by Ian Irvine
“Thistle!” she screamed. “Wait!”
He kept going, carrying her food, water and sleeping pouch. Aviel tumbled over, twisting her right wrist, and cracked her head against a sapling.
She came round with a splitting headache. She had slid a good hundred feet down the grassy slope, and it was too steep and wet to stand up on. She began to crawl up, her wrist throbbing and twisted foot dragging, but halfway up she slipped on her skid marks, which had exposed greasy white clay, and slid down again.
Aviel tried again and slid down again. She looked right and left. The slope was wet with seeping water and looked just as slippery in both directions. She went left for about a hundred yards and tried again, but without the use of one wrist and one ankle it was hopeless. She considered going down, but the valley below was covered in forest and she had not seen any signs of habitation in the past hour. If she got lost she might never get out.
And she had lost Shand’s valuable horse. He would be furious. She sank into despair.
A horse whinnied, though it did not sound like Thistle, then shod hooves clicked on the track above. Aviel was about to call out when a man’s voice rose in a drunken song. Another man cursed him and they swore at one another for a minute or two. She hunched down, the backs of her hands prickling, until they were gone.
The sun was low now, her clothes were damp and it was very cold. Her belly was empty and her throat dry. She dug a fist-sized hole in the slope and lapped at the muddy water that collected there.
Then in the distance she made out a familiar male voice reciting an epic poem, the Lay of the Silver Lake. It was Shand, heading back to Casyme.
“Shand!” she screamed over and again until her voice went hoarse. “Help!”
Finally his head appeared above her. “Aviel?” He scrambled down the slope. “What are you doing here?”
“Urgent skeet message,” she croaked. “Malien.” Aviel reached into her coat for the message.
“It can wait,” said Shand. “Let’s get you up first.”
“No!” she gasped, fending him off.
“What the blazes is the matter?”
She could not get the letter out. Her wrist was purple and very painful.
“Read the letter,” she said limply. “Please.”
Shand took it from her pocket, scanned it, then glanced at her, his eyes glinting.
“I d-didn’t want to open it… b-but it said urgent.”
“Idiot girl, be quiet!”
He lifted her and went up sideways, digging his heels into the clay and wheezing with every step. At the track he heaved her into his saddle.
“How did you get here?” said Shand.
It burst out of her. “I lost Thistle! I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have taken him.”
“Why did Demoy saddle Thistle for you, great cranky brute as he is?”
“I’ll pay you back… somehow.” But how? Horses were very expensive and she earned hardly anything.
He clambered up behind her. “Be quiet. I need to think.”
Aviel clung to the sides of the saddle, aching with despair. He was bound to throw her out. The horse trod in a pothole, spearing pain through her. She cradled her wrist in her hand, choking down on a sob. Where could she go? Her beloved workshop belonged to Shand. All she owned was one little book on perfumery she had laboriously copied out. If she could not do her work she would fade away and die.
They passed out of the forest into grassy country littered with round grey rocks. Shand’s weary horse plodded on. The light faded and frost began to settle; it was going to be a cold night. Aviel sank into a daze punctuated by spikes of pain. The horse stopped and Shand climbed down.
Startled back to wakefulness, she swayed in the saddle. A handful of stars glittered in the west.
“Where are we?”
“Lippity Crag, an hour and a half from home.”
“But Malien’s message is urgent.”
“Nothing I can do about it tonight.”
He led the horse up a winding track scattered with stones that rocked and slipped underfoot, towards the crest of a small hill. Dark rocks reared up out of the ground – spiky, threatening. A cold wind keened around them.
In between the black outcrops, which ran in lines the length of the hill, Shand lit a storm lantern. A trickle of water meandered through the rocks. He took off the saddle, rubbed his horse down and gathered firewood. Aviel set the fire, lit a piece of bark from the lantern and soon the dry wood blazed up. She sat near the warmth, watching him from the corner of her eye, afraid she had done the wrong thing.
“Hold out your wrist,” he said.
She did so. He probed the swelling. His thick fingers were gentle. He bandaged her wrist.
“And your ankle.”
“It’ll be all right tomorrow,” said Aviel, ducking her head. She tucked her twisted ankle under the other. She was lying; it was bound to trouble her for weeks. She closed her eyes. Cast out! Nowhere to go. What would happen to her? A sob escaped her. She choked it off; she had to be strong.
“Nonsense,” said Shand, going to his knees in front of her.
“No!” The thought of him studying her ugly ankle was unbearable. She stood up, wincing.
“What the blazes is the matter with you?”
“I don’t like people looking at my ankle.”
“Then I won’t. But that’s not the real problem, is it?”
“You’re going to chuck me out,” she whispered.
He frowned. “Why would I do that?”
“I read your private letter… and took Thistle without permission… and lost him.”
“Useless nag,” said Shand. “He’s no loss – if he is lost, which I doubt. How did you get the letter anyway?”
“A skeet came in. With a red message case. I knew it was urgent, so I…”
His face set as hard as the rocks behind him. “You went into the skeet cage by yourself?”
“I was afraid something bad would happen if you didn’t get the message.”
