21
Aczabba Veiszuit
Alyssa could see him standing next to the cart. He said something to Saxon whose shoulders moved with laughter for the first time in years. Tor was all grace and charm it seemed.
She stayed in the shadows and watched them, digging her hands deep into her pockets to stop the nervousness. Her fingers felt a scrap of parchment; it was Saxon’s note. How had he managed to write it blindly? She unfolded it and glanced around to see if anyone was nearby. She was alone. Alyssa read.
Do you remember when I told you that I was not the one for you…that there was another? I said one day he would come. He is here now. Follow him. Believe in him. He is the One.
Alyssa read the note three times. What in the Light was Saxon talking about? She did recall that day in the forest; remembered very well how her kisses had been gently spurned.
She hurriedly put the note away; she would have to think on this later. Stepping into the thin sunlight of the winter morning, she regarded the two men. One crippled and humbled; an older man with the life beaten out of him. The other in the very prime of his life, looking like a beautiful god on loan to the world. Self-assured; clearly used to the worship of women and the easy companionship of men.
He looked towards her, straightened himself to his glorious full height and waved, only to look embarrassed at his own enthusiasm. She liked him for that. Not so self-assured after all perhaps. It was a good feeling to know she could still unbalance Torkyn Gynt.
She arrived in front of him but spoke first to Saxon. ‘Saxon, thank you for doing this.’
He shrugged and she turned her attention to Tor, hoping he did not read her deep breath for the nervousness it was.
‘And hello again, Physic Gynt.’
He held her gaze, staring much too intently for her comfort. She gestured towards the cart. ‘Shall we?’
‘Only if you call me Tor and not Physic Gynt.’
Alyssa nodded.
Both men offered their hand. She took Saxon’s calloused one and stepped up lightly. Tor joined her on the back bench. Whilst Saxon clicked to his horses, two of the Elders obliged with the gates. Soon they were out of the compound and trotting at an easy pace past the orchard.
Tor could not help himself. He reached across and took her hand but Alyssa snatched it back.
‘Please don’t,’ she said, frightened by the emotion she saw in his eyes. She pushed her hand into her pocket for extra security and she felt the note again.
He is the One, she repeated in her mind as a difficult silence fell.
Tor suddenly looked up and a moment later a majestic falcon swooped out of the skies and landed on the wooden bench next to Saxon but facing them. This is impossible! Alyssa thought in alarm and let out a short squeal. She was surprised to see Tor grin.
Good timing, Cloot, he said across the link.
It looked as though you needed rescuing. Don’t rush her, Tor, the falcon counselled. She doesn’t know the man. She only remembers the boy.
The bird gripped the bench with sharp talons and cocked his head to one side. Alyssa felt as though she was under serious scrutiny. Tor turned. There was no avoiding those blue eyes now, she thought. He spoke aloud.
‘Cloot, I would like you to meet the woman I have told you about. This is Alyssa.’
The large bird moved from foot to foot as it regarded her intently from bright yellow eyes. Alyssa stared at it in wonder.
Tor nudged her. He cleared his throat and nodded towards the bird. Alyssa found her manners.
‘Er…how do you do, Cloot,’ she said, completely in awe, then turned back to Tor. ‘Is this your hawk?’
‘Peregrine falcon if you don’t mind,’ he corrected. ‘Cloot gets very put out if one refers to him as a hawk.’
Her eyes sparkled. ‘Indeed. And he understands what I’m saying no doubt.’
‘Every word, so be nice.’
She looked back at the bird. ‘In that case, you are the most handsome falcon I have ever seen, Cloot.’ She was delighted to see the bird bob his head.
Tor translated. ‘He commends your excellent taste.’ And enjoyed hearing her laugh at this.
Saxon, unperturbed by the bird of prey next to him, pointed to the small brook they were passing.
‘Yes,’ Tor said. ‘Why don’t we stop here for a moment?’
He wagged his finger when Alyssa pulled a face at stopping so soon. ‘Your job is to be my guide. Here is where I wish to stop and admire Ildagarth’s beautiful scenery.’
