by Rj Barker
“You are wanted at the castle. Follow me, please, Blessed.”
I followed the slave up to and through the castle. Nausea kept rising as the magic I held inside made itself known. I could not shake the feeling I walked through water, not air. We reached the door to the room I shared with my master. I did not want to go in. I had pushed away what I was but events in the stable had brought it back, and the strange woozy feeling had brought anger back with it. What could she say to me? Sorry again? Leiss flayed open before me. Sorry that my life had been a lie? That I was a monster just like the creature that had killed Leiss?
But if I did not go in, she would only find me.
My master sat on the bed, her make-up badly removed, leaving streaks of grey where the black and white paint had mixed. She looked as though she was suffering, her flesh dying, and her only wish was for Xus to embrace her.
“Girton,” she said. “What happened to you in the barn? You would not answer me or Heamus when we spoke to you. He put it down to young people in love but I am not so sure.”
“I …” I began and anger twisted within me like cramp. “I saw blood on his hands and smoke in the air. The idea of … The thought of …” I found I could not finish the sentence. I heard the king’s voice in my mind: Fields and grasslands it was, all of it. In yearsbirth it would be mottled red and blue with flowers and in yearslife it would turn golden with ripening corn.
“The thought of magic?” she asked.
“Yes.”
She stared past me at the wall then ran a hand through her hair.
People left their families and travelled from all over the Tired Lands, so strong was the horror at another sorcerer having risen.
“Sometimes, Girton, those who are particularly gifted—” she paused and gave me a small smile “—are affected by places where powerful magic has recently been performed.”
It seemed as though the world took a breath. And then … and then the colour was taken from it.
“So I am not just cursed by magic. I am twice cursed to be good at it?”
She sat very still and spoke very quietly.
“Listen to me. It is very important you listen to me now. There are things I thought we would have time for but what is within you rises like a flood. I can feel it. The magic wants to be used.”
… trees melted. They sucked in their leaves and stalks and branches, leaving only bare trunks pointing at a yellow sky that stretched out as far as I could see.
“You said it was like a tool!” I roared the words. And then she was in front of me, her hand over my mouth.
“Keep your voice down!” she hissed.
He ripped the land apart, ended five thousand lives and created a souring forty miles wide.
“I would be better off dead.”
“Never,” she said, and for a moment I thought she would hold me to her again but she saw the fire in my eyes and didn’t, though maybe she should have. “Never better off dead, Girton. Say that neither in jest nor anger.” She sat back on the bed. “Do you remember when you first held a blade and I told you how you must be aware of it at all times or you would cut yourself?” I nodded sullenly. “Well the magic is like that. You must be aware of it and it will fight your awareness.” She changed tack. “Think of it like Xus or any strong-willed mount. It seeks to be master until you have shown it you are stronger. It is not clever; it has only force and simple guile.”
“Is it the same for all of us?” I asked quietly.
Ten of the men around me died without a sound.
“Some of us,” she said. But she did not look at me.
“You?”
“I fought it when I found out.”
“Did you hate yourself for it?”
“I already hated myself, Girton, but the magic did not help.”
A tear ran down her face and I felt like a cruel boy poking a sick animal with a stick. Still I spoke on.
“Why did you hate yourself?”
“Because I had been foolish.” Another tear. “There was a man, a child that died before I could give it life.”
“And Adran?”
“I needed someone and she was there. Will it make you hurt less, Girton, if I open these old wounds for you?”
I cut down the Black Sorcerer myself. He was young, terrified. Not only of the death I was bringing but of what he had done.
Like snow, silence settled between us, and like snow, my anger began to thaw.
“No,” I said. “It will not.”
“You have a great burden, Girton—” she stared into my eyes “—but, if you will let me, I will lend you my strength so it does not break your back.” She squeezed my hand and stood. “I will leave you to think,” she said, and slid out of the door.
I scraped frustrated tears from my face with the scratchy wool of my sleeves while wishing fervently I could be someone else. Soured, that was the only way I could describe the way I felt, and the pain was too much. I could not see any escape. I thought of what the king had said about the Black Sorcerer, how terrible he had made him sound and how sure he had been there was only one answer to the problem of magic. My hand found the hilt of my eating blade and at the same moment something fell from the loose sheathe that held my knife. A little bit of paper, and on it was written something that changed everything. It changed it immediately and completely.
When had she put that there? Was it before or after the death of Leiss? I was sure it could only be after, but the day was so mixed up in my mind. She needed me. I had to go, and though I could not tell her the truth, that did not matter. To be with her, to feel her hand in mine would be enough. I knew that if Drusl met me in the eaves and we were together then everything else would cease to matter, just as it had when she held me in the stables. I longed for the silence of the mind that only she could give me.
In the eaves of the castle it was so dark I could not see my own hand in front of my face. I recognised Drusl by the sound of her breathing. Her presence and the darkness and heat numbed my mind. It did not drive away the worry or confusion but made it bearable.
“Drusl,” I whispered.
“Girton,” she said. I felt her hands touch my shoulders, her lips brush mine. “I want to forget, Girton. I want there to be only you and I in the Tired Lands tonight.”
