The goblins cackled in agreement, making rude gestures with their own weapons.
“She kisses them, but she does not love them. She lets Torcan caress her, but she does not love him. She has but one love, my ghobs. One for whom she pledges all her wet, red kisses. Her rightful lord, aye…and yours.” Torcan paused, then took a deep breath and raised his voice for the first time, his axe hitting the sky as he screamed, “His Grace, the Gaunt Prince!”
Padric winced at the goblins’ response and feared his ears would begin to bleed.
“Torcan promised to serve him! Torcan promised to fight for him! Torcan promised to see him king’d! But the mud brothers stole him away! Their dirt king and that elf slattern murdered him and on that day Torcan made a new promise! A promise to find our prince’s heirs and see them sat back on the throne! To recruit all true goblins to his cause and swell his armies once more! To free our Prince’s most trusted follower from his long imprisonment!”
Here he paused and faced the great bonfire, staring into the flames with eyes that reflected the heat. He took a slow step backward, his gaze never leaving the fire. His voice dropped with reverence and when he spoke again, his words were no longer directed at the assembled goblins.
“Promises. Who keeps them?”
The bonfire jumped and blazed brighter causing Padric’s eyes to pulse in pain. The goblins squealed with rapture, but Padric could not hear them over the growing roar of the fire. It licked higher into the night sky, red flames towering over a core of white heat. Padric squinted, but would not turn away, for a terrible truth lay within the flames. It was not wood that fueled it, no logs, nor limbs, nor kindling. The life of the fire was unnatural and impossible, for at its core sat a figure. It moved, uncurled itself and stood, stepping from the infernal cradle. It was a goblin, naked and hunched, his sagging flesh unmarred by soot or burn. Filthy tangled locks of hair dripped from his scalp, hanging almost to the ground, covering him like a foul cloak. He spoke, his voice a mushy croak.
“Smoke,” he said slowly, the smile on his face growing from a sour grin to a wet, toothy display of pleasure. “And Fire.”
“SMOKE!” the goblins screamed, “AND FIRE!”
EIGHT
The feather inched across the stone floor but the hunter remained still, green eyes held wide, watching. Only the tail moved; swishes of anticipation behind furry haunches bunched up and ready to pounce. Napper darted, but Pocket was ready and jerked on the string at the last moment, sending the feather flying across the floor. Seeing his prey escape, Napper redoubled his efforts and made a mad dash, but the feather reached the tower wall first and Pocket reeled it up. Napper was forced to check his speed before colliding with the stonework and performed the awkward yet agile sideways bounce that is known only to cats. Pocket sat on the first landing of the tower stairs and looked down at the expectant face of his best friend, full of whiskers and wide-eyed wonder. He lowered the string back down and laughed aloud as Napper tried to stand on his hind feet to swat at the feather with his front paws.
It felt good to laugh.
The castle and all within it had been infected with a depressing solemnity since the tourney. The Roost was not the most cheerful place in the brightest of summers, but the past few days had caused it to feel less a fortress and more a tomb. The servants had never been pleasant to him, but he would often catch them smiling and jesting with one another when they did not know he was around, but of late every face was grim. They passed each other without a word or a nod, going about their chores in silence, ignoring the presence of their fellow servants as they had once ignored him. It had been a lonely way to live. Pocket missed it.
The tourney had ended a scant five days before and already Pocket had been forced to flee to his under-stair sanctuary, abandoning his chores in order to avoid the abuse from the tongues of the servants and the hands of their children. As always, the young were the first to harass him; shoving him aside, should he be unlucky enough to pass them in the halls, kicking over his water pail while he scoured the ovens, one pair of boys had even spit on him from a covered bridge as he dallied about in the castle yard. The first gob landed wetly on his foot, alerting him to the danger and he was able to avoid the second disgusting attack. He danced out of range and looked up to see their gloating faces staring down. With the children, this sort of thing was expected. Their parents were not so bold, but no less cruel. Where once their eyes passed over him as if he were invisible, now they fell upon him with disdain, some even seeming to search him out as they would a spider that needs to be stepped on. He had learned years before that he could not trust the cooks and only ate meals he could scrounge himself or those Moragh prepared for him. He was careful never to be alone with any of the men for too long, lest some accident befall him.
