The other young men in the village all looked with undisguised desire at Tarn’s love, for she had been called woman by her mother and Tulathia. Tarn did not mind at all. He was wise enough to take it as a compliment, and none of the other youths were stupid enough to challenge him.
‘It feels strange, walking as man and woman. Nothing is different, but it is like every step we take is new.’
Tarn kept his stride short and slow, to keep beside Rena. In the space of a week she had gone from being his girl to his woman.
When he finally lay with her she would be his first and his last.
‘I, too, feel different. There is a new quality to the air. It is more defined, and I can smell each scent. The colours are brighter when I am with you.’
‘Where did you get such a honeyed tongue?’
Tarn laughed. ‘It is your beauty. It brings out the poet in me.’
‘I would love you even were you a farmer, not a warrior.’
‘I am still a farmer.’
Rena’s expression darkened imperceptibly. ‘And one day you will no longer be a farmer.’
Tarn failed to notice her change of mood. ‘That is Tulathia’s reading of the future. One day we will be wed, and the future will see to itself, as it always does. We cannot change what is written, but I for one do not believe her.’
‘But you have prepared for the future as if you do.’
‘I am prepared for everything, but you.’
Rena gave in. ‘You are a sweet talker.’
‘I mean every word I say.’
‘Tell me you will never leave me.’
‘Whatever the future may hold, you will always be with me.’
Rena smiled and touched Tarn’s arm, as if to reassure herself that he was real. Tarn felt the warmth of her touch and felt more like a man in that instant than when he won his sword.
Tarn took Rena’s hand and she smiled at him, her hair falling across her face. She brushed it back and Tarn thought for the thousandth time how beautiful she was, and how blessed he had been to find her that day, in the mud. As he thought back to that day, and tried to remember when it was he fell in love with her, Gothar crossed the street ahead of him, with his only friend, Asthar.
Gothar had grown into a big man; near to six and a half feet tall, with broad round shoulders. Tarn knew he never exercised those great muscles in all his short life. He felt no fear of him. Tarn had never been scared of bullies even when he’d been a whelp.
Gard promised him he would know fear, and how he dealt with it would decide the kind of man he would be, but all he felt now, seeing the slug like form of Gothar slopping across the street, was pity.
The childhood bully glared at Tarn. He had never gotten over the humiliation Tarn meted out when he was but a boy. Tarn thought it high time it finished. It irked him that someone would spoil his visit to the village, especially with Rena on his arm. He would take no slight, but nor would he disrespect himself by becoming a bully in front of Rena. He would not demean himself with violence.
He thought hard while he walked and they neared the two young men. He could not challenge him – even without weapons Tarn would beat Gothar soundly, without breaking a sweat. And Gard would be ashamed of him, as would Rena. He realised, without having to plumb the depths of his own youthful morality, that to do violence to Gothar again would shame him, also.
He could see no other way. He would take the swan’s road. Even if his heart was that of a warrior, he knew he could only be as pure as his thoughts. He let his head rule him.
‘Gothar, how goes it today?’
The big boy looked confused for a second. Then he growled, ‘Why do you talk to me?’ To Asthar he said, ‘Why does he talk to me?’
Tarn held his anger in check. Slights should mean nothing to him. ‘I would like to apologise.’
The shock on Gothar’s face was apparent, but then it was replaced with his usual mindless anger.
‘Let’s just go our way, Tarn,’ said Rena, seeing the big youth’s face.
‘In a while Rena, I must first apologise. I would that everyone in this village knew friendship, and I offer you mine.’
Asthar nudged the giant, and the look of anger in Gothar’s eyes wavered for a second.
‘Is this some sort of trick? Do you intend to do me violence?’
‘No. Since we were youths you have done no other violence. You have changed since then, and I would hold out my hand in friendship to you. I sense no evil in you.’
Gothar smirked. ‘How do you know my heart?’
Rena tugged on Tarn’s arm. ‘In a while,’ said Tarn, gently.
‘I think I would accept your friendship,’ said Asthar. Gothar glared at him.
The bigger man’s shoulders were bunched, as if for a fight. He would not let go of his grudges so easily, and he would see Asthar as a traitor until he had time to ponder this new development. After all, he’d held onto his anger since he was a boy, even after the night he met the boar.
A man who did not let go of his childhood anger could never know peace. It was never easy to let go of childish whims, thought Tarn. Gods knew, he still wished his father had not been taken from him. He wished he knew his true mother, despite the love Gard and Molly gave him.
Each man had to find his own path to adulthood. Tarn could only show Gothar the same chance Gard and Molly had given him. With peace, a way for the bully to gain a little respect for himself.
‘I will leave you now. But know I hold no anger toward you, and would be a friend as I would to all men. Think on it. Come, Rena, let’s walk.’
Tarn and Rena walked on, and left Gothar staring, Asthar looking thoughtful, and the muddy street behind.
Tarn smiled. Rena smiled at her man with warmth in her eyes, and Tarn felt good. It was as Gard said. It was always better to show love, until no other choice remained. Given time, Tarn would know the difference – when to take the swan’s road, and when to draw steel and show the talons of the hawk.
