasts. A dazzling golden cloak sparkled and fluttered around her. The woman was closer now, smiling at her subjects. Tor straightened himself up and, without realising it, began to selfconsciously smooth down his white shirt. The girl’s cheeks were pink with excitement. Her large eyes were shining with the enjoyment of all this attention. All in the crowd could see her naked body clearly defined beneath the wispy thin shift.

  Tor recognised her as being the girl he had saved from the beating today. That cheeky young sprite of a thing who had not even offered thanks. This was the Eryn they spoke of, the whore Golag had joked about.

  She winked! Was that at me or someone else, he wondered indignantly.

  The soft breeze teased her nipples and he could see them swelling through the veil of her gown. She really was ravishing.

  The master of ceremonies calmed the frenzied cheering and announced the procedure—which everyone but Tor already seemed to know by heart. Each suitor must first negotiate the impossible: a fifteen-stride walkway of slippery, flopping, dangerous lokki fish in their death throes. Delicious cooked but able to inflict nasty injuries to stray fingers, toes—in fact, any human flesh they could latch onto with their razor-sharp teeth. And if the teeth did not catch the foolhardy suitor, then the sawtoothed fins would, lacerating shins and calves. Each bare-legged suitor had to ‘tread the fish’ to reach his Queen and be crowned King of the Sea. Triumphant suitors in previous years had made the dash but not without enduring an ordeal of pain and lasting wounds. No one had ever made it across without injury.

  One after another the suitors fell into the slimy, frenzied mass. Two hardly advanced beyond their point of entry, leaping back and yelling as thrashing fins whipped across their legs leaving savage slashes. Others tried to pursue their quest, screaming their pain as they tripped, stumbled, and ultimately succumbed. Within minutes the walkway was stained bright red as blood mingled freely with sea water and dying fish. The crowd loved every minute of it.

  Finally it was Tor’s turn. He was the last to tread the lokki.

  Perhaps it was the arraq working its own particular magic, and no doubt fatigue and one too many mugs of ale were clouding his judgement. Not long ago he had been moping over Alyssa. Right now he was eyeing a pretend Queen he seriously wanted to claim as his own. He convinced himself to get into the spirit of the festival rather than fight it.

  He could hear the soldiers heckling him. Tor really did not want to end up slashed and bleeding but he glanced once again at Eryn, who seductively stretched the front of her gown so little of her firm body was left to his imagination. As he stepped onto the landing of the walkway, Tor fleetingly recalled Merkhud’s warning, but lust had him in its grip now and the Colours were roaring up inside of him.

  He pushed out with his power, casting a spell over the dangerous mass of sea monsters. Planting his feet firmly on two of the giant lokki, he let go with the power. Momentarily calmed, the two thrashing, slippery fish seemed to glide over their dying brethren.

  It was over in moments, so quickly the crowd barely had the chance to consider how such a thing could be achieved. Tor alighted at the other end of the walkway and pandemonium erupted in the crowd. A new King was to be crowned. The worthiest of all suitors in the history of this savage contest would rightly claim throne and Queen.

  In the noise and warmth of this still, late summer night, desire pounded in Tor as he bowed before his Queen. Amidst the revelry Eryn turned to him and took his hand.

  ‘I never did thank you for saving me today. I hate Goron! Hope his balls are the size of melons after I kicked him!’

  And then she was sweetly waving to her subjects while Tor’s feet were quickly washed by two handmaidens. Their two thrones were picked up and walked through the square.

  Tor momentarily found sense within his clouded mind and suddenly thought that he had to get back to Cloot.

  ‘Where do we go now?’ Tor called to Eryn over the heads of the people.

  ‘You’ll see soon enough,’ she said suggestively.

  She is adorable, Tor thought helplessly, falling back against his throne. As they left the square he caught sight of a very bemused Prime Cyrus lifting his ale once again and giving a single Tallinese salute.

  The happy mob carrying the thrones snaked their way up towards the Summerhouse where the ‘royals’ would be left for the night to consummate their ‘marriage’. It was believed that the joining of this King of the Sea and Queen of the Vines would ensure prosperity for the following year’s harvest of lokki and grapes.

