Blood and Memory (13 page)

But her thoughts drifted to her journey and where she must go. Felrawthy. That was where she needed to head now. She had in her possession a letter for the Duke of Felrawthy from Wyl. She was alone and defenseless, which meant she would need to find a new method of transport, perhaps link up with another group of travelers who might be heading east—if she could meet any, perhaps find some temporary work to afford food and lodging?

Well, it was a plan. Something to wake up to. The owl hooted again, reminding Elspyth that her kind should be asleep while the creatures of the night went about their business. She wriggled into the least uncomfortable position she could find and let her last conscious thought be cast to Lothryn.

Elspyth dreamed.

Lothryn was calling to her. Crying for her, in fact. He was in pain. Drowning in it. Vast, all-encompassing, mind-altering pain. It seemed to her that he could feel her presence as strongly as she sensed his. What was causing this pain and who was inflicting it she could not tell. There was darkness. Anger too. She could feel the bitterness raging about Lothryn—it was not his own—but she could neither see him nor the person who felt this emotion. Magic swirled around her…wherever she was. It knew she was there also, but it could not touch her.

Did she scream or was that Lothryn again?

Lothryn
! she called into the pain.

His voice, just barely there.

Tell Romen I will wait
, he whispered, voice thick with agony.
I am no longer as he would expect
.

Elspyth did scream now, shrieking Lothryn’s name again and again into the darkness and its foul magic, but her lover was gone. Their bond, whatever it was, viciously snapped as if the power wielder had cut through the point where their minds had touched.

She awoke, still crying out, as dawn crept through a heavy mist that had settled about her. At first Elspyth panicked amid the blindness, waving her arms and fighting the foggy swirls, but her vision cleared slightly, reassuring her of where she was, and coldly reminded her that she was alone. Shallow breaths came rapidly. She needed to slow them. Painfully she stood from her uncomfortable hollow and sucked in deep gasps of air, filling her lungs and expelling long breaths as gradually as she dared. Tears streamed down her face while a new fear gripped her…what had become of Lothryn?

Was he talking to her from the dead? Had he spoken at all or had she just dreamed, experiencing a nightmare of sorts? She forced herself to be practical even though she felt more fatigued now than before her distressing sleep. She wiped her eyes, relieved herself, and then sat down to slowly consume the hard biscuit. She was not hungry. The process of chewing and swallowing would help ease her alarm, she hoped, and so she forced herself to eat. Lothryn had made them eat when they were fleeing for their lives in the Razors. None of them had felt hungry and yet he had insisted and he had been right. She took the same advice now and nourished herself.

Elspyth had never felt more alone in her lonely life. Lothryn’s words, real or imagined, were all she had to cling to. She must succeed in her task if Wyl Thirsk was to keep his promise.

Elspyth finally stood, brushed away the crumbs, and patted at her unruly hair as best she could. She knew she looked a fright but no longer cared. Lothryn was suffering. He had spoken from life, not death. She knew it. Knew that her own, albeit vague, susceptibility to magic, even though she could not use it or even touch it, was how she had felt him.

She had heard his voice. Lothryn needed help. Setting her jaw in a way only her aunt would recognize as the stubborn manner of her forebears, Elspyth walked, heading east toward Felrawthy.

As Elspyth was discovering the horror at Rittylworth, Fynch was entering the town of
Baelup. He had made speedy progress from Crowyll out of Briavel and into Morgravia courtesy of a man in a hurry to make a delivery into Pearlis. Fynch had done him a good turn and the man had offered the boy a lift to his destination.

It was Knave who had done the deed, in fact, frightening off a couple of thieves who were nosing about in the man’s cart while it was briefly unattended. Fynch had noticed their interest, and realizing their actions were furtive and hardly those of people with ownership of the cartload, he sent Knave in, knowing the huge dog was enough to scare most. When Knave sounded off his ferocious bark, the men scurried away, understandably terrified.

The scene had brought one of Fynch’s rare smiles to his face, and as he strolled up to congratulate the dog on his performance, the owner of the cart had returned. He too looked nervously at the dog. Fynch explained what had occurred and the man’s face had lit up.

