And then the old man merely cleared his throat, said, “Well done, Brayden.”
Brayden?
Wil nearly choked again, smothered a gasp and flashed a terrified glance to the young man.
Kindred. A trick. They know. How could I have been so incredibly stupid as to walk into the same trap twice?
But the young man only gave his grandfather a sideways smile and a nod, obviously pleased at the small bit of praise. The peals from the forge started up again, filling the silence, shattering the strangeness with welcome normalcy.
Wil closed his eyes, leaned against the doorframe, let a long, thin breath leak from his throat. His knees felt weak, and he leaned more heavily into the rough wood. Stupid, stupid, stupid—it was a common enough name, whether given name or surname, and none of these men could possibly be confused with that behemoth of a constable who’d stared Wil down with eyes that knew and didn’t know at the same time. For all he knew, the man hadn’t even said what Wil had thought he’d said and his over-taxed mind was just playing cruel tricks on him. He was too hungry, too tired, jumping at shadows he was inventing for himself out of so much nothing.
“Are you all right, boy?”
That was the father; Wil only nodded, took a long breath and shoved his shaking hands under his arms.
“Thank you, I’m very tired,” he muttered. He nodded toward the water skin. “If you’ll let me have that, I’ll fill my skins while you ready the rest of my purchases.” He took a wobbly step toward the young man, held out his coins, tried to tame the jitters that were coursing through every limb, but he couldn’t. He allowed the coins to be plucked from his fingers and replaced with the water skin. Glad to be able to breathe again, he turned and made himself walk normally through the door and out to the well.
He hadn’t noticed how warm the grange hall was until he was back outside of it. His breath oozed heavily from his chest in thick plumes, and the weak sun bit into his eyes with a white, high-pitched drone. He concentrated on the ripple and pull of the muscles in his arms and shoulders as he primed the well’s pump, the icy brace of the water that spilled down his throat as he drank deeply from the spigot, and then over his fingers as he filled the water skins.
They were watching him, all of them, he could feel it like knives between his shoulder-blades, pressing, seeking, and he was too raw and open to tether it, clamp it down. Even the din from the smithy’s had gone silent again. He looked down at the muddy water puddling about his knees beside the pump, realized with a dull sense of weary anger that he couldn’t bring himself to care; let them look.
Reckless, he stoppered the water skins, and put them aside then sucked in a deep breath, and plunged his head under the spigot. Icy water sluiced over his scalp, so cold it drilled a sharp ache behind his eyes, spearing down his nape and backbone. The pain was a welcome thing; fear was so exhausting, and this… this merely hurt. Hurt, he could stand. If he wasn’t so tired, he’d’ve stripped naked and washed every bit of filth from his aching body—let them watch, what did it matter, at least then he’d be clean.
Sputtering a little, he let go the pump handle, flung his hair back, collar soaked through and hands red, frozen lumps on the ends of his arms. He drove numb fingers through tangled hair, squeezed out as much water as he could into the mud. There’d be icicles dangling from the ends soon, but at least his scalp wasn’t so itchy now. Blowing and gasping a little, he made to mop the water from his face with the dirty sleeve of his coat, thought better and merely swiped at his eyes with his cold hands.
“Which way were you headed?” came from behind him.
Wil didn’t jump this time, only turned calmly to see the grandfather standing behind him, holding out a sack. The coarse fabric of it was darkened in spots with drops of water. Wil let his gaze drift up, noted the same on the sleeve and breast of the man’s coat. The man had been standing behind him for a while. A dark little chuckle lurked at the back of Wil’s throat, manic and drained, and he choked it down.
“West,” was all he said.
The man nodded, hooked his chin to the left. “There’s an inn over to Dudley. Ten leagues due west. Take the road out through the village then turn south a little ways, ‘til you see the dairy on your right. There’s a trail through the tree-brake—a little hard to make out, so you’ll have to look for it; pick that up and follow ‘til it peters out then just keep on west, you’ll find it.” He paused, peered up at the sky. “If you keep on steady, you’re like to make it before sundown tomorrow.”