  Feeling extraordinarily tired, Tor sensed the link slice open weakly. It would not hold. He grabbed at it, locking onto the fragile call from Cloot. Tor did not need to hear him; he could tell immediately that the man desperately needed more life-giving strength. His own energy reserve was so depleted he used it all in a last desperate bolt of healing power which he cast to Cloot. He let go, feeling the world spin as he slumped back, his head lolling to one side.

  Eryn noticed and put her hand on his arm and nodded towards the front of the line. They had arrived.

  ‘Just do what I do and it will all be over quickly,’ she murmured.

  Tor watched as women began to throw vine leaves on the path. At its end he could see a small structure dwarfed by a huge single tree at the top of another very gentle incline.

  ‘The Summerhouse,’ she said, taking his hand. ‘Let’s go.’

  They walked slowly up the path, alone this time, whilst the crowd sang a final song to the King and Queen who would now be expected to consummate their mock-marriage. It was a lusty song of fertility.

  The threshold of the Summerhouse was gently illuminated by headily perfumed candles and strewn with fragrant herbs. A large bed was draped with soft muslin. It was the only furniture, other than a small table set with supper and wine.

  ‘Kiss me,’ Eryn said and then saw his confusion. ‘You have to kiss me and then they’ll go.’

  Tor’s thoughts fled to Alyssa and back. He made a silent plea to the gods not to allow Alyssa to eavesdrop on this particular night of his life. As Eryn’s mouth closed on his he heard the applause of appreciation. The kiss continued long, soft and slow. Tor somehow found the strength to scoop Eryn into his arms and enter the Summerhouse. He laid her on the bed and their lips finally parted.

  Frantic desire coursed through him, but even as he lowered himself he felt the final heroic reserves of his energy flee. His last conscious act of that day was to murmur an apology to the young woman who lay beneath him, hideously offended.

  Parrots were making a commotion outside the Summerhouse. Startled awake by their happy racket, Tor looked vacantly around the room until he remembered the previous night. He could almost see the shape of Eryn pressed on the sheets and could smell her lingering perfume.

  Recalling his sad performance, Tor cursed loud and colourfully. Then he remembered Cloot.

  Still fully dressed from the previous night he hurriedly swung long legs to the ground and moved swiftly from the bed. He found his boots placed neatly by the entrance and pulled them on without noticing the tiny note stuck inside.

  As he sped off down the hill towards the city, Tor threw his mind to Cloot, anxious of what he might find.

  You’re awake!

  I am now, thank you.

  I’ve disturbed you? My apologies.

  Not really, there’s a physic here. I gather his name is Freyberg.

  Tor stopped. Is he wondering over the miracle of your recovery? he asked sheepishly.

  No, not at all. We were actually discussing where the fish might be running today.

  Tor heard Cloot chuckle deeply in his head and bri
stled with embarrassment. How was he going to explain this away to Freyberg?

  I’ll be there shortly.

  And I’ll be waiting, Cloot said.

  In the smallest room at The Empty Goblet, Doctor Freyberg was furious. He banged his monocle into his left eye.

  ‘And what are you smiling about, Mr Cloot?’ Freyberg demanded, knowing it was a pointless exercise. He probed, with no small wonder, at the healed limbs and once pulpy bruises which had paled almost to nothing.

  The patient shook his ugly head and wiped the grin swiftly.

  ‘Ah, so you can hear?’

  Cloot nodded.

  ‘Well, you have no need of my services any longer. It seems angels paid a visit here last night and did my work for me.’

  They could hear someone taking the steps two at a time and moments later Tor clattered into the room, breathing deeply from his efforts. Freyberg snapped his case shut and swung around theatrically.

  ‘Welcome, Gynt. I have the most extraordinary tale to relate.’

  He pushed his hands into his pockets so the boy wouldn’t see them shaking. Freyberg was not sure whether he felt unsteady from the miracle work he had witnessed or from the terror it evoked.