Saxon motioned that he would stay with the horses. Tor and Alyssa walked in a more comfortable silence now to the brook’s edge while Cloot flew ahead to the small copse of trees. She marvelled at his grace.
‘Tell me about Cloot,’ Alyssa said as they sat down on the spongy grass.
She watched Tor’s face battle through a series of private conflicts. He finally sighed. ‘Where to begin?’
‘Well…how about after the Floral Dance?’ she said softly, pain lacing her words.
And so he did. He told her everything. Merkhud’s sensing of their link, the Stones, the fact that his mother and father were not his real parents, and how he had felt he must follow Merkhud to Tal. He explained how he had ridden two days later to Mallee Marsh to find her, to beg her forgiveness and her hand, to ask her to go with him; only to discover she had gone away. No note, not even an indication of where or why. Tor ran his hand through his hair; she remembered that trait. Then he told her how alone he had felt without her; the countless times over the years he had tried to link, always in vain but never giving up hope.
It was then she took his hand in her own. Tor felt a strength from her touch.
He described finding a gentle giant of a man—a cripple—nailed to a post and how this stranger, who could link with him, had begged him to stay close. When he told her the stranger’s name was Cloot, Alyssa, intrigued, looked at the falcon which was preening itself on a branch nearby. Tor knew the bird was doing this for her benefit. He told Cloot to stop showing off. Cloot ignored him, stretching his powerful wings wide so Alyssa could appreciate his fine, broad chest. She laughed, but not for long.
Tor detailed how badly injured Cloot had been that day; told her of Prime Cyrus and Doctor Freyberg; of the ant dismembering the cockroach and his healing of his new friend. He spoke of the little he knew of the Paladin. He chose not to mention being crowned King of the Sea, or Eryn. This was perhaps not the moment, as Alyssa began to caress his hand, to be talking about making love to another woman.
His story gathered momentum: chasing through the night to Brewis; Cloot shapechanging into this glorious falcon; Cyrus nailed to a tree and how they had saved him; the King and Queen; Merkhud; life at the Palace and his growing obsession to find her.
Her tears fell onto his hand which she clasped close now.
Tor brought his life over the past five years to a rapid close for her, detailing his healing of Queen Nyria and subsequent falling out with Merkhud; his suspicions of the old man; the Prime’s disappearance in the Heartwood and of Darmud Coril and Lys. Tor did not speak of his dreams, though, and what he saw in them. That he would tell her later.
Right now he looked at her earnestly. ‘Do you believe me?’
Alyssa looked into his eyes and beyond. ‘All of it, Tor. Saxon has spoken to me of this same dream woman, the one you call Lys. She is the one who guided him to me.’
He nodded. ‘That makes sense. He is your guardian.’
It did not make much sense to her but before she could say more he was talking again.
‘Will you forgive me for Minstead?’
She put her cool hand to his mouth and stopped him trying to continue. She nodded.
‘And Xantia?’ she asked quietly.
‘Xantia?’ he said, as though not understanding the word. ‘She is no one, Alyssa…a distraction.’
‘Really? Well, that distraction has been my closest friend for years. More recently she chose to make me her enemy.’
‘Because of me?’
‘No. It’s complicated. Two sorts of jealousy have her entirely in their grip. A new Elder is to be named soon; Xantia believes the role should be hers. There are four candidates and as I’m one of them she feels threatened by me.’ Alyssa did not elaborate further but Tor guessed Alyssa was the first and obvious choice to all. He kept his thoughts to himself.
She continued. ‘More recently she has become enamoured by a man. You. She hears no reason. And in me, already someone she despises, she sees only a rival for that man she has known for hours and now claims to worship. Tor, Xantia thinks we are lovers!’
He smiled. ‘Let’s not disappoint her then. Let’s make your falling out earn its grief.’ He meant it. She could see it in his blazing blue eyes.
The falcon must have said something because he grimaced sharply at it in rebuke.
‘Tor, I’m not sure why but lately I seem to be reminding people rather too often what this circle of archalyt on my forehead means.’
‘What—this?’
