‘Oh, you do exaggerate,’ the smaller man said, rolling his eyes. ‘I never said steal. I said we’d buy passage. Seacastle still holds out against Thorlberd’s troops, so the port might be open.’
‘Why are you running away?’ Zastra asked.
‘Not running away, my dear,’ said Gildarn, ‘a sensible retreat that’s all. I don’t see that there will be much demand for quality clothing in the new Golmeira, what with the Kyrgs and their furs and Thorlberd’s terrible drab uniforms. So I suspect there won’t be much call for our trade. Besides, I have always hankered after a return to the Far Isles. I’m from there, you see.’
‘In any case, Golmeira is not now a good place for a delicate soul such as Gil,’ remarked Dray. ‘Too much unpleasantness around.’
‘Delicate? Me?’ protested Gil, eyes glittering. ‘You were the one in tears when you heard the news of Lady An…’ He glanced at Zastra and left the sentence unfinished.
‘Won’t you come with us?’ asked Dray to cover the awkward silence. ‘We go to Gorst Town, where we will change horses, and then south towards the coast.’
As Zastra hesitated, Gil looked at her closely.
‘Be careful what you tell us, my dear. Dray here has a very loud and uncontrolled mind – you don’t have to poke at all, he broadcasts his thoughts aloud to any mindweaver in the area. Not that they are usually worth listening to.’
‘Loud and uncontrolled!’ exclaimed Dray. ‘This from the man wearing yellow.’
‘Yellow is very fashionable at present, Dray. Besides, you swore this morning that you liked it.’
‘I was lying. Couldn’t you tell, oh marvellous mindweaver that you are?’
‘Lying? Why in the stars did you lie to me, dearest?’
Dray sighed. ‘We’d never have made it out of the inn otherwise.’
They were interrupted by Findar being sick, no doubt due to the combination of the rich milk and the juddery ride. Some of the vomit splattered onto the shoulder of Gil’s bright yellow tunic. He looked down at the mess in shock.
‘Sorry,’ mumbled Zastra, reaching inside her bag for a rag to clean up the mess.
‘No need to apologise,’ said Dray. ‘The boy’s response is a perfectly reasonable one to such a garish tunic.’
There was a moment or two of awkward silence while Zastra cleaned Findar’s face. He protested vigorously. Gil cleared his throat.
‘I only meant to say that I would not wish us give any secrets away should Dray and I come across one of Thorlberd’s black ravens.’
‘Black ravens?’
‘That’s what they are calling the mindweavers, due to those floppy black cloaks that they all wear. Terrible cut, very unflattering, but what can you expect? Now, child, what do you say? Will you flee with us?’
‘I’m not sure,’ said Zastra, kissing Findar in an attempt to soothe him. ‘How long before we reach Gorst Town?’
‘A good while yet, my dear,’ said Gil. ‘Now, will that boy ever be quiet? I’ve never understood why people have babies. Just a lot of unnecessary noise and mess in my opinion.’
‘He’s usually pretty quiet. I think he doesn’t like the bumpiness.’
‘We’d slow down, only I don’t know how long my sleep suggestion will keep those blasted Kyrgs quiet. Indeed, I’m quite astounded that they are not already chasing us down. We cannot afford to tarry.’
‘How come you don’t have a mindweaver ring?’ Zastra asked. ‘I thought all mindweavers were supposed to wear one.’
‘If they know you are a mindweaver you get dragged into service to one of the Marls or the Grand Marl. I don’t care to take orders from anybody,’ replied Gil. ‘Luckily, my parents were living in the Far Isles when I reached the age they make you take the test and so they missed me. I didn’t see any need to point out their mistake. You won’t tell anyone will you?’
Zastra shook her head.
‘How did you get into my mind without me knowing?’ she asked. ‘I’ve always felt something before.’
‘Ah, well, those official mindweavers don’t do subtlety. They just like to take and so they try to break down the door, so to speak. But there is often a back entrance if you know where to look.’
‘And where was my back entrance?’
‘Well, the surface of your mind didn’t fit with your appearance, that was all. I dug a little deeper into those thoughts that didn’t fit. As I say, I couldn’t read much, but I could tell you weren’t who you were pretending to be.’