“But you know what skeets are like – it could have torn your face off.” Shand rubbed his leathery face. “I can’t believe you’re alive.”
“You’ve been so good to me, I had to repay you. But it’s all been for nothing.”
“Nonsense. You might have saved the day.”
“What do you mean?”
“I wasn’t planning to stop in Casyme. If you hadn’t come after me I might not have got Malien’s message for weeks, and that would have been disastrous.”
Aviel felt a small inner glow. She’d done the right thing after all.
He dragged a rock close to the fire. “Sit here. It’ll do your ankle good.” She made a convulsive movement. “Don’t worry; I won’t look.”
He took blankets from his saddlebags, draped one around her shoulders and turned away.
“Where are you going?” squeaked Aviel.
“To relieve myself, if you must know.”
“Oh! Sorry.”
When he was out of sight she inspected her ankle. It was badly swollen and the bones were grating together. She tore a strip off the bottom of her shirt and hastily bandaged it.
Shand returned. They ate salted meat and toasted bread in silence. She sat with her head lowered, watching him sideways, fretting. He was worried about something other than Malien’s letter.
“Is something the matter?” said Aviel. He seemed harder and grimmer than she had ever known him.
“My granddaughter’s got herself into bad trouble.”
He took Malien’s letter from his pocket, reread it and tossed it into the fire.
She watched it burn. “Malien said They want an empty world. Does that mean…”
“If they get through the gate, they’ll be aiming to wipe everyone out, except for those young and strong enough to keep as slaves.”
The Merdrun would have no use for cripples. “What are you going to do?”
“Take you home at first light.”
“And then?”
“What Malien asked. Call our allies together, then ride hell-for-leather for Chanthed. Take on Snoat. Find the summon stone and destroy it.”
He lay by the fire. Aviel pulled her blanket around herself, trying to think things through. With no money and no skills to sell she was totally reliant on Shand, but he would soon be leaving. And with Snoat creating chaos on one side and the threat of annihilation on the other, he might never come back.
“I have to matter,” she said aloud.
“You talking to me?” Shand said sleepily.
Her family were useless, but she burned to count for something. “But what can I do?”
He did not reply, and after a while she lay down and tried to sleep.
“Scent potions,” Shand murmured.
“What?” said Aviel.
“Potion making is a neglected branch of the Secret Art, and scent potions – potions whose magical effect comes from the careful blending of aromatics, whether pleasant or foul – have scarcely been made in a thousand years.”
“You talked to Tallia about them the other day,” she said unguardedly.
“I thought you were eavesdropping,” said Shand.
Aviel’s pulse accelerated. Could she become a scent potion maker, an important, useful person?
“I probably don’t have the gift,” she said gloomily.
“You have an instinct for it, actually.”
Her heart soared. “How do you know?”
“After I let you use the workshop, I watched over you for a couple of weeks to make sure you were working safely. And purely by instinct you were using techniques that alchemists and potion makers can take years to get right.”
“Really?” Dare she allow herself to dream?
“One day, by accident, you made a simple scent potion.”
“What was it?” she cried.
He grimaced. “A potent laxative. I won’t go into the gruesome details.”
Heat crept up her cheeks. “I’m sorry! How do you know about scent potions anyway?”
“I’ve made one or two in my time. I could help you with the basics – if you’re interested.”
Interested? She could have flown around the top of the hill. “What are they used for?”
“Anything that other forms of the Secret Art can be used for – healing, harming, protecting, bewitching, and even killing. Increasing strength or enfeebling, giving hope or courage, or creating despair…”
A shiver ran through Aviel at the possibilities. And the dangers. “Surely it can’t be right for one person to have such power over others?”
“You might ask the same question of all kinds of people. For instance an archer, who can kill from a distance without being seen – though outside of war, archers rarely do.”
“You would teach me?” Her face fell. “But you’re going away.”
“The Secret Art is mainly learned through practice. I’ll lend you my primer on scent potion making. I copied it from the grimoire of my late master, Radizer. After my apprenticeship ended, um, precipitately.”
Tallia had mentioned the grimoire, Aviel recalled.
Grimoires are deadly, Shand had replied. She might be ready for an apprenticeship in six months, but she would need a good master.
Then find her one! Tallia had replied. If we’re to survive, we’re going to need every talent we have.
“How did an apprentice end up with the grimoire of a master?” said Aviel. “Surely that’s… unusual?”
“One of my master’s experimental potions went badly wrong,” said Shand. “It blew his workshop to bits, and him with it, but his grimoire, in its iron case, survived.”
“You… um… filched it?”
“I couldn’t leave such a dangerous book in the ruins for any passing fool or villain to find.”
“But you never became a master.”
“For a girl who’s only fifteen, you ask a lot of impertinent questions.”
“Sorry, sorry!”
“As a lad, I was easily distracted. I… um… pursued other career options and never went back to scent potions.”
“What career options?”
“Mind your own business.”
35
IT’S MY FATE
After the bitter ending to the scholarship test, Wilm needed to be by himself. His hopes of studying at the college had been dashed and he just wanted to get away, but he could not head home without thanking Llian.
