Tamlyn

by James Moloney

  ‘Not this one,’ I said. ‘He already carries the mark that will save him. It will do more than that, it will free him from his powers and leave him no different from you and me.’

  His eyes made it obvious that he didn’t believe me. ‘You are an intriguing young woman, I must say. I wish the men who come to me for their studies showed as much determination. But tell me, Silvermay, how can you be so certain?’

  He knew that I had left Nan Tocha with a baby in my arms. According to the mosaics, that baby would become a monster. He wanted to know more, so there was a chance here to make a bargain.

  ‘I will tell you,’ I said, ‘if you will tell me first all you know about the Wyrdborn.’

  ‘All I know? Despite all our studies, there is not a great deal we can be certain of.’

  ‘But you can tell me more than I know now. Where did they come from?’

  ‘From all around us, Silvermay — they grew out of this land, its forces and mysteries. They were not the first magical race to appear. The first were the people who built the city you visited in Nan Tocha. You already know their name, whether you realise it or not. They called themselves the Felan. The strange powers we know as magic began to appear in them centuries ago — no one is quite sure when, not even the wizards themselves. They were not as powerful as the Wyrdborn we know today and, more important than that, theirs wasn’t a harmful magic. They preferred to use their charms and spells for ceremonies that didn’t upset the natural order. It was we commonfolk who urged them to do more, to use their powers to intervene in disputes between regions, for example. The Felan saw the danger in this, what a temptation so much power would become, so instead they withdrew from the commonfolk and lived simply, away from the towns, often in tiny villages.’

  ‘Villages like Haywode?’ I asked. ‘I’ve never heard of wizards in such humble surroundings.’

  ‘Humble, yes, and that was what they wanted. But it was a lonely life, too, living where they were not understood, with none of their own kind to share their strange gifts. That was why they built the city in Nan Tocha, a place where they could live together, practise their ceremonies and remain separate from the commonfolk. That was the very city my cousin, Arnou, was digging free from the centuries of wind-blown sand that had covered it.’

  ‘If the city meant so much to them, why did they abandon it and move so far away?’ I asked.

  ‘To keep their powers from being misused, maybe. There are few writings left behind from that period, but the fragments that have been found suggest the city in Nan Tocha was a peaceful and pleasant place. Then, some of their children began to show a restlessness — not the impatience of youngsters your age who want to live their own lives, but a violent restlessness without a care for anyone else.’

  ‘The Wyrdborn,’ I said, breaking into his story again.

  ‘Yes, the Wyrdborn. It was the Felan who gave them that name, because they were born from their own magical blood yet carried within them something foul and hateful, something that made them strangers among their own kind. The Felan tried to keep the renegades within their own community, in the hope that patience and good example would quell their disturbing behaviour. It didn’t work, and the Wyrdborn wandered away to live among the commonfolk.’

  ‘But that doesn’t explain how they got their terrible powers.’

  ‘It’s not their powers that are terrible, Silvermay, it’s the evil in their souls that governs how they use it. The two are knitted together within them.’

  ‘But where does that evil come from? If you tell me, then at least I’ll know what I’m fighting.’

  ‘The matter has been discussed by scholars for many years. Some put forward one theory, only for others to poke holes in those ideas and put forward their own instead.’

  ‘Then tell me what you believe, at least.’

  Miston made a face, as though I had asked the impossible.

  Scholars were like this, according to my father. They spent long hours reading and thinking to come up with all sorts of clever conclusions, but they were afraid of committing themselves in case they were proved wrong. I had no time for such games.

  ‘You have an opinion, don’t you, Master Dessar? Don’t go back to Vonne and leave me guessing.’

  ‘Since you ask, Silvermay, then yes, I have my own ideas on this. I don’t believe the evil of the Wyrdborn stems from any particular source — not from outside nor from within themselves. No, the evil woven into every facet of their lives is there because they have no humanity in their souls. It is not what they carry inside them, then, but what they lack. They have no way to feel compassion or love, neither as giver nor receiver. The dark magic they wield seems to have filled the space that would normally be taken up by human feelings — those that help commonfolk to live together in harmony, to care for one another, to share and prosper. All of that is missing in the Wyrdborn, as far as I can see. If their souls were able to open up to the humanity of our kind, their magic would diminish.’

