I went to him, and he kissed me on the forehead and held me gently against him. I tilted my head back, hoping for more than a peck above my eyes, but he didn’t take the hint.
‘I thought you’d be too exhausted to do anything but sleep,’ I whispered.
‘Your father is keeping me busy, isn’t he? He doesn’t trust me. It will take a while to win him over; in the meantime, all I can do is carry out every command he gives me.’
‘Do you remember meeting like this before we fled the village?’ I asked.
He nodded. There wasn’t enough light for me to see what expression filled his face. I had to imagine and decided he was smiling a little sheepishly.
‘You thought I was in love with Nerigold in those days, didn’t you?’ he said.
‘Yes, and all the time I wanted you to be in love with me.’
What an exquisite agony those night-time meetings had been. Nerigold was a gentle soul whom I’d quickly grown to love like another sister, yet my unruly heart had been set on her man. At least, we all thought Tamlyn was hers. To hope otherwise had been a betrayal that stung even more because I didn’t dare let anyone else notice. When Tamlyn began to show signs of affection for me, I was caught between forces I couldn’t keep in balance.
‘I was already a little in love with you, Silvermay, although I didn’t know it. The love you commonfolk feel is a stranger to the Wyrdborn. I didn’t really have to sit outside your house every night to protect Nerigold. After that first time, I came because I hoped you would join me again, like you have tonight. Just hoping that you would come out into the moonlight was a feeling that I liked.’
‘Joy,’ I whispered.
‘That word again. I’d never felt it before. I don’t think it exists among the Wyrdborn.’
We’d spoken of this before, but it had never occurred to me that a being could be incapable of feeling joy. What a terrible thought.
‘Not even when you harm someone or destroy something?’ I asked. ‘Wouldn’t Hallig have felt a kind of joy when he caused Ryall so much pain?’
‘Black joy,’ said Tamlyn immediately, but then he was silent and thoughtful for a long time and I guessed the two words had slipped out of him without any meaning attached.
‘It’s not right to use the same word,’ he answered at last. ‘What the Wyrdborn feel, even in their cruelty, is not a twisted kind of happiness. It’s a poison, like the pus that would have killed Ryall if we hadn’t cut off his arm. This poison doesn’t kill, but it deadens everything it touches. It has its own name. You commonfolk call it evil.’
The following night, I lay awake again, waiting until the rest of the house was asleep. It wasn’t easy to force patience upon my impulsive body; while Birdie, a notoriously light sleeper, sank deeply into her mattress until finally she gave out the familiar snuffles that she always denied she made.
At last it was safe, and I slipped outside to where Tamlyn was already waiting.
‘Have you had any more dreams?’ I asked, when we had walked a little way along the lane and sat with our backs against a wall.
‘Last night, after I left you, yes. Not the dreams I liked on the ship, but not nightmares, either. You must explain them to me, Silvermay. I could see you in the distance and hurried after you, but I never seemed to catch you, no matter how much I kept at it. The frustration was a pain I could feel when I woke up.’
I laughed lightly and put my hand on his arm. ‘We commonfolk have those dreams all the time, and yes, they are a torment. They happen when you want something and feel afraid that you’ll miss out.’
‘Afraid? Is that what I am? Fear is a weakness among the Wyrdborn. We dare not show it or our own kind will turn on us like a pack of wolves who smell blood.’ Then he laughed, too, as easily as I had done. ‘It’s hard to adjust to commonfolk ways. Just as well I have a guide to help me, a very pretty guide.’
‘You must mean Hespa. She is pretty. She would love to be your guide, too,’ I said, teasing him just to see how he would respond.
‘Is she pretty? One day I must take my eyes away from you long enough to find out.’
No one had ever flattered me this way before. Did I dare think of myself as pretty? It was something I would have to ponder when he wasn’t so close.
‘We need to talk about Lucien,’ I said, reluctantly forcing a change in our conversation. ‘Now that Ryall is stronger, it’s time we put our minds to our pledge. We have to steal Lucien back from your father, and to do that we have to know where he is.’
