Betrayal

by Fiona McIntosh

  The large bird moved from foot to foot as it regarded her intently from bright yellow eyes. Alyssa stared at it in wonder.

  Tor nudged her. He cleared his throat and nodded towards the bird. Alyssa found her manners.

  ‘Er…how do you do, Cloot,’ she said, completely in awe, then turned back to Tor. ‘Is this your hawk?’

  ‘Peregrine falcon if you don’t mind,’ he corrected. ‘Cloot gets very put out if one refers to him as a hawk.’

  Her eyes sparkled. ‘Indeed. And he understands what I’m saying no doubt.’

  ‘Every word, so be nice.’

  She looked back at the bird. ‘In that case, you are the most handsome falcon I have ever seen, Cloot.’ She was delighted to see the bird bob his head.

  Tor translated. ‘He commends your excellent taste.’ And enjoyed hearing her laugh at this.

  Saxon, unperturbed by the bird of prey next to him, pointed to the small brook they were passing.

  ‘Yes,’ Tor said. ‘Why don’t we stop here for a moment?’

  He wagged his finger when Alyssa pulled a face at stopping so soon. ‘Your job is to be my guide. Here is where I wish to stop and admire Ildagarth’s beautiful scenery.’

  Saxon motioned that he would stay with the horses. Tor and Alyssa walked in a more comfortable silence now to the brook’s edge while Cloot flew ahead to the small copse of trees. She marvelled at his grace.

  ‘Tell me about Cloot,’ Alyssa said as they sat down on the spongy grass.

  She watched Tor’s face battle through a series of private conflicts. He finally sighed. ‘Where to begin?’

  ‘Well…how about after the Floral Dance?’ she said softly, pain lacing her words.

  And so he did. He told her everything. Merkhud’s sensing of their link, the Stones, the fact that his mother and father were not his real parents, and how he had felt he must follow Merkhud to Tal. He explained how he had ridden two days later to Mallee Marsh to find her, to beg her forgiveness and her hand, to ask her to go with him; only to discover she had gone away. No note, not even an indication of where or why. Tor ran his hand through his hair; she remembered that trait. Then he told her how alone he had felt without her; the countless times over the years he had tried to link, always in vain but never giving up hope.

  It was then she took his hand in her own. Tor felt a strength from her touch.

  He described finding a gentle giant of a man—a cripple—nailed to a post and how this stranger, who could link with him, had begged him to stay close. When he told her the stranger’s name was Cloot, Alyssa, intrigued, looked at the falcon which was preening itself on a branch nearby. Tor knew the bird was doing this for her benefit. He told Cloot to stop showing off. Cloot ignored him, stretching his powerful wings wide so Alyssa could appreciate his fine, broad chest. She laughed, but not for long.

  Tor detailed how badly injured Cloot had been that day; told her of Prime Cyrus and Doctor Freyberg; of the ant dismembering the cockroach and his healing of his new friend. He spoke of the little he knew of the Paladin. He chose not to mention being crowned King of the Sea, or Eryn. This was perhaps not the moment, as Alyssa began to caress his hand, to be talking about making love to another woman.

  His story gathered momentum: chasing through the night to Brewis; Cloot shapechanging into this glorious falcon; Cyrus nailed to a tree and how they had saved him; the King and Queen; Merkhud; life at the Palace and his growing obsession to find her.

  Her tears fell onto his hand which she clasped close now.

  Tor brought his life over the past five years to a rapid close for her, detailing his healing of Queen Nyria and subsequent falling out with Merkhud; his suspicions of the old man; the Prime’s disappearance in the Heartwood and of Darmud Coril and Lys. Tor did not speak of his dreams, though, and what he saw in them. That he would tell her later.

  Right now he looked at her earnestly. ‘Do you believe me?’

  Alyssa looked into his eyes and beyond. ‘All of it, Tor. Saxon has spoken to me of this same dream woman, the one you call Lys. She is the one who guided him to me.’

  He nodded. ‘That makes sense. He is your guardian.’

  It did not make much sense to her but before she could say more he was talking again.

  ‘Will you forgive me for Minstead?’

