Fortunately for Tor, no one had seen this furious exchange, for Quist had sent his men off on errands just as Tor was making his way up the gangplank. But now the men arrived back from their various tasks and spotted their captain slumped on the deck.
‘What happened?’ one cried, hurrying forward.
‘He collapsed,’ Tor lied. ‘Let’s get him to his cabin. I’m a physic and can help.’
Quist was carried to his chambers and laid on his bunk. Tor reassured the men that he would call them as soon as he had performed a physical examination. One especially persistent fellow he sent off to find some fresh water. It bought him the precious time he needed.
The captain slowly began to come to. Tor administered some arraq from the satchel he now habitually carried with him.
Quist’s eyes opened. ‘My head hurts,’ he groaned.
‘Here, sip some more of this,’ Tor said, offering the vial containing the rapidly dwindling liquid. Quist did as he was told and made the effort to sit up.
The sailor arrived back, breathing hard, with fresh water in a jug.
‘Dismiss your man; we must talk,’ Tor muttered under his breath.
‘Lurg, I’m fine now. Finish off your duties.’
Lurg looked edgy. ‘Are you sure, Captain? You look right pasty to me, sir.’
‘I’ll be fine. Just a headache. I felt dizzy and stumbled.’
‘Righto, Captain, sir. Call me if you need anything,’ Lurg said, before closing the door.
Quist fixed Tor with a baleful stare from his one good eye. ‘Now what exactly happened up there?’
Tor sighed. ‘I’m sentient, Quist. I used my magic on you.’
‘Aren’t you the lucky one?’ Quist replied, rubbing at his temple. ‘Actually I feel better. That stuff is good, physic.’
‘So people tell me.’ Tor grinned. ‘I’m sorry for hurting you.’
Quist shrugged. ‘I would have hurt you, otherwise. I’ve survived worse.’
‘Are you bothered that I am sentient?’
‘No, but it seems you are. I heard that Tallinor had abolished the Inquisitors. Yet you are obviously still nervous.’
‘You never know how people may react. I don’t broadcast it.’
‘Neither will I,’ Quist said. He pushed his feet over the edge of his bunk and groaned. ‘I would like such skills myself,’ he added. ‘So, Gynt. Can we use this talent of yours to save Locky?’
‘It’s my intention but the Queen has forbidden it. She knows, you see.’
‘Do you talk in your sleep then?’ Quist began to laugh.
Tor felt himself go red. ‘Does everyone know?’
‘They’re all quite proud of you. I certainly am. Never did get the opportunity to sleep with a real Queen myself, though I have my princess waiting back home.’
‘You really love her,’ Tor said, inadvertently thinking out loud.
Quist looked at him in surprise. ‘Yes, Gynt, I really do. Why do you find that difficult to understand?’
Tor shuffled, uncomfortable about the fact he had lain in Eryn’s arms just days ago. ‘I don’t find it difficult. I am incredibly fond of Eryn and always felt she deserved the true love of one man. And now she has it. I’m happy for you both.’
Quist grunted. ‘She won’t love me too much if I return with her brother’s corpse.’
‘No. Well, you’ll have to trust me, Quist. I promise you I will not allow a hair on Locky’s head to be hurt.’
‘You’re all we have then, because the lad’s under very tight supervision. I’m not even allowed to talk with him. Not that he cares. He is driven by revenge and is not old or wise enough to know there are different ways to get even.’
Tor nodded. ‘I’m going to the city square now. It’s time for me to meet this fair Maiden.’
‘I’ll be right behind you. Just a few more things to sort out here. We leave tomorrow morning. You’re welcome to come back to Caradoon with us.’
‘I’m grateful, but I still have to find my falcon.’
Tor headed back into the city centre towards the amphitheatre. He felt brighter. He knew his powers could easily overcome the Maiden’s locks, no matter how complex they may be. But he was still wondering what to do next about Cloot. Without Sylven to open doors for him, he had a mighty task ahead in tracking down a bird which no longer communicated with him. The region was dotted with dozens and dozens of tiny islands and Cloot could be on any one of them.