  He stopped, seeming to lose confidence in his ideas. But they made sense to me.

  ‘Arnou told us a story about a Wyrdborn who’d lost his powers in Erebis Felan. His name was Haylan Redwing.’

  ‘I’ve heard the story, Silvermay. I am sceptical. The Wyrdborn are devious and it would not surprise me if Redwing’s story was just another trick to win some advantage none of us could quite see. There was talk of a talisman if I remember correctly.’

  I smiled when he said this, because Ryall and I had fallen into the same trap in Ledaris and it had almost cost us our lives.

  ‘There is no talisman,’ I told him. ‘Haylan Redwing wasn’t lying, but he wouldn’t say what it was that had saved him in Erebis Felan, either. It’s easy to see why anyone hearing his story would believe it was some kind of medallion with a special symbol worked into its design. There was a symbol, all right, but it was tattooed onto his skin.’

  ‘A tattoo!’ Miston seemed as surprised as I’d been when the truth finally emerged.

  I nodded. ‘Lucien has that tattoo on his arm now, and when he arrives in Erebis Felan it will free him from the curse of those mosaics.’

  ‘Lucien?’ he repeated, as though he hadn’t heard the name before.

  ‘Nerigold’s son,’ I reminded him. ‘He doesn’t seem so much like a monster when he has a name, does he?’

  I didn’t tell him how Lucien had drained the life from his mother, nor how Tamlyn and I had come close to murdering him.

  Just as well, because even without such troubling details, Miston’s face darkened. In a grave voice, he said, ‘It’s a noble ambition to save the boy, Silvermay, but how can you carry it out now that you no longer have him with you? Coyle will have other plans for him, terrible plans.’

  He’d already linked Coyle to the helmeted fiend in the mosaics who was shown ruthlessly exploiting the massacre for his own ends. With or without a name, my little Lucien must seem like the devil himself to men like Miston Dessar; and already his mind was churning with the dilemma he faced. He was a scholar, a servant of the king and the people of Athlane, and my Lucien was a great threat to the kingdom.

  ‘Tamlyn and I must steal him back again.’

  ‘Do you have any idea where the boy is being held?’

  I shook my head. ‘We’d hoped Lady Ezeldi might help us, but …’

  It was plain to see in the sadness that enveloped his face that he had liked Tamlyn’s mother, despite her Wyrdborn nature.

  ‘It’s clear now why she was murdered,’ he said, staring along the road in the direction he would soon take.

  It was time for him to be on his way, yet there was one question I needed answered before we parted. ‘Will you tell King Chatiny that Coyle has the child?’

  ‘No,’ he said immediately, which made me think he had already considered the matter. ‘Coyle would simply deny it, and he’s not keeping the boy in his home where the king’s men could find him. Lady Ezeldi was sure of it. That’s one reason I haven’t told t
he king. There are others …’ He hesitated, as though the words needed careful examination before he said any more. ‘You should know this, Silvermay: King Chatiny is terrified of what he saw in the mosaics. He wants your little Lucien dead, and I worry about the lengths he will go to to be sure of it.’

  ‘What lengths? What do you mean?’

  ‘I don’t want to say it out loud. It’s too monstrous. But think, Silvermay: if you were Chatiny, if you were sure that somewhere in your kingdom there was a child who would soon destroy all you have, how many babies would you be ready to kill to be sure you’d got rid of the right one?’

  ‘He couldn’t … he wouldn’t kill them all …’

  ‘I doubt it’s in his mind yet, but if he suspected the most ruthless Wyrdborn in Athlane was planning to bring alive the horror of those mosaics, he would have to act even more ruthlessly to keep his throne. That is why I’ll hold on to your secret, for now.’

