‘When I was three, the task of raising me fell on my father’s shoulders. He took to what he knew once more, the life of a huntsman. My mother’s death did not affect me. I was too young to know her well. I remember her holding me, and singing to me, but little else. I do not remember her being unwell. She died of a long fever and my father buried her in her fields - we left that day.’
‘That must have been hard, Tarn, on one so young.’
Tarn nodded. Molly looked kindly at the boy and motioned him to go on. She wanted to take his hand but sensed it would only make the telling harder.
‘I was young enough that it did not matter,’ said Tarn, looking away from the two people left in the world who loved him. He found he could not look at their faces, so full of compassion. Instead, he stared at the floor while he spoke. ‘After a while, it was like the forest was the only home I had ever known. I almost forgot I had a mother, or that I had been born on a farm. I grew, and I learned. My father fed me well, and he loved me and taught me as best as he could. He taught me how to speak, how to think for myself, how to reason. He taught me to read, sometimes from books when he could buy them, sometimes by writing in the mud...’
‘You write?’
‘I do.’
‘Leave him speak, Molly,’ said Gard. He followed with a smile, though.
Tarn took a moment, looking into the distance, as though seeing the past in the dancing fire shadows on the walls.
‘We spoke on things he insisted I must know, about the Thanes, and the history of my country, but all he taught me was useless. I will never need to know it. But I know how to work, and how to dress a deer, how to make fire, and a bow, how to use a knife, and how to fight. Most of all he tried to make me a man.’
Molly thought that sad, that the boy had never been able to be a boy. So much responsibility thrust onto his young shoulders. Never been able to play as a lad, and now a life on a farm. He spoke like an adult, intelligently but without passion. But there was still time. Perhaps the boy could learn to be young again. Perhaps he could finally find peace.
‘My father and I roamed the Lare Woods, and the Fresh Woods, visiting towns and villages only occasionally, eating what we could pick or kill, and that was my life.’
Tarn took a deep breath, steeling himself. He needed trust for the next part of his story. He looked up, and realised he never needed to doubt these two kind people.
‘I knew he was a wanted man from an early age. He would never tell me of his life before he came to the woods, but I know he was a warrior once. He always wore a sword slung across his back, and I saw him use it more than once. I cannot judge the skill of a swordsman, but the night I was taken I think he killed seven men. I think he was a good swordsman. I don’t know why he was hunted, or for what crime. I asked him many times and he would only tell me that he would share the tale with me when I reached sixteen. All he would say was that there were many kinds of criminal.
‘Now I will never get to hear his story, or share his love again. All I know is that we lived in the woods because we could live nowhere else.’
‘So you do not know why the Thane of Naeth’s men hunted your father? Why they wanted you killed?’ asked Gard finally.
‘I have no idea. But my father must have done something terrible, for them to hunt him for so long. I guess he came from Naeth. He was never afraid to go into towns outside that region, merely wary. None of the other Thanes were hunting him. Just the Thane of Naeth. I do not know what he could have done that would make them hunt him for years.’
‘Does it matter?’
‘Of course it does,’ said Tarn, as if it was a foolish question, but he said it with as much kindness as he could muster. ‘Whatever he did made them hate me, too.’
‘Well, there is no way to find out. You are safe here. We love you, boy, and would let no harm come to you,’ Gard told him gruffly, unaccustomed to speaking his feelings so plainly. Molly held the big man’s hand.
Tarn smiled sadly at them both, and for the first time his eyes were moist. ‘I love you both, for you are the kindest people I have met in my short years, but I don’t think I will ever be safe. For some reason, the Thane of Naeth wants me dead.’
*
Chapter Twelve
The Thane of Naeth paced the throne room in his stolen castle. His soldiers had searched the Lare Woods, where the king died, and for a hundred miles in all directions, even into the Spar, and relations with the Thane there were fragile at best. Now the snow was too thick on the ground for horses.
His journey to the cathedral at Kus had proved to be a wasted trip. The crown would not bear his head. The priests there insisted they could do nothing. It was fey, ancient magic that kept him from proclaiming himself king. The crown would only pass to him upon the death of the line of kings. Only then could there be a new king.
Furious though he might be, he was not prone to fits of rage. His blood boiled with the draught his advisor gave him, but that was the only fire he allowed himself.
Instead, he made plans. Perhaps the boy had gone further? He thought it unlikely. One so young could not survive alone. He would put up a reward. The people would turn on him. They would not tell from fear, but greed…the Thane knew greed to be a tool he could use. It overruled fear. It had a power all its own.
Come the spring, when the snows cleared, he would send his men out with the decree. The roads were all but impassable now. He had waited this long, he could wait a while longer.
Patience, he counselled himself. He did not need Merelith for that.
*
Chapter Thirteen
Tarn passed his fourteenth birthday shovelling crusted snow from the first floor entrance of the farm house. Spring was round the corner and the work around the farm was all toward the coming rains and the birthing. New lambs would be born, the fields would clear and the grass would once again become feed.
Tarn toiled and ate. A spurt of growth during the winter meant Molly had to make the boy new leggings. They were loose things, made of spun wool. Tarn hadn’t the heart to ask for something new. They itched like crazy, but he thanked her and wore them each day without complaint. He was not given to complaining. He had a full belly and work to do. He was as content as he could be.