When he touched the disc it fell soundlessly into the well of fabric formed by her robes as they draped across her crossed legs.
Alyssa was speechless. Even Tor looked bemused as he picked up the disc between his long fingers and held it up, the green gem glinting fiercely in the weak sunshine.
He sliced a link into her mind, Welcome back to me, and slipped the disc into his pocket as he leant to kiss her.
Numb, Alyssa permitted the kiss but did not return it. It was as though she had been seeing the world through blurred vision these past years; hearing it through a gauze. As soon as she was released from the archalyt, every colour, scent and sound—and probably taste, too, she thought—increased in intensity.
Tor pulled back from her mouth. How long had he dreamed of that? He did not even care that the affection was so one-sided on this occasion.
Saxon! Alyssa called across the link.
He came as fast as his hobbling gait and blind eyes would allow, his face contorted by emotion.
You’re back, his lovely, deep voice said into her mind; a voice she had missed so much. How?
Tor did it.
Saxon smiled his torn and ragged grin; a ghost of its former radiance. That’s because he is the One.
The ride to Ildagarth proper would take them until midday and Saxon took the horses slowly to ensure the precious couple he escorted had plenty of time to say what needed to be shared between them.
Alyssa looked at Tor quizzically to buy herself a few more moments before she had to relive what she had tried to deny every day of her life since.
‘It’s painful for me, Tor.’ She looked at the purplish hills in the distance and the different greens of the grasses which stretched out towards them. She swore she could catch on the breeze the fragrance of the lavender on those hills.
He took her hand and kissed its palm tenderly. Tell me, he spoke into her mind.
And so she did, sparing him none of the brutal details. She watched him smile at her tale of flying with Saxon Fox and she watched grief form in his eyes when she described her first ordeal with Goth; then watched those blue eyes deepen into despair and then hatred when she told of her second, more physical encounter.
Her voice shook in the telling but his own trembling touch steadied her so she could finish the story. Perhaps he had thought it could not get worse but she felt his body stiffen at her description of what Goth had done to Milt and Oris, the injuries he had inflicted on Saxon and how he had promised he would wait for her.
When she had finished her telling, silence claimed the slim space between them. Finally Tor nodded.
‘I understand why you would choose the Academie. I even admire the archalyt now for how it protects you. I did not protect you.’
‘Tor, don’t. You weren’t to know any of this would occur. You forget—it was my choice to leave with Sorrel. I control my life, not you.’
She realised she had forgotten to tell Tor about the dream she had experienced while floating in the Green as Goth claimed her virginity but there was no time now. Saxon opened a link to tell her they were almost at their destination.
Alyssa reminded herself to tell Tor later about the stolen child and the books. Perhaps he might know something of the story or be able to make the connection with Merkhud.
She squeezed his hand. ‘Come on. Let’s make this a good day.’
Normally Tor would have revelled in the opportunity to explore a new city, particularly one of such historical note as Ildagarth, but his attentions were fixed firmly on Alyssa. Just watching the way she moved her hands as she spoke was far more fascinating for him than the glorious architecture, albeit in ruins, which surrounded him.
Ildagarth, or so the tale went, had never fully recovered from being razed by the warlock Orlac. All around were ruins of sad beauty which looked as though they had reared through the ground from another world. Around them had sprung a new city but the old one still peeped through.
The locals’ eyes slid easily past the exquisite columns of marble; the decorative floors, of which perhaps only a corner remained; the achingly beautiful carvings. In the oldest and most inspiring part of the city thrived a new community dedicated to commerce and learning of a less philanthropic nature. To a visitor, however, Ildagarth was a place of unrivalled magnificence where one could almost hear the ghosts of centuries gone if alone in one of the dozens of empty, ruined buildings.
Right now, though, the city was filling rapidly with masses of the living. They had travelled from throughout the Kingdom of Tallinor and beyond from the Four Kingdoms to celebrate the most famous of all festivals: Czabba. Literally it meant ‘Death’ but the occasion was anything but solemn. The Festival dated back centuries to the time of the folklore legend of Orlac but its original meaning had become muddied as the times marched on. In truth Merkhud was right. It had evolved into a grand masquerade of gigantic proportions in which every street of the city reverberated to the merrymaking of its guests.
