Meri (23 page)

She found herself wondering if the little cleirach was in
his quarters and if he carried the crystal amulet everywhere under his robes.
It certainly seemed as if he did; he’d had it so ready to thrust upon her when
he decided she was Wicke.

How was she to get it away from him?
Perhaps
, she thought as she wandered slowly and
silently up the aisle,
perhaps I can frighten him
into taking it out again to ward me off. And while he’s holding it, I can grab
it and run away
.

It seemed an absurdly simple plan, and simply absurd to the
bargain. She might have laughed if the situation was not so real...and so
dangerous. She had no doubt that the fanatical Cirke-master really would bury
her alive if he was given the chance.

She stopped in front of the altar and gazed around the
sanctuary. Gwynet was nowhere to be seen or heard. She stepped up onto the
altar slab and around behind the huge hunk of granite. There was no huddled
figure taking refuge there, either.

Well, where then
? she
wondered.
Where
?

She was just at the door when the Cirke-master came into the
sanctuary by his side entrance. He saw her immediately and raised a loud cry.

“You! You’ve come back, Wicke! Ah, now I’ve got you! You’ll
do no more of your magic around here!”

Meredydd’s first impulse was to rush from the place and find
somewhere to hide. But she could almost see the crystal there beneath his
cleirach’s robes and made herself stay and turn and face him.

“I’ve done no magic, sir,” she argued. “Whatever can you
mean?”

He advanced on her swiftly, one hand going to the close of
his robes. Meredydd felt her heartbeat pick up speed.

“You were out picking weeds for your potions, I know that.
Ruhf Airdsgainne saw you clear as day—you and that heathen little monster.”

At the mention of Gwynet, all thought of the crystal fled. “What
do you know of Gwynet? What has he done with her?”

“Oh! Like likes like, eh? Well, he caught her out just as I’ve
caught you out, Wicke. It’s time for you to join your dear Sisters under the
Cirke.”

He was halfway up the aisle now, and Meredydd could see the
light of zeal in his eyes. He was a crusader, sworn to slay the wicked and
convert the heathen. He would be a hero in Blaec-del, where before he had been
something less than that—a fool. He reached beneath his robes, surely to grab
the star-crystal and thrust it upon her again.

Meredydd tensed. She was ready to snatch it from him—ready.
But— “Where’s Gwynet?”

“Dead, if she’s lucky. And either way, she’s luckier than
you are, Wicke.” He took another step.

Primed to flee, Meredydd turned the door latch, then
remembered the crystal. All she had to do was reach out and take it. She made
herself wait.

But when his hand came clear of his robes, it wasn’t the
star talisman it held. It was a set of iron manacles. Meredydd bolted through
the door and ran, his curses trailing after.

She slipped around behind the Cirke, certain that if he
tried to follow her, he would never think of looking there. She was right. In a
very few moments, she saw the little cleirach bustling agitatedly down the
middle of the street, dodging horses and pedestrians and making a beeline for
the wayhouse.

She hunkered down in the tall grass next to the Cirke and
considered where to go next. She thought fleetingly of Ruhf Airdsgainne’s
mercantile, where she knew Gwynet had a room, but her entire being rejected the
idea of searching that place.

She recalled Gwynet saying that when she was at odds with
her guardian, she took refuge in the stable. That raised a whole other set of
fears and ficklenesses in Meredydd’s breast. She could not truthfully say that
the
last
person she wanted to collide with
in Blaec-del was Old Mors, but he sat far down on her list.

Well, there was naught for it. She had to find Gwynet and
she had to get her safely out of Blaec-del Cirke. Resolved to that, Meredydd
slipped inconspicuously across the open space between the Cirke and the jumble
of buildings on the stable-side of the village and scurried around behind. She
worked her way back down the row of stores, then, ending her slinking promenade
behind the stable.

There was a feeder access door there that ran behind the
stalls. It was made of wood so dry the holes had shrunk away from nails that
barely held it together. It was crooked on leather hinges that seemed about to
either crack or rot through.

At least, Meredydd told herself, they would not creak.

