The Scrivener's Tale

by Fiona McIntosh

  There had to be a reason that Reynard had found him, that Aphra had used him. There had to be an explanation for why he had dreamed of a cathedral he’d not seen or known of, but which almost certainly stood proudly in this different world.

  He had plenty to learn before he could begin to fathom how to thwart Cyricus and rid himself of his presence. As for Aphra, he hoped they would find a ‘suitable host’ very soon; he could no longer stand the sound of her voice reverberating through him. She sickened him. Gabe had always thought he didn’t possess any capacity for violence and that his calm reasoning would always get him through a situation. Now, his rage was such that he would kill Aphra with his bare hands … if either of them were made of something substantial.

  However, he must remain calm and invisible to them. He would sit dormant within his own body, pulling tight any clues to his existence, and he would listen and pay attention. Perhaps he could find a way to get help from the outside. He’d already tried to leave clues. Even in his terrified, mind-scattered state, when he’d been forced into killing Flek, he’d pressed the quill against the man, hoping it would be found and cause questions to be asked.

  The demons had missed it because they were so distracted by the transference of Cyricus and their reunion. However, he had sneaked a look when Cyricus had cast a glance through Gabe’s eyes at Flek’s body. Gabe had seen that a burn mark had been left behind on the man’s chest and it seemed to him that the burn resembled the marking he knew existed on the quill. He’d never known what that tiny image represented, but knew that every anomaly and every small connection might help if people were questioning the events surrounding Flek’s death.

  The other curious moment during the shocking exchange of Cyricus into his body was to use his last remaining gasp of breath to cast the word ‘Help’ into the dying man’s consciousness. If pressing the quill against Flek’s chest was a long shot, then pushing the word ‘Help’ into Flek’s dying mouth was just about as far-fetched as things could get. About as fanciful as clinging to the belief that he might have a chance at conquering these interlopers.

  Nevertheless, he had given it all of his remaining strength.

  In truth, he didn’t know why he’d done it, but rationality was not a feature of his landscape at present. It was a desperate moment and he’d regressed to using a game from childhood, except now that he came to consider it, he didn’t remember playing any game along those lines while growing up in England. And yet, in that moment of terror, had come the searing clarity of playing a game called ‘dead men’s whispers’ with his brother in a village square, a village square that he saw in that same moment of bleak terror. What brother? Which village? He’d been raised in a city. Even so, the impulse had come to him in less than a beat of his heart and he’d acted, breathing that word as he let go of the shirt of Rural Dean Flek, whose warm lifeblood was spraying his naked body.

  It had been desperate, for sure. Who would hear that cry for help from a man who was little more than a spirit himself, via the lips of a dead man? He was truly crazy. But there had been a time in his life when he’d believed in magic, hadn’t there? Here it was again, that dim reaching toward a life he couldn’t properly recall and yet somehow had flashes of memory, or glimpses into. Was the cathedral at Pearlis one of those glimpses? Aphra seemed to know about the cathedral, didn’t she? And here they were in the land where Pearlis existed. His parents had always been awkward when the odd query had come up about his birth, hadn’t they? That was over three decades ago though.

  Gabriel felt nauseated. Had his parents lied? Had his whole life been a lie, waiting for this moment for him to flip into another world … the world he’d originated from? It sounded feasible, in a sinister way, given his situation. Is that why Aphra had found him to be the perfect ‘ride’ home? Was it that he would not disturb the fine fabric of the worlds if he were one of Morgravia’s own returning? Had she been so blinded by her own desperation that she was risking not telling Cyricus the whole story? Is this why she was so fearful?

  Had Reynard known? If so, how? Did the raven know?

  And even though his jumbled thoughts crowded in to frighten, disturb and sadden Gabe, this one thought of Aphra’s fear of him stood out. It pleased him and he experienced a thrill of pleasure that Aphra was keeping secrets from Cyricus. Divide and conquer, he thought.

