Scrivener's Tale

by Fiona McIntosh

  The following day Vivienne woke to find Cassien sitting on the bed watching her.

  She opened her eyes to bare slits. ‘You’re up early,’ she croaked, still tasting the wine on her breath. She peered toward the window. ‘It’s not even slightly light yet.’

  ‘It will be light in moments.’

  ‘Still early for me,’ she groaned and dropped her head back onto the bed. ‘How is that weeping burn of yours?’

  ‘I’ve seen to it. It will be fine.’

  ‘It must hurt like merry hell.’

  ‘I dressed it.’

  She opened her eyes wider and yawned. ‘Not only is your wound dressed, I see you are as well.’

  He grinned, shifted a lock of hair that had fallen across her face. ‘You’re very lovely, Vivienne.’

  She shrugged beneath the sheet. ‘So you are leaving?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, bluntly, ‘today.’

  ‘To where?’

  He stared at her with an amused look.

  ‘Is it a secret?’

  ‘No, but I have a creed of not discussing my life … perhaps you’ve noticed.’

  She nodded. ‘I couldn’t sleep for thinking on your scars.’

  ‘Couldn’t sleep? Really? I thought I might have to leave the room due to your snoring,’ he said, in a surprised mocking tone.

  She reached behind her and flung a pillow at him. ‘And you make love like a man who has hungered too long.’

  ‘Aren’t all men hungry for a woman like you?’ he flattered.

  It didn’t work. ‘Cassien, is this a religion of yours?’

  ‘I asked you not to press,’ he said, his tone instantly low, his expression sombre.

  ‘You did, but I have to know more.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it’s not normal. Hamelyn said he’s going to be travelling with you. He’s just a lad. We all like him. And …’

  ‘Ham’s in no danger from me.’

  ‘Not from you, no, perhaps not. But with you, maybe he is. What are you?’

  He wasn’t sure what prompted him to say more, although he was extremely careful. ‘There are times in this world when we can’t always count on praying to our gods to deliver us from situations.’ She frowned. ‘Sometimes we need to count on ourselves … and when the stakes are bigger, to pay others to look out for the common good.’

  ‘You’re taking care of the common good?’ she repeated, unable to disguise her sarcasm.

  ‘Let’s just say my role is as a safekeeper.’

  She gave him a look of doubt. ‘You were going to kill my sister.’

  ‘Fortunately for me, the gods are doing it on my behalf.’

  ‘No, they’re not!’ Vivienne snapped. ‘She’s done that on her own and with the likes of you who pay her so freely for her services.’

  He didn’t respond but watched her carefully.

  ‘What are you afraid of?’ she demanded.

  ‘An angry woman,’ he said, standing up and straightening his clothes. ‘I must leave.’

  Vivienne’s expression became dark and clouded. She covered herself with the sheet and refused to look at him.

  ‘What do you want from me?’ Cassien asked softly.

  ‘The truth.’

  ‘I’ve given it to you as best I can. I don’t owe you anything.’

  That stung. He could see the pinch of it in her eyes when she quickly looked away. ‘No, you don’t,’ she said swinging her legs around and to the floor. ‘Maybe you now have to kill me because I know you have secrets. I know you can fight without weapons and still lay Murdo out cold. I know you have a mission, one you are clearly touchy about. Surely I know too much?’

  ‘Again I ask, what do you want from me, Vivienne?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Tell me.’

  She lifted a shoulder in a slightly sulky manner. He knew she was embarrassed. ‘To know you.’ She stood, reached for her clothes and began to slowly pull them on.

  Morning had broken and its brightness had begun to slowly creep into the room; its pinkish light touched her skin and seemed to add a fresh glow to its smooth, supple creaminess. He had enjoyed every moment of her generous lovemaking, knowing their connection was more than simply physical. But he had to remain focused on his role for Fynch.

  ‘The problem is mine, Cassien,’ she said, turning with a doleful smile. She reached for a clip that he’d pulled from her hair and flung down by the bed at the start of their night’s frolic. He watched her clip up her hair and wondered how lovely she would look once that terrible red dye was washed out.

  ‘It’s not impossible to imagine we will meet again,’ he said, thinking aloud.

  ‘I doubt you’ll come back,’ she said sadly. She checked her clothes were straight in the small mirror above the single tiny cabinet in the room.