He thought of Rena often, and wondered how her winter had been. With the snow clearing, he thought each day of making the trip out to Rena’s mother’s hut in the woods. Soon, he would go and visit her, perhaps ask her to walk with him. Gard gave him no time free though. Tarn did not mind. He was not a shirker.
For ten days no snow fell.
With spring came rain and the promise of new life. For Tarn, however, there were no romantic notions. He was ankle deep in mud most of the time. One day the rain stopped, and Carious and Dow shone between the clouds. Tarn and Gard stopped work on the fence around their fields, and turned their faces to the sky.
‘Let’s take a rest, Tarn. I think our first sight of the suns for three months warrants a break.’
Tarn, soaked and sore of hand, agreed.
‘We’re nearly there. We should be finished tomorrow.’
'I think you’re right, boy.’ Gard saw Tarn rubbing his hands. ‘Your hands have grown calloused, eh?’
‘Yes,’ said Tarn. ‘I’m like an old carpenter.’
‘Worse things to be.’
‘What, like an old farmer?’
‘You watch yourself, or you’ll never get the chance to be an old anything.’ Gard had not thought to ask the boy what he wanted to be.
‘I’m a bit thirsty, big man. You must be parched.’
Gard sucked his lip thoughtfully. ‘I don’t suppose it would hurt to go back to the house for a bite to eat and some refreshment.’
Tarn smiled hopefully. Gard laughed. ‘We’ll go back to the house. But only for a drink and some cake, mind. It’s not time for lunch yet.’ He knew the boy needed food. Hell, Gard needed food. He didn’t begrudge the boy his food breaks. It was his belly talking, after
all. So long as the boy had food in his stomach Gard knew he would happily work all day without tiring.
‘Do you want a piggy back?’
‘I don’t think you could carry me,’ said Tarn, lengthening his stride at the thought of some cake and a glass of milk.
Gard tried to clip him round the ear, but Tarn skipped out of reach.
As they neared the house, now totally free of the remnant of the long winter, Tarn could hear voices. He looked at Gard, and Gard shrugged at him.
‘I don’t know who it is. Why don’t you go and see?’
Tarn ran up to the door and pushed it open. To his surprise Molly sat at the table in the kitchen and opposite her, Rena. She wore a red dress and her hair free. Tarn noticed her feet were as muddy as his, but for some reason her hair wasn’t wet. He didn’t think to ask her how she walked through the rain and stayed dry.
He stood dumb for a moment, until Rena broke the silence for him.
‘Hello, Tarn. I came to see you but Molly gave me a drink first. I was thirsty.’
Tarn finally found his tongue. ‘Rena! I thought about coming to see you, but I’ve been so busy.’
Gard finally managed to clip him round the ear. ‘You could have asked to go, you know. I didn’t know you had a girl.’
Rena blushed.
‘She’s just a friend,’ said Tarn a little too hurriedly.
Molly and Rena gave Tarn a look that he couldn’t quite fathom.
‘Well, I’m sure you two would like some time alone, wouldn’t you? There’s cake. Help yourselves. Come on, Gard, don’t just stand there like a lummox.’
‘But I’m thirsty, woman.’
‘Come on!’ said Molly, exasperated, and dragged a complaining Gard out of the kitchen.
Now Tarn had Rena alone he didn’t know what to do with her.
‘Well,’ he said. ‘I guess it took you a while to get here.’
‘I couldn’t very well walk through the snow.’
‘Oh, I didn’t mean that!’ said Tarn. ‘I meant today.’
‘Oh,’ Rena blushed again. Tarn wondered why she blushed so much. Come to think of it, his scar felt hot. He wondered if he was as red in the face as she.
He sat down because he didn’t know what else to do.
‘How was your winter?’
‘Hard. Not many people came to visit. Everyone just stays in the village during the winter. A bit lonely to tell the truth. I thought about coming to see you, but mother wouldn’t let me out in the snow.’
‘It was a bad winter.’ Tarn smiled at her. He felt embarrassed, but he thought he could say it. He swallowed and finally said, ‘It’s good to see you.’
Rena’s smile lit up the room.
The two of them walked around the farm and out into the woods. They spent the day talking about the winter, and about Rena’s mother, Mia. Tarn spoke about Gard and Molly, but Rena did not ask where Tarn came from, for which he was thankful. It was the most enjoyable afternoon of Tarn’s short life. His heart felt light for the first time. He didn’t worry about the future at all, just enjoyed each moment with Rena. After her initial embarrassment she turned out to be funny and warm, and perhaps even more mature than Tarn. She told him she trained to be a witch like her mother, and could name every flower they happened upon in the woods.
Tarn didn’t want the day to end, but eventually he knew he would have to walk Rena back through the woods.
The walk took two hours, and by the time Tarn got there, his feet were aching. He knew he had to get back soon, or he would be walking in the dark. He declined the offer of a cup of spiced hot water, knowing Molly would have food and drink for him when he got back.
‘Thank you for walking me back,’ said Rena, at the door to her hut.