  The wolves surrounded Fynch, deep in the forest, where they had dragged him. Unbeknownst to Cassien, Romaine had sent her kin to range alongside the two men as they’d travelled, staying within the dark shadows, far enough away so the horses did not pick up their scent.

  Fynch owed them a debt, for once Cassien had finally — and he knew, unhappily — left him, he didn’t have the strength to do much more than die by the roadside. Death! He wasn’t ready for it. Surely it would not choose this time to call him, when the Crown most needed his counsel? The pair of wolves had sat, like sentinels, beside him for two days now. He understood they were keeping vigil to watch him slip into death and would stay by him until his body cooled.

  The clue that this was not the plan was the sudden stirring of the trees. A strange wind had erupted in the darkest, quietest part of the night when even the owls were still. He heard the leaves flutter above and then felt the air buffet his face. He opened his eyes and, for a heartbeat, he felt a moment’s fear that this was it; true darkness had come to claim him. The soft whine of the wolves as they lowered themselves to the ground, and a looming shape above, told him this was not death but life hurtling toward him.

  Tree trunks bent, branches snapped, and leaves fell as though it were a different season, as the familiar shape broke through the sparse canopy of this woodland area and landed soundlessly on the forest floor. The beast’s colours, like illuminations, glowed and softly spilled a pool of low light about itself.

  Fynch blinked, grinning despite his weakness. It had been a long, long time since they had seen one another. ‘My king,’ he murmured, his spirits soaring to see the great dragon. ‘Forgive me for not being in a position to welcome you more elegantly.’

  My friend, it replied in his mind, in its usual gracious manner, and dipped its huge head.

  Fynch chuckled. ‘Far too long.’

  Nevertheless, we are always together.

  ‘You’ve terrified my wolf friends.’

  It is the wolves that called to me. Romaine is persistent; she howled her despair for two entire nights. Set my head aching and my whole body on edge, the dragon complained.

  ‘She had me followed!’ Fynch complained.

  Clearly you can’t be turned loose from the Wild before you get up to mischief, the dragon chided.

  ‘Ah, but I wish it were only that innocent. I feel the weight of the world on my shoulders right now, my king.’

  It is not your burden to bear.

  Fynch shook his head weakly. ‘I have pushed it onto the shoulders of others and —’

  Look at you, more than old enough to know better than to risk your life, to deliberately spill your precious, magical blood! The dragon gave a soft growl of displeasure.

  I think I am dying.

  You may have been, but I’m here.

  Despite the dark, he and the dragon could see each other perfectly well.

  You obviously had good reason to spill the dragon’s blood.

  ‘You felt it?’

  Every drop. We are of one flesh. You bound yourself to me and I to you.

  ‘So you can heal me?’

  My strength is yours to use. But we must leave here.

  ‘Dragon strength,’ Fynch wheezed.

  Dragon magic. Come, Fynch. He switched out of the language of dragons and spoke to the wolves. You have guarded him well. Thank you.

  Both stood at his acknowledgement but kept their heads lowered. Go back into the full safety of the forest now, my sons, and keep the children of Romaine safe. I fear she has other things than mothering on her mind.

  The wolves gave a brief collective howl before each p
added over to lick Fynch’s hands.

  ‘Thank you, dear ones,’ he said, feeling weaker than ever.

  They dragged him once again, this time toward the huge clawed feet of their king.

  Go now, the dragon commanded.

  The wolves melted silently into the shadows and Fynch was alone with his beloved blood-brother.

  Back to the Wild, the dragon said, where you are safe. Let the young learn the way you did all of the secrets behind your life.

  Fynch didn’t answer. There had been so much more he should have said to Cassien.

  As if the great serpent of the air could hear him, the dragon pushed into his mind. You have done what you could, put much in place, made enough sacrifice. To leave the Wild again will be to die, Fynch. You must remain within its safety, within its magic. You’ve defied it three times previously and it has been generous to you. But —

  ‘I understand,’ Fynch said, so weak he could barely form the words.