Accidents were becoming common place in the castle. A fire broke out in the kitchens the morning of Sir Tillory’s funeral and the next day two of the hunting hounds escaped from the kennels, bringing down several of some poor shepherd’s stock before they were rounded up again. The blacksmith’s daughter fell down the well in the outer bailey and near drowned. She was still sick with fever, lying in the leech’s quarters in a bed next to the Mumbler. Both were raving, throwing exclamations in fits and spurts at the ceiling, neither aware of the other yet seeming to try and out-do one another with their fretful ramblings. The Mumbler had gone to the leech complaining of pain in his ear and within hours was reduced to a sweat-covered pile of gibbering nonsense and twitching limbs.
Pocket was blamed for all of it.
Suddenly, he was no longer just the changeling’s get, an unwanted reminder of the foul couplings of mortal and Fae. He was the skulking doom of the entire castle, death in the shadows, misfortune made flesh. All of the castle servants knew he answered to the Mumbler, and when the old man was laid low by his mysterious ailment, their accusations turned towards Pocket. As the other incidents stacked up, their suspicion increased. The blacksmith sent him fleeing the leech’s quarters, his tear streaked face swollen with red fury, his weathered hands leaving his daughter’s limp fingers and curling into tight promises of pain. The big man knocked over half the leech’s stock of unguents in his attempt to reach Pocket, his violence fueling the mad ranting of the two unfortunates lying in their cots. Fortunately, the blacksmith was blind with despair, clumsy with grief and Pocket escaped amidst the breaking of pottery, the splintering of wood and the cries of the stricken. He had only tried to bring the girl some flowers.
He fled to the safety of his tower hideaway and remained there, but he was quickly facing the need to return. His meager food stock was gone and the empty rolling in his guts was usurping the fears in his head. Were he a proper changeling, he could become one of the castle children and roam free, never hiding, never starving, never fearing, but the ability to hold a human’s form was as elusive as their trust. So he stayed and hid and slept. He looked at his map, played with his wooden horse and with Napper when the cat was around. He envied the little ratter’s freedom, wishing he could fill his belly on a whim, but as yet, the notion of dining on rodents was unappealing. But in a day or two more, who could say?
“You will have to teach me how to hunt soon, little sir.”
But Napper was not listening. He was staring, intently and unmoving, ears pushed forward, hunched and watching, watching the dark tunnel that led into the abandoned tower.
Someone was approaching!
Pocket pushed forward off the landing, spinning about to catch hold of the lower cross-brace where he dangled for half a heartbeat before dropping noiselessly to the ground. He dashed forward, scooping Napper up into a bundle then turned on his heel and fled underneath the stairs. Keeping Napper close, he squatted in the shadows of the scaffolding, facing the tunnel mouth.
The light came first, a creeping glow infecting the secure blackness. Pocket had borne countless torches and candles down that very passage, the flames a welcome companion, but in the hands of the unknown, that
same light was a dreadful threat. No one ever came down here! Not in years! Pocket drew further back into the stairs, struggling to keep Napper still.
The light drew closer, trapped behind the iron shutters of a lantern, held aloft by something large and shuffling, a terrible silhouette that came steadily on no matter how much Pocket willed it to stop. The figure stopped just outside the tower proper, looming in the passageway, only the lantern came forth, stretched out by a cloaked arm. Light invaded the tower, forcing Pocket to retreat as far back into the foundation as he could go, his back pressed against the stones. He would be discovered! And then there would be no place to hide! His fear mounted, a fear matched only by the trepidation in the invader’s voice.
“Child?” It was a reluctant whisper, tremulous and uncertain. “Child?”
Pocket’s whole body relaxed and Napper hopped free, striding out into the light without a care to rub against Moragh’s leg. She stepped into the cavernous chamber and set the lantern on the ground, rubbing between the cat’s ears in the same stoop. She was breathing heavily, her body and head wrapped in a heavy woolen shawl to guard against the chill in the stones. Pocket crawled out from under the wooden beams, his relief doing nothing to dispel his confusion. Why had she come? He never told anyone about his haven. Not even her. How had she known? But his questions fled when he saw the small clay pot in her hand, the aroma of stewed kale tickling the air between them. Pocket hurried forward and she handed the pot over without a word. There was a wooden spoon inside and Pocket tucked into the stew with a vengeance. It was barely warm now, but he did not care, it was painfully delicious. He looked up at her and smiled, trying to get words of thanks past his lips, but he was too busy with his first real meal in days, barely chewing before swallowing and shoving another spoonful into his mouth. Moragh watched him eat, her expression fixed, almost blank. The pot emptied quickly and Pocket raked the spoon around the edges for every last clump.