‘Then how will we ever escape my uncle and those black ravens of his?’ cried Zastra in despair. ‘I’m just not strong enough. Dobery was teaching me but he had to leave. He always said I had to learn to control my emotions more, but it’s so hard.’
‘Control your emotions, eh? Yes, I supposed that often helps, when you need to maintain focus. But here’s a little tip for you – sometimes a strong emotion is the best way to defeat a mindweaver.’
‘Really?’ asked Zastra. ‘How?’
Gil smiled knowingly. ‘Once a mindweaver is in your head he or she can see what you think and feel what you feel. I have learnt that if you catch them unawares with a strong emotion, like pain, or sorrow, then it can throw them right out. If you can learn to harness that emotion and let it out in one burst just at the right time, it’s very powerful.’ Gil paused, before continuing with great tenderness. ‘I suspect that you have a good store of sorrow my dear.’
It was dusk when they clattered onto the streets of Gorst Town and they only just beat the curfew. Zastra was relieved when the soldiers waved them through without stopping them. Seeing the look on her face, Gil winked at her, tapping his head with a smug look.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘I can take care of the soldiers. We’ll stay at an inn tonight and in the morning you can decide what to do.’
That night, Zastra slept deeply on a mattress that, although thin and coarse by the standards she had been used to at Golmer Castle, felt to her like the softest featherbed ever to have existed. The next morning, Gil and Dray treated her to a large breakfast of toast and honeyed porridge. Once her belly was full, Zastra consulted her map. Despite the kindess of the two men, she felt bound to stick to the plan her father had outlined. It was his last command to her and she must not fail him this time. The main road skirted the Evergreen Forest, heading southeast out of Gorst Town. About twenty leagues from Gorst Town, the main road divided, one fork heading south towards Seacastle, the other due north up the valley to Lyria. However, following the road until it split would take them a long way out of their way, before they could head north. Zastra reckoned if they left the main road and headed northeast on foot, they could cut across a large spur of forest and find a more direct route to Lyria.
She rode with Gil and Dray in the trap until Gorst Town was well behind them. She then asked Gil to stop the cart long enough for her to dismount and say her goodbyes. As she tried to express her heartfelt thanks to the two cloth merchants, Dray turned away, burying his face in a large white cloth.
‘He doesn’t mean to be rude,’ said Gil, ‘he just hates goodbyes.’
He handed down her bag.
‘Be careful my dear,’ he said. ‘If you ever need a friend in the Far Isles, just come and find us.’
She nodded and waved at the trap as it disappeared down the road. She found a small track that seemed to head in the right direction and set off. She made good progress. The food and rest had done her good and her body was beginning to adjust to the physical demands placed on it. She had become used to carrying Findar and even her blisters had begun to heal. Nevertheless, they travelled all day without reaching the forest. In the gathering gloom she came across a large barn, where she found a pile of straw and she and Findar bedded down for the night. They were rudely awakened next morning by a savage looking woman with a pitchfork.
‘Get out!’ she yelled. ‘I’ll not have beggars and brats hanging around my barn. Go on.’
Findar began screaming and Zastra scrambled to collect the
ir belongings. Keeping Findar well away from the sharp prongs, she skirted the woman warily and then hurried away.
‘Don’t come back!’ yelled the woman.
‘Don’t worry, we won’t,’ muttered Zastra, heading as quickly as she could for the welcome cover of the forest. The ground began to rise steeply as the terrain changed from rolling hillside to steeper mountain ranges. Before long, they were back under the deep green blanket of the Evergreen Forest and heading towards Lyria.
Chapter Thirty-One
Brutila paced up and down Riverford’s great hall, cursing with impatience. They had already wasted far too many precious days in this stinking city and were no closer to the truth. Yet they had been within five days of catching Zastra and the twins. Of course that flekk Finton hadn’t helped, with his lies and deceptions.
A hard ride and relay of horses had taken Brutila to Trindhome within two days of leaving Highcastle village. They had found Hedrik’s hovel easily, and she hadn’t even needed to use mindweaving to get answers. Hedrik’s wife had been most helpful. Brutila curled her lip in disdain.
