by K J Taylor
Gwydion looked around for Wydd, but didn’t see her, so he headed off to investigate the food. The feast was a modest one — the accepting of a new griffiner was more of a minor point of interest, and most of the people there had probably just come for the free food — but there was still plenty on the tables that looked good. Gwydion scooped up a handful of his favourite honey-crusted nuts, and went to the barrels for a cup of mead to wash them down.
He had just eaten the nuts and a very tasty cheese pastry when Wydd arrived. She had put on a green gown that suited her very well, and looked just as cheerful as she always did. ‘There you are!’ she said. ‘How’s the food?’
‘Good,’ said Gwydion, swallowing hastily. ‘The drink’s not bad either. D’you fancy some? Er — ’ he made an exaggerated show of stopping himself. ‘I mean, shall I bring you a cup of wine, Master?’
She giggled. ‘Yes, thank you.’
He duly filled a cup for her and handed it over. ‘Do you always have your celebrations up here?’
‘Usually, unless the weather’s bad, and then we use one of the dining halls, or even the Council Chamber if we need a lot of space. Now, come with me. There’re some people here you should really meet …’
Gwydion followed at her elbow, and paid close attention to names, faces and titles. In quick succession he met the Masters of Building and Farms and the new Master of War, who had just been promoted to replace the late Lord Iorwerth. The recently appointed High Priestess was there as well. Most of those he met were new to their positions, he noted, and many of them had collar scars and Amorani accents that didn’t match their Northern features at all.
‘Former slaves, of course,’ Wydd said when he remarked on this. ‘Some of the ones the Queen brought over from Amoran. Just between you and me, some people don’t approve of them. Not raised in the North, and slaves as well — former or otherwise. But that’s because most people are used to the blackrobes around here being slaves from the South, where slaves were used for mindless things like mining and building. Amoran’s different, though. They have slaves who just build and so on too, of course, but they have other classes that the Southerners didn’t have. Some of their slaves are very well educated; they use them as teachers and healers, and translators too. So some of that sort came over here, and most of them got given important positions and became griffiners. The Queen looks for talent, not birth. And she’s right to do so.’
Despite himself, Gwydion had to agree that was true, and his curiosity about the half-breed queen whom Caedmon and Saeddryn both wanted to kill increased. To begin with, after his first meeting with her, he’d dismissed her as coarse and uneducated. She certainly sounded that way. But now he was starting to wonder whether there was more to her than there seemed. Privately, he decided that if he got the chance to talk to her face-to-face, he would take it.
‘Oh, here comes the Master of Law,’ Wydd resumed. ‘Hello, Druson, this is my new apprentice, Gwydion of Warwick. Gwydion, this is Lord Druson, Master of Law.’
The Master of Law looked about thirty and had a shrewd look about him, but he sounded polite enough when he held out his hand and said, ‘Pleased to meet you, Gwydion.’
Gwydion had learned how to greet a fellow griffiner. He linked fingers with the Master of Law and tugged briefly before letting go. ‘Pleased to meet you too, my Lord. I hope that one day I can sit on the Council with you.’
The Master of Law smiled. ‘Not likely, with your master being as young as she is!’
‘No, I suppose not,’ Gwydion said ruefully. ‘Still, apprentices have all the fun and half the responsibility, right?’
The Master of Law hadn’t looked away from his face. His eyes narrowed. ‘Yes, that’s true,’ he said, sounding slightly distracted. ‘It wasn’t so long ago that I was an apprentice myself.’
‘I thought not,’ said Gwydion, not liking the way the man was staring. ‘Your master didn’t die all that long ago, did he?’
The Master of Law tensed. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Oh, er …’ Gwydion winced. ‘I’m sorry, that was probably a bit insensitive. It’s just that I heard about what happened to the old Master of Law, and I thought … he must have been yours. Your master, I mean.’
The Master of Law looked away. ‘Yes, Lord Torc was my master. But I prefer not to talk about that.’
Gwydion grimaced internally. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said again. ‘I’m new at all this; I didn’t mean to offend you.’
‘It’s fine.’ The Master of Law nodded formally and left.
