The Wildkin's Curse

by Kate Forsyth

  ‘For heaven’s sake, it was about twenty steps from the wharf to the inn!’ Zed said.

  ‘Your point?’ Zakary raised a questioning eyebrow.

  ‘So, I believe you’re a gambling man,’ Merry said to Zakary. ‘Fancy a game of bones?’

  Zak’s expression brightened at once. ‘Well, my dear, I must admit I am used to playing far more sophisticated games of chance, but since the alternative is to listen to slack jaws drone on about the weather all afternoon, I think I shall lower myself to such a simple, rustic game. I warn you, though, I play high.’

  Merry grinned in anticipation.

  CHAPTER 14

  Lilies in the Field

  AN HOUR OR SO LATER, WITH A HEAVY BAG OF COINS IN HIS POCKET, Merry bid farewell to his fellow travellers, telling them he was going in search of a luthier to buy himself some new strings.

  It was dusk, and the town bells were ringing to signal the closing of the gates. A long line of weary, dusty hearthkin shuffled past, on their way home after their day in the fields, hoes and spades over their shoulders.

  The luthier’s shop was a dirty cubbyhole off the main street. Merry bought himself some strings, and some rolls of songs he did not know, and enjoyed a chat with the luthier who marvelled at his lute and wondered where such an instrument had come from. Merry did not, of course, want to say it had been a gift to his foster father from the Erlrune of the Evenlinn, but did tell the luthier that his grandfather had once been a musician at the royal court. The luthier gave him back his lute rather reluctantly, saying, ‘Well, if you ever want to sell, I’ll do my best to raise the money. It’s a rare beauty, it is.’

  He got up and went to open the door for Merry, but

  Tom-Tit-Tot stood in the way, his body outstretched, every whisker quivering with warning.

  ‘If you don’t mind,’ Merry said, his heart suddenly hammering hard, ‘I might just go out the back door.’

  The luthier looked at him in surprise. Merry shrugged and said something about gambling debts and, looking very displeased, the luthier let Merry out into the back yard. With Tom-Tit-Tot riding on his shoulder, Merry went to peer around the corner. All he could see was the shape of a man waiting in a doorway opposite the luthier’s shop. When the watcher shifted his weight, the light caught the silver of his armour.

  Merry slowly backed away, and went as quietly as he could in the opposite direction. His heart banged painfully against his ribs. Who could it have been, hiding in the shadows, waiting for him? Was he only watching, or had he meant to waylay him? A quick dagger thrust, a swipe of his wallet, and everyone would think he had fallen victim to a cutpurse. Except cutpurses did not wear armour.

  Merry found the Lilies in the Field easily enough, a low wattle-and-daub building with a roof thatched with rushes. It was squashed in between two other buildings, with the town wall pressing in close behind. There were no cobblestones outside, only a stretch of mud where a thin, dirty-looking goat was tied. Wooden shutters stood open to the street, and a row of hearthkin men stood outside, drinking from horn cups and leaning on the wooden bench. They stared at Merry in open curiosity as he went through the half-open door.

  ‘Thirsty, are we?’ the innkeeper said, looking Merry over suspiciously. Merry had changed before he came, and was now sorry that he was wearing his best linen shirt and a clean pair of breeches. He would have stood out even in his old clothes in this poor hovel of an inn.

  ‘Yes, indeed!’ Merry said. ‘I could drink the whole Evenlode dry.’

  The innkeeper grunted and filled a horn cup from a large barrel resting on the top of the bar. Propping one elbow on the bar, and keeping his other hand close to the hilt of his dagger, Merry looked about him curiously. The room was small and grimy, with stinking old rushes on the floor. A sullen fire flickered on the hearth, and an old blind woman sat hunched in a chair before it, a walking stick leaning against her knee.

  Merry drank down his cup and laid it on the bar.

  ‘You were thirsty,’ the innkeeper said. ‘It is good, though, our apple-ale. Secret recipe, handed down from my mam there.’ He jerked his head towards the blind woman. ‘Interested in buying a hogshead?’

  ‘Sure,’ Merry said, though his heart sank. He had no desire to spend his hard-won coins on apple-ale.