Again Tor wondered about the silence. He felt sure that if Cloot had died, he would have sensed it. Instead, the link between them was blank. Could it be the archalyt again? It had been a thin green sliver of the magical stone which kept him separated from Alyssa initially, and then the physical distance between them had maintained that barrier. However, the archalyt had started to lose its potency the closer he got to her location and by the time he had arrived at the Academie, even Alyssa had been able to sense him casting to her, albeit very weakly.
Now that he knew what the archalyt felt like, he could overcome it with ease. But he had tried this with Cloot and he could sense no archalyt barrier at all, certainly not one he had encountered before. Nevertheless, Tor maintained a permanent open link to his falcon…just in case. Cloot might be trying desperately to reach him and if the link remained open, something may just get through.
He felt suddenly melancholy at the bleakness of his situation. Cloot was lost, Locky was facing death, Nyria was already dead, and he had just had an argument with Queen Sylven. Inevitably, his thoughts turned to his greatest loss of all: Alyssa. But Tor was determined not to sink into feeling sorry for himself; instead he worked at conjuring a positive mood.
He recalled that Lys had told him the children were on the way. So Yargo had found them. He felt a surge of hope just thinking about the children and as he walked along the pretty streets of Cipres, he began to daydream about his son and daughter. It was a luxury he had not once allowed himself since Sorrel had fled the Heartwood with her precious charges.
They must be about five summers by now, he decided, and tried to imagine how they might look. Gidyon had been dark at birth so perhaps he resembled Tor. Lauryn was likely fair like her mother, although she had been bald when born so it was anyone’s guess really.
He realised that thinking about the tiny, bald baby girl must have caused him to smile, for a woman walking towards him smiled back. The thought of the children’s arrival made him all the more determined. He had to hurry and find Cloot and then get back to Tallinor. He presumed Sorrel would bring the little ones to the Heartwood for safety. Damn Sylven and her aviaries and damn Locklyn Gylbyt and his wounded pride—he did not need any extra troubles to keep him from his quest.
Tor pulled up sharply as he came into sight of Cipres’ main square. It was a mass of humanity and activity, but he only had eyes for the amphitheatre just beyond, where a huge contraption towered above all the people. The Maiden winked her welcome at him as a watery ray of winter sun broke through gathering clouds and glinted off the vicious blade.
‘And to you, Maiden,’ he said under his breath, looking at the machine with awe.
Tor climbed up into the beautifully carved stone tiered seating to watch the preparations. One man—he assumed he must be the Queen’s man, Lorke—was giving directions to a dozen others. Tor softened down the noise of the city about him and cleared his head to listen.
‘…just a boy. The Maiden is parched for blood. I don’t want the boy’s blood on her lips or my conscience,’ Lorke griped to a soldier.
‘It is the Queen’s judgement,’ the man hissed.
‘Yes, and it’s because of her I’ll obey,’ Lorke grumbled, banging a final wooden pin into place on the Maiden’s framework.
‘Are you set?’
‘We will be before the Fourth bell.’
‘The aggrieved and the prisoner will be brought in at the Sixth. Her Majesty will arrive at the Seventh—’
‘I know, I know. I’m the one who has been doin
g this for the past two decades, you fool. And the first kiss will occur on the stroke of the Eighth—I am well aware of the proceedings.’
‘Good. Then stop your moping and do your job. I must report back to the palace. By the way, if a tall stranger who goes by the name of Torkyn Gynt approaches, do not involve yourself in conversation. Queen’s orders.’
So, Tor thought, Sylven was taking precautions. He could not blame her. He should not have been quite so fast to boast of his powers. Merkhud’s voice came back to haunt him as he sat and watched the final preparation for the Maiden’s Kiss. As far back as when Tor was fifteen summers, the old man had warned him never to showcase his talents, always to keep them secret. He could not help but smile wryly; it had taken him barely a day or more to break that promise. By the time he had reached Hatten he was using his power with abandon, first to punch a bully in the belly and then minutes later to assist poor Cloot who was nailed to a post by his ear. Merkhud’s warning had fallen on deaf ears then and clearly still did, Tor decided. Just a little playfulness from the Queen and he had demonstrated his magics like a sideshow practitioner.