“Thank you,” Wil mumbled. Hands shaking only a little now, he re-checked the stoppers on the water skins and stored them carefully in his pack. Sliding his arms through the straps, he stood, straightened, reached out and took the offered sack. He swung it over his shoulder without checking its contents; if they’d shorted him, they’d shorted him, but he somehow doubted it.
“You don’t look well, son,” the man told him. “No meat on your bones and you look like you en’t slept in a while. And you oughtn’t to be haring off in this cold with a wet head.” A pause, then, softer: “If you need it, there’s a bit of space in the storeroom for a pallet. My wife en’t the best cook, but her supper’s hot, at least.”
It was a sorry state for a man to find himself in, when the least little show of kindness rose pathetic tears to his eyes. What wouldn’t I give for that gesture to come from something real? But oh, he was tempted. One night of warmth, one hot meal, and he needed it…
Giveitgiveitgiveit…
Wil blinked, jammed his thumb and forefinger into his eye-sockets, pressed—hard—and called to his mind’s eye the bewildered craving on the man’s face not five minutes ago, the vicious animal light in the eyes of Palmer and Orman, and more before them. He shook his head.
“No,” he whispered, scrubbed a hand over his damp face and shifted his burden on his back. “Thank you, but I have to go.”
The man nodded slowly. “As you will,” he said, shifted uncomfortably then reached out a hand, stopped when Wil flinched back. The old man turned his hand palm-up, said quietly, “My apologies, young sir, it’s only…” His hand dropped away, the man’s voice falling to an unsteady whisper. “I think… I think I dreamed of you.”
It was the tone—the complete absence of pride or guile.
Giveitgiveitgiveit…
With a tiny, strangled gasp, Wil jerked a nod, turned and headed out of the dirty little village.
He didn’t look at the villagers still standing in their yards, staring, and he didn’t look back once he’d passed them. Only kept his head down, eyes to the ground. He’d become well-acquainted with his own feet the past several years.
He didn’t hear the chime of the forge again until he was at least a mile gone.
***
Sleeping is dreaming, and dreaming sleep, and he can tell the difference now, but what does it matter? It’s all the same—grazing thought and fantasy, reaching out to touch secrets he doesn’t want to know because he can’t make himself stop: it’s his design, his purpose, and he can’t go against his own pattern. Except he doesn’t know what his pattern is, so he keeps butting up against its limits, bloodying himself, because it’s all he knows of who he is.
The dark shape at his shoulder hovers as it always has done, silent and watching. It used to unnerve him, but he’s learnt to accept the weight of the invisible stare, has learnt to pretend it’s a nightmare-phantasm made of smoke and mist, but now he knows its true shape. He tries to ignore it now, concentrates on his work.
Weave this strand into that one, truss reverie into truth, truth into reverie, then step back and guide the threads into a tapestry to please Father. Tiny strands of brilliant color blossom, and he weaves them into the like threads, binds them; others go to darkness between his fingers and he carefully plucks them loose from the weave. A coil here, a wispy whorl there, then carefully pick loose the snarls, tame the strands and slip them into their true design. Wend nightmare into fancy, guide fancy into hope, then w
atch as the waking world shreds the tapestry, rending warp from carefully-woven weft, and unwinds the threads to be mended again.
He tries not to hate them for it, but he does a little bit anyway.
Never ending, always more need, and not even Father takes the threads from his hands when his fingers begin to bleed, only makes a mantle of the night and sings his dreams to the stars that crown him.
He tries not to hate Father, too, but he’s usually just as unsuccessful.
Blood entwines the threads of delusion, his blood, and still he keeps lacingplaitingweaving, still they call to him, wanting more, always more, and oh, he’s so tired.
“I can’t,” he whispers, tears falling into the plaits, binding with the blood from his shaking fingers. “I can’t, I can’t, I’m too tired, leave me alone!”
They never leave him alone, and he never stops, begs Father to take it all away, but Father smiles from dreams, tells him, “Mother has given you a gift, for She loves you so.”