‘Damn!’ Gwydion didn’t try to hide his dismay. ‘I should have known I’d say the wrong thing at least once tonight.’
‘Ah, don’t worry about it,’ said Wydd. ‘He’s not easy to get along with. He always was a bit prickly, and since his master got himself executed he’s only become even worse.’
‘Lord Torc turned traitor, didn’t he?’ asked Gwydion.
‘So they say. I wasn’t around at the time, but that’s the story and I believe it. Besides, with his wife and children openly rebelling there was no way he could be trusted. The Queen didn’t have much choice.’
‘I heard she gave them an ultimatum,’ said Gwydion. ‘Surrender or …’
‘Yes, she did,’ said Wydd. She drank some wine. ‘But let’s not talk about that now. We’re supposed to be enjoying ourselves!’
‘Of course!’ Gwydion shook himself and polished off his own drink. He offered Wydd his arm. ‘Shall we?’
‘We shall!’ She finished her drink and put the cup aside, and the two of them took to the dance floor.
Heath was an excellent dancer, but Gwydion wasn’t, so he tripped and stumbled a bit before getting into the rhythm of things with Wydd’s help. She was more than happy to do so, with several good-natured jabs at him for not living up to his boasts.
Gwydion danced with one or two other women, but returned to Wydd quickly enough. Not so much because she was a better dancer, but because she was his master and the one he should be trying to please. And anyway, he liked her.
Once they were tired and had built up an appetite, they went back to the tables and ate some more, washing the food down with fine cymran wine all the way from Amoran.
Gwydion was just wondering if he should have another apple tart when someone called his name.
He turned, and found the Master of Law standing beside him. ‘Lord Druson.’
The Master of Law was not smiling. ‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘have you ever been to Malvern before?’
Gwydion eyed him a moment, and decided that despite his awkwardness the other griffiner was just trying to make conversation. ‘No, unfortunately,’ he said. ‘I’d barely been out of Warwick before Echo chose me.’
‘Are you sure?’
Gwydion raised an eyebrow. ‘Of course. Why do you ask?’
‘What about Skenfrith?’ the Master of Law pressed. ‘Have you been there?’
‘No. Just Warwick and a couple of the villages around it. I’m hoping to visit other cities one day, though.’
‘And your partner?’ asked the Master of Law. ‘Has he been to Skenfrith?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Gwydion. ‘I can’t understand him yet. He’s around here somewhere if you want to ask him yourself,’ he added, by now quite uncomfortable and hoping to get rid of him.
The Master of Law ignored the hint. ‘What was your job before you were chosen? What did you do in Warwick?’
‘Sold fabric,’ said Gwydion. ‘It was my father’s business, and I helped him in the shop. Ran it for him too sometimes, when he had to go away.’
‘Hmm.’ The Master of Law’s eyes had narrowed again. ‘For a commoner from Warwick, you seem to know a lot about what’s been happening in Malvern.’
‘Only what I picked up from people in the marketplace,’ Gwydion said easily. ‘News gets around.’
‘I see. What about that scar on your face, then? Where did you get it?’
Gwydion touched it. ‘It’s
a bit of a story, actually …’
He launched into the same story he had told Wydd and others over the past few days, embellishing it slightly as any young man trying to impress would, but as he went on he began to realise that the Master of Law wasn’t really listening. He was inspecting Gwydion’s face, taking in every detail as if he were trying to memorise it.
‘Have you ever heard the name Moren before?’ he asked sharply, dropping the question on him without any warning when he was mid-sentence.
Gwydion had. He started to sweat. ‘Er … Moren, did you say? I don’t think so …’
And then, quite unexpectedly, the Master of Law laughed. ‘By gods, you’re good. You’re very good. Do you know what? I wish my master could have been here to see you, I really do. He admired you, believe it or not. He used to say that if he ever caught you, it’d be enough to make him think his time as Master of Law had been worthwhile.’