  He had been a physic for thirty-three years and, like his father before him, had served Hatten for all of his professional years. Freyberg knew he was good. No, he knew that he was an exceptional doctor and yet, with all his experience and skills, he also knew that nothing was going to save Cloot’s life last night. Now, very much alive and healed, the mute sat before him, and damn him if a dopey grin was not spreading across his ugly face again.

  Tor acknowledged the physic with a stiff bow. He looked over at Cloot, saw him sitting up on the bed and could not help but return the huge grin.

  ‘Doctor Freyberg, I’ll explain everything, I just need to talk to Cloot,’ he muttered as he closed the door. He was at Cloot’s side in two strides and gripped the man’s huge hand tightly.

  ‘Talk! How do you talk to a mute?’ Freyberg plonked himself into the only chair in the room. He stared angrily out the small window at the marketplace below, listening to the boy’s excited one-sided conversation.

  ‘I thought you were dead at one point, Cloot. I was so scared.’ Tor felt his eyes filling with hot tears. He’d done it. He had saved the man’s life.

  Hush, boy. Don’t dig a deeper hole for yourself, Cloot murmured in Tor’s head and nodded slightly towards the doctor. He raised his other hand and tapped Tor’s head lightly. There is much for me to share with you, but right now I must rest, and you must think of something very impressive to tell the doctor. He sagged back onto the bed.

  Tor let go of the man’s hand first and then his mind. He faced Freyberg, who was snatching nervously at his beard. This was a good man sitting in front of him. He did not want to lie but admitting he was sentient was as good as signing his own death warrant. Merkhud had gone to some pains to point this out before he left.

  Do not use your powers on this journey at all. Don’t be tempted to show off. Don’t interfere with anyone or anything. Just mind your own business and get yourself quickly to Tal.

  That’s all Merkhud had asked and had Tor done that? No. Goron, Corlin and his thugs, Eryn, Cyrus, Cloot, Doctor Freyberg: six or more lives he had already touched with his magic having barely spent sunrise to sunrise in this city.

  Freyberg’s voice cut into his thoughts. ‘There’s absolutely no use trying to dream up a plausible excuse. Just tell me how in the name of Light this man is alive today.’

  Tor stood. Cloot’s tired eyes followed him.

  ‘It was me…I did this.’ Tor’s voice was flat. He was genuinely scared now, for his very life depended on how the doctor felt about the use of the power.

  ‘You’re sentient.’

  It was not a question but Tor answered anyway.

  ‘Yes. I couldn’t just let him die.’

  ‘What am I going to do with you now, boy? You realise I’m under royal oath to turn you over to the Inquisitors?’

  Freyberg turned angrily towards him. Tor remained silent.

  ‘Barbarians that they are!’ the doctor spat. ‘And is Physic Merkhud aware of your power, young man?’

  Tor hesitated as he stepped onto perilous ground. ‘He is.’ He held his breath.

  Cloot pretended to doze. Freyberg twisted his beard in a frenzy of troubled thoughts. The airless room was silent for a long time.

  ‘Right! If it’s good enough for the famous Merkhud, then who am I to interfere? I really have never appreciated what all the fuss is about the power and if you can do this for a broken man, just think of the good empowered people could do for the Kingdom!’

  Dr Freyberg stood and stared hard at Tor. He felt almost sorry for the tall, handsome youth.

  ‘You mean you won’t be telling anyone about this?’

  ‘I will not.’

  Tor took a step towards the doctor and awkwardly hugged the man his thanks.

  Freyberg was solemn. ‘This is a wonderful but dangerous gift you have, son. You’ll have to be far more careful how you use it in future. The next person may not be as impressed as I.’

  Tor nodded.

  ‘I must go, my boy. I have a long day of appointments but I’m worried about how you’ll explain away Mr Cloot’s miraculous recovery.’

  ‘I really hadn’t thought past trying to save his life but I’ll think of something,’ Tor said, raking his hair with his fingers.

  ‘Well, think quick, boy. The innkeeper here is a notorious gossip. It will be around this city like wildfire. My best advice is for you to get out of here immediately. Use the cover of night and get as far away from this town as you can.’