  He must have seen the effect his words had on me because he folded me in a comforting hug. ‘Take heart, Silvermay. We are a long way from such a blood bath. These are serious matters, though, and the days ahead will be dangerous for all of us. The best solution is for you to fulfil the pledge you made to the boy’s mother. Find where Coyle is hiding him, let me know once you do and I will help you steal him back. You have Tamlyn’s Wyrdborn skills to help you, but you should not trust him as completely as you seem to. In the end, it will be the commonfolk who come through.’

  With that, he bade me farewell and set off along the road.

  I waited until he was out of sight, wishing his final words would disappear as easily. Then I turned back to where I’d left the bucket. Despite the burden I felt so heavily on my shoulders, the first task I performed that morning was to deliver the day’s water to my quiet home.

  11

  An Odd Contraption

  Birdie was barely out of bed when I poured the water for her morning wash. She shot me a look that said What’s got you up so early? then followed it with an approving smile. Still without a word spoken between us, she turned her eyes sideways, directing mine to do the same, and there at the bench, making a mess as he tried to get himself some breakfast, was Ryall.

  He’d done his best to dress himself, although with only one hand he hadn’t been able to fasten any buttons or notch his belt and it was difficult to say whether his clothes were half-on or half-off. I watched him for a few moments, wondering what kind of reception I would get if I spoke to him; but I would have to, sooner or later, and he wasn’t getting very far with the loaf of bread.

  ‘Let me do that for you,’ I said, moving to his side.

  ‘I can manage,’ he snapped and dropped his shoulder into the space between us to block me.

  It was going to be that way, was it? I backed away and stood there like a fool. Finally, he sawed the last of a jagged slice from the loaf and held it up in triumph.

  ‘Got you,’ he said and turned towards me as if to say, I told you I could do it by myself.

  At that very instant, his pants fell around his ankles.

  It was the kind of thing children laugh at in playful cruelty, but laughter was the last thing likely to spring from me at that moment.

  Ryall looked down in horror and immediately shuffled away to his bed in the corner, his good hand pulling up his pants, which only tripped his legs even more.

  My heart almost broke for him, yet if I let my sympathy pour out in words, I would only make matters worse. He didn’t want my sympathy; he didn’t want anything except the two good arms he’d been born with.

  He lay on his bed and turned his face to the wall, and stayed that way all through the morning, whether asleep or awake I couldn’t tell.

  ‘His body has beaten the injuries he suffered,’ Birdie told me later. ‘Even the stump is healing better than I could have hoped. It’s his mind that won’t mend. He has lost his spirit.’

  As always, my mother had placed her skilful finger right at the heart of a person’s ailment.

  ‘It was such a lively spirit, too,’ I said. ‘Ryall always seemed to have strength in him to fight anything a harsh world could throw at him. But this … I wish there was something I could do. He won’t even let me talk to him.’

  ‘Patience, Silvermay. If Ryall has the strength you sound so sure about, it will carry him through. Give him time.’

  Comforting words, yet I couldn’t help feeling Ryall would need something more than time alone to get over what the gods had done to him.

  Perhaps Tamlyn would know what he needed. Men were better at seeing inside other men … well, some of the time. The idea gave me an excuse to go in search of him, and once I could slip out from under Birdie’s busy gaze, that’s where I headed. He proved harder to find that day, since he wasn’t in the fields, and I had to ask three people before one pointed to Mr Stenglass’s workshop.

  What’s he doing there? I wondered. Mr Stenglass was our blacksmith, a roly-poly man with a wide swathe of bald scalp between the hair on either side of his head. That scalp always glistened with sweat, it seemed to me, along with the rest of his body now that I think about it, which was hardly unusual when he spent his days beside the heat of a glowing forge. Like just about everyone who’d grown up in Haywode, I loved Mr Stenglass — for his merry laugh, and for the little animals he made out of scrap iron and gave away to children at the spring festival. I still had my rusting iron sheep among the childhood keepsakes I couldn’t bear to throw away.