Gwydion took a step back. ‘Listen, I don’t know what you think you’re talking about, but — ’
The Master of Law only laughed again. ‘Hah! Lord Torc was right. I knew you were bold, but I never thought you’d have the balls to impersonate a bloody griffiner, and right in front of the whole Council as well. I’m almost sorry that you didn’t get away with it. But I suppose I should thank you. Catching you at last will do wonders for my reputation.’
Beyond the pounding of his heart in his ears, Gwydion was amazed by the pure bewilderment and outrage in his own voice. ‘What? What do you mean “catching” me? Do you think I’m a criminal or something? If this is a joke then it’s not funny.’
The Master of Law grinned. ‘Give it up. Moren, also known as Anadd, also known as Heath, you’re under arrest for theft, forgery, impersonation and treason. If you don’t want to ruin the party, I suggest you come quietly.’
Gwydion’s mask broke. ‘Oh shit,’ he said, and ran.
He dodged past the chattering griffiners, panic racing through his body. There were no guards here, but he would never get back down through the tower without being spotted, and the Master of Law had probably alerted the guards down there anyway. His only hope now was Echo.
There were plenty of griffins around, and they didn’t appreciate his rushing into their midst. Several of them hissed or reared up angrily, and when he got too close to one of them she lashed out and sent him tumbling across the stonework.
By now the guests had noticed the commotion. The talk died down and the dancing all but stopped, as people turned to see what was going on.
Amid the sudden silence, the Master of Law shouted, ‘Stop that man! He’s a criminal!’
In that moment, the mask of Gwydion finally fell away. He was not Gwydion the griffiner, the innocent servant of the Queen. He was Heath again, Heath the wanted criminal and rebel, and he was cornered.
‘Echo!’ he shouted. ‘Echo, for gods’ sakes where are you? Echo!’
And then, thank everything that was holy, Echo was there. He sprinted over, shoving other griffins out of the way to get to his partner. Heath ran toward him, relief soaring in his heart. But then it all crumbled. Echo suddenly stopped and darted away, as another griffin lunged at him.
Heath stopped too and moved out of the way with a yell of despair. If he went any closer while Echo and the other griffin fought, he would probably be killed. And he could already see people coming for him — men and women who had spoken so pleasantly to him only moments ago, some of them drawing weapons.
He backed away, looking frantically at Echo. His partner was doing his best, trying to knock the other griffin aside so he could reach his human, but the other griffin seemed to have anticipated that, and rather than attacking outright he simply moved to stop him, hitting him savagely with his beak whenever he came close. Finally, unable to do anything, Echo ran for the edge and took off.
If he had been intending to swoop down for his partner, he never got to do it. The other griffin took off too and went after him, chasing him away from the Eyrie. Echo flew off, shrieking in despair, and took Heath’s last chance with him.
Heath made one final desperate run for the opening that led into the tower, but he had already lost. When the Master of Law took him by the arm, he leapt at Lord Druson in an attempt to fight him off, but his captor was far too well trained for that. He slammed a knee into Heath’s stomach, so hard he doubled up and nearly collapsed.
Before Heath could recover, his arms were wrenched behind his back and chained together, and he knew it was all over.
As he was led off, he saw the other griffiners all watching him. Some looked angry, others shocked. Wydd was there, pale-faced with horror.
Heath didn’t try to fight back any more. He knew enough about guards to know that fighting back just meant being beaten until you stopped.
All his confidence and easygoing charm had deserted him, blotted out by a wall of blank, black fear. There would be no Caedmon to save him here, no Myfina to plead for his life, no Saeddryn to rescue him. He knew how ruthless Malvern’s justice was. He would be put on trial, then he would lose a hand for his thievery, and possibly his tongue for his lies. And if they discovered that he had worked for the rebels, he would lose his head as well.
If he had hoped to be given a night in a cell first to think and maybe concoct another story, he was mistaken. Down in the prison complex under the Eyrie, he was handed over to the head gaoler, who immediately had him escorted to a bare stone room with a chair that had been fitted with shackles. They made him sit in the chair, and clamped both his wrists into place.
For a moment, he wondered whether they were going to cut his hand off right there and then — but they didn’t. When that happened it would be in public, so everyone would see what happened to thieves.