‘I told him there’d be trouble,’ the peasant woman had said, bitterly. ‘He came back from Highcastle with those brats, wanting us to hide them here. Stupid soft-hearted fool. I made them leave. He sent them off to Riverford with Hilfrik on his wagon.’
‘When did they leave?’ asked Brutila.
‘Must be, what, four, mebbee five days ago,’ said the woman.
‘And where is this Hilfrik?’
‘I don’t know. He came back here but then left again yesterday, heading west with a big load.’
Brutila hardly needed to scan the woman’s mind to know she was telling the truth, although she made sure all the same. It never paid to take chances. A decision had to be made quickly. Should they go on towards Riverford, or backtrack to try and find this man Hilfrik? In the end the choice was simple – they most go on. Speed was of the essence if they were to catch the children. Too much time had already been wasted by Grindarl’s ineffectual efforts. She would leave instructions for the guards to stop and question Hilfrik when he returned. She sent back another soldier to carry the news of her progress to Thorlberd and then, wasting no time, she called for a fresh horse and was on her way to Riverford.
That had been six days ago. The first delay had been at the Westgate, where they had failed to recognise her authority. Brutila shook her head. They would learn. Soon her name would be feared throughout Golmeira. Thorlberd was right; you had to gain both fear and respect from the people in order to rule effectively. The beardless youth who had dared to try and scan her mind had paid the price. He was even now writhing in the agony of the perpetual nightmares that she had planted in his head. Brutila smiled inwardly. She had enjoyed making the soft-bellied fool pay for his presumption. Since she had begun her routine of taking cintara bark every morning with her chala, she felt invincible. Thorlberd might counsel caution but it had been his genius to revive the old custom so as to gain the advantage over Leodra’s council. Of course, weak willed fools had succumbed to its madness, but they deserved their fate. She herself had the strength to control the cintara. One dose a day only, despite the continuous desire for more. It was only those who broke this rule that risked losing themselves.
After an inexcusable delay, she had been granted an audience with Finton, self-styled Prefect of Riverford. Brutila had noted with disdain the large personal guard of Kyrginites that Finton felt he needed. Clearly he was unpopular and even more clearly he was a coward.
‘My dear Master Brutila,’ he had gushed. ‘It is a pleasure to welcome you to Riverford. Let me assure you that we shall extend you any possible courtesy you may require. Tonight I shall lay on the best banquet that Riverford can offer, and I—’
‘That will not be necessary,’ she snapped, cutting him short. ‘I have an important job to do and no time to waste. We are searching for the foul offspring of Leodra, disgraced former Grand Marl. They must be caught and dealt with. Nothing must interfere with the succession of Thorlberd and his line.’
‘Of course, of course,’ agreed Finton, bowing and plucking nervously at his ridiculous outfit of gold-embroidered trousers and a clashing yellow tunic. ‘Tell me what you require, Master Brutila and I shall order it done immediately.’
A close examination of the Westgate log indicated that Hilfrik and his wagon had entered Riverford five days earlier. But there was no record of a young boy or girl with two little babies leaving via either gate, suggesting that they were still within the city walls. Brutila ordered that the gates of the city be closed and a thorough search be carried out. Finton acceded to this request, although rather reluctantly, in Brutila’s opinion. A three day search had failed to uncover the fugitives, although a good many people had been added to the already overcrowded dungeons.
‘They must have gone,’ said Finton. ‘We must re-open the gates at once.’
‘But there are no records of them leaving. Is that not right?’ said Brutila. ‘Are you certain that you have searched everywhere?’ Finton swallowed nervously, wilting under the gaze of her pale grey eyes. Her eyes narrowed. What was he not telling her? She probed deeper into his mind and saw something which worried her.
‘You are having trouble with blue fever?’ she asked.
‘Who told you that?’ She merely fixed her wet-eyed glare more firmly upon him and at last his eyes widened in understanding.