  He tied on his cloak. ‘The room is paid for. So is food, so please take advantage of that. I never think you should start the day on an empty belly.’

  ‘Or an empty heart,’ she said brightly, turning around to smile at him. There was little warmth in it.

  ‘I’m sorry that I’ve offended you in some way, Vivienne.’ He took a step forward and knew he surprised her when he kissed her cheek. ‘I hope you will think on me kindly and know that I could never regret that you pretended to be your sister.’

  Cassien closed the door behind him and took the stairs two at a time. Hamelyn was waiting for him, sitting in a window not far from the main door, the sack tucked safely behind him.

  ‘Morning, Master Cassien, sir,’ he said, straightening immediately.

  Cassien shot him a look of mild exasperation. ‘Did you sleep all right?’

  The boy nodded. ‘They even gave me food to break my fast.’

  ‘And you’re still going, I see,’ Cassien said, nodding at the pear the boy carried in one hand and the small hunk of cheese in the other.

  ‘Waste not, want not, we were told in the orphanage,’ Hamelyn grinned and pocketed the food. ‘Where’s Vivienne?’

  ‘She’ll be down,’ he replied evenly, ‘but we’re on our way.’

  ‘Oh,’ Hamelyn said, standing, accepting the decision immediately.

  ‘Master Erris. We’ll be taking our leave now.’

  The innkeeper looked up from where he was stacking some flagons of wine. ‘You’re all paid, Master Cassien.’

  Cassien nodded. ‘Um, my guest will be down shortly. I hope my coin covers food for her?’

  ‘Since you haven’t partaken of any, sir, we can call it square.’

  ‘Good. May I leave a message for her?’

  ‘Of course, I’ll be glad to pass it on.’ He looked at Cassien expectantly.

  ‘Er, I thought I might write it down,’ he suggested.

  The man grinned. ‘Vivienne can’t read, sir.’

  ‘Right,’ he said, frowning. ‘In that case, please tell Miss Vivienne that her sister has something to show her.’

  The man frowned. ‘I’m not sure I understand that message, Master Cassien.’

  Cassien grinned. ‘I’m not sure you’re meant to, Erris. Farewell and thank you for passing that on all the same. Ready, Hamelyn?’

  The boy pushed out the door and Cassien followed.

  ‘To Master Wevyr’s?’ the boy asked softly.

  ‘Yes, but first I need to return swiftly to the brothel. Do you know the mistress there?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Why am I not surprised to hear you say that?’ he grinned.

  At the brothel and wearing his weapons again he was intrigued to discover that Mistress Pertwee was nothing as he’d imagined; she was enormous, amply filling out a long gown that could have happily swamped two, maybe three of her girls. Her hair was white and dragged up into a tight bun and she had to be at least six decades, perhaps more. And yet she possessed a beatific smile, the sort of smile that made the person standing in front of her beam back. Cassien realised he was doing just that as she welcomed him.

&
nbsp; ‘Hamelyn, my boy, I haven’t seen you for a while.’

  ‘Mistress Pertwee, this is Master Cassien … one of your newest clients. He is Vivienne’s customer.’

  ‘Nicely done, Ham,’ she beamed before turning her bright smile on Cassien. ‘Ah, the handsome fellow who bought our lovely Vivienne for a night. The one who put that nasty Murdo in his place.’

  Cassien raised his eyebrows. ‘News travels fast,’ he remarked, bowing gently over her hand, the fingers of which were near enough splayed from the number of thick rings she wore, all sparkling with gems.

  She tutted gently. ‘Men must beat their chests,’ she said, her tone amused as she laid one of her ring-encrusted hands against his heart.

  ‘I prefer to move less … um … obviously, than I have in Orkyld, Mistress Pertwee.’

  ‘I’m afraid, sir, looking as you do, you are going to attract attention wherever you go. My advice,’ she said, pinching his cheek, as though he were younger than Hamelyn, ‘is to embrace that. Walk proud, walk loud.’ She waggled a finger. ‘You know, sometimes secrets can be kept more easily in public amongst all the noise and colour of open life.’ She tapped her powdered nose. ‘If you get my meaning.’

  ‘I think I do understand you, mistress,’ he replied, ‘and I will bear your advice in mind. Now I have a favour to ask of you. It will cost you nothing.’

  He smiled and told her what he needed.