Tor shook his head at himself and his poor judgement. He looked up to see that the amphitheatre was gradually filling. There had to be a hundred more people milling around now than there had been just a short time ago and they were being joined by hundreds more, streaming in from the main city square.
A small man seated nearby caught Tor’s eye as he looked around. The dwarf grinned at him and his grizzled face looked as though it was lit by sunshine. What a difference a smile makes to this fellow, Tor thought.
‘Have you ever been to one of these before?’ the stranger asked.
Tor nodded. ‘To an execution? Yes. But I have not seen the Maiden before today.’
‘Ah,’ his companion replied carefully. ‘This place will be very crowded soon. It is not often the Cipreans have the opportunity to witness the Maiden’s Kiss.’
‘So I gather,’ Tor said. ‘Are you a local?’
‘No. My people come from a place so far away that you will see only a few of us wandering these lands.’
‘Who are your people?’
Before the little man could answer, Tor felt a jolt on his shoulder and, turning, saw he had been joined by Quist and some of his crew. Tor looked back at his neighbour but the little man had moved on a few rows. Tor shrugged his shoulders to indicate he was sorry that their conversation had been interrupted. The little man from a faraway land smiled radiantly again and returned the shrug, accepting the apology.
‘So what now?’ Quist asked, dragging Tor’s attention back.
‘We wait. I shall make my move when I see my chance.’
‘What will you do?’
‘Interfere,’ Tor said and grinned mischievously.
At the Sixth bell, a cart rumbled into the amphitheatre carrying a wide-eyed but composed Locky and Haryd, who was slumped in the back. As Locky stepped down the audience applauded. Word of this brave young man had spread quickly through the city. Haryd was helped out of the cart by some guards. He was unsteady and could only walk doubled over. When they caught a glimpse of his face, they could see he looked confused. Remembering the terrible duel with Adongo, Tor wondered how Haryd could stand at all.
One of the officials read out the grievance and the Queen’s ruling, then filled in the time before her arrival by outlining how Locklyn Gylbyt found himself to be there this afternoon. This was followed by a bloodcurdling description of how the Maiden administered her Kiss.
Tor noted that Haryd seemed entirely dazed by the proceedings. Locky, meanwhile, did not flinch during the gory explanation.
Quist was nervous. ‘He can’t die, Tor.’ It was the first time since they had met that the captain had called him by his first name.
Tor looked at him. ‘He won’t die.’
The Seventh bell pealed and within moments Queen Sylven’s glittering carriage, carried by eight burly men, came into view. A small unit of guards surrounded it. She was shrouded by her veils once again. Even though they could not see their Queen, the crowd went into rapturous cheers. It took several minutes for the noise to die down. More formalities took place, another parchment was read out and then Locklyn Gylbyt was led to meet the Silver Maiden.
Tor allowed his Colours to blaze within. Just then, the Queen’s head guardsman stepped forward and called out a short statement. Heads turned and people suddenly began talking all at once, debating this unusual occurrence.
Tor could hardly believe it. The Queen had summoned him publicly.
He noticed for the first time that there were guards surrounding him, all dressed as civilians. A clever ploy by Sylven’s men. He should have been paying more attention. The man in charge politely asked him to come before the Queen.
Tor had no idea what Sylven was doing. All in the audience were watching him.
‘I can use my magics down there just as easily as up here,’ he whispered to Quist.
Without another word, he stood and followed the guards down the tiers of seats into the centre of the auditorium, where he was then allowed to approach the Queen.
Tor wanted this over and done with. He would save Locky and then be on his way in search of Cloot.
He bowed. ‘Your majesty,’ he said, with nothing more in his voice than the respect she was owed.
There was no one within close earshot and Sylven spoke very softly; his acute hearing picked up her words with ease. ‘Last night was lovely.’