Everyone wore masks during the night of the Festival itself. Tradition dictated that if you covered your face then Death could not see who you were. So there was always an assortment of death masks as well as strange beasts and animals from the wildest imagination. Obligatory, however—and far more interesting for no one could ever explain why—was the tradition for eleven particular masks to always be present. They were created by the finest craftsmen in the Kingdom and the chance to wear one of the eleven was considered one of the highest privileges bestowed on an Ildagarthian.
One of these masks was Death, which took the shape of a handsome man who was meant to be Orlac. The remaining ten depicted the most ancient of races of people from around the Kingdom of Tallinor, or so scholars suggested. Truth or fiction? It meant nothing to the present-day revellers but merely added to the pomp and intrigue of the Death Festival.
Alyssa now realised that the ten ancient races referred to the Paladin. Another piece of the jigsaw slotted into place.
She was giving Tor a tour of the streets she knew from her infrequent outings over the past few years. He drank in her calm voice, studied the way her lips moved, recalled how she used to fiddle with her honey-coloured hair the same way as a child. Her long hands with their perfect almond-shaped nails kept his attention rapt far more than her description of life in the city of Ildagarth, famous or not.
They found themselves wandering in a street known for its excellent watering holes, as Alyssa called them. Here they served every herb tea imaginable and a drink called zabub which was a heady, delicious brew served thick and sweetened. It was a local specialty and Alyssa suggested he try it.
Tor listened to her order in the language of street vendors of the north. He could tell Alyssa was a gifted linguist.
He spoke aloud. ‘This must be your first Czabba Festival too.’
‘It is, yes,’ she said, then frowned. ‘Do you think Saxon is all right…and what about Cloot?’
He grinned. ‘Cloot can take care of himself. He doesn’t like crowds or cities much. He’ll stay close and he’s always in my head.’
She sighed. ‘It used to be that way with Saxon too, before the archalyt.’
‘You’ve no need to worry on Saxon’s behalf. He’s a wise man. He’ll stay with the horses on the fringe of the city.’
‘It’s always in my mind that Goth will keep his promise. He means to destroy me because I’ve escaped his clutches twice.’
She saw his jaw clench at her words.
‘He will lay no finger on you ever again, Alyssa. I promise you. The man is a fiend. He must pay for what he did to you.’
She was about to say something when the drinks arrived. Instead she whispered across the link. It’s past. Let it be.
She thanked the young serving woman and then clinked her mug with Tor’s. ‘Zabub is served heated to take the chill off a winter’s day. Be careful it doesn’t burn your mouth.’
He blew on the steaming contents and sipped. It was rich and laced with an exotic liquor.
‘Mmm,’ he said with genuine pleasure. It made her laugh. ‘So what do you think of all this festivity?’
‘It doesn’t mean much to me, Tor. In truth I prefer to celebrate life.’
‘Or perhaps survival,’ he said gently. ‘Czabba—is that Ildagarthian?’
‘Yes, but very old, a dialect dead for a century or more.’ Alyssa suddenly became still, her mug lifted halfway to her mouth and a frown creasing her forehead.
‘You’ll catch a fly if you keep it open like that,’ he said, using a favourite phrase of his mother’s.
‘Tor…’
‘Yes, I’m still here…hanging on your every word.’
‘It doesn’t mean Death.’
‘Should I be following this?’
‘Czabba…the Festival…it doesn’t simply mean Death.’
‘Oh?’ Tor said, confused and totally uninterested in anything but the thought of kissing her sweet lips again.
Alyssa’s voice was suddenly excited. ‘Listen to me—this is really important. I’ve been reading two ancient scripts I found buried beneath the crypt in a place which was no casual hidey-hole. These books had been carefully concealed.’
He nodded. The temptation to tease her was great but she seemed very intent on this. He kept his expression serious.