  She put her cool hand to his mouth and stopped him trying to continue. She nodded.

  ‘And Xantia?’ she asked quietly.

  ‘Xantia?’ he said, as though not understanding the word. ‘She is no one, Alyssa…a distraction.’

  ‘Really? Well, that distraction has been my closest friend for years. More recently she chose to make me her enemy.’

  ‘Because of me?’

  ‘No. It’s complicated. Two sorts of jealousy have her entirely in their grip. A new Elder is to be named soon; Xantia believes the role should be hers. There are four candidates and as I’m one of them she feels threatened by me.’ Alyssa did not elaborate further but Tor guessed Alyssa was the first and obvious choice to all. He kept his thoughts to himself.

  She continued. ‘More recently she has become enamoured by a man. You. She hears no reason. And in me, already someone she despises, she sees only a rival for that man she has known for hours and now claims to worship. Tor, Xantia thinks we are lovers!’

  He smiled. ‘Let’s not disappoint her then. Let’s make your falling out earn its grief.’ He meant it. She could see it in his blazing blue eyes.

  The falcon must have said something because he grimaced sharply at it in rebuke.

  ‘Tor, I’m not sure why but lately I seem to be reminding people rather too often what this circle of archalyt on my forehead means.’

  ‘What—this?’

  When he touched the disc it fell soundlessly into the well of fabric formed by her robes as they draped across her crossed legs.

  Alyssa was speechless. Even Tor looked bemused as he picked up the disc between his long fingers and held it up, the green gem glinting fiercely in the weak sunshine.

  He sliced a link into her mind, Welcome back to me, and slipped the disc into his pocket as he leant to kiss her.

  Numb, Alyssa permitted the kiss but did not return it. It was as though she had been seeing the world through blurred vision these past years; hearing it through a gauze. As soon as she was released from the archalyt, every colour, scent and sound—and probably taste, too, she thought—increased in intensity.

  Tor pulled back from her mouth. How long had he dreamed of that? He did not even care that the affection was so one-sided on this occasion.

  Saxon! Alyssa called across the link.

  He came as fast as his hobbling gait and blind eyes would allow, his face contorted by emotion.

  You’re back, his lovely, deep voice said into her mind; a voice she had missed so much. How?

  Tor did it.

  Saxon smiled his torn and ragged grin; a ghost of its former radiance. That’s because he is the One.

  The ride to Ildagarth proper would take them until midday and Saxon took the horses slowly to ensure the precious couple he escorted had plenty of time to say what needed to be shared between them.

  ‘So, what about you?’

  Alyssa looked at Tor quizzically to buy herself a few more moments before she had to relive what she had tried to deny every day of her life since.

  ‘It’s painful for me, Tor.’ She looked at the purplish hills in the distance and the different greens of the grasses which stretched out towards them. She swore she could catch on the breeze the fragrance of the lavender on those hills.

  He took her hand and kissed its palm tenderly. Tell me, he spoke into her mind.

  And so she did, sparing him none of the brutal details. She watched him smile at her tale of flying with Saxon Fox and she watched grief form in his eyes when she described her first ordeal with Goth; then watched those blue eyes deepen into despair and then hatred when she told of her second, more physical encounter.

  Her voice sho
ok in the telling but his own trembling touch steadied her so she could finish the story. Perhaps he had thought it could not get worse but she felt his body stiffen at her description of what Goth had done to Milt and Oris, the injuries he had inflicted on Saxon and how he had promised he would wait for her.

  When she had finished her telling, silence claimed the slim space between them. Finally Tor nodded.

  ‘I understand why you would choose the Academie. I even admire the archalyt now for how it protects you. I did not protect you.’

  ‘Tor, don’t. You weren’t to know any of this would occur. You forget—it was my choice to leave with Sorrel. I control my life, not you.’

  She realised she had forgotten to tell Tor about the dream she had experienced while floating in the Green as Goth claimed her virginity but there was no time now. Saxon opened a link to tell her they were almost at their destination.

  Alyssa reminded herself to tell Tor later about the stolen child and the books. Perhaps he might know something of the story or be able to make the connection with Merkhud.