The dark shape at his shoulder curls itself into focus, and for the first time, gives itself a face: wide and tall, handsome and dark-eyed, hair like gold curling about the ears and nape. The face gives nothing away, the countenance calm beneath his anxious regard, dark eyes assessing, asking silent questions he can’t answer.
“One cannot be reborn without returning to the Womb,” Father yawns. “All patterns must have a warp to their weft.” Then he turns his face away, unites his song to the night and sleeps deeper.
“I want no gift,” he whispers, daring to peer over his shoulder as his fingers fly amongst the threads. “It frightens me.” And then he pauses, frowns. “Who is Mother?”
Father doesn’t answer him, and then Father isn’t there anymore. He is alone, always alone, friendless and defenseless, heart as raw as his abraded fingertips, with only the silent, brooding Watcher at his back.
“I have no mother,” he whispers to no one.
Stranded in stillness, abandoned, he bows his head, takes threads in his bleeding fingers, cools them with his tears. Keeps weaving.
***
The inn was a small one, but it seemed to make up for its lack of bulk with an abundance of light and noise. Nestled at the edge of the woods skirting a village Wil hadn’t seen yet, it dead-ended a hardpack road that curled from its front yard and up a slight incline to disappear into more trees. He’d heard the music from at least two miles away, string and flute twining with the awakening songs of the stars, only this music was earthy and viscerally alive.
Skulking behind the wide boll of a pine, Wil made himself look, take in the details and assess the risk, before hurrying into the warmth he could almost taste, body vibrating for the want of it. Two stories and very well kept. If a semi-prosperous man was unlucky enough to find himself in this part of the world, this was the inn he would seek. Likewise, if a local was looking for an evening of song and safe companionship, he’d pay the extra coin for beer from these taps in exchange for the dependable sanctuary.
It was a respectable establishment. Not at all the sort of place Wil would normally chance, nor did he doubt it would stretch his already screaming purse-strings. Still, of any of those still attempting to follow his trail, who among them would think to look for him here?
A great cauldron bubbled in the yard. A plump maid laughed as she stirred it and shooed away the occasional drunk who staggered from the porch and out into the yard. Beside her, a man tended a smoldering covered pit while keeping a watchful eye on the play going on alongside him.
The common room must be crowded: the back doors were propped open and at least a score of the patrons had spilled out onto the lantern-strewn yard and bright-lit porch. Rough wooden tables and benches had been set in the yard, and those who’d wandered out of the warmth inside made use of them—some eating a late supper purchased from the girl at the cauldron; some merely sipping from their mugs and engaging in quiet conversation.
A small out-building caught Wil’s eye, set back from the inn, past the pump-house and the small stable, and toward the trees that ringed the yard. He sighed. A privy. Which meant that, despite the deceptive promise of the pump-house, there was no indoor plumbing. Ah, well—beggars and all that. He almost dismissed it before the shape and set of the little building made him look more closely, squint past the soft glow of the lanterns and into the darkness. Ramshackle and slightly dilapidated, but mud cemented the joints of the timbres, and the roof was shingled in rusted tin, rather than the thatching atop the inn itself. Smoke curled from a small metal chimney, and Wil gave a wistful little bleat of delight. Not a privy—a bathhouse. His eyes nearly watered.
He’d found an abandoned stable this morning, stone foundations standing like the broken teeth of some long-forgotten forest god. What was left of its interior had been heavy with must and rot, but it offered shelter from the cold, so he’d chased spiders out of the corners and slept there. He’d dared a small fire, nearly smokeless for the abundance of dust-dry kindling just lying about the floor of the wood. Good thing, because the smoking tip of a stick worked far better on ticks than merely plucking them. He hadn’t dared to take his boots off since he’d fled Putnam, and the feel of his crusty stockings scraping at the increasingly raw skin of his feet had been almost more of a misery than the cold. One water skin was still half-full and he hadn’t yet touched the other, so he’d used it to wash the stockings and his feet. Horribly extravagant, considering, but the slime of the fens still moldered in his boots, and he wouldn’t be able to walk at all if he let his feet develop the rot.