*
Chapter Thirty-Two
The Heirophant was troubled.
‘Tell me once more what you see,’ the Hierophant ordered.
Jenin would never disagree with him. As powerful as he was, he only lived because his master needed his skills. Were they to desert him there would be no purpose to his life, and the Hierophant suffered no creature that did not serve him in some capacity.
Jenin he needed because his talent eased the way for the Hierophant’s plans. Everything he did was about the return. The old ones would be pleased with their children, ever if the Hierophant himself were not around to see it. He was not a foolish creature. He knew there was no place for him in the future. Nothing, save the Soul Swords, was immortal.
‘I see hints, glimpses of the line of kings, but the whole is denied me. But I see three mortals, destined to oppose us. The future, as always, is uncertain. The return is wavering. The future is now no more than a dream of fate. I see much, and it is unclear, but over the last years the line of kings has been strengthened. As it grows stronger, the vision of the return of the old ones weakens. The blood of kings remains dangerous to us. I see that much.’
‘And do your talents allow you to locate the boy? The last king?’
‘No. It shimmers like gold dust, dancing across the paths. There are many paths the line may follow. I can see the past, and the line is clear, yet the present spins away from my sight with ease. I cannot focus on it, and the dust alights on many paths to the future. It is as if it has been scattered on the wind. No one, not even me, can make dust solid.’
‘It falls to me, I see, to save something from this sordid experience. I do not enjoy being thwarted.’
‘I have failed you, my lord,’ said Jenin, with a bow.
‘Nonsense. You have merely been bested. It happens. Now leave me, I must make arrangements.’
‘Your will.’ As Jenin spoke, he backed away from the balcony and let himself out. He had been given a reprieve, and would not s
quander the opportunity to leave intact. He left the Hierophant staring out across the landscape, the last sun sliding over the distant mountains.
The Hierophant was disturbed, but wise enough to know his second spoke true. If he could not see the line of kings, then no mortal could. But there were other beings that lived on this plane, myriad beings of preternatural powers. Perhaps, given the right incentive, they would serve him.
Already, as the wind rose and brought the stench of human life high up to his tower, the Hierophant thought of one. The bargaining would be perilous, but the rewards...
The rewards would be great indeed.
*
Chapter Thirty-Three
Tarn sat alone, his back to a great tree. The birdsong around him returned, the birds forgetting the passage of a human among them as he sat still. Birds were not wise. They would let a cat among them if it was still enough.
But Tarn meant them no harm. The mirs, the thrushes, the southern tempath, all ignored him and sang in sweet chirrups, the language of the angels. Their song was lost on Tarn.
He was deeply troubled. After walking with Rena through the village, his joy had been great, but now, the day after, the untroubled joy of that day, of being a man with the woman he loved, faded.
These last few years, his life had been one of peace and love. Before this life, he knew the love of one man, his father, and that love had not lessened for the warmth that held him now. Yet he would not return to that life, even if he could. He would not change anything. But Tulathia, whom he held in high regard, warned him yet again that he must leave his life behind, or ill would come of it.
He believed old mother. But how could he leave all those he loved behind? Mia, with her sly, knowing smile. Tulathia’s wisdom and sound guidance. The harmony he felt when with Gard and Molly.
And love without parallel, love he had not expected, that burnt in the pit of his stomach, made his head swim. Rena. Rena and her beautiful face, a face that came to him every night and brought him the sweetest dreams.
How could he leave her behind?
Where would he go? He could not imagine being left alone. In each future he saw himself growing old, taking over the farm from Gard and Molly when they died.
Tarn wondered. Could he live a life alone? Could he return to the woods, or join the guard and fight in border squabbles against the Draymar? Was he destined to become a lone warrior, fighting unsung battles for money, or virtue? He could imagine no other future than a life with Rena in his arms, perhaps a child to show their love for one another.
He would never tell Rena of his fears, or the future that the old woman predicted for him. He would never hurt her so, for he intended to wed her, whatever Tulathia wished. He would make his own future.
And still, the doubt was there, eating away at everything he did. He did know fear. Fear of loss. Not himself, but of those he loved.
Perhaps Tulathia did see the future, but maybe, just maybe, he could make the future his own.
The birds knew nothing of his thoughts. They sang with joy, and resolved, Tarn allowed himself to feel hope. To the hells with Tulathia’s prophesy. He would make his own future. Let no one tell him where his destiny lay. That was a man’s choice, and the only choice he was given. Tarn would be damned if he would give that away.
Tulathia was wrong.
If they ever came for him, he vowed he would be prepared.
No more running.
*
Chapter Thirty-Four
The temperature dropped suddenly, and the Hierophant found himself wishing for a fire, even though Carious’ fading light still hung in the sky. In truth, the Hierophant was little affected by the cold, but it was freezing.
A reek pervaded the room. The leader of the Hierarchy, the most powerful beings on Rythe, with wizards who could control the weather, travel on thoughts and words, hold humans in invisible chains, suck life out of any living thing and drink its power, gagged. He could not abide foul humours. Now the smell of rotting, bloated flesh assailed his nostrils.