  ‘Mam,’ the innkeeper shouted. ‘Boy here wants to buy a barrel. Can you take him up and show him what we’ve got?’ As the old woman slowly looked round, the innkeeper said in a lower voice, ‘She’s a bit deaf too, poor old thing.’

  The old woman groped for her stick and rose, sighing, with one hand to her back. Feeling her way forward with her stick, she hobbled to a low doorway. Merry followed quietly behind, his heart banging in his chest, his breath constricted. He cast a quick glance around, but no-one was paying him any attention, their eyes on their horn cups. Tom-Tit-Tot bounced after him, and Merry bent and tucked him under his arm, glad of his company. If he was being led into some kind of ambush, at least he would have the omen-imp’s help to escape.

  A steep stairway led up to a loft where barrels of apple-ale stood shoulder to shoulder in the darkness. Somewhere nearby, pigeons cooed and fluttered. Merry peered around, but could see no-one but the old woman, who stood waiting quietly, her back bent. Disappointment filled him. Maybe the little girl with her doll had not been a message from his mother after all.

  ‘Do yer want some ale or not?’ the old woman asked, in a cracked and whining voice, showing a mouth full of crooked, rotting teeth.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Merry said with an effort.

  ‘That’s a shame,’ she answered. ‘I thought you’d come to see me, my boy.’

  As she spoke, she straightened and smiled at him, her voice losing its croaky timbre.

  ‘Mam!’ Merry cried, and dropped Tom-Tit-Tot on a barrel so he could fling his arms around her. ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘Doing my work,’ his mother whispered in his ear. ‘A crutch for the crippled, a shield for the meek, a voice for the speechless, a sword for the weak . . .’

  Merry nodded, pressing his face into his mother’s bony shoulder. She patted him gently. ‘How are you, my boy? You seem too thin. Have you been sick again?’

  ‘No, I’m fine,’ he answered. ‘You’re the one who’s too thin!’

  ‘Oh, well, we’ve been on the run. It’s hard to put on flesh when you’re on the move all the time.’

  She gave him another pat and then pulled away. He perched on one barrel and his mother hopped up onto another. Merry examined her closely in the gloom. Her hair was grey and stringy, her skin was wrinkled, and there was a large wart on her chin which sprouted grey hairs. Her eyes were milky-blue and seemed to stare sightlessly. He could have walked right past her in the marketplace and never guessed it was his own mother.

  She grinned at him, then deftly removed two small discs of milky-coloured glass from her eyes, revealing her own dark brown irises which gazed at him lovingly. ‘That better?’

  Tom-Tit-Tot stood up on his hind legs, chittering in surprise, his head bent comically to one side.

  ‘It’d be better if you got rid of the wart too,’ Merry said. ‘And the teeth are horrible.’

  She grinned and spat out a set of false teeth, showing her own, which were nearly as crooked but at least whole and clean. ‘Can’t take off the wart,’ she said. ‘It takes forever to stick it on again.’

  ‘But how . . . and what are you doing here?’ Merry had so many questions, he could barely frame a sentence.

  ‘I’ve come to see you, of course. I heard you were coming down the river on a barge, on your way to Zarissa. I thought you were safe with the Erlrune, Merry. What in blazes are you doing going to the king’s court?’

  Quickly he told her all about Liliana and her quest to free her cousin from the king. His mother was most interested in the killing of the starkin soldier at Stormfell Castle.

  ‘We heard about that, of course. I didn’t even know any of the Stormlinn had survived. Apart fr
om the wildkin princess, of course. So she has magic of her own, this wildkin girl? You say she raised a wind and blew the fusillier’s flame back into his face?’

  ‘Yes. At least, I think that’s what she did.’

  ‘What else can she do?’

  ‘I don’t know. She covered our footsteps in the dust.’

  ‘I wonder if she can call storms. That is one of the talents of the Stormlinn, you know.’

  ‘She said something about coming into her Gift,’ Merry said, feeling oddly uncomfortable talking about Liliana to his mother.

  ‘At least we know she can call up the wind. I wonder if she will use this Gift of hers to speed along your journey. I think you will find it useful if she does, for the king only allows the wildkin princess down from her tower on feast days. The next feast is to celebrate the spring equinox, when day and night are of equal length. It is only a matter of two weeks or so away now.’