Alyssa continued. ‘In those books I have read what I believe is a true commentary, written by one of the Masters of Goldstone. His name was Nanak. He told a story—too long in the re-telling for now—but it roughly goes that a child was stolen. No ordinary child, Tor, but a god.’
She saw him swallow very slowly. He placed his cup gently on the table. ‘Go on,’ he said carefully, all flippancy gone.
‘He was stolen from the Host and sold to mortals by—’
‘Scavengers.’ He completed her sentence.
It was Alyssa’s turn to put her mug down. Her skin paled before him. ‘You know?’
‘Please, go on,’ he encouraged, giving no eye contact now.
She felt compelled. ‘I…I meant to tell you this earlier. When Goth raped me I used the Green to escape his touch, the pain. In the Green I had a vision. I watched a baby being stolen from its parents. They were beautiful and they stood in an exquisite glade. They did nothing to help him, simply watched as the thieves ran away with their child.’
‘Tell me more,’ he said urgently.
‘Nothing more from that vision. Only what I’ve read in this book. The child grew amongst mortals, not knowing who he was. His mortal parents, who were sentient, also had no knowledge of his background. He was gifted, an extraordinary talent with the magics. They enrolled him at the Academie where his powers surpassed those of the Masters and they became scared of him.’
She paused. It was Tor who continued as his own dream vividly came back to him.
‘When they hatched a plan to Quell him, the young man razed the city of Goldstone—the Ancient Seat of Learning—and killed two thousand people. That city is now known as Ildagarth and the Ancient Seat, Caremboche, is where today’s Academie now sits.’
Alyssa shook her head in disbelief. ‘Tor, you must tell me how you know this.’
‘I dreamed it.’ He rubbed his hands over his face in consternation.
Alyssa’s words tumbled over one another in her excitement. ‘I have only read the first of the books. It is written in the most ancient of languages and I don’t understand how I can read it. No one else can. I have never encountered that language before; how do I know it? How do I know that this Festival is not Czabba but Aczabba Veiszuit?’
Tor shook his head in silence, waiting for her to explain.
‘Czabba is Ildagarthian for Death all right but I believe it might be a poor translation, a bastardisation if you will, from this more ancient language which the books are scribed in. Aczabba Veiszuit means Death of a God.’ She clapped her hands in wonderment. ‘Tell me what else you dreamed.’
Tor felt a chill crawl over his body as he began to recall for Alyssa all that he had seen in his dream. When he had finished they sat in silence for several moments.
‘This Lys you speak of—she told you that he lives and would return? That you must stop him? Tor, what folly is this?’
‘No folly. His name is Orlac.’
Her knees felt weak. Tor spoke the truth.
‘There’s worse.’ He finished his drink. ‘Want to take a guess at his mortal father’s name?’
‘I don’t need to. It’s written in the book. His name is Merkhud.’
‘One and the same.’
‘But, Tor, that would make your Merkhud centuries old.’ She wanted to use this impossibility to dismiss everything.
‘Why not? Nothing makes sense in my life any more, or yours come to that. There is potent magic surrounding us; coursing through us. We go undetected by Inquisitors and yet Merkhud finds us. He seems to be at the very core of all of this. Alyssa, I could almost believe he contrived to have you leave Mallee Marsh because he suspected I might try to bring you with me to Tal.’
Tor’s face creased in thought as he tried to gather together threads of ideas which had lain on the fringe of his mind for years.
‘It would not have suited him to have you with me but he knew you were sentient and that you also had escaped notice; you were too valuable to ignore. I know it sounds like a wild notion but I could even believe that he veiled you from me!’ He leapt to a new thought. ‘Alyssa, why did you leave? What made you wander off with a woman you had never met before?’
She thought hard. ‘After the Floral Dance I hoped that you might…well, you know.’
He nodded, knowing all too well.
She sighed. ‘Instead you scared me with your harsh words and angry voice. She was so kind to me on that first day when I felt alone and scared. But now that I think about it as an adult, I recall that Sorrel’s conversation was cleverly directed at informing me of your leaving. Now I hear that you had not left at all. Sorrel wanted me to get angry at you, perhaps. I don’t know. Why would she lie otherwise?’