She was wrong about that; they did creak. But it was an aged
whisper of sound, not the shredding squeal she feared. She stood within the
structure for a few moments, orienting herself and listening to the sounds of
the place. She separated the stompings and mutterings of the equine tenants
from the slow drip of water and the flutters of birds in the loft.

The loft! Her eyes rose to it, but she could see nothing but
bright stripes of dust cycling endlessly in the watery light that fell through
the gaps in wall and roof along with anything else that happened to float by. She
strained her ears further and heard snoring. Heavy, sodden snoring as of
someone who has drunk too much or slept too little or perhaps done both.

Scraping together her courage, she moved forward into the
dark barn, padding to where she found, at last, a ladder leading up. Carefully,
and with no attempt to breathe, she put one hand after another on the rungs,
then one foot, then the other. Then, she began to climb.

The ladder was not silent. She’d prayed for it to be silent,
but realized that prayers are not always answered in the way the supplicant
wishes them to be. But the snoring continued unabated and that was as good as
silent rungs. The climb seemed to last forever, but she was rewarded at last
with a view of the loft’s straw-strewn heights.

It was not a completely open area, but was rather divided
into a number of smaller compartments. Gritting her teeth, Meredydd crawled
carefully off the ladder and into the bed of straw. Pigeons fluttered nearby
and some small rodents skittered away at her approach. But the snoring
continued and that was enough.

She began a circuit of the place, moving away from the
snorer, poking her nose into each of the four compartments. She found hay
bales, grain sacks, rat droppings, bird feathers, a nest of cat fur, but no Gwynet.
The snoring continued, loudly, breezily, comfortingly.

At last she was staring into the cubicle next to the snorer.
That it had been used by a human being was obvious. There was a small covered
lamp set on a slanting crate, a patched and repatched blanket and a little tin
cup. But there was no Gwynet.

Meredydd stared at the place in despair and frustration. The
longer her search took, the longer Gwynet would be in pain and discomfort. She
sighed deeply and steeled herself for the return trip back around the loft to
the ladder. It was as she began backing around the outer wall of Gwynet’s
compartment that she felt the oppressive silence of the place. The snoring had
stopped.

Terrified, she glanced up toward that last cubicle. She
heard a hacking cough, the sound of someone spitting and a series of snorts and
popping sounds. She glanced over her shoulder to where the ladder taunted her
with its distance. Did she try to sneak out or did she simply bolt for it?

In the end, it was Old Mors who decided that for her. He
stood up, his frowzy head popping up above the slats of the divider that had
screened him from her, and turned around. Their eyes met in a long, startled
look, then Old Mors smiled.

“Come to visit me, pretty?” he asked and wheezed loudly,
making dust motes and straw chaff dance and swirl before his face. He moved
toward her.

Meredydd scrambled backwards just far enough to allow
herself room to stand. Then she shot to her feet and ran—or rather, tried to
run—back to the ladder of salvation. Her feet betrayed her at every step,
tripping her over clumps of hay, dropping her through small holes in the floor.
Her only comfort was that Mors, from the sound of it, was having as much
trouble navigating as she was.

She was halfway around the loft when the old man proved
himself to be more intelligent than she’d given him credit for. Seeing where
she was bound, he switched direction and doubled back on the shorter route
across the front of the loft.

Meredydd’s first response was to move faster, but she very
nearly plunged through the loft’s rotten flooring into the stall of a placid
looking beast with a white blaze. The effort to regain her feet cost her
precious time and Mors, grinning triumphantly, made the top of the ladder
before she did.

She faced him for a moment down the half-length of the barn,
glancing feverishly around for salvation.

If he fell through the flooring
,
she thought, then caught herself.
He could break
his neck
, she finished. She was mortally afraid of him, but she did not
want him to break his neck.

She glanced down between her feet, between the failing slats
beneath them. She was standing just over a pile of straw which was obviously
intended for the stable inmate’s stalls. It was, despite that, not the cleanest
straw she had ever seen and she thought it seemed to be full of star thistle,
but beggars in her position could not be choosers. She was the one that needed
to fall just then. She thought that very strongly—felt it all the way to the
marrow of her bones—and stamped her foot.