  ‘Two weeks?’ Merry said, his heart sinking. It took at least that long to sail to Zarissa.

  ‘Yes, give or take a day or two. Tell this Liliana of yours that if she wishes to see Princess Rozalina, you must all be at the palace by the spring equinox, and I’m sure she’ll make sure your winds are fair.’

  ‘Yes, Mam.’

  She leant forward suddenly and ruffled his hair. ‘It is so good to see you, Merry! I’m sorry it has to be like this, with code words and disguises. You must hate to see me looking like an old hag.’

  ‘I’m glad to know that you’re alive. It’s been so long,’ Merry said. ‘Though I did think you might come to see me at the Erlrune’s . . .’

  ‘Shhh,’ she said automatically, looking around. ‘Be careful what you say, Merry, even here. I’d have liked to have come, you know that. But the winter was very hard for many, many people.’

  ‘Yes, I know. Here, Mam. I’ve got something for you.’ He gave her the bag of coins.

  She gazed at him in dumbfounded delight. ‘But where . . .’

  ‘I won it. From Zed’s cousin, Lord Zakary.’

  ‘Gambling with the starkin, Merry? Don’t do it! They’ll not keep a gentlemen’s code of honour with a hearthkin, you should know that. Here, take it back. You might need it. What if he accuses you of stealing it?’

  Calmly he pushed the leather pouch back into her hands. ‘Better I not be found with it then.’

  ‘Then keep some money for yourself, Merry.’ She began to open the pouch but he stopped her, putting both hands over hers.

  ‘I’m fine, Mam. I’ve been to the luthier and spent far too much on Lady Oriole already.’

  ‘If you’re sure, then.’ She tied up the mouth of the purse again and stowed it away in the pocket of her filthy old apron. She turned a little away from him, and Merry saw her face was troubled. ‘You must not stay. It is not natural for a well-dressed boy like you to come to the Lilies in the Field. You had better go.’

  Disappointment was like a stone in his gut. He nodded and bent to scoop up Tom-Tit-Tot. ‘All right.’

  ‘Not yet!’ She drew him to her, hugging him close. He could feel how thin she was. ‘I wish . . . I wish . . .’ Her voice died away, and then she said, ‘I wish you weren’t going to the king’s court.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘It’s not safe . . . not for anyone, really, but especially not for you. I wonder at Briony . . .’

  Merry stepped back. ‘What do you mean, especially not for me?’

  ‘There is something I’ve never told you . . .’ She sat back and rested her chin on her hand, staring at him thoughtfully. ‘Do you remember the story of how your father was born?’

  Merry nodded. ‘Yes, he was born underwater. His mother was one of the starkin, and she and Granddad eloped from Zarissa. But on the boat she was overcome by remorse and regret, and she threw herself into the water. Granddad dived in after her and saved her, but the shock brought the baby on early, and so Da was born there in the water.’

  He remembered too, though he did not say it aloud, the prophecy his father Durrik had heard all his life, about the manner of his own death. He who was born under water, shall under water die . . .

  Merry did not want to think about how his father died and so he went on quickly, ‘Eventually Granddad brought Da to Levanna-on-the-Lake, where he met Pedrin . . . and my grandmother went back to Zarissa. That’s it, really.’

  ‘What you don’t know is that your grandmother was Princess Druzilla, eldest daughter of King Zhigor the Sixth.’

  ‘What?’ Merry stared at her in stupefaction.

  ‘You heard me.’

  He could only stare at her. Tom-Tit-Tot stared at her too, his ferret eyes round with surprised wonder.

  ‘Your grandfather was a faithful servant of the Erlqueen of Stormlinn . . .’

  ‘Granddad? He was a wildkin?’ Merry was amazed.

  Mags nodded. ‘He kept his heritage carefully hidden—he would have been killed if anyone had found out he was one of the Stormlinn.’

  ‘He lived at Stormlinn Castle? He would’ve known Lili’s mother. I must tell her.’

  ‘I’d tell no-one,’ Mags warned.

  Merry hardly listened. ‘Tell me everything!’

  ‘When Prince Zander massacred everyone at Stormlinn Castle and carried away Princess Shoshanna, Johan set out to Zarissa to see what he could do to help rescue her. He had the Gift of Music and so was easily able to win a job at the palace as a musician. He began to map the palace, smuggling out blueprints to the Erlrune . . .’