‘Exactly! I’ll bet all the gold in Ildagarth that Sorrel is part of this elaborate web which Merkhud weaves. Alyssa, if Merkhud is the mortal father of Orlac then why not—’
‘Don’t say it, Tor, please. She’s been my guardian for five summers. She has protected me and nursed me and watched over me.’
‘Of course she has! That’s her task. She may well love you, Alyssa, but she’s controlled by Merkhud, her husband. And why? I’ll tell you. Because she’s the mortal mother of Orlac. They have controlled us from the start and deliberately kept us apart.’ There was no elation in his voice as he weaved his threads together.
Alyssa felt hollow. She knew she had accepted Sorrel into her life all too easily and that the woman had come along at just the right time to help a hurting young girl find her feet and a purpose. Tor’s summary was very painful because it rang of too much truth. The jigsaw piece hovered, then snapped into place.
Merkhud and Sorrel, mortal parents of Orlac, working together to manipulate events.
‘Did you choose to come north when you left Tal?’ Alyssa asked carefully as she frowned again in thought.
‘No, Merkhud suggested it.’
‘So, if we follow your plot, then they have contrived to bring us together; they knew we would have to meet again. Why?’
Alyssa never did hear Tor’s reply for at that precise moment a familiar figure caught her attention. Sudddenly she was cold to the marrow. Over Tor’s broad shoulder she glimpsed a flash of purple; a colour she had not cared for since Fragglesham when she had lost something precious to a man she hated more than any other. That same man was now strolling down the street in Ildagarth where she sat twisting over a theory and sipping zabub.
Tor watched her expression flip from puzzlement to terror. He turned and immediately saw what had created the fear. He felt his own bile rise but fell into the practised calm he had taught himself that night when he felt Cloot’s life slipping away from him. That was the very first time he had banished fear and replaced it with power—his own power from within. Tor had called upon the calm many times since then and he called upon it now for he knew fear would draw the enemy to them.
He opened a link to Alyssa and told her to look at him. She turned with effort away from the purple and stared into the blue she trusted.
Pull your hood up over your hair, he said calmly. Do not look at Goth.
Then he sliced open a link to Cloot and warned his friend of the turn of events. The falcon was in the air before Tor had turned back to Alyssa.
Link with Saxon. Tell him you are coming. He must be ready to flee straight back to the Academie.
She did as she was told.
Good. Now, my beloved, I must do something I regret deeply but it will save you once more. He reached into his pocket and withdrew the pale green archalyt disc.
Cloot, circling high above, spoke a warning. He’s about forty steps from you, Tor, but is engaged in conversation with a storekeeper. He is not looking your way.
Tor pressed the archalyt onto Alyssa’s forehead and it adhered. She felt herself back in dullness, cut off from Saxon or Tor. It was a keen sense of isolation and renewed terror she now experienced but Tor stood and gripped her elbow, lending her his strength. He turned her from Goth and spoke quietly but firmly, releasing her arm so they drew no attention.
‘You are going to hurry but not run. You will move straight past Goth.’ He saw her flinch. ‘It is the shortest way back to Saxon. Goth will not notice you because I will distract him. I promise you will be safe.’
Alyssa did not believe him, he could see it in her frightened eyes, but she had courage and she would do as he asked.
Cloot?
He’s still busy haggling over some trinket. You had better do it now or not at all, my friends.
‘I love you, Alyssa,’ Tor said tenderly; then firmly: ‘Go now.’
Alyssa had heard him utter those words before, on a sunny day at Minstead Green. She left him against her will once again; this time walking away from the man she loved towards the man she hated.
Tor hid himself and watched her progress. He would not act until she was safely past Goth, whom he could now clearly see arguing with a shopkeeper.
Goth had had a pig of a day. None of his soldiers were with him at present and although he could not force a bridling without his men, he could certainly pick an argument with a grubby storekeeper who was fleecing people of their hard-earned money.