Now, he watched the smoke curl up from the narrow chimney of the bathhouse, already imagining the exquisite burn and sting of hot water against his filthy skin. He checked the yard once more, found no one who appeared to be watching for anyone in particular, and made his cautious way down the low slope. Head down, eyes to the ground, gold between his fingers. He angled his approach toward the cauldron; he wasn’t as hungry as he’d been, but the smell was a low ache anyway—if not in his belly, then in the part of his heart that longed for the small normalcy of cooked food and clean trenchers from which to eat it.
The girl was prettier than he’d thought from farther away: red hair, thick and bright, pulled back from her clear brow and tamed beneath a blue scarf tied tight about her head. She was plump and healthy-looking, with a generous bosom that made Wil wonder what it might be like to lay his head on her breast and let her short, nimble fingers stroke his hair until he fell into a happy, dreamless sleep. She smiled as he approached, eyes sparking on a cheerful gaze with only a quick dart over the state of his filth. She kept her smile warm and expectant, but Wil could feel the man’s gaze sharpen over her left shoulder, alert for threat. Wil did his best not to give the man any reason to pounce; he was almost as skinny as Wil was, but he looked strung-steel strong and Wil doubted that travel and hunger had made him as weak.
“You look like you’ve seen better days,” the girl said kindly.
Have I? Wil couldn’t remember. “I…” The man was unnerving him, with his hard stare, so Wil swallowed, focusing on the girl’s encouraging smile. “I want a bath.”
“I’ll say you do,” she snorted. He must have flushed, because her smile turned apologetic. “Now there, that’s all right. Don’t mind me. I’ve a foot that won’t keep out my mouth, en’t I, Tom?”
The man tending the pit grunted noncommittally, poked at the coals with a long rod of iron. “Spit out the foot, Miri, and ask the…” He glanced up, raked a skeptical glance from Wil’s matted hair to his cracked, muddy boots. “Ask the lad how he plans to pay first. Let one more skive off and Garson’ll have that foot of yours off to kick my arse with.”
The girl—Miri—rolled her eyes, gave Wil a sideways little grin. “Tom thinks he’s the boss of me,” she confided with a wink, though she made no effort to lower her voice. “He’ll learn better come spring, once that binding cord goes about our hands.”
Another grunt from Tom. “You say that like I en’t lear
nt it already,” he muttered.
“There you go, Miri!” someone called from the yard. “You’ve got ‘im fasted already, and it en’t nothing to do with his hand.”
A jovial smattering of laughter rippled, then someone else piped in, “Aye, Miri, open up that apron pocket of your’n and let the lad have his balls back for a tick, why don’t you!”
More laughter rolled across the yard, warm and jolly; Wil found himself grinning, glancing over his shoulder to the small, ebullient crowd in the yard, an odd mix of the common and borderline-lordly, their various states of wealth or lack of it apparently mattering little here. It was freezing, but none of them seemed like they minded, and the longer Wil stood here, the less he minded it himself.
“Shut it over there, Ridley Miller, or the next mug I hand you’ll be filled with more than just beer,” Tom grumbled, but Wil could see the cheerful cast of his glance and the tilt of a stifled grin; the hint of a smile made his hard-set face look almost boyish, but the long dagger at his belt, the hilt nocked and worn with use, warned otherwise. He peered back at Wil, considerably softer now. “Can you pay?” he wanted to know.
“I can,” Wil told him then paused, frowned a little. “That is, I’m sure I’ve enough for a bath.” He looked back at Miri. “A bath—hot water and soap—a bowl of whatever that is you’re stirring there, and…” He considered the state of his right trouser pocket, ventured, “Perhaps a room, if I’ve enough left.”
Miri was still smiling, but it slid a bit into a sympathetic grimace. “Room and board for a night, plus a bath, will run you three gilders,” she told him, nodded a little when Wil’s shoulders drooped; it would clean him out, with maybe a few billets leftover, and there was no way in the world he could linger about looking for work. “Tell you what,” Miri went on, “for one gilder, you can have the bath and the stew, and if you keep out of sight—”
“Miri,” Tom cut in, a warning rumble beneath the tone.
The Aisling Trilogy Page 7