  ‘We studied them at the Evenlinn,’ Merry said. ‘They were very good.’

  ‘He was a very clever man, your grandfather. And a good one. He risked his life to get those maps. It wasn’t long before he was appointed the royal music teacher. Princess Druzilla had been married already and widowed without any children. Johan was teaching the children of her younger sister, the Princess Emmazine. The two sisters used to come and watch sometimes. Princess Druzilla loved music and dancing . . . She struck up a friendship with your grandfather . . .’ Mags paused and looked away. ‘I think she was deeply unhappy. There is little left in life for starkin women if they lose their husband and do not have children.’

  ‘So they fell in love?’

  Mags nodded. She hesitated, then said, ‘I think she must’ve thought herself unable to have children. The starkin always blame the wives if a marriage is unfruitful. When she found she was with child, they eloped. Yet she found the journey hard. She had never lifted a finger for herself, and the further away they sailed from the court, the greater her anguish grew . . . I think her courage failed her . . .’

  ‘So I am one of the Ziv too,’ Merry breathed. ‘Starborn.’

  ‘Yes, and closer even to the throne than Zed, with this new law. For you are descended from the king’s elder sister, while Zed is only descended from Zabrak’s aunt.’

  ‘So we’re some kind of cousin.’ Merry could not help laughing; it seemed so ironic.

  Mags shushed him, but said, smiling, ‘Yes. Third cousins. You share a great-great-grandfather. You are actually closer in blood to this Rozalina girl. She is your second cousin.’

  Merry laughed again. ‘I can’t take it in.’

  ‘You need to understand how dangerous this is for you. If anyone at the court knew that you were Prince Zander’s heir . . .’

  Merry’s head was reeling. ‘But how can that be so? Surely not!’

  ‘If Prince Zander should die without having a son, you are the next male heir in line to the throne.’

  ‘Even if that is true, it’d be impossible to prove.’

  Mags shook her head. ‘Your grandfather was a clever and careful man, Merry. He and Princess Druzilla were married in the way of the starkin, with consent before witnesses and a dowry from the wife—apparently Princess Druzilla took all her jewels with her when she fled—and the marriage deeds were duly signed and witnessed. He kept them safe all those years, hidden inside his bell box, along with their wedding rings. He gave me his bell box when he
told me the story, and I have kept it safe for you.’

  She rose on tiptoe and felt carefully among the thatch above one of the rafters, then drew down a long wooden box. Merry recognised it at once. His grandfather had kept the eight bells of his calling in that box, embedded in soft green velvet. Mags passed him the box, and he carefully unlatched it and opened it.

  Eight bells lay revealed before him, descending in size from the heavy bronze death-bell, dedicated to Tallis of the Cold Embrace, down to the delicate birth-bell, dedicated to Tessula, the God of Breath. Each bell had mysterious runes engraved about its girth, which Merry recognised as being similar to those carved about the rose of his lute.

  Mags gently removed all eight bells, keeping her fingers clamped on the clappers so they did not ring, then felt along the side of the box till the velvet lining lifted up with a faint clicking sound. Revealed below was a sheaf of thick parchment, tied together with blue ribbon from which hung two golden rings.

  ‘Your grandmother gave her ring back to your grandfather before she went back to Zarissa. He kept it all these years. I think he must’ve loved her very much,’ Mags said sadly.

  Merry opened the papers with trembling fingers and read the details of his grandfather’s marriage to Princess Druzilla ziv Zitaraz, signed and witnessed by someone named Palila. The same woman had signed his father’s birth certificate. Merry stared at the name. It seemed familiar, but he could not think why.

  He shook his head. ‘I just can’t believe it.’

  Mags slipped down from the apple barrel and seized his hands. ‘It’s true, Merry, as strange as it may seem. It’s ironic, isn’t it? The son of the rebel leader being second in line for the throne? But think what it means to us, Merry! If Prince Zander should die . . . Merry, you must marry this wildkin princess . . .’

  ‘Liliana?’ he cried.

  ‘Who? No! Princess Rozalina! The king’s granddaughter. If you were to marry her, your claim on the throne would be so much greater.’