  She squeezed his hand. ‘Come on. Let’s make this a good day.’

  Normally Tor would have revelled in the opportunity to explore a new city, particularly one of such historical note as Ildagarth, but his attentions were fixed firmly on Alyssa. Just watching the way she moved her hands as she spoke was far more fascinating for him than the glorious architecture, albeit in ruins, which surrounded him.

  Ildagarth, or so the tale went, had never fully recovered from being razed by the warlock Orlac. All around were ruins of sad beauty which looked as though they had reared through the ground from another world. Around them had sprung a new city but the old one still peeped through.

  The locals’ eyes slid easily past the exquisite columns of marble; the decorative floors, of which perhaps only a corner remained; the achingly beautiful carvings. In the oldest and most inspiring part of the city thrived a new community dedicated to commerce and learning of a less philanthropic nature. To a visitor, however, Ildagarth was a place of unrivalled magnificence where one could almost hear the ghosts of centuries gone if alone in one of the dozens of empty, ruined buildings.

  Right now, though, the city was filling rapidly with masses of the living. They had travelled from throughout the Kingdom of Tallinor and beyond from the Four Kingdoms to celebrate the most famous of all festivals: Czabba. Literally it meant ‘Death’ but the occasion was anything but solemn. The Festival dated back centuries to the time of the folklore legend of Orlac but its original meaning had become muddied as the times marched on. In truth Merkhud was right. It had evolved into a grand masquerade of gigantic proportions in which every street of the city reverberated to the merrymaking of its guests.

  Everyone wore masks during the night of the Festival itself. Tradition dictated that if you covered your face then Death could not see who you were. So there was always an assortment of death masks as well as strange beasts and animals from the wildest imagination. Obligatory, however—and far more interesting for no one could ever explain why—was the tradition for eleven particular masks to always be present. They were created by the finest craftsmen in the Kingdom and the chance to wear one of the eleven was considered one of the highest privileges bestowed on an Ildagarthian.

  One of these masks was Death, which took the shape of a handsome man who was meant to be Orlac. The remaining ten depicted the most ancient of races of people from around the Kingdom of Tallinor, or so scholars suggested. Truth or fiction? It meant nothing to the present-day revellers but merely added to the pomp and intrigue of the Death Festival.

  Alyssa now realised that the ten ancient races referred to the Paladin. Another piece of the jigsaw slotted into place.

  She was giving Tor a tour of the streets she knew from her infrequent outings over the past few years. He drank in her calm voice, studied the way her lips moved, recalled how she used to fiddle with her honey-coloured hair the same way as a child. Her long hands with their perfect almond-shaped nails kept his attention rapt far more than her description of life in the city of Ildagarth, famous or not.

  They found themselves wandering in a street known for its excellent watering holes, as Alyssa called them. Here they served every herb tea imaginable and a drink called zabub which was a heady, delicious brew served thick and sweetened. It was a local specialty and Alyssa suggested he try it.

  Tor listened to her order in the language of street vendors of the north. He could tell Alyssa was a gifted linguist.

  He spoke aloud. ‘This must be your first Czabba Festival too.’

  ‘It is, yes,’ she said, then frowned. ‘Do you think Saxon is all right…and what about Cloot?’

  He grinned. ‘Cloot can take care of himself. He doesn’t like crowds or cities much. He’ll stay close and he’s always in my head.’

  She sighed. ‘It used to be that way with Saxon too, before the archalyt.’

  ‘You’ve no need to worry on Saxon’s behalf. He’s a wise man. He’ll stay with the horses on the fringe of the city.’

  ‘It’s always in my mind that Goth will keep his promise. He means to destroy me because I’ve escaped his clutches twice.’

  She saw his jaw clench at her words.

  ‘He will lay no finger on you ever again, Alyssa. I promise you. The man is a fiend. He must pay for what he did to you.’

  She was about to say something when the drinks arrived. Instead she whispered across the link. It’s past. Let it be.

  She thanked the young serving woman and then clinked her mug with Tor’s. ‘Zabub is served heated to take the chill off a winter’s day. Be careful it doesn’t burn your mouth.’

