Malice (23 page)

‘Oh, nothing. I fell,’ said Dath, hand going to his cheek.

Edana stepped forward, pulling her hood back. Dath’s mouth opened and closed like a fish as he recognized her.

‘This doesn’t look like it was caused by a fall. The skin is broken here, by something sharp.’ Edana gently touched the mark on Dath’s face.

‘My da’s ring,’ Dath muttered. ‘He won’t even remember doing it tomorrow. I’ll just tell him I fell, hit my face on the ship’s rail.’

‘Why did he hit you?’ Edana asked.

Dath shrugged. ‘He missed the tide this morning, been drinking usque all day since.’ He looked away. ‘He says I remind him of Mam. Don’t know why that makes him angry. As I said, he won’t even remember tomorrow.’

‘Then you should tell him what he’s done. When he’s sober. It’s— it’s not right,’ Cywen blurted.

‘Well, it’s not your concern, is it?’ Dath snapped. ‘And don’t be so quick to judge what’s right and wrong. You’ve still got your mam.’

An uncomfortable silence hung in the air. Corban coughed.

‘Come with us, Dath,’ he said. ‘I’ve been given a gift. A colt foal. Come and see him with us.’

They were on their way to the paddock, their shadows stretching far in front of them, when they heard riders on the road behind. They scrambled down the stony embankment, standing in the grass and flowers of the meadow as a rider came into view.

It was Brina, the healer, galloping hard. Dath made the sign against evil. ‘She makes my blood cold,’ he muttered.

‘I thought she would have stayed in the fortress tonight,’ Edana murmured as Brina disappeared into the distance.

‘She has to be within her own walls at night, because of her
spells
. So that the spirits she controls don’t escape.’ Dath looked at their expressions and scowled. ‘You must have heard the stories. Strange noises,
voices
coming from her cottage at night, and nobody in there but her.’

‘She’s a healer, not a witch,’ Cywen said, but still looked apprehensively down the empty road as they continued to the paddock to see the foal.

‘What are you going to call him, Corban?’ Edana asked as they reached mother and foal.

‘I don’t know yet. Gar said I shouldn’t rush his naming, that I should wait until something fits him.’

The colt looked up, towards the road, then bolted.

Cywen saw two figures duck under the paddock rail. At first she could not make out who they were, the sun sinking low in the sky now, then one of the figures shouted and she saw a flash of blond hair.

It was Rafe, his fellow bully Crain behind him.

‘Oh no,’ she heard her brother whisper.

The mare looked at the new arrivals, then trotted after her foal. Cywen rose and walked towards Rafe. Her companions followed her, Edana pulling up the hood of her cloak.

‘Look,’ cried Rafe, ‘it’s Cywen the brave and her cowardly brother.’ Crain laughed loudly, staggering a little.

‘Usque,’ muttered Dath, sniffing.

Crain lifted a clay jug to his lips and slurped noisily, wiping his chin with the back of his hand. ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘Want some?’

Dath shook his head.

‘See, I told you it was them,’ said Rafe, slapping Crain across the chest. He bowed low, arms outstretched. ‘I wanted to thank you for your gift, Corban. The finest practice sword I have ever had the pleasure of using,’ Rafe said, holding the wooden sword high.

‘I am glad you like it,‘ Corban said. Cywen frowned. Ban had never mentioned anything about a practice sword to her.

‘The spoils of war,’ Rafe gloated.

‘You’re a thief and you should give it back, if you have any honour,’ Dath muttered.

‘Honour? And this from a fisherman’s son,’ Rafe said. ‘Well, not even that any more, eh? Just a drunk’s son, now, aren’t you. Your da give you that mark on your cheek?’

Dath’s fists bunched, then Edana pulled down the hood of her cloak.

Rafe took an involuntary step backwards. ‘W-what’re you doing here? With . . .’ he trailed off, gesturing to Cywen, Corban and Dath.

‘You should not be so quick to insult people about their father’s habits when your own bruises have only just healed,’ Edana said.