  Freyberg left soon after and, as Cloot was asleep again, Tor headed downstairs and consumed an enormous breakfast. Whilst the woman laid out his food, she answered his query for directions to the famous Hatten public baths.

  Feeling so much better for the food, and chewing on an apple, Tor meandered through the narrow lanes, enjoying the brightly painted colours of the tall walls and the bright washing hung on short poles from shuttered windows. He even kicked an inflated pig’s bladder around with some of the children and, just for a while, forgot he was anything more than a wide-eyed visitor to a big town.

  Resuming his walk he continued until he came into a small square which he recognised from the ornate fountain the serving lass had described. He joined a short queue of men dropping coins into the hand of an old and bored-looking attendant, who duly handed them a piece of folded linen.

  ‘How much?’ Tor asked as he drew level with the attendant.

  ‘Well, handsome, for a peek at what hangs between your legs, I’ll let you in for free,’ cackled the crone. Tor noticed, with no little revulsion, she had not a tooth in her head. The hoots of laughter around them goaded her on.

  ‘Or come out the back wi’ me now, I’ll pay you instead!’ The hag found this especially amusing and Tor was again treated to a full view of her aged gums.

  A young man pushed past him. ‘It’s two bits.’ He flashed a smile.

  Tor dropped the coins into her grimy palm. He snatched the towel and followed the man, relieved to escape the woman’s horrible laugh.

  He caught up. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Don’t mention it. She’s revolting but she does that to everyone she can, so don’t be flattered.’

  ‘I’m not. My name’s Tor Gynt, a traveller.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Tor. I’m Petyr, town slut.’

  He took some delight in watching Tor’s shock.

  ‘Well, come on, Tor, don’t be such a prude. I need a bath; so do you by the look and smell of things.’ With a wrinkle of his nose he walked ahead.

  The sounds of men’s voices increased in volume as Tor rounded a stone pillar behind the undressed Petyr. The bath was huge, surrounded by massive murals of naked people cavorting through forests which reached up high into the vaulted ceiling. He was staring. Petyr was saying someth
ing to him which he missed.

  ‘I said are you coming in, handsome, or do you plan to stare at naked men instead?’ Petyr called as he floated on his back.

  ‘Don’t call me handsome.’ Tor was irritated.

  ‘Why ever not, you fool? When did you last look in the mirror? You are handsome and such a strong build! Ah, but I see you are not comfortable with it yet. Well, you will be, my friend, you will be.’ Petyr waded off, amused.

  Tor took time to scrub himself properly using one of the gritty cubes of soap left in pots around the baths. He realised it had been days since he had last bathed. Tor relaxed into the warmth. When Petyr returned Tor mentioned the impressive architecture and concept of the public baths.

  ‘Do you want help washing your hair?’ Petyr’s green eyes, framed by long, dark lashes, had a roguish glint.

  Mortified at Petyr’s suggestion, Tor threw several handfuls of water over his own head before striding to the steps and getting out. He grabbed his linen and wrapped it quickly around himself.

  Petyr stepped out. ‘You seem very edgy, Gynt. I won’t bite.’

  ‘Look, thanks for your company. Perhaps we’ll see each other around.’ He sounded so polite he wanted to bite his tongue out.

  ‘I doubt we move in the same circles, Gynt, but I’m told you didn’t finish the job you were picked for last night with Eryn. How disappointing.’

  Petyr had finished drying himself and was stepping neatly into his clothes. Tor had stopped dancing on one foot to clamber into his breeches.

  ‘You know Eryn?’

  ‘Like a sister.’

  ‘Then you’d know where I can find her?’

  ‘I might.’

  ‘Petyr, please will you tell her I’m sorry. It was nothing to do with her.’ He finished dressing.

  ‘Farewell, Tor. Perhaps I’ll mention it, but then again, perhaps I won’t. Nice talking with you.’ He tossed his towel into a nearby basket and walked away.

  ‘Wait!’

  Petyr turned back. Tor flipped his own towel into the basket.