  ‘Now to Wevyr’s,’ he said, clapping Hamelyn on the back as they walked down the street.

  ‘What are you hoping to learn, master … er, I mean Cassien, if I may ask?’

  ‘I want to know everything about these weapons I carry. There’s a mystery to them and it’s best I understand it.’

  ‘Are you going to tell him what I saw?’ Hamelyn wondered.

  ‘You are not in any trouble. Trust me now and don’t worry.’

  ‘It’s not me that’s worried, Cassien,’ Hamelyn replied. ‘It’s your sword. It’s beginning to moan.’

  FIFTEEN

  Silent as a cloud, Gabe hovered within his own body and watched their progress into what looked to be a market town as he carried his dark companions. He had observed the large number of people on the road herding livestock or transporting their wares in wheeled barrows, while others carried produce on their shoulders. Gabe believed he, and his constant companions, blended in because he was now dressed as a countryman in Flek’s simple clothes. No-one asked any questions so he had to assume he had integrated well enough.

  ‘Now that we are together, we could just disappear,’ Aphra urged her lover.

  ‘We could. But I choose not to,’ Cyricus replied.

  ‘Why, my love?’ she asked sweetly. She still possessed the voice of Angelina and it irritated Gabe more than he cared to admit.

  They were merging with an increasingly steady stream of people and animals forming a bottleneck at the main gate into the town.

  ‘What are you selling?’ he heard the toll-keeper ask the man in front.

  ‘Two bales of wool.’

  ‘Just two?’ the toll-keeper smirked.

  ‘Best quality,’ the farmer replied. He sounded tired. ‘Once they see it, these won’t last long and I’ll get a good price,’ he quipped. He was young. Next to him was an even younger woman, staring forlornly at the ground. She was carrying a small infant. The baby moaned in her arms. The couple looked lean and hungry.

  ‘That’ll be a duke.’

  The seller baulked. ‘I’ll only make a few crowns apiece if I’m lucky.’

  ‘Take it or leave it. You know we have the best wool-dyeing in the region. You yourself believe you’re guaranteed a sale, young man, and you boasted of a high price. Now hurry up. There’s a lot of people trying to get through here.’

  The man looked at the woman and she nodded wearily.

  ‘Robbery,’ he muttered, digging in his pocket and handing over the coin from the very few that Gabe could see in his palm.

  ‘Next,’ the gatekeeper called, his tone indifferent, already looking past the couple and child.

  They shuffled forward and he cast his dour look at Gabe.

  ‘Buying presumably,’ he said, spitting to his right out of an opening in the toll-house.

  ‘I am,’ Cyricus said and Gabe hated that the invader was able to use his voice to answer.

  The man’s stubby finger pointed them through and Gabe was aware of his body being walked beneath the stone arch that constituted the toll-gate into the town.

  ‘I don’t understand why you’re bothering with these tiresome people and this forsaken land,’ Aphra complained.

  ‘Well, because we have time and because these people bore me I shall give my full attention to explaining why, Aphra,’ Cyricus replied with forced patience. ‘A long time ago there walked a man by the name of Elysius. As an aside, I should mention that he fathered a woman by the name of Myrren. She was a gifted witch with powerful reserves of magic at her disposal although no-one knew it, for she lived a thoroughly unremarkable life until just before the start of her third decade. She had chosen not to use her magic, preferring the anonymity and pleasure of home and family life as these peasants around us might enjoy.’ He sighed. ‘What a strange little thing she was to make such a choice. She had untold power and yet her greatest joy of all was being given a puppy. Can you imagine that?

  ‘She never used her power?’ Aphra repeated, full of disdain.

  ‘Not “never”. She did use it once in her adult life. And when she did she cast out such a mighty and dark spell that it had the capacity to change the course of many lives. In fact, her curse — which it surely was — profoundly changed the course of the land we now walk upon.’

  Gabe found himself hanging on the demon’s every word.

  ‘What happened?’ Aphra obliged him by asking.