Remembering the silver tar that Stanzer and Old Sal had saved him, Wilm stopped at a baker’s shop and eyed a large plum pie. It was expensive, two copper grints, but after eating nothing all day he could afford it. It smelled glorious and tasted even better. As he walked along he ate it in small, delicate bites, savouring every sweet morsel.
It took him all the way to the western gate of Chanthed. He kept going, walking fast for an hour and more, until he came to a rivulet. He was miles out of town but it did not bother him; it was a pleasant night and he was used to walking. He had a long drink, washed his face and headed back.
Llian had promised to be there, yet there was still no sign of him when Wilm returned to their room after nine in the evening, and his pack and saddlebags were gone. Wilm was really worried now, for Llian was a man of his word. He must be in some trouble, no doubt to do with Thandiwe, who seemed a very poor friend.
Wilm took off his shirt, reached into his pack for a clean one and saw the folded piece of paper. As he unfolded it, three tars fell out. He read the note, then stared dazedly at the coins. Llian was in terrible trouble, yet he had taken the time to think of Wilm and give him money from his own small purse. Wilm’s eyes moistened. He would not think of the money as a gift; it was a loan that he would pay back in full.
How could he find out what had happened to Llian? He was walking past an outdoor café when he saw a face he recognised, the short girl who had answered the first question in the scholarship test. The girl who, in the gown that had been far too big for her, had looked as though she was trapped in a tent.
What was her name? Dajaes Xix. Up close she was older than he’d thought, his own age or even a bit older. She was slowly sipping a lemon drink as if trying to make it last, and she looked desperately unhappy.
“Hello,” said Wilm. “I saw you at the test. I’m Wilm. You’re Dajaes, aren’t you?”
She gave him a tentative smile. She had small white teeth and soft brown eyes, and Wilm thought she looked rather nice.
“You remembered my name?” Her voice was timid, almost inaudible. “You made a joke after you fell on your face. If that had happened to me, I would have died.”
“I just opened my mouth and out the words came.”
Dajaes shook her head. “And even after falling down, and people laughing at you, you gave a very good answer. You must be so clever.”
She looked down at the table, her lower lip trembling. She looked as though she was about to burst into tears.
“Not really,” said Wilm. “I’d heard the tale told only a few days ago. Do you mind if I…” He gestured to the empty chair.
“Please do. I… I don’t know anyone in Chanthed. I’m so lonely.” She paused then said in a rush, “I’ve spent all my free time for the last year studying for the test.” Her lip trembled again and tears magnified her eyes. “Now I’ve got to go home and confess I failed because my books were too old, and Father will beat me black and blue.”
She rubbed her arms and Wilm noticed several old bruises, faded to the palest yellow.
“That’s terrible,” he said. “I failed too. I don’t know what I’m going to do now.”
“I know what’s going to happen to me. Father will marry me off to one of his disgusting old drinking mates, and he’ll beat me too, and before you know it I’ll have three or four screaming kids and then I’ll die in childbirth like my mother and my aunt.” She burst into tears.
Wilm squirmed. Not having sisters or close relatives, he had not encountered a crying girl at cl
ose range before and had no idea how to help her. Impulsively, he reached out and took her small hands in his own, holding them until the weeping fit passed.
“You’re so kind,” she said. “I’m sure I don’t deserve it.”
“I’m sure you do, since you’ve worked so hard. Anyway, you seem really nice. Did you really want to be a chronicler?”
“No, being a historian is a little… dry. I wanted to be a teller of the Great Tales. I’ve been writing stories since I was a little girl; it’s all I’ve ever wanted to do. Father is a tin miner and he thinks telling is stupid, but I’ve got an uncle who loves the Great Tales and he talked Father into giving me this one chance. But hardly any of the questions were about the tales – they were nearly all chronicler stuff – and… and… What am I going to do, Wilm?”
She looked as though she was going to cry again. Wilm could hardly blame her; if his fate was to be married off to some foul old drunk who was going to beat him he would cry too. But there was nothing he could do; tomorrow they would leave Chanthed, go their separate ways, and never see each other again.
He squeezed her hands. “I’d better go. I’m looking for a friend. He’s in trouble and I’ve got to help him.”
Her face crumpled; she must have been hoping he would stay. “What’s his name?”
“Llian. He’s a teller.”
Her eyes widened; she drew in a sharp breath. “I’ve read the Tale of the Mirror fifteen and a half times. I made my own copy from the one in the Ridsett library. I can’t believe it’s true.”
“What are you talking about? The masters voted it a Great Tale.”
Dajaes smiled, and for the first time her sad face came alive. “Not Llian’s Great Tale, silly. What they’re saying he did.”
“What are they saying?” said Wilm.
“That he murdered Master Wistan before the election this afternoon, then ran for his life.”
Wilm rocked back on his chair. “The master has been murdered?”
“His throat was cut.” She shuddered. “That poor old man. He could barely get out of his chair.”
“I don’t believe it,” said Wilm. “Llian is gentle and kind and generous. Look!”
He pulled out the note, which was still wrapped around the three silver tars. “Even though he was on the run and needed every grint he had, he came back and left this for me.”