‘Of course, of course,’ he smiled, attempting to cover his fear with nervous joviality. ‘Just a small problem. There have been some fatalities in the poorer areas and we have had to seal off the southwest quarter to prevent the fever from spreading. It’s only beggars and vagrants at present and we wish it to remain so. We don’t want to spread panic across the city, so we are trying to keep it quiet. Rumours of blue fever are bad for trade.’
‘This is no time for worrying about your tax revenues,’ snapped Brutila. ‘You should have told me this as soon as I arrived. We must search the quarantined areas immediately.’
‘Yes of course, Master Brutila. I shall see to it at once,’ stammered Finton. He scuttled out of the room in search of the Captain of the Guards. Brutila shuddered inwardly. She had no fear of soldiers or mindweavers. But contagion, foul and indiscriminate, that was different. She would have to be careful. The door opened and Finton came slinking back in.
‘Well?’ she snapped.
‘I’m afraid the Kyrgs are refusing to enter the southwest quarter,’ Finton said, apologetically. ‘They are afraid of catching the fever.’
‘They shall fear me more,’ said Brutila. ‘Send me your mindweavers.’
The two remaining mindweavers of Riverford were brought to Brutila and she explained her plan. Both were eager to help. They had no wish to share the fate of their young compatriot from the Westgate. Together they forced the Kyrginite soldiers into the fever zone. Any children were hauled to the edge of the temporary boundary erected to quarantine the area. The barrier had been doused in jula oil and set on fire to ward off the infection. Brutila stationed herself on the safe side of the barrier. Wave upon wave of children were brought forth, several with the tell-tale blue lips of the fever. Using her mindweaving skills Brutila determined that none were the ones she was after. It was an exhausting and disgusting task. When they had finished, the Kyrgs attempted to leave the fever zone. That could not be allowed. Brutila and other mindweavers tried to force them into obedience but there were many Kyrgs and fear threatened to give them strength to shake off the mental hold. Finton instructed his archers to shoot any who tried to cross the barrier, but the Kyrgs looked as if they feared the fever more than arrows. Brutila, sensing their danger, turned her attention to Finton’s large tattooed Kyrg and took control of his mind. She forced the large Kyrg to bark out a set of orders and his compatriots within the quarantine zone obeyed instantly and made no further attempt to leave.
Brutila might have saved Riverford from being overrun by the fever, but she was still no
closer to her aim. Perhaps Leodra’s brats had caught the fever and died. It would explain why no one had seen them. If the bodies had been burnt, as many had been, there would be no way to identify them. It seemed as if they were at a dead end. However, Brutila refused to deal in possibilities. She required facts. Just that morning, she had ordered the gate records be re-examined for any discrepancies and steeled herself for a round of deeper probes into the minds of the guards. If she could get into their memories, she might be able to spot the children herself. Such an exercise would be extremely challenging, since memories were changeable and not always accurate. Even with an extra evening dose of cintara bark, she would struggle to retrieve what she needed. Her reverie was broken when Finton dashed into the room carrying a large, leather bound ledger.
‘I think we may have got something,’ he cried, as eager as a small child trying to please its mother.
‘Well, what is it?’
‘Here, an entry the day after we believe the chil… the traitors… entered Riverford. A woman, Nula of Borsha, is recorded leaving with a large family. Nothing unusual there, you might say. But see here, her entry three days prior lists her with six children but on the way out she had eight.’
‘Eight?’ enquired Brutila. ‘Not nine?’
‘Ah, but listen,’ said Finton. ‘The mindweaver Ilursa remembered this woman, and said that she was certain that the woman had at least two young babies.’
‘Bring Ilursa to me,’ ordered Brutila. The plump Mindweaver was brought before her, pale-faced and trembling.
‘I’m sorry Master Brutila,’ she stammered anxiously. ‘I had no idea that these might be the ones. The weaver is well known around these parts for her unruly brood. We had no reason to suspect them.’
‘But you scanned all of them?’ It was a statement rather than a question. Ilursa shrank before the amphibious gaze.
‘Of course. I recall she had foul and dirty thoughts.’
‘I don’t care about the woman. What about the children?’
Realm of Mindweavers: Book one: Tales of Golmeira Page 17