“Travel with me,” he had said. “I’ll pay you.”

Fynch was taken aback. “Why?”

“This is the second time this has happened. Two months ago I lost half of my goods to thieves. I suspect it is not the last time either and Lady Bench is waiting for her delivery. She’s a new client and I daren’t let her down.”

“And how can I possibly help you?” Fynch asked, amused, thinking of how slight he was. And then it dawned on him. “Oh, I see. My dog.”

“Precisely,” the man said. “You do have control of it, don’t you?” he added nervously.

“Only when he wants me to. But fret not. He will not attack you.”

“Shar’s Thanks,” the man replied with relief. “Is it a deal?”

“I need to get to Baelup.”

“Perfect. I can take you there as soon as I make my delivery,” the man had said. “Please. I have food for the journey and my intention is to ride the horses hard to Grimble Town, changing them there. We shall be in Baelup sooner than you can pick your nose. What do you say?”

Fynch liked the man and his amusing manner. He knew Hildyth’s trail was cooling each day he spent on foot and he could make up valuable time if he took the man’s offer. “All right.”

They had experienced no further robbery attempts and it had turned out that the man, Master Rilk, was a tailor, one of the best in Briavel too, although modesty precluded him from claiming that he was in fact the most popular of all tailors with the nobles. Word had apparently spread and now various Morgravian dignitaries were securing his services. Lady Bench was the most notable to date and she had paid a veritable fortune for him to tailor her daughter’s latest dancing gown. She had insisted, however, that Master Rilk personally deliver the gown just in case it required last-minute adjustments.

Rilk made pleasant, intelligent company for Fynch and had thoroughly enjoyed the serious lad, who was knowledgeable in the ways of the Morgravian court and seemed to know all of its nobles. Fynch had gladly passed on their names and dress tendencies, his attention to detail impressing the tailor. Master Rilk had plans to expand his business dealings in the Morgravian capital, so this inside information was a blessing.

They had parted company at Baelup as friends, with a promise to meet again sometime. Fynch had refused payment. He had been fed and watered well, as had Knave, at Rilk’s expense, plus they had traveled swiftly and safely to their destination.

After they had waved goodbye, Knave made himself scarce and Fynch walked into the main square, wondering where to begin. Several hours later, having passed himself off as a distant member of the family bringing news of his own mother’s passing, he had established that Myrren’s mother—Emil—had left Baelup soon after she had learned of her daughter’s ugly death. With her husband dead and daughter burned as a witch, people at the time had sympathized with her fears for her own life.

The blacksmith was the most helpful. He seemed to have known the family well but claimed to have no idea where Emil had fled to.

“I can’t offer much more help. I know a young fellow came here to see her the next day after Myrren’s death. He was with a tall chap, but I don’t think the older one went in with him to see Emil.”

“Was the youngster’s name Thirsk?” Fynch had asked eagerly, and the man had jumped at the name.

“I don’t know, lad. I just saw him arrive and leave with the pup. I gather Myrren had asked him to take her dog. He was here barely minutes.”

“Can you remember anything about him?”

“Red hair. Does that help?”

Fynch grinned. “It does. He was probably accompanied by a man called Gueryn?”

The smith shrugged, none the wiser.

“How did you come to meet them?”

“My missus and I were helping Emil pack her things, as I recall,” the man had said, scratching his head. “She was in a tearing hurry to leave. Once she had discovered of Myrren’s end, she could only think of fleeing the house, the town, everything she knew. Shame. It was the second time in her life she had done this. Myrren had funny eyes, you see, and those Witch Stalkers just had to have her. Poor mite—she deserved better—was a lovely girl and a good daughter. The old man just dropped dead in front of them. His heart gave out; he had feared such a thing for so many years.”

“Yes, I see,” Fynch had said, not wanting to interrupt the blacksmith’s rambling account. “And then what happened?”