He smiled, but no one else saw for his head was still bowed. So these theatrics were just an excuse to be close to him again.
‘It was for me too,’ he replied.
She continued, ‘Which is why it makes it very hard for me to do this.’
Before Tor could react, his hands had been pulled behind him and tied. He felt something being pulled over his head. Instinctively, he let his Colours blaze and pushed out with them.
Nothing happened.
Tor was dumbfounded. He became very still. He could hear a voice—it seemed distant—telling the onlookers why he was being bound like this. He could not focus on the words. He pushed again. Once more nothing occurred.
For the first time in his life, Torkyn Gynt was severed from his powers. The Colours were blazing; he could feel them. The power was there to use but when he drew upon it, it was ineffectual.
He turned wildly towards the Queen but was forced to his knees by the guards. ‘I’m so sorry, Tor,’ was all she said.
Meanwhile, Locklyn Gylbyt was being strapped expertly into the Maiden’s embrace.
‘The blade will fall at least once in every ten drops,’ Lorke announced. ‘Our Maiden has not killed in four drops and she is eager to deliver her Kiss. Are you ready, Locklyn Gylbyt?’
To his credit, Locky did not so much as pause. ‘I am ready to taste her lips, sir, and know her judgement upon me,’ he called out loudly.
Everyone in the amphitheatre cheered their support for this brave fellow.
It was hideous. Tor was reminded all too keenly of a similar scene nearly five winters ago, when an innocent man had been strapped to a cross and his body stoned until it gave up the life within. Except on that occasion, the crowd wept. This gathering had a festive atmosphere which his execution scene had lacked.
He loosed the Colours once again but realised it was futile. He had been moved away from Sylven’s carriage, so he could not even communicate with her. Lorke was doing one final check on his charge; no doubt praying to his gods that she would not show any affection for the boy in her grasp. He searched out Quist, whose face was a mask of anguish. It looked as though he was already convinced the boy would die horribly.
Tor began to probe around the magical ‘crown’ on his head. But it was too late. There was no more time to search for answers.
Women in the crowd screeched as Lorke pulled the heavy blade to the top of its axis and then let it go.
The blade hit the first series of locks, all of which opened imm
ediately to allow it to pass through.
The Maiden was thirsty for blood. Locky was going to die.
The blade was moving quickly now; it was already onto the fifth of the ten locks. It opened. So did the sixth.
And then Tor felt it. Glorious, exquisitely sweet power washed over him. He looked around and realised that no one but he could sense it. It was strong and focused, felt otherworldly. It hit the blade as it met with the ninth lock and there the silver metal stopped, shuddering monstrously. Locky was trembling in time with it.
There was a moment of shocked silence and then the massive crowd erupted into delight. Hats were thrown in the air; babies were held aloft; women dabbed at their eyes and kissed their neighbours; men hollered their pleasure that the Maiden had spared the lad.
The magic was still all around him. It was beautiful. Tor could feel it but he could not respond to it or even touch it. It brought tears to his eyes that he could not reach out to this person and offer thanks. The Maiden had not spared Locky at all. A profound magic had interfered and Tor desperately wanted to learn whose.
He looked to Quist, whose sailors had enveloped him in a bear hug. Tor felt relief replace all his previous tension and he even laughed aloud as he scanned the crowd through watery eyes for the dwarf he had spoken with earlier.
The man put his hand to his head and then to his heart before bowing to Tor, who realised that the little figure was the wielder of the otherworldly magic. And then, curiously, the dwarf held up nine fingers. Tor was puzzled for a moment, then it dawned on him that he was looking at Figgis of the Rock Dwellers, Ninth of the Paladin.
Tor wept openly now; not just because Locky was saved but because the Paladin were almost fully re-emerged and gathering bravely, for his sake and for the real battle ahead. He must never forget the true purpose of his life. The Paladin had not, and now eight of them had bravely shown themselves. Only Juno and the lion-hearted Themesius, who, for the time being, kept them all safe, were still to emerge.
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