  Under cover of night, flying close to the treetops and landing to hide each time the moon peeped out from behind its cloud cover, the pair moved cautiously until they were far from Morgravia, far from habitation, northeast of Briavel. Not until he saw the welcome sight of the Thicket and felt the life-giving force it pushed into him, did Fynch believe he’d survive this night.

  FOURTEEN

  Cassien stood over the prone body of Penely. To all intents and purposes she was dead to the world, but the erratic rise and fall of her chest told him she clung to life.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

  Vivienne threw a mirthless smile at him. ‘Are you?’

  They were in a tiny back room of the brothel. He’d followed Vivienne in and had to run a gauntlet of whistles and pinches from the girls on their shift.

  ‘Aren’t I good enough?’ one had pouted, sucking her finger.

  Another lifted her considerable breasts almost into his face. ‘These will keep you happy all night, my cherub,’ she’d promised.

  They were pretty, vivacious women. Vivienne had solid competition. The mistress who ran the brothel had obviously chosen with a discerning eye, and clearly paid her girls well for they looked fed and well kept.

  ‘I’m with Vivienne,’ he had replied lamely and duly followed her deeper into the brothel, down two small flights of stairs, until he was far enough below ground that he expected it to feel damp. ‘Where are we?’ he’d asked as she turned and placed a finger to her lips.

  ‘The cellar is where my Penely’s been put. I doubt she’ll emerge from here again.’

  And now that he was looking at her sister, he had to agree.

  ‘Has a physic seen her?’

  ‘They can’t do anything for her now; she’s too far gone. She’ll die in this state. She’s not going to wake up and wish me farewell or smile that bright smile of hers again. She’ll just slip away, I’ve been told. You can see her breathing is very shallow.’

  He nodded, feeling sympathy for Vivienne.

  ‘How long has she been like this?’

  ‘A couple of days now. I know you came here to kill her, but you don’t have to. It is done, Cassien.’

  Vivienne was right. He had no further reason to remain. Both the tailor and his whore were silenced, and he had to wonder if the killing was necessary. He’d been overly cautious. He should have gone south to Pearlis immediately. Perhaps the rules of the Brotherhood didn’t apply in this instance. Yes, the Brotherhood would clean up all loose ends when working on behalf of the Crown. His task was the Crown. No loose end was not important enough. Had he already failed?

  ‘I shall go,’ he said.

  ‘Wait,’ she said. ‘About earlier with Murdo. No-one’s ever fought for my honour before.’

  He shrugged. ‘I fought for Hamelyn as much as I fought for you.’ Her nearness in the cramped cellar made him feel self-conscious again. ‘Where is Ham anyway?’

  ‘He said he had something to fetch.’ She shook her head to say she didn’t know anymore. He guessed it must be his weapons. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘What does it matter?’

  She shrugged. ‘No-one ever beats Murdo … other men do their best to avoid him or just give him what he wants. But you defied him and you trounced him. But what’s far more unnerving is I watched him burn you and you didn’t make a sound. I don’t understand that — it frightens me. We also have to dress the wound.’

  ‘I won’t trouble you, Vivienne, I promise. And my wound appeared to be far worse than it is,’ he lied. ‘Just a surface scald.’

  Her expression told him she didn’t believe a word of it. ‘Wait,’ she said, touching his arm. ‘Don’t go yet. Stay with me here tonight.’

  He looked at her with curiosity. ‘I won’t, but —’

  ‘No need to explain,’ she said shortly, looking aggrieved. ‘It was just a way to thank you …’ She didn’t finish and her tone was so tight, it made Cassien feel momentarily breathless.

  He let out a sigh. ‘I was simply going to say that while I wouldn’t remain here, I would like you to come to the Yew Inn with me.’ He scratched his chin. ‘For what’s left of this night.’

  She paused before a small sheepish smile ghosted her mouth. ‘What about Hamelyn?’