The floor gave way with a resounding crack of dry timbers
and dropped her smack into the straw. It
was
full of star thistles and she felt every one of them, gratefully, as she
scrambled to her feet and bolted out the open front door of the stable.

Just outside, she paused, meaning only to reorient and
continue her retreat. But what she saw directly across the darkening street
from where she stood made her next move clear. Ruhf Airdsgainne was just
entering Hadder’s wayhouse.

Praising the Gwenwyvar, the Meri and the Deity, Meredydd
scampered across the street, around the wayhouse and into the wild back
regions. From there she made her way up the row of buildings to Ruhf’s
mercantile. There was a back door, but it was kept locked. She would have to
enter through the front.

Fingering the amulet, she prayed briefly for courage she was
sure she didn’t have, then rounded the building and let herself up onto the
wooden walkway. Pausing at the door, she pushed it a little open and peeked
within. The store was empty except for the wizened little person who huddled,
still, by the cold stove, apparently asleep.

Meredydd slipped into the room, moving carefully down the
cluttered corridor of goods to the small open area before the counter. There
was a blanket-covered doorway just at the far end of that, and she fastened her
eyes on it as if she feared it would disappear.

“What’re you doin’ in here, girl?”

She spun, facing the old stove-huddler, who glared balefully
at her from one rheumy, open eye. The pipestem was still clutched in the
toothless gums, though the smokeweed had long ago ceased to perfume the air.

Meredydd straightened and looked down on the old one with
all the dignity she could muster. She swept a lock of hair from her face,
encountered a star thistle and did not cry out as she plucked it free and
tossed it to the floor. “I’m looking for Gwynet. Could you tell me where she
is, please?”

“Gwynet? Gwynet?” The old crone seemed to be searching its
memory. “Ah! The little girl-brat my son keeps, ye mean? Well, she’s about.
Although she’s not like to be in a very sociable mood, I’m thinkin’.”

Meredydd swallowed the lump of fear that rose to clog her
throat. “Where?”

“And are ye Cwen, then, girlie? Ye can’t order me about in
my son’s store.
I’m
Cwen, here. Cwen of
Blaec-del, too, t’spite that damn-ed Hadder. Her ’n’ her down-country ways.”

Meredydd ignored the old woman’s ramblings now, and pushed
her way through to the back of the store. She’d heard something that might be
only a kitten mewling, but might just as easily be something else.

There was a dark, cramped little corridor behind the store
proper. To the right, a rickety flight of steps went up to what Meredydd
expected would be the mercer’s private quarters. To the left was an open
doorway and a pool of uninviting shadow. The mewling sounded again and Meredydd
plunged into the pool.

It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the gloom, but
when they did they were rewarded. Gwynet lay in the farthest corner of the
little closet—for that was surely all it was—trying, it seemed, to make herself
as small as possible against the wall.

“Gwynet!” Meredydd came to her knees beside the little girl
and tried to pry her fingers from the blankets she had hauled in around her.

“Meredydd.” Her name came out in a misshapen whisper. The
lump of clothing moved, moaned and brought its face into the dim light.

Meredydd gasped and tears leapt, unasked, into her eyes. Her
features were so distorted, poor Gwynet was barely recognizable. Her lips were
striped with scabs barely dried and one eye was swollen completely shut.

“Is anything broken, do you think?” Meredydd asked her.

“I don’ know. Oh, I hurt so awful!”

Meredydd pushed aside the folds and folds of dirty cloth and
at last got her hands down to the little girl’s feverish skin.

“Hold very still,” she said, and slipped herself swiftly
into a meditation. The Heal Tell duan followed immediately, and she intoned the
words, unconcerned with who might hear them. In a moment she knew there were no
broken bones, but the girl was weak and needed both food and drink. Poultices,
too, she decided. Strong ones. There was a fever that would have to be broken.

She pulled her hands away with an effort and got to her
feet. “I’m going to get you some food and water,” she told Gwynet and pushed
back out into the store. The little old woman eyed her with something more than
suspicion when she reappeared to forage for supplies.