As I soon discovered, Tamlyn was further ahead of me than I could have hoped for.
‘I’ve been thinking the same thing, Silvermay, and I’ve got an idea. To find Lucien, we have to find my father, and there’s one person who might know where he is, or have some clue, anyway. My mother. I called a hawk from the sky this morning. The men with me thought the bird had been injured and took no notice while I pretended to help it.’
I knew of the Wyrdborn’s prowess with animals, hawks especially. Tamlyn had sent one to find me after Ryall and I had escaped from Ledaris, and if only I’d let it see me, Lucien would not be in Coyle’s hands now.
‘The bird will already be in Vonne,’ Tamlyn said, ‘with a message for Ezeldi. If she can find out anything to help us, she’ll send the hawk back to me.’
To us, I wanted to correct him. Already I knew that starting with sun-up tomorrow, I would search the sky hoping for its return.
8
In the House of Coyle Strongbow
In a bedchamber that looked out over the walls of Vonne and the mouth of the Great River in the distance, a maidservant quivered before her mistress.
‘You should have knocked before entering,’ said Lady Ezeldi.
‘I did, my lady.’
‘Then you should have knocked louder!’ As if to demonstrate, the woman raised her voice, making the little maid jump.
‘Yes, my lady,’ she said meekly.
She was too frightened to lift her head and look at the face she would certainly find glaring down at her. It was an elegant face, the envy of every woman in Vonne, thanks to the Wyrdborn blood in her veins. The same blood made men of her kind more attractive than they deserved to be. Lord Coyle was a handsome figure and he was well past fifty, they said, and Ezeldi’s son, Tamlyn, was the most wonderful creature the maid had ever laid eyes on. Even the other son, Hallig, who was older than Tamlyn and born of a different mother, was undoubtedly good-looking. Yet there was something about Hallig that made her flesh crawl and she stayed out of his way as much as she could.
‘Go, go!’ said Ezeldi, flicking her hand impatiently. ‘Close the door after you and be careful you don’t disturb me like this again.’
The girl didn’t have to be told twice. She pulled the door firmly behind her to be sure the tongue of the latch clicked into position. Only then did Lady Ezeldi permit herself a sigh of relief.
The girl was afraid of Ezeldi, there was no doubt about that, but, like all the other servants in the household, she was utterly terrified of Coyle. From time to time, Coyle liked to quiz Ezeldi’s maids, not out of any specific suspicion, but because he was suspicious by nature of everything and everyone, even his own wife. But then, who was she to complain about such behaviour? She did the same with Coyle’s servants when the mood took her, simply to find out what her husband was up to. She didn’t particularly care what she found out, but it enhanced her sense of power to have the information.
She needed that feeling of power. It was a Wyrdborn trait that she had never been able to control, despite her best efforts. She was unusual among the Wyrdborn simply because she did try to control such impulses. She could not explain why she did it, or what difference it made to her, but she was pleased with the effect her efforts had had on her son. Tamlyn would go further than she had done, although quite where it would take him she could not imagine.
It was because of Tamlyn that she had come close to being caught out by the mouse-quiet maid and her gentle knock
at the door. What the girl had just missed seeing was Ezeldi with a hawk perched on her arm. She had managed to launch it into the night air an instant before the girl’s face appeared around the door, but the thick wad of fabric she had used to protect her arm from the bird’s talons was still in place and she’d had to make a show of draping the material in the window frame as though it would make a fine curtain. There was no sign the girl had thought this odd, even though a new curtain had only recently been installed.
The hawk was gone. With its message delivered, the magic would quickly disperse and by morning it would have forgotten her. No matter — tomorrow she could call down another using her own spells. By then, she might have picked up more that she could pass on to her son in … what was the village the bird had named? Haywode. It wasn’t a village she had heard of, but that didn’t matter. What did matter was that Coyle had returned to Vonne that very day and he was clearly excited about something. In fact, he could barely stand in one place more than a few moments, and since she had been married to him for twenty years she knew the signs. When the hawk had come from Tamlyn with the sad news of Nerigold’s death and the surrender of her baby, she’d guessed before the bird could explain that Coyle had the child.