All the heat from the castle’s fires collected in the eaves. When she pulled at my buttons and my clothes slid off, the shiver that ran through me was not from the cold. Together, in that dark place, we left behind the trouble and turmoil of the castle and ventured into soft lands neither of us had travelled before.
Chapter 22
I had not expected to sleep but calm descended on me after my time with Drusl. We had parted in a mist of contentment that left me warm in a way I had never been before. It was a warmth that stilled the wine-dark sea inside me. My eventual sleep was deep and dreamless and lasted long past the hour I would usually wake.
I rushed to the squireyard, struggling into my harlequin armour. Thoughts of magic were once again locked behind a door in my mind. When I entered the squireyard something had changed. The two groups, which had previously been so tight, no longer appeared so close.
Rufra stood by the racks of wooden swords with his back to me. A bandage was wrapped around his head and occasionally he rotated the joint of his shoulder as he inspected the swords. When he chose a pair he made some practice swings and thrusts—whatever damage the crossbow bolt had done had clearly been superficial.
Boros approached him.
“Is it true, Rufra?” he said.
“Is what true?” Rufra sounded belligerent, distrustful.
“That you killed seven men single-handed?”
“I doubt it,” said Aydor. “He probably had help.” He glanced at me.
“It sounds like a fine feat of arms,” said Celot guilelessly.
Aydor swatted at him with a glove.
“Be quiet, fool.”
“It is if it’s true. Is it true, Rufra?” said B
oros again, quietly.
Rufra looked at the dirt and drew a line in it with the tip of his wooden longsword.
“Seven died,” he said quietly. He flicked a stone away from his feet with the tip of his blade and it skittered across the compacted earth of the squireyard. “Luck played its part, and they were not men well trained for battle. But there were seven and when I woke they were dead and my blades were wet with blood.” Then he shot me an unfriendly glance and I knew he had not been unconscious when I killed those men. My feet became leaden and I slowed to a stop.
“I would partner you in sparing, if you will,” said Boros. Tomas gave him such a venomous look that if I had been Boros I would have worn my armour day and night from then on. Strangely, Barin gave his twin a similarly vehement glance.
“I would also like to fight with you,” said another squire, one of Aydor’s, stepping forward.
“And I,” said another. I wondered at these boys who were so quick to change their allegiance. Possibly I did them a disservice. Maybe they had always been uncomfortable serving Aydor and Tomas and had only needed an excuse to get away; Rufra’s skill and the events in Calfey had provided it. Nywulf watched the boys, his arms crossed and a faint smile on his face. I wanted Rufra to turn them down and say he would spar with me. He should have done. He only had their respect because I had won it for him.
“It seems like you’ll be too busy to give me any more training, Rufra.” I forced a laugh.
He caught my eye and looked away.
“Yes,” he said. Then headed towards the centre of the training ground as if I had ceased to exist.
“Rufra?”
“He has real swordsmen to practise with now,” said Boros. “I don’t think you’re needed, mage-bent. If he spars with you any more he may get worse rather than better.”
I ignored him and chased after Rufra.
“Rufra,” I said, grabbing him by his arm, “we are friends. No matter what. You said that.”
“I have new friends now,” he said. “Friends I can trust.” There was no emotion in his voice and it took long seconds for his words, and the fact he was cutting me off, to sink in.
“But we are friends,” I said again. I heard a laugh. Someone, Hallin I think, said, “Poor little cripple.” I longed to lash out—my arms shook with tension—but this was not an enemy I could fight. I was helpless in the face of Rufra’s sudden indifference.
In the back of my mind lurked a shadow that promised it could help.
“I need to practise,” said Rufra. He pointed with his stabsword at the straw-filled dummies we used to practise thrusts and swings on. “If it’s worth you bothering, the beginner’s mannequins are over there.” He turned from me. Without even asking for my side and at the first sniff of a change in his fortunes Rufra had dropped me like a bad pear.
“If I am to practise alone,” I shouted after him, “I may as well do it somewhere I am welcome.” Rufra did not turn but Boros did.
“Good luck finding somewhere, country boy,” he shouted and turned away, enveloped in a cloud of laughter. Even Tomas and Aydor smiled at his wit and suddenly there were tears in my eyes. I walked away, my face and hands burning with shame at being so easily used.
Drusl was the only one I could trust.
Betrayal was an entirely new experience for me. I wanted to run to Drusl and lose myself in and with her, as I had the night before, but I knew if I did then everything was likely to come pouring out—who I was, why I was here and how badly Rufra had treated me after I had saved him. Then I would be a betrayer of confidences also. I told myself, with all the haughty pride of hurt youth, that I would not stoop to Rufra’s level. I would at least retain my dignity. With nowhere and no one to turn to I did the only thing that was left to me—I returned to our room, removed my armour and I went to find somewhere dark and quiet to feel sorry for myself while thoughts of magic and betrayal whirled in my mind, the distance from cocksure assassin to heartbroken child crossed in a few short steps across the squireyard.
It was twilight before I brought myself under control. Rather than head back to our room and have to look at my master’s face I decided to go to Festival. There I would have one drink, despite her warnings. It seemed like a good idea then.