From the corner of his eye the Chief Inquisitor saw the robes of an acolyte of the Academie moving briskly past him. His practised observer’s technique registered that within them was a petite and slender woman. He could not see her face for she had it turned aside. And then she was out of his view and he was back with the story about eight mouths to feed as well as an ageing mother to care for.
At that moment the storekeeper stopped and looked up in wonder at the sky. Goth looked up too and noticed a falcon circling high above. The storekeeper and those around him were marvelling at it and commenting that no falcons had been seen in these parts for years.
It took only a second for Goth’s sharp mind to put it together. He had been following in the bastard physic’s footsteps for weeks now. He had lost all trace of him at Saddleworth; had hoped to catch up with him at the pass through the southern fringe of the Rorky’el Mountains—the only way to the north-west—but had found no sign. However, that was unmistakably Gynt’s bird flying above. The physic was here for sure. Goth dropped the item he had been haggling for and looked around wildly for the man.
His powers of observation served him well once again. Just about everyone around him was looking up towards the bird; everyone except the retreating acolyte. She, he saw, kept her robes pulled tightly around her—as if she did not want to be noticed—and was hurrying.
Goth had always led his life instinctively and his instincts had never let him down. Now they suggested strongly that he should follow that small, slender figure. His mind raced to the conclusion that his prey was close: Gynt was here. However, his gut feeling demanded he follow the woman as the only Caremboche woman who would flee from him was Alyssandra Qyn. Granted, he admitted as he walked away from the pointing crowd, he had not expected her to be an acolyte for she was not sentient. Perhaps it was a guise or perhaps it was not her at all but he followed all the same. He knew the women of the Academie were protected by royal decree but he did not care a damn for such rules. He would find a way around them.
She would lead him to Gynt for sure. He would have the physic soon…and he would have the trembling, frightened Alyssa Qyn in his arms once again.
Tor ran out into the street and felt his stomach turn. Goth was not approaching as he had hoped; he was moving away and in the direction of Alyssa.
I sense I’m something of a novelty in these parts, Tor, said Cloot. I’m going to follow Alyssa; see she gets to Saxon safely.
Tor quickly caught up with Goth but kept out of sight behind whichever person, animal, store or pillar presented itself. He could not communicate with Alyssa but he could see she was no longer giving care to stealth. She was running.
Alyssa risked one look behind her. She did not expect to see anyone but glimpsed the contorted face of Goth, possibly fifty steps away; close enough to make out the lumps of his ugly face. He was chasing her. She threw off her hood and dropped the cloak which was slowing her down and ran. Her golden hair flowed free and Goth yelled out in delight.
‘It is you, Alyssa! Oh, I am looking forward to our reunion.’ He broke into a run.
Goth was short but he was also fit and powerful. Tor, loping fast behind them now, could see it was a matter of moments before the Inquisitor ran Alyssa down. He had to do something but could not strike directly against Goth who was always well shielded by the same archalyt which protected Alyssa.
Tor thought fast. He had only a matter of moments.
A man was leading two horses towards the stables ahead. As Goth ran towards them Tor spiked the animals with sharp pain. As he had hoped, both reared up, squealing. One ripped itself free from the shocked stablehand and the other kicked out furiously and struck Goth on the shoulder.
It was not much more than a glancing blow but it was sufficient to knock Goth to the ground. People came scurrying to assist him. He shook them off and grimaced, not from the pain of his shoulder but from the agony of watching his quarry disappear around a corner and out of his sight.
Alyssa heard the horses but did not turn; she just kept running towards the edge of town where she knew Saxon would be waiting for her. She glanced above and, despite her fear, felt elated to see Cloot flying with her. She loved the falcon for this and even dared a wave.
The falcon cast back to Tor. Alyssa will be fine. Now you must get back to the Academie too. He knows you’re here because he’s seen me.
He’s heading back to the stables, I think, to get his horse. Are you sure Alyssa will be all right?
Saxon has her and they are already heading home at full gallop, came the reply. Just keep Goth busy for a few minutes more.
Think! Tor screamed to himself. He doubled back towards the stables.