“Well, after the bad news from Pearlis, Emil was only too happy to hand the pup over to this redheaded chappie, for she had no idea what to do with it anyway. It belonged to Myrren. Apparently the lad had shown a small kindness to Myrren at the time of her torture and she had wanted to give him a gift in return.”

If only you knew
, Fynch had thought.

“And then Emil left,” the man had concluded. “She never said anything more about the dog or its new owner. We didn’t share her conversation with him, although I tell you it was only moments long. Emil could hardly string two sensible words together at the time.”

Fynch nodded his sympathy and understanding. “She left with no mention of where she might have been headed?”

The man was still scratching his balding head and pulled a face. “Wait now…I do recall her saying something about a sister. Where was it? She swore me and my missus to secrecy, that’s right.”

“Please, it’s important.”

“Er…let me think now. It was midnorth. Perhaps Rothwell?”

“Where’s that?”

“About five or six days from here. Tiny village. But I can’t be sure now, lad. Truly, I can’t remember what she said.”

There was little choice. Fynch planned now to head north to Rothwell, just in case it led him closer to Myrren’s mother or, more likely, Wyl. He found himself filling up on a sweet pastry at Baelup’s bakery and a mug of apple juice before he set off. He had just begun to sip the refreshing liquid, thinking that he must purchase some meat for Knave, when it happened.

Onlookers watched in dismay as the small lad’s mug crashed to the floor moments before he did, his body instantly limp amid the spilled juice. Seconds later a huge black dog entered the shop, terrifying all the bystanders with his fierce growl. The beast positioned himself above the boy, as if guarding him.

And then he waited, his head cocked as though listening.

Fynch could hear the familiar voice. It was not unkind by any means, but it was insistent.

Look at me, boy
, he heard it say again.

Fynch turned. He stared at himself prone on the ground of the baker’s shop, apple juice around him and people fussing nearby. To all intents and purposes, he was dead. Above him stood Knave, still as a statue, fearsome.

Am I dead
? It was his voice—he could talk with his mind.

No
, was the reply.
Use your power, child. Send yourself to me
.

He obeyed, shocking himself that he was able to lock onto the voice and reel in its echoes of sound as though he were pulling on rope. There was no physical sensation, save a soft tingling of awareness that magic was occurring. He was sensitive to his body while unable to move it. It was as though he had lifted completely away from himself.

His mind was the power and it was reaching out as his senses devoured the sounds of the man’s voice.

Fynch sent. It was such a strange sensation, for he felt insubstantial yet very much alive and aware.

Moments later he came before a figure. They faced each other through a thin glaze of something mistlike. Fynch thought he reached out to touch it, but it was as unreal as he was in this place. The face smiled, its warmth reaching through the mist to touch Fynch. But everything else was vague. Fynch surmised that the man seemed oddly short. His age and other features he could not make out other than a suggestion of dark hair.

Who are you
? Fynch asked at last.

A friend
. There was caution in the voice.

What are you?

Wyl Thirsk knows me as the Manwitch.

Myrren ‘s father!

The man nodded.

Are you Knave as well?

There was the brief smile again as though he were congratulating the boy.
In a way
. He spoke softly.
But he is real enough
.

What do you want with me?

Your help, Fynch

How?

Elysius shook his head.
Not now. Too dangerous like this. Come to me. Follow the dog. Trust him
.

But—

Go now. Send yourself back to your body. Forget Emil. We will talk soon.

Fynch did as he was told and moments later awoke. Knave had disappeared and people he recognized from the baker’s shop were crowded around him. He came to his wits as if from a dream.

“What happened, lad?” someone asked.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I haven’t eaten in days.”

He heard them muttering about how tiny and skinny he was. He was used to this. Hands helped him stand. Others pushed food into his lap as they sat him down. People talked to him, talked around him, and worried about whether the ferocious dog might reappear.

“No,” Fynch murmured. “He won’t,” he added, knowing Knave would be waiting for him now, ready to lead him.

There was no further need to search out Myrren’s mother. He was traveling to meet Elysius, where he hoped he would be reunited with Wyl…or with whomever Wyl walked in, by the time he reached the Manwitch.