Drink was cheap at Festival. I bought a cup of thick fruit juice that burned my throat as it went down and went straight to my head. A fire breather handed me a cup of drink as she passed, wishing me good cheer and saying that a drink and a smile would free me from Black Ungar’s grasp. I had promised myself only a single cup, but her good cheer made me so angry I knocked the drink back in one and made a point of refusing to smile for her. Whatever she had given me made me choke and the fire breather laughed at me, which only increased my irritation. I turned away and almost knocked over a masked woman selling a barley brew, and she would only accept my apology if I bought a drink. Which I did, and drank it because my master had always said I should waste nothing. From then on I barely saw Festival as I walked through it, mumbling and fuming to myself. More drinks seemed to materialise in my hands. Could Rufra sense the magic in me? Is that what made him want to get away? Maybe all the squires could sense it, and that was why they hated me.
I walked through the noise and light, muttering to myself about people of bad faith and the different, and increasingly painful, ways I should kill them. I was so lost in alcohol and thoughts of the pain I would inflict that when the attack came it took me entirely by surprise. An arm shot out of a tent and snaked around my neck. Sober, I would have wriggled away or broken the fingers of whoever grabbed me, but drink had fuddled me. My body had become every bit as clumsy and hopeless as I spent my days pretending it was. The arm dragged me into a tent, a blade was held at my throat.
“I know what you are,” hissed a voice. Then I was thrown into a corner of the tent. Rufra stood with his bent and nicked longsword pointed at me. “Don’t move, Girton, if that’s your name,” he said, breath coming quickly. “Don’t you move.”
“Rufra?” A wave of nausea rolled over me. He knows exactly what I am! “Why are you doing this, Rufra?”
“I saw,” he said. I tried to sit up and his blade nearly skewered me through the neck. “I said don’t move!” he shouted. “I saw what you did. To those men. The ones in the wood. I saw it.” His eyes were wild, wet with tears and wide with fear. He repeated his words more quietly. “I saw. You were fast as a Fitchgrass, Girton. I thought we were friends and you lied to me. You used me to try and fit in.”
“No, I—” His blade cut into the skin of my neck.
“I believed in you!” he shouted. “Don’t lie to me!”
“Yes, then,” I said. It felt like the pressure which had been building up inside me for days was suddenly bled away. “I did lie to you, Rufra. But I didn’t want to. I had no choice.”
“I thought we were friends, Girton, that we had some common ground, but everything about you is a lie. You let Kyril, Borniya and Hallin beat you. You let Tomas’s squires beat you. You even let Aydor beat you. I would have fought Tomas to protect you, and all the time you were better with a blade than anyone I’ve ever seen.”
“Celot may be better than—” I tried to make a joke, but he pushed me backwards with the tip of his sword.
“Assassin.” He whispered the word. It was the first time I had ever heard it said without feeling proud. It scorched me. “You’re an assassin, aren’t you, Girton? It’s the only thing that makes sense.” The colour in his face fell away. “Are you here to kill me?”
I laughed. I think it surprised him.
“Of course not. If I were here for you, why would I have stopped those men? Do you think an assassin enjoys making work for themselves?”
He frowned. Rufra hated a puzzle he could not solve, hated it. Then he let his blade tip drop and walked to the back of the tent. I started to lever myself up and he spun, his sword coming up again.
“No. I’ve seen how you move. Stay where you are.” I nodded and lowered
myself once more. “You are here for Aydor then?” I shook my head. “Then who are you here for?” He cocked his head to one side, but before I could speak he shook his head. “No, don’t tell me. It’s best I don’t know.” He took a step forward and put the sword tip at my throat again. “Listen, whatever your name is—”
“My name is Girton.”
“Then listen, Girton.” He started breathing heavily through his nose, and I wondered if he was going to kill me or burst into tears. “Whether you were pretending to be my friend or not—”
“I was never pretending,” I said quietly.
“Be quiet!” he shouted, and the sword dipped again. When he spoke, he spoke softly and it made him seem far more dangerous. It was as if the shadow of the man he would become fell upon him in that tent. A man as honourable as he was ruthless. “You saved my life, Girton, and a life is worth a life.” He let go of his battered sword and it clanged to the ground. “I had thought I found a friend in you, but you are just a liar out for yourself like all the rest. For the friendship I thought we had I will let you leave.” He pointed at the door flap of the tent and he looked small again, like the fourteen-year-old boy he was. “Go now, and I will tell no one what you are. Leave Maniyadoc.”
“I cannot leave.” The confrontation had burned the alcohol out of my veins and my words were raw, parched and painful in my throat. “I am here to kill no one and I cannot leave no matter how much you all hate me.”
“Why?” His question made it sound like leaving should be simple.
“Because I am here to stop an assassin, not to be one.”
“I don’t understand.”
“The queen thinks someone wants to have Aydor killed. She set me up, caught me, and if I do not succeed in finding out who wishes him dead she will kill me or expose me. Not that it matters which she chooses; exposure is the same as death.”
“Festival could hide you. I could talk to them.” Emotions warred on his face. Despite his anger he was worried for me.