  Cyricus gave a small chuckle. ‘She turned out to be an amazing young woman. Such darkness but such control too. If she had been my daughter I’d have been very proud of her. Myrren offended a noble, choosing not to give up her virginity to the fumbles of a drunken duke who happened to take a fancy to her as he passed through her village. Her anonymity might have been preserved had her eyes not been two different colours. The scorned duke, who had the ear of the royals, was able to leverage that quirk of Myrren’s and have her arrested as a witch. This was a time when people were frightened of anything that might seem different or smacked of something they couldn’t understand.’ He sighed. ‘The Morgravians were a superstitious lot.’ Cyricus gave a sound of disgust. Gabe noticed they were leaving the main street, presumably leading into the central market square, and were veering off into a quieter part of the town.

  The demon’s voice turned cunning. ‘However, young Myrren was magical, as I’ve explained. She was taken to the dungeons of the great Stoneheart of Pearlis, where she was given to Witchsmeller Lymbert for his cruel pleasure. Lymbert put her through rigorous trial and torture — I could give you details, but suffice to say that brave Myrren gave them nothing, for she knew they would burn her come what may. There was, however, one individual who showed her an ounce of compassion during her witch trial. His name was Wyl Thirsk and he was the general of the Morgravian Legion — still very much a youngster. She gave him a special gift of thanks.’ Cyricus laughed inwardly and the sound of his amusement echoed horribly in Gabe’s mind. ‘She bestowed upon him a sinister magic, which he only learned about later, when it finally chose to manifest itself in the most harsh and gleeful manner. You see, Thirsk could not die although many tried to kill him. As they made their attempts Myrren’s magic would claim their lives instead, ensuring that Wyl Thirsk assumed their thoughts, their memories, but most importantly, the soul of Thirsk would assume their bodies. He moved through several people — men or women, the magic wasn’t choosy,’ Cyricus laughed, ‘and this was part of Myrren’s cunning to topple a kingdom. Her magic only stopped when it was satisfied that Wyl Thirsk, in whoever’s guise, had assumed sovereign control. Myrren’s only d
esire, I believe, was that Celimus, who had so enjoyed her torture, didn’t live long as King of Morgravia and never tasted life on the imperial throne he craved. He was her target all along.’ He sighed. ‘Marvellous story. I never tire of it.’

  ‘And this is the magic you are using?’ Aphra said.

  To Gabe this sounded like a piece of a jigsaw fitting into place.

  ‘Well done, my beauty. That’s exactly what I’m doing. I was very impressed with Myrren’s gift and the dark magic it contained. It amused me, constantly kept my attention as I watched Thirsk on his journeying in that traumatic time; the magic was a dark shadow shifting the way Morgravia’s history unfolded.

  ‘But I began this tale about a man called Elysius, didn’t I? And it’s his story that is relevant here. He was the powerful warlock whose talents passed through to his daughter, Myrren. She never knew him and he remained very secretive. He lived in a place called the Wild.’

  Gabe was surprised to feel his body shiver as though a cold wind had swept across it, but it had been a genuine tremble prompted by Cyricus’s mention of the Wild.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Aphra asked.

  ‘You’ve forgotten, it seems. It was the Wild that divided us.’ He pointed Gabe’s arm toward a street. ‘We’re nearly at our destination so I’d better hurry my story.’

  Gabe had been aware that they’d entered a far more salubrious part of the town. He was surprised that what had looked to be a small area from the other side of the toll-gate was a bustling town and, going by the size of the houses, it was home to wealthy residents.

  Cyricus continued. ‘You never knew why you were cast out of our world, Aphra. You were too young, probably not interested in learning the history.’

  ‘You’re going to tell me that it was because of this mage Elysius,’ she said, leaping to her conclusion.

  ‘Indeed I am, and all our recent sufferings are due to him. I hadn’t meant to invade the Wild. It happened after one of the cyclical wars between Zarab and Lyana in the far east of Percheron. The goddess Lyana —’ he paused to spit, surprising Gabe — ‘had beaten our leader, Zarab, and not only reduced his powers for a long, long time, but hunted down his minions. I was one of them. I escaped her wrath but found myself weakened and cast into the oblivion of the Razors — a mountain range north of Morgravia and far from Percheron. I travelled without purpose or direction, drifting south on the winds, and that’s when I felt the magic of Myrren. I found it irresistible; I watched her death and marvelled at her dark legacy. I had no time for the battles of mortals, of course, but now that Thirsk carried this demon-magic, I was intrigued by its consequences. I went in search of its origins and that led me to the Wild. I was not on guard, not at all prepared for the fury of Elysius, his manic protection of what I realised was a supremely magical place.