Lucien. She hadn’t known the boy’s name until now, although she had been among the first to understand the horror he was capable of, as depicted in the mosaics found in Nan Tocha. She had tried to head off calamity by sending her son to find Nerigold, and it had almost worked, by the sound of things, until a silly peasant girl had handed the baby over to Coyle in precisely the way foreseen in the mosaics.
It was time she intervened once more, to discover where the baby was being held. Not in this house, because she would know if he was here, but Coyle hadn’t had time to spirit the child away to a far-off land, which meant the hiding place would be close to home.
All this she would pass on to her son tomorrow or the next day. The more she knew, the more she could tell him. There was no time to delay — her husband was pacing the bare floors of his chamber right now. After a brief glance at her face in the mirror, she set off to join him there.
Coyle Strongbow leaned over the large table that dominated his chamber, hands wide apart and pressing down on the maps and reports he’d been studying. He had no particular need to read the reports a second time and the maps were so familiar to him he could trace them with his eyes closed. In fact, he wasn’t quite sure why he’d returned to the table from the window where he’d been standing moments before.
He strode back to the window and stood with his arms crossed over his powerful torso, an elbow cupped in the palm of each hand. Why had he returned to the window? He couldn’t answer that, either, but he would not give in to his restlessness any further. Here he would stay. At least there was plenty to see as he looked out into the night and across the rooftops of Vonne.
Inevitably, his eyes were drawn to the extravagant light of King Chatiny’s palace in the centre of the city. The walls were illuminated by braziers to make them stand out and inspire awe among the king’s subjects. From the palace windows, strong yellow light beamed outwards, like a row of lighthouses above the modest homes close by whose inhabitants could afford only a single candle. To chase away the darkness, to turn night into day, was a privilege of the king and a symbol of his wealth and dominance.
Coyle understood such things and approved of Chatiny’s ways. If word reached him of commonfolk grizzling about the waste, he paid a visit to the protesters and the complaint was heard no more. That was his job, the reason Chatiny granted him the large house he stood in at that moment. Yes, Coyle liked the way the royal palace blazed at night so the people of Vonne and the entire kingdom of Athlane knew who was their lord and master.
Vonne was not only the largest city in the land but also the most prosperous. There were many fine houses — some, like his own, reaching as high as the walls that enclosed the city. Mostly they belonged to merchants and the religos, who divided their time between their estates in the country and the court where they jostled for the favour of the king. But one of those mansions on the far side of the palace belonged to Kemper Boreman, a Wyrdborn like Coyle, and also a servant to the king.
What was Kemper up to right now? Was he standing at his own window, staring towards the palace and quietly planning to steal Chatiny’s crown, just as Coyle was doing? They were rivals, of course, and Chatiny made no bones about pitting them against one another. To employ only one Wyrdborn was a dangerous folly, for they were vastly more powerful than commonfolk. A king or religo or wealthy trader who placed himself in the hands of just one Wyrdborn would soon lose everything he had, because there would be no one to stop his protector taking whatever he wanted. But where two Wyrdborn served the same master, they quickly became jealous of one another and deeply suspicious. As long as a commonfolk ruler kept these fearsome powers in balance, he was safe.
Coyle knew this, just as he knew the sky was blue and the grass turned green after rain, but he couldn’t overcome those weaknesses any more than he could change the sky or the landscape. His powers might well defeat Kemper in a battle, yet he dared not try in case, by some mischance, he was defeated. The Wyrdborn were all evenly matched and the only difference from one to another was their ability to cheat and deceive.
So Coyle remained in perpetual servitude to his master. He was wealthy and wanted for nothing, thanks to the favours Chatiny showered on him. All he was required to do in return was intimidate the commonfolk with his foul magic. There was no risk in doing so, no need to put his life on the line; not even another Wyrdborn could kill him, thanks to the unexplained spell that protected all Wyrdborn so that only an item of their own could do them harm.