Rafe’s empty hand jerked towards his cheek, stopping halfway. He opened his mouth to speak but Edana carried on.

‘And did you steal that practice sword from Corban? If so, you must return it. Immediately.’

‘I did not
steal
it,’ he said, spitting the words out. ‘I won it, in a contest. If he wants it back he must earn it.’

‘What do you mean?’ Cywen said, her anger rising.

‘I mean,’ Rafe said, turning his head to smirk at her, ‘that if your
brave
brother wants his stick back, he will have to complete a task.’

‘What task?’ she asked.

Rafe tapped his chin a moment, then a smile spread across his face.

‘He must sneak into the healer’s cottage, and bring me a trophy as evidence.’

‘Oh, that’s ridiculous,’ Edana said. Dath sucked in a deep breath.

‘I’ll do it,’ Corban blurted.

‘No,’ said Cywen and Dath together.

‘You know what she can do to people, Ban. She could put a spell on you, or, or, take your soul, or something,’ Dath said.

Cywen saw her brother’s gaze shift fleetingly to Edana, then his shoulders rose as he drew a deep breath.

‘I shall do it to win my practice sword back, and to prove that I am no coward.’

‘Good,’ Rafe cried, laughing. ‘Come, then. We shall wait nearby while you brave the witch’s lair.’

CHAPTER TWENTY

VERADIS

Veradis galloped through the gates of Jerolin, hard on the trail of Prince Nathair.

After the disagreement with his father, the Prince had stormed from the tower and headed straight for the stables, Veradis following. He had seized a fully harnessed horse from a stable boy and ridden from the fortress. Veradis had taken a little longer to organize a mount but caught up on the road that skirted the lake, both of their mounts blowing hard. They slowed to a canter.

‘My father . . .’ Nathair said after a while, ‘he speaks of truth and honour, of championing Elyon against the darkness of Asroth, and yet he cannot see his own dishonour. Cannot or
will
not. He is so consumed with this alliance. And he fawns at that worm’s feet like a newborn puppy.’

‘Worm?’ Veradis said.

‘Counsellor Meical,’ Nathair growled. ‘Honour. Father has always spoken so highly of it to me, how it must be the foundation of all actions and decisions. And yet, when it comes down to it, my honour, my
oath
, seems to count for nothing. I know the Vin Thalun have been Tenebral’s enemy in the past, but I gave my word.’

‘I agree with you,’ Veradis said. ‘Although I can also understand the King doubting the Vin Thalun. I have lived on the coast, Nathair, and we feel the corsairs’ bite more often than you. That they would just stop is difficult to imagine.’

Nathair nodded, took a deep breath.

‘We are on the brink of a new age, Veradis, where much will be swept away and much will change, as my father so readily tells me. Yet when it comes to it he is not quite so willing to embrace that change. All he can think of is this council and of forging this league. He has dreamed and imagined it as he hopes for it to be for so long that he does not see the truth of how it really is. And
these
,’ Nathair snorted, gesturing at the banners rippling around the fortress, ‘they are only here to serve themselves. They cannot see beyond their own borders. How can my father imagine they would unite with him? Better to rule them than bicker with them. If the need is as great as my father believes then we cannot risk these fickle kings. They change their minds with the wind. What then?’ He was looking at Veradis again.

‘I don’t know,’ Veradis said. ‘I have spent more time with my sword and spear than I have in my father’s council chamber. There seems much wisdom in what you say. But we must trust our king, must we not. What else is there?’

Nathair looked intently at Veradis and slowly nodded.

‘What do you think of this
God-War
?’ Veradis asked. He could hardly believe the talk of the council. He liked the old tales well enough, and knew that there was truth in the stories of the Giant Wars, and the earth showed the signs of Elyon’s Scourging, plain as the back of his hand. But a
war
between Asroth and Elyon – he could not even imagine it.

‘I believe in the Gods, if that is what you mean. As to this book that Meical brings us. Much as I dislike him, perhaps it is true. There is much I don’t understand, but some of it – the giant-stones
have
wept blood, have they not? That cannot be denied. And Brenin had a wyrm’s
head
in a sack . . .’