  He blew on the steaming contents and sipped. It was rich and laced with an exotic liquor.

  ‘Mmm,’ he said with genuine pleasure. It made her laugh. ‘So what do you think of all this festivity?’

  ‘It doesn’t mean much to me, Tor. In truth I prefer to celebrate life.’

  ‘Or perhaps survival,’ he said gently. ‘Czabba—is that Ildagarthian?’

  ‘Yes, but very old, a dialect dead for a century or more.’ Alyssa suddenly became still, her mug lifted halfway to her mouth and a frown creasing her forehead.

  ‘You’ll catch a fly if you keep it open like that,’ he said, using a favourite phrase of his mother’s.

  ‘Tor…’

  ‘Yes, I’m still here…hanging on your every word.’

  ‘It doesn’t mean Death.’

  ‘Should I be following this?’

  ‘Czabba…the Festival…it doesn’t simply mean Death.’

  ‘Oh?’ Tor said, confused and totally uninterested in anything but the thought of kissing her sweet lips again.

  Alyssa’s voice was suddenly excited. ‘Listen to me—this is really important. I’ve been reading two ancient scripts I found buried beneath the crypt in a place which was no casual hidey-hole. These books had been carefully concealed.’

  He nodded. The temptation to tease her was great but she seemed very intent on this. He kept his expression serious.

  Alyssa continued. ‘In those books I have read what I believe is a true commentary, written by one of the Masters of Goldstone. His name was Nanak. He told a story—too long in the re-telling for now—but it roughly goes that a child was stolen. No ordinary child, Tor, but a god.’

  She saw him swallow very slowly. He placed his cup gently on the table. ‘Go on,’ he said carefully, all flippancy gone.

  ‘He was stolen from the Host and sold to mortals by—’

  ‘Scavengers.’ He completed her sentence.

  It was Alyssa’s turn to put her mug down. Her skin paled before him. ‘You know?’

  ‘Please, go on,’ he encouraged, giving no eye contact now.

  She felt compelled. ‘I…I meant to tell you this earlier. When Goth raped me I used the Green to escape his touch, the pain. In the Green I had a vision. I watched a baby being stolen from its parents. They were beautiful and they stood in an
exquisite glade. They did nothing to help him, simply watched as the thieves ran away with their child.’

  ‘Tell me more,’ he said urgently.

  ‘Nothing more from that vision. Only what I’ve read in this book. The child grew amongst mortals, not knowing who he was. His mortal parents, who were sentient, also had no knowledge of his background. He was gifted, an extraordinary talent with the magics. They enrolled him at the Academie where his powers surpassed those of the Masters and they became scared of him.’

  She paused. It was Tor who continued as his own dream vividly came back to him.

  ‘When they hatched a plan to Quell him, the young man razed the city of Goldstone—the Ancient Seat of Learning—and killed two thousand people. That city is now known as Ildagarth and the Ancient Seat, Caremboche, is where today’s Academie now sits.’

  Alyssa shook her head in disbelief. ‘Tor, you must tell me how you know this.’

  ‘I dreamed it.’ He rubbed his hands over his face in consternation.

  Alyssa’s words tumbled over one another in her excitement. ‘I have only read the first of the books. It is written in the most ancient of languages and I don’t understand how I can read it. No one else can. I have never encountered that language before; how do I know it? How do I know that this Festival is not Czabba but Aczabba Veiszuit?’

  Tor shook his head in silence, waiting for her to explain.

  ‘Czabba is Ildagarthian for Death all right but I believe it might be a poor translation, a bastardisation if you will, from this more ancient language which the books are scribed in. Aczabba Veiszuit means Death of a God.’ She clapped her hands in wonderment. ‘Tell me what else you dreamed.’

  Tor felt a chill crawl over his body as he began to recall for Alyssa all that he had seen in his dream. When he had finished they sat in silence for several moments.

  ‘This Lys you speak of—she told you that he lives and would return? That you must stop him? Tor, what folly is this?’

  ‘No folly. His name is Orlac.’

  Her knees felt weak. Tor spoke the truth.

  ‘There’s worse.’ He finished his drink. ‘Want to take a guess at his mortal father’s name?’