  The forge was well away from Mr Stenglass’s house, beneath a roof to keep off the rain, but without walls so the smoke and heat could escape. Otherwise, he would surely melt along with the iron he worked into horseshoes, blades for our ploughs and the many other tools needed for living and farming. The scars on his arms were a testament to his trade. He wore leather gloves to protect his hands from the sparks that escaped from the fire, but now and again one would fly higher and lodge in the thick hair of his forearms, causing the skin to sizzle painfully before he could shake it off.

  My question about what Tamlyn was doing at the forge was answered when I found him working the bellows that turned the fire into a thousand dragon’s eyes and occasionally a tongue when the gases flared from deep inside ‘the beast’. That was what Mr Stenglass had called the fire when I’d come with the other children to watch in wonder, years ago.

  ‘Very good, keep the air coming,’ he was saying to Tamlyn now.

  Tamlyn did as he asked, drawing down the arm of the bellows to force air into the coals. I’d tried this job myself as a ten year old and found the lever too stiff to move.

  ‘I wish you were here to work the bellows every day, young man,’ said Mr Stenglass. ‘I’ve never had the fire so hot.’

  Tamlyn saw me at last out of the corner of his eye and nodded. That was all; not a word followed.

  He turned back to the blacksmith. ‘How do you know when the fire has reached the perfect temperature for making steel?’

  ‘Oh, it’s a matter of judgement. Takes years to learn.’

  ‘But there must be some sign, some way of knowing by more than instinct.’

  Mr Stenglass answered, only to find another question on Tamlyn’s eager lips.

  ‘How do you make the metal as hard as possible?’

  ‘It’s not a matter of how hard,’ said Mr Stenglass. ‘The hardest iron is the most brittle. For what you have in mind, you’ll need a more flexible steel.’

  After several more questions like this, I realised my father hadn’t sent Tamlyn to help in the forge; he’d come to make something for himself. It was a mission that demanded all his attention, it seemed, leaving none for me, and with a call of ‘I’ll see you later,’ that didn’t even make him look up from the fire, I left him to it.

  I was a little hurt by the way he had ignored me, but what surprised me more was the sense of loneliness that became my companion as I emerged into the lane in front of the Stenglasses’ house. How could I be lonely when I was back in the one place
I shouldn’t ever feel that way?

  ‘Silly girl,’ I said out loud, and went in search of Hespa so she could say the same thing.

  ‘You can’t expect his attention every moment of the day,’ she told me once I’d joined her in the garden outside her mother’s kitchen. She was planting spinach, which would stay safely in the soil through winter then sprout with the first warmth of spring. ‘He has man things to do.’

  ‘Shouldn’t stop him smiling when I take the trouble to visit him, should it?’

  ‘One missed smile and he doesn’t love you any more, is that it?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘If he gives you a huge smile this afternoon, will that balance the scales of love?’

  She was teasing me now, but not in a hurtful way. This was what I had known to expect, what I had come for. Hespa and I kept each other’s feet firmly on the ground and sometimes a girl needed that.

  ‘It is love, though,’ she said, her impish expression becoming serious. ‘I’ve been watching you since you came back. Something has changed in you, Silvermay, and Piet is part of that. I doubt I’m the only person to think so.’

  The false name still jarred in my ear, like a wrong note played on the flute during a song you know by heart.

  ‘Do you think I’m making a fool of myself?’

  ‘A fool? No, just the opposite. When I say something has changed, I mean in the best way. Before you left, we used to talk about boys and husbands and love as though we were little girls playing with dolls. That is gone from you now. I make fun of you, but I am jealous, too. You have found the love we used to dream about. For you, it’s become real.’

  There it was at last, in the words of another. Love my friend had said. She had seen what was happening within me and was able to say so, freely, in a way that I could not. I had been hiding part of myself from Birdie and from my father ever since my return to Haywode, hiding the most important thing about me from the most important people in my life. It was left to Hespa to drag the truth out into the open.