He held his robe over his mouth and nose. The incantation was complete, and he felt slightly light-headed from the smell and the exertion. The spell was the limit of his power. To call a being from another plane was beyond the ability of all but the most gifted wizard, and even then it took its toll.
The being the Hierophant summoned took all his power, and the cost of its service was greater than any one else could afford.
The air shimmered, and filthy languages of long dead races, and alien creatures that spoke in strange, blood drenched tongues, came tumbling through a rent in the air. Shapes and colours merged into a muddy form in the centre of the room, and words and thoughts barged their way into the Hierophant’s senses.
He reeled back in his chair, and almost fell. The power was greater than anything he imagined. Were it not for the trinket he held, taken from the deep vault beneath his tower, he would have been concerned. As it was, he could sense the being’s lust for it. Its words were thick with hatred, but tinged with desire.
‘Guryon…kill. The…jiful…price.’
The Hierophant deciphered its words from the tumble of languages that sprung forth from the Guryon’s many mouths. He could feel the blood pounding in his ears. It took all his power to control, to hold the creature on this plane. The planes’ assassin did not like being tethered to one place, and it could easily tear the Hierophant’s soul from his body should it wished. But the bargain held it in check. It could see the gleam of metal across the Hierophant’s lap, and feel the magic bound within.
‘The line of kings must die. You will find the boy for me, and end the line. Then the price will be paid.’
The form before the Hierophant flickered between the planes, but could not leave.
‘There is no line.’
‘One day the line will become true. You may even sense those close to the line. I want the line and everything it touches to be killed. Do what you can. Find the line, or the price will not be paid. The dagger will be yours. One more tool for you. I know what you desire. You know my desire. Now be gone from my sight.’
The Guryon howled. The air caught fire and with a crack it was gone from the Hierophant’s uppermost room. The Hierophant used the last of his power to extinguish the flame, then slumped in his chair, spent.
Dealing with devils took it out of him. But he knew the bargain. If the Guryon could not find the line of kings, then nothing could. One chance, and one chance only.
Tonight he would sleep peacefully, tired to the bone and safe in the knowledge that no matter how long it took, the Guryon would find the line of kings and sever it from the fates.
Its greed was legendary. If it could be controlled by something it wanted, it would hunt for eternity.
The Hierophant laid the dagger beside his bed. It was a shame to lose the dagger of Cergyon, a blade that could slice through even spirit armour, through sentinels, but the price of dealing with demons was always high. The planes’ assassin’s services were worth it.
The Hierarch dragged himself from the chair to the bed, dropped down onto it, and fell into a deep, untroubled sleep.
*
Chapter Thirty-Five
The suns were bright overhead as Tarn made his way to Tulathia’s call. A man now, she was to fulfil her promise to him, to tell him of his past.
The suns’ early warmth seeped through the trees to fire Tarn’s muscles. He ran, his sword held tight against his hip with his left hand, racing through the trees.
Ever since he had met Tulathia, she had held onto the knowledge of his past with both fists, and even with all his wiles Tarn had been unable to wrest it from her.
Walking now, Tarn saw the clearing where the witches’ hut sat.
Gone was the sod roof, the ill-fitting door, having been replaced over the years with the fruits of the villagers’ toil. Now it had a wooden slat roof, and the doors and windows all fitted snugly against their frames. Its chimney was of stone, and it had
a hearth inside, instead of a stone circle for the fire. The villagers worked with love, and since Tulathia arrived there were no whispers against the witches. They worked for the people, and the people, gradually, grew to love and respect them. It warmed Tarn’s heart now to call the Wherry his home.
He knocked, tentatively, as always. He was no longer afraid of the witches, but he was wary of disturbing some difficult spell and ruining a farmer’s crops, or more likely a potion to ward off ill humours, or raise his ardour.
‘Come in, Tarn,’ came the creaking voice of Tulathia.
Tarn pulled the door open, and stepped inside.
No light snuck in around the windows, shut as they were. The only light was from the fire burning in the round hearth, suffused through the smoke. He could make out three figures, seated around the fire. Stone supports held the chimney in place, but Tulathia insisted that they be able to sit around the fire, not in front of it. Three stone pillars held it up, and the fire sputtered within them. They were burning moss.
Tarn made his way closer. Rena smiled through the fog at him, and he felt his heart leap as it always did.
Mia passed him a brew still bubbling from the pot over the fire. There was little heat in a moss fire, and much smoke, but still enough to keep a pot warm, if not boiling. Tarn coughed as he took the drink, wondering what it was. As if reading his mind Mia told him, ‘It is for the mind. To make it open. Some doors within a mind close as time passes. For you to receive your present it must be open all the way. Drink. And relax. You will get used to the smoke.’
‘Thank you,’ said Tarn. Unquestioningly, he accepted what Mia told him and drank deeply of the brew in his cupped hands.
‘Welcome, Tarn, son of Ulrane. It is time for you to become the man you are destined to be, although you will not be happy with the news I bring,’ said Tulathia.
The Outlaw King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book One Page 9