‘Thanks for coming to see me. I’ll come to see you next.’
Rena nodded. As Tarn turned to go, she grabbed him with enthusiasm and kissed him on the cheek.
‘Bye then!’ she blurted and dashed through her door.
Tarn stood there for a moment, then walked off with a light step.
He got back in full dark. Molly and Gard didn’t say a thing, but just watched him eating his evening meal with knowing smiles on their faces.
Tarn fell to sleep and it was the most peaceful night since his father’s death.
*
Chapter Fourteen
Tulathia was a more accomplished witch than Rena. But she was also older. She felt the cold more keenly. She wore a thick woollen cloak, and carried a heavy pack on her curved back. Necessity dictated that she walk. A proper witch never rode. Beasts were not to be taken for granted.
Winter had been hard on Tulathia. She could make fire easily enough, but the wood she used was damp or covered with snow. She could not burrow into the frozen earth for the roots she needed for sustenance, and the tree bark she used to make teas and stews with did not grow in the south of Sturma. Over the course of three months she walked nearly the length of the country, camped for a whole month with no way of making it through the massive drifts. She thought the journey might have taken a few years off her life. Such journeys were for young heroes, not old women with arthritic hips. She welcomed spring with a wisdom born of age and the need for warmth.
Tired to her deepest bones, she reached the Wherry. The village was much like other villages Tulathia stopped at on her way south. She asked for directions in the village to the nearest witch’s home, and was directed with a small amount of suspicion and a healthy amount of respect to Mia Terene’s hut, a mile north of the village. The villagers knew better than to get involved in the dealings of witches, and did not question her on why she wanted to go there. Even the children knew a witch. She carried herself with a superior air, and though her back was crooked, she still had the knack of looking down her nose at people.
She made the final mile after sunset, not wanting to make camp so close to her final destination, and knocked on Mia’s door in the black of night.
The door to the hut fitted badly enough to let a draft through. Tulathia thought she would have to do something about that. Her own hut was out in the woods – no matter how much a witch’s people feared or respected her, it always made sense to keep your distance. The mystery was part of a witch’s power. It would not do for her people to know she relieved herself in the woods like everybody else.
The door creaked as Mia opened it. Tulathia was impressed. Mia was a stunning woman. Thick red hair with soft curls, full lips, full hips. Tulathia could see herself all those years ago when she had been young enough for brave men to lust after her. But it was a witch’s lot to be solitary. It was a hard life for a beautiful woman to chose.
‘You must be Mia.’
‘And you must be Tulathia. I have been expecting you. Come in.’
Tulathia didn’t have to duck to get through the door. The roof was turf, apart from the smoke hole, and a fire burned in the centre of the hut. A pot boiled over it, and as Tulathia placed her pack on the floor and sat with her legs straight out, Mia turned her back and poured a drink for the two of them.
‘I have a room spare for you. I will build something larger when the summer comes.’
‘No, girl, you won’t. You’ll have someone build it for you.’
If Mia took umbrage at being spoken to like a girl she showed no sign.
‘I have always looked after my own affairs.’
‘And no doubt been curing ailments in the village for the last twenty years. No, girl, you are owed. You might not accept payment apart from food and respect, but sometimes a witch needs more. It is time the people here came to understand that you are not their right. You think I speak too plainly, for one that doesn’t know you?’
‘I think no such thing, old mother.’
‘You do, and you would do well to say as much. I will be here for a while yet, and we better start out as we mean to go on.’
Mia put the cup down before Tulathia and sat across the fire from her.
‘Very well,’ she
said, and smiled, ‘you are welcome, and this is our home. I do not know why you have come but I understand it must be important. I know you will stay here for more than a year yet, but you will not tell me how to be a witch. I have been a witch long enough to know my own mind. I keep apart from the villagers because it suits me well. I would not be beholden to any man, for they fear what they do not understand and I will look after my own affairs.’
‘That is to your credit, but sometimes even a witch needs help. Why do you think I am here? I know enough to ask for it.’
But you won’t ask, thought Mia. And I will give it just the same.
Tulathia looked round as she heard the scrape of one of the doors in the hut on the wooden floor. A bedraggled looking girl of thirteen or fourteen years with curly blonde hair emerged from the side room and rubbed her eyes, then looked unabashed at Tulathia.
Tulathia stared for a moment too long.
‘I did not see a daughter.’
‘No one can see everything,’ said Mia with a smile. ‘Welcome our guest, Rena. She will be coming to live with us.’
‘Welcome, old mother,’ said Rena, widening her eyes to clear them of sleep.
‘Well met, child,’ said Tulathia with a kind smile, which looked like a grimace on her wizened face. She had not imagined that a witch would have a daughter.
‘Go back to bed, daughter,’ said Mia. ‘There will be time enough for questions in the morning.’
‘Goodnight, then,’ said Rena, and closed the door behind her.
‘A beautiful child,’ Tulathia remarked. ‘Does she have the gift?’
‘That she does.’
‘Hmm,’ she said, but did not explain. ‘I will sleep now. In the morning we will talk more. I am old and weary. Here will be fine.’
The Outlaw King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book One Page 4