“Thank you,” he said at last. “I will help you back to the kitchens and scrub this out.” He went to grab her hand, but Moragh avoided him and took a half step back, blocking the tunnel. She tried to force a smile but it turned into a sad twitch across the palsied half of her face. His shoulders slumped, the brief respite from his isolation and despair fleeing him.
“It is still not safe.” He forced himself to say it aloud.
Moragh remained silent while Pocket stared at the broken floor. It was nigh on a week now. It should have passed. It always passed.
“When?” he asked. “When can I return?”
There was a pause and then her voice came in a broken whisper. “Never.”
His head shot up. “Never?”
She nodded in the dim light of the lantern, looking old and worn, her face a melted candle.
“Wh—but, why? I did not…I’ll stay out of sight. No one will…no one will know I’m there. They won’t stay angry forever. It passes. It always passes! I won’t come…I won’t, not to the kitchens and I’ll do all…all my chores, Master Bannoch will never have to wonder where I am…”
“He’s dead child.”
Pocket’s mouth snapped shut. Dead? The Mumbler? He stopped himself from saying it aloud. Moragh had not liked him to use that egregious title when the man was alive and Pocket knew she would not suffer it now that he was gone.
Gone.
Coalspur. Sir Tillory. And now the Mumbler. All dead. All gone. Maybe the castle was cursed.
But not by him!
“It’s not my fault.” He meant to scream it at her and then scream it again at the walls of the tower, raising his head, spinning in place, washing the dark stones with his protestations. But all that came out was a weak mumble and his only movement was to drop the pot, the clay breaking sadly on the stones. “It’s not. What am I to do, Moragh?”
She came forward then, her expression strange, relieved. “Do you know the old sally port? Behind the northwest tower?”
Pocket nodded. No one knew the castle better than he did. “Go out there,” Moragh continued, each word more hurried than the one before. “And down the rock until you come to the trees at the base. There will be someone to meet you, but you must hurry. All has been arranged.”
“Arranged?” Pocket asked. “Who is meeting me? Moragh, what? I don’t…you want me to leave?”
“It is the only way now.”
“No…I don’t want to! Surely there is another…why do you want me to go? I don’t understand! What did I do? Are you angry? What did I do?”
She knelt down and took his hand in hers, shaking them with every word. “Listen to me, now! You must go! There is no choice left. Master Bannoch is dead and the smith’s lass is like to follow before nightfall. When that happens…” Her voice clipped in her throat and she looked away for a moment, then swallowed and looked back. “I cannot protect you anymore. I am too old and without Master Bannoch there is no one else here to help me. For your life child, you must go!”
Her fingers squeezed his hands past the point of comfort, but the pain in Pocket’s fingers was nothing compared to that in her eyes. His whole life he had known her face, careworn and tired always, but also strong, full of determination and a stubborn challenge at anything that might attempt to lay her spirits low. But he had never seen her despair, never watched her bend to the sorrow that forever lay scraping under the surface. He would not be the cause of her pain. He owed her that. That and so much more.
So he nodded. “I will go.” He watched her pain worsen and loved her for it.
He felt a brushing at his leg and looked down into Napper’s open face, the natural curiosity reflecting Pocket’s own questions. He scooped the cat up into his arms and hugged him close, breathing deep of the familiar fur. His eyes were growing hot and he had to fight back against the quivers in his chin. He needed to do this quickly or he would never do it at all.
“Would you hold him?” he asked Moragh. “He will follow me if you do not.”
She held out her arms and Pocket passed the cat over. Napper gave out a cry of complaint, but Moragh held him firm. Pocket took a step back and looked into both of their beloved faces, committing them to memory. Moragh knelt in the lantern light, her own face battling against unwelcome emotions. Napper stared wide-eyed and agitated, protesting with his little voice. Why? He seemed to say. Why?