Nobody talked to him, until two guards had taken up station on either side and the door had been locked. A third man who had a heavy, angry look about him came forward to confront him. ‘Your name?’
Even now, lies were Heath’s first choice. ‘Heath,’ he said. It was the name he had been using when he had joined Caedmon, and the one that sprang most readily to mind.
The man hit him. His face exploded in pain, splitting along the scar. ‘Name?’ a voice roared through the ringing in his ears.
Heath gagged. He could taste blood in his mouth. ‘H-Heath,’ he gasped.
Another blow. ‘Your real name, rebel.’
The word shot through Heath’s aching head. Rebel! They knew, they knew — but how …? ‘Heath,’ he said again, truly frightened now. ‘I’m Heath.’
The blows continued to rain down, and so did the questions. ‘When did you join the rebels? Where are they? How many are left? What were you sent here to do?’ Thud, thud, thud, thud.
Heath didn’t answer. Or, at least he didn’t answer usefully. Before long his eyelids were swelling, and his nose dripped blood onto a split lip. ‘Don’t know,’ he kept saying. ‘Don’t know!’ And it was true — he didn’t know. He had no idea where Caedmon might be, or even whether he was still alive.
Not that it made any difference to them. He was a rebel, and he had come to Malvern and pretended to be a griffiner. Why else would he be doing it if not to get close to the Queen?
In the midst of it all, Heath had room to curse himself for his own stupidity. But it was Echo who had got him into this, wasn’t it? He would never have come to Malvern if the spotted griffin hadn’t forced him. Echo hadn’t known about him, had he? Hadn’t known what he was, what he’d done, what …
Thought disappeared after that, swallowed up by fear and splashes of red obscuring his vision as he grew more confused and began to lose consciousness. His interrogator seemed to know that, because he finally stopped hitting him. Heath felt himself being freed from the chair, and allowed himself to be half-led, half-dragged away.
After that he was tossed onto a cold floor, and a door slammed behind him.
‘That one won’t last long,’ a voice said from somewhere above him.
Then silence.<
br />
Heath never knew how long he stayed in Malvern’s prison. Nor did anyone tell him just how his captors knew that he was a rebel. Nobody told him anything. He was the one who was meant to do the telling here, and nobody else.
They fed him and gave him some time to recover from the first interrogation — but it was really just an opportunity to let him think about his situation, and come up with horrible fantasies about what might happen next. Fear was as good a tool as any sort of punishment they could offer.
But they provided punishment as well, absolutely.
The next time Heath left his cell, it was to go back to the dreaded chair. But this time the burly interrogator didn’t use fists. This time there was a brazier, and a hot iron.
Heath tried to fight his way out when he saw it, but there was nothing he could do. He was outnumbered, and already weakened from the beating he had had. The chair claimed him, and he had to sit there as they tore his shirt open and …
Much later, crouching on a rock in Caedmon’s camp, he shuddered and closed his eyes. ‘I’m sorry, but I’d just rather not talk about it.’
Myfina put an arm around his shoulders, and hugged him to her. ‘It’s all right. You don’t have to. Oh gods, I can’t even imagine …’
Caedmon had gone pale. ‘What did they ask?’
‘The same things as before,’ said Heath. His usually cocky face was grim and closed. ‘But you don’t have to worry.’
‘You didn’t talk, then?’ asked Myfina.
‘Talk? Of course I talked. I would have told them anything they wanted to know. But I didn’t know anything, did I? I couldn’t tell them where you’d gone — you never told me what the plan was if Skenfrith fell. I didn’t know where Saeddryn was, or what you were planning to do next. I suppose I was away too long, and after that I was too ill for anyone to confide in me. Saved your hides, anyway.’
Caedmon looked just as grim as his friend. ‘How did you get out of there, then?’
Heath managed to smile again. ‘Not because of anything I did, unfortunately. Seems I’m not as clever as I thought. But what happened was this …’
What happened was that one night, while Heath was in his cell, a message from a guard in a hurry brought the head gaoler to the door that led up from the prison complex. On the other side, the gaoler found a woman waiting for him.