Cloot spoke again. Remember that Aspecting charm Merkhud mentioned which all those Masters found so impossible to wield? I know you never bothered with it but now might be as good a time as any.
It was as though a shaft of sunlight had burst through dark clouds. I love you, Cloot.
What would you do without me? the bird said and closed the link.
Aspecting was an extraordinarily difficult charm; it and Shadow-walking seemed to exist only in theory for not even the great Master Joromi had wound his talents around either of the tricks. Nevertheless, as Tor watched Goth disappear into the stables he centred and felt the Colours surround him. Against his chest he felt the thrum of the Orbs as they vibrated with their and his power; he wished, yet again, he knew their true purpose.
He focused on a man standing to his right and cast the complex glamour. Goth reappeared, slapping his thigh with the whip he would use on his stallion to thunder down the road to Caremboche. He glanced around, his small boar-like eyes scanning the crowd swiftly and penetratingly. They were arrested by the profile of a man he knew. The tall figure noticed him and turned away to walk down a side street.
Goth’s pudgy face arranged itself into a nasty smile. ‘I have you now, Gynt.’
He was surprised not to see the physic when he too entered the side street but this was one of the maze of streets which comprised Ildagarth’s famed bazaar. Goods were strewn on makeshift tables under awnings and there was everything on offer, from boots to confectionery.
He took his time, watching closely. There he was! Talking to someone. Now he was moving off under the cover of the awnings. Goth followed.
He had lost him once more. Goth began to whip his thigh again in frustration. Surely Gynt was playing with him. Suddenly he saw him again, this time carrying a tray which he handed to a woman. Whatever was the physic doing? Goth watched him say something to the woman and then walk into a shop.
By the time Goth arrived at that shop it was empty, save for the storekeeper and the same woman buying rice.
Anger welled and control capitulated to rage. Goth was no longer thinking clearly. He wanted Gynt; wanted to hurt him for years of avoiding his wrath. He wanted to punish him for all those women who fell at his feet. Most of all, he wanted to break him now whilst he was away from the protection of Merkhud, the King and that arrogant Prime.
He stomped out of the shop and, to his surprise, found Gynt directly in front of him, offering him a quartered orange. His frustrations spilled over.
‘No more games,’ he said nastily. Gynt did not seem to recognise him and addressed him in Idagarthian, suggesting Goth try his fruit.
This enraged him. Goth struck Gynt across the face with his whip, then fell on him in a frenzy. He wanted to tear him limb from limb. He had lost Alyssa again and here was someone upon whom he could vent the anger of that loss. He felt hands frantically pulling at him but he was strong; he clung tight and banged the physic’s head again and again against the cobbles.
He heard himself giggle. My, my! This would take some explaining back at Court. But explain he would.
When Goth was finally wrenched off the body he saw it was a child who lay lifeless in the street, her blood mixing with the juices of crushed oranges. It did not make sense. What had happened to Gynt? Goth’s anger subsided.
People were whispering around him but most were too shocked to speak aloud. Many had known the child since she was born. None had known she was sentient. Why would the Inquisitor beat her to death?
It was fortunate that Tor did not witness the result of his Aspecting charm. He had waited to see the first two work beautifully and then had ducked and weaved through the cobbled streets of Ildagarth to put as much distance between himself and Goth as possible. He made his escape, out across open fields, running in the direction of the Academie.
Cloot, however, saw it all. He chose not to re-open the link and share with Tor the high point of his handiwork in adding a new dimension to the charm by making it pass from person to person through touch. No, he would keep this to himself and accept the guilt of the child’s death as his burden.
Nanak’s voice broke as he sliced the link open. Arabella, the priestess, she has fallen to Orlac.
Merkhud’s face twisted in a grimace of despair. Too soon. This can’t be.
It’s true.
Did she say anything?
She just called out that her time had come.
And she disappeared like the others?
Yes.
Merkhud paced his study. Nanak said no more.
Then she will show herself somewhere, my friend. She will re-emerge. We know that now. Her life as a guardian of Orlac is ended. Her life as a protector of the Trinity has begun.
He received no reply. The link closed.