Pocket lurched forward and Moragh caught him up with her free arm, pulling him tightly against her. Pocket’s forehead pressed into her broad cheek, his eyes closed tight and felt her tears fall. He buried his nose in Napper’s head and he kissed him again and again, hating and cherishing the moment. Moragh held the three of them together and Pocket said good-bye to his family. He tore away and fled down the tunnel, heedless of the dark. Napper continued to call after him. Why?
Pocket pushed open the heavy door to find a morning grey and damp, the wind thick with spitting rain. He hesitated in the archway, his heel wedged between the oak door and the stone jamb. Biting his lower lip, he stepped forward and winced as he heard the latch fall with a heartless click. He did not want to look back at the castle for fear of what he might see; a home lost forever or a bastion of wet unwelcoming stones? So he trudged down the narrow path of weeds and broken rocks that wound down the slope and away from the castle without a backward glance. Pocket knew the path led to the base of the mountain where a small copse of scrubby trees dwelt.
His feet slowed.
What if no one were there to meet him? Or worse, what if the blacksmith was waiting in ambush with the other men so they could murder him? Moragh said the castle was no longer safe, but it had never been safe, so why send him away? Why must he leave, unless they truly meant to kill him, and what better place than in the trees far away from the castle? They would cave in his skull with a rock or drown him in a milk bucket or hold his mouth shut while they stabbed him with knives, ridding themselves of the filthy gurg-child for good. His mind reeling with horrible fates, Pocket looked to both sides of the path for a means of escape, but
the way was too steep and rocky, uphill or down. The Roost was built atop the mount for a reason, and where no army could tread, Pocket alone had little hope. He could run back up the path and pound on the door, trusting someone would hear and let him back inside! But who? Who would let him back in? Moragh was the only friendly face in the castle and she had sent him away. Napper would come, he would hear! He would hear and be helpless, standing on the other side of the thick oak listening to the pounding of Pocket’s fists, mewling sadly, unable to open the door.
Pocket found himself running, but it was not up the path, back to the castle. No, it was down he ran, heedless and headlong, hot tears of hopeless anger mixing with the cold rain on his face. If he was to die then let it come! He was tired of being afraid, unwanted and distrusted! Let them kill him! All their hate and loathing and disgust, let them open his throat with it and see if his tainted blood could cleanse it all away! He bit back his tears as he saw the trees and almost lost his feet on the final yards of the steep path. His stumble turned into a leap and he screamed as he landed in the shadowy confines of the copse. Let them come and find not the scared little boy! Let them see the horror they all thought him to be!
Sir Corc stood next to a laden mule. He looked down at Pocket for a moment, a frown threatening to crack his feathered brow. “Good morning,” the knight said.
Pocket froze. He found himself in a crouch, his breath pushing out from the bellows his chest had become.
“It is not necessary for you to be armed,” the knight said flatly, before turning to the mule and tightening the load ropes. Puzzled, Pocket opened his mouth to explain he possessed no weapon.
And then he noticed his hand.
His left had hit the ground when he landed, bracing him, but his right was pulled back behind and raised high. Seeing it now, Pocket straightened quickly, sheepishly trying to hide the transformed appendage behind his back. He could feel his fingers tingling beneath a slight burning sensation and there was an unpleasant pulling at his fingertips. Sir Corc appeared busy with the bundles on the beast’s back, so Pocket risked a look. He brought his hands around, the left cradling the right, just in time to see the claws receding. They were black, thick and cruelly hooked, the tendons on the back of his hand thick and swollen beneath the skin. His stomach churned sickly and Pocket looked away, rubbing at the flesh until the burning ceased. He was ashamed and more than a little disturbed. He had never formed anything like that before and certainly not without trying. What must Sir Corc think? That he was moon-brained! Addled in the wits! A wild and pathetic thing, displaying ugly and futile ferocity just like the rats before Napper killed them. He glanced back down. His hand had returned to normal, but he hid it anyway when Sir Corc turned around again. He always seemed to embarrass himself in front of this knight. The knight who saved him as a babe and seemed to be saving him once again.
The Exiled Heir (Autumn's Fall Saga) Page 16