The strange spell meant that every possession became a threat. That was why the Wyrdborn gathered so few things of their own, despite their power. Coyle needed only to look behind him to be reminded of that. Apart from the table and a chair, there was no furniture in the chamber; no wall hangings to provide colour and comfort. The Wyrdborn had the power to surround themselves with the most sumptuous luxuries, but they rarely did so. Instead, they coveted one thing — power — and if it were not for the infernal balance that clever commonfolk maintained between their Wyrdborn, Coyle would seize it and Chatiny would be just another slave among the rest.
That was the way it had always been, for centuries. But as Coyle stood at his window that night, he was seeing a new world. The things that had always been were about to change in the most spectacular fashion.
A sound from behind him broke his bloodstained reverie. He turned sharply, ready to deliver an angry blast to the servant who had disturbed him. When he saw who it was, though, he caught the words in his throat.
‘You are up late, Ezeldi,’ he said, turning immediately back to the window to show her arrival was of no particular interest.
‘I was thinking about our son. Has there been any news?’
‘Of Tamlyn? Not a word,’ he lied.
Ezeldi joined him at the window and stared at the palace aglow beneath the stars. ‘I’m disappointed with Tamlyn, at the way he’s run off. Oh, I know he’s safe enough. Who can harm a Wyrdborn? But to disappear and not send word …’
Despite himself, Coyle had to admire his wife’s skill as a liar. She knew their son hadn’t run off like some reckless vagabond. In fact, thanks to the girl who’d passed Lucien into his hands, he knew Ezeldi was the one who had sent him to interfere.
‘The young rogue is no doubt exploring his powers among the commonfolk and doesn’t want his parents watching over his shoulder,’ he said, doing his best to sound like the father of a spoilt child. Just for the pleasure of hearing Ezeldi lie further, he asked, ‘Have you really had no word from him?’
‘No, certainly not. I would have told you, Coyle.’
They lied to each other all the time, they both knew it and took no offence from it. Weren’t they both Wyrdborn? They might as well take offence that the lion fed on the lamb.
Coyle gave a dismissive snort. ‘The scholars are still arguing over their meaning, as scholars always do.’
Ezeldi wandered away from the window towards the many reports strewn across the table. ‘Have you been making your own enquiries?’ she asked. ‘It would be useful to know the meaning of those mosaics before …’ She hesitated over the final word, making him guess what she was hinting at. ‘Others do,’ she finished, which told him nothing. ‘I’m told the portrait in coloured stone was too much like Nerigold for it to be a coincidence. Has there been any word about her son?’
‘How are you so sure Nerigold gave birth to a son?’ He spoke sharply, but she did not seem flustered by his tone.
‘The mosaics are said to depict a boy,’ was all she said. ‘Has there been any news?’ she asked again. ‘Has Chatiny tracked down the boy?’
‘No.’
‘If he does, I hope he has the sense to see the child is properly nursed. It would be just like the king to surround his little prisoner with men when a child needs a woman’s touch, someone who knows what a baby needs.’
With this, Ezeldi left the chamber as abruptly as she had entered. Her parting remark brought a smile of sorts to Coyle’s face, a Wyrdborn smile that could freeze the heart of any commonfolk who saw it. The boy was safe in his hands, but he’d made the very mistake his wife had predicted: he had placed only men in charge of Lucien, to protect him. He had not considered a baby had other needs, which a woman was better able to supply.
He knew what Ezeldi was up to. She had guessed he had the child and would be watching now to see if he sent a maid away from the house.
What else had she said? He went over every word as well as he could remember. She had mentioned Nerigold, but not as a mother who still nursed her baby. Ezeldi knew that Nerigold was dead — Tamlyn must have told her. And now she was her son’s spy. There could be no more delay; what must be done must be done quickly.
Tamlyn Page 7