‘True enough,’ Veradis muttered, feeling a shiver sweep him at the memory of Meical reading those words from the book.

‘Midwinter’s Day,’ he said. ‘When day shall become night. That will decide it in most minds. But my father believes it now, without any doubt.’ Nathair glanced sidelong at Veradis. ‘As do I. For my own reasons.’

‘What reasons?’ Veradis asked.

‘Another time.’

They had reached the point where the road forked, and saw a stream of people hurrying from the lakeside village into the forest. Veradis leaned down and beckoned to a young boy.

‘Where is everybody going?’

‘There’s a strange sight in the forest,’ the boy replied breathlessly.

‘What sight?’

‘
Creatures
, I don’t know.’ The boy shrugged as Veradis dismissed him. Veradis looked at Nathair, who raised an eyebrow and with a click of his tongue urged his horse into the forest. They passed many of the crowd on foot, and soon they rode into a wide, open glade and pushed to the front.

There the ground was black, seething with frantic movement.

They were ants. Thousands of them, thousands upon thousands. The biggest that Veradis had ever seen, each one easily the size of his small finger. They marched in a wide column, as wide as a man lying with arms stretched overhead, a writhing, boiling black mass that issued from one side of the glade and disappeared into the forest on the other, in permanent, remorseless motion.

‘I have heard tales of such a thing, deep in the heart of ancient forests,’ he whispered to Nathair, ‘but never did I truly believe them.’ The Prince did not answer, just crouched to see the ants better, an intense, almost rapt expression on his face.

An isle of green grass separated the crowd from the column of ants, no one being overly keen to get too close. Veradis saw the boy that he had spoken to on the road standing nearby.

Knees and elbows began to dig into Veradis’ back as the crowd swelled. The thought of being pitched face first into the marching black carpet in front of him was not appealing, so he jostled back a pace.

Another ripple ran through the crowd as more joined the back, trying to squeeze their way through. The boy from earlier suddenly lurched forwards, knocked by bodies behind him, and his foot came down on the edge of the marching column. Instantly a black tide swarmed up his leg. The boy tried to jump back, but the press of bodies behind stopped him. He screamed and flailed at his leg. Blood was welling in rips that the insects had torn in his breeches, their mandibles tearing through cloth and flesh.

Veradis leaped past the Prince, who glanced at his friend briefly, his eyes drawn immediately back to the mass in front of him. Veradis swept the boy up into his arms, almost instantly feeling stinging pain as the ants surged onto him.

‘To me, pass the boy to me,’ a voice shouted, a young, red-haired man gesturing at him.

Veradis swiped at the boy’s leg, knocking scores of ants onto the ground, people suddenly pushing away from him.
Now they’re moving
. In the new space Veradis lifted the boy over his head and passed him to the red-haired warrior.

Further up the line a dog barked, a scraggly, wire-haired ratter. Even as Veradis looked, it was knocked sprawling into the ants. For a moment they just swirled around the dog, like a boulder in a river, but then the black tide swarmed up its legs, engulfing it. The whine turned to a frenzied howling as the dog stumbled to the ground, tried to rise, snapping, foam in its mouth turning pink. In a matter of seconds it quivered and then lay still.

Cursing, Veradis turned and stormed into the crowd, pushing his way through, glaring at people as they fell about him.

He found the red-haired warrior tending to the boy in an empty part of the glade and realized it was Kastell. He had sat with Romar, Isiltir’s King, at the feast. Methodically he was plucking insects from the boy, crushing them in his big hands. An older warrior, grey-haired, crouched beside him and tried to calm the boy, who was crying, chest heaving in great, racking sobs.

‘My thanks. There were not many back there inclined to help,’ Veradis said.

The warrior nodded.

‘I have seen you before,’ the grey-hair said. ‘You are the Prince’s man?’

‘Aye. Veradis.’ He extended his bloodied hand.

‘Maquin. And my friend here is Kastell. A strange sight, eh?’ he said, gesturing to the column of ants.