  ‘I’m sure he can stay downstairs. The innkeeper’s kind to him, seems to know him well enough.’ He waited expectantly, watching her. ‘I think when he sees my coin he’ll forgive our earlier disturbance.’

  She nodded. ‘I suppose you have paid me for the night.’

  ‘I have.’ He took her hand, inwardly delighting at the feel of a woman’s skin again. ‘I would prefer you come with me because you want to. There is no obligation. The money I’ve paid is yours without encumbrance.’

  Vivienne leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the lips, but the pressure of her breasts against his chest promised so much more. ‘You’re very … polite, aren’t you? I’m not used to that. All right, I will spend the night because I want to,’ she said staring deeply into his eyes. ‘And because you haven’t hurt my sister.’

  Later, in his room, after Vivienne had assured the innkeeper that all scores were settled, he allowed her to begin undressing them both. He’d been with women in his youth, but it had been far too long since he’d had such tender attention.

  Vivienne watched him with a thoughtful frown creasing her face as she undid her bodice.

  ‘Let’s have some wine.’ Cassien knew once that bodice of hers was undone he wouldn’t be able to think straight again this evening.

  ‘Let me get it for you.’ She smiled seductively as her blouse fell fully open and he saw her body properly for the first time. She returned with a goblet of the wine that he’d ordered sent up.

  Cassien sipped and groaned, closing his eyes. ‘That’s so delicious.’ How long had it been since he’d tasted wine?

  ‘Strike me, I haven’t begun yet. Pain first, before pleasure,’ she teased, pulling two small vessels closer. One contained tepid water, laced with vinegar. The other was a tiny pot containing a gluey paste he recognised as the ash of burned cotton emulsified with lavender oil.

  He gave a brief laugh. ‘Vivienne, you need to have walked in my boots to know why this wine, a beautiful woman sitting on top of me and this soft pallet is an incredible treat.’

  ‘Why don’t you tell me about the path you’ve walked in those boots?’ she said, unlacing his breeches. ‘I’m intrigued.’

  ‘Why?’ he said, sipping again and allowing the fruity wine to roll around his mouth.

  ‘Well, let’s see. These are fine clothes,’ she remarked, fingering his linen shirt, ‘and you’ve handed out money easily today. I heard you speak of Wevyr weapons — those don’t come cheap.’ She loosened the laces of his shirt. ‘You are hardly without …’ She stopped talking and her mouth remained open as she stared at his bared chest.

  Cassien had known this moment was coming. It couldn’t be avoided if he was to live normally among ordinary people. Fynch had asked the old girl wh
o’d helped bathe him in the barrel not to mention it and paid her handsomely for her silence. But with someone like Vivienne — unless he’d insisted on darkening the room — he was never going to escape a confrontation. And every man needed the release that he was about to enjoy. He could wish that her silence was due to the oozing of the burn wound, but he knew he was clutching at clouds.

  Embarrassed, he reached to pull his shirt together. Vivienne held his hands away, refusing to let him cover himself.

  ‘Light!’ she said, her voice trembling. ‘Tell me about that pathway, Cassien. What has been happening to you?’

  He covered her hands. ‘This is not something I can speak freely of to anyone.’

  A tear escaped down her cheek and she stayed silent as she traced a finger over the marks of old wounds, and even older wounds under them, that crisscrossed his body.

  ‘Who did this?’ she whispered.

  ‘Someone I know.’

  ‘You permitted it?’

  He nodded. ‘For all the right reasons.’

  ‘The right reasons? When can anything this vicious be right? Cassien, this is savage. What kind of person does this to another? What kind of person permits it to be done?’

  ‘He was not a bad man.’

  ‘So you asked him to do this to you?’ she said and he could hear the loathing in her voice.

  ‘No, but I also didn’t have any choice.’

  ‘He tortured you?’ He nodded. ‘But you didn’t have to let it happen?’

  ‘Ah,’ he said, feeling trapped. ‘There you have me. Don’t press, Vivienne. Please. I have now left that part of my life behind.’