Prophecy's Ruin (Broken Well Trilogy) (35 page)

‘Well, don’t tell me if you don’t choose to.’

‘No,’ she said, ‘I choose. Just a bit annoyed about everything, that’s all.’ She gathered her thoughts. ‘Lerena was in Ennoi village one day when she overheard Lord Cydus boasting tactlessly about his wealth – and about the Tulzan vase he was going to give to the wasp Trusted, who was soon to visit Kadass from my homeland.’

‘You were born in Cindeka?’

‘Yes, near Athika. My parents are farmers, raising cattle for the wasps, who are too lazy to farm for themselves. Anyway, Cydus’s boasting was enough to tempt us, and we decided to rob his caravan once it got back on the open road. It was ambitious, but we love our adventures . . . or we did . . .

‘We found their camp the night after they left Ennoi. Jeshun took care of the lookout with a sleeping dart and we crept up on the rest of them – they were all asleep. Lerena found the vase almost immediately, in Cydus’s tent. Then a guard we hadn’t noticed returned from relieving himself and sounded the alarm. We fled.

‘They followed us on horses, and only I reached hiding in time. Lerena and Jeshun were caught and killed, in that order. I saw it from the trees. They were tied up, Bel, they could have been turned over to the keepers, but . . .’ He felt her shiver. ‘Cydus and his men are brutes. They may have been thieves, but that was murder. If you hadn’t interceded when they caught me last night, I’d be dead too, I’m sure.’

Her voice grew hard. ‘I decided that if the lives of my friends were worth a single piece of pottery, Cydus would pay for what he took. I came back to Kadass and waited for the Trusted to arrive, waited until the very day before Cydus planned to give her that accursed vase. I destroyed it when he would feel the blow the most. We may have wronged Cydus, but he wronged us back many times over, and he deserves what I did to him.’

She sighed. ‘I know that doesn’t make it admirable, and that these are the risks you take when you live your life cheating people.’ Tears were running freely now, and he wiped her eyes. ‘But he shouldn’t have killed my friends,’ she whispered.

‘I’m sorry, Jaya,’ said Bel. ‘And you’re right: Cydus had no right to execute prisoners.’ He bit his tongue from reiterating, however, that this was the life she’d chosen for herself.

Some moments passed in silence.

‘Bel?’

‘Yes?’

‘Why did you let me go?’

‘What?’

‘In Cydus’s garden.’

‘What of it?’

‘It’s not typical behaviour, you know. You’re a peacekeeper.’

‘I think you know why,’ he said.

Hours later, Bel awoke. He sat up to see the grille door still unlocked and the keys on the cell floor. On the bed next to him, Jaya lay asleep, the morning sun falling on her peaceful face.

Thirty / Swampwild

Thirty

Swampwild

Swampwild

Together they sat by the iceplace in the small and simple inn. Losara, not wanting people to pay attention to him, had weaved a slight illusion about himself. His hands were returned to their normal pale tone, though some conceit led him to leave his fingernails black, and his eyes now appeared as their old selves, dark without being void-like. Opposite him, Lalenda sat in a dark green dress, low enough at the back for her wings to jut out. They’d bought it several days ago, a replacement for her worn-out rags.

Losara had imagined that the journey would be awkward, a prolonged version of that first conversation they had shared on the balcony. He had been pleased to discover this was not the case. She did not seem as afraid of him any more, and her great pleasure at being free of the castle was too pronounced to allow for many gaps in conversation. It filled each moment, either with words or without. Her shyness, Losara remembered, had never tempered her tendency to talk, and now that her fear was dwindling, that tendency shone.

‘Did you notice that stormcrow a ways back before town?’ she was saying.

Losara smiled gently in answer.

‘It had a message tied to its leg,’ she went on. ‘Grimra was all for . . .’

Two mugs arrived, and Lalenda paused shyly in the presence of the barmaid. Once the woman departed, she continued.

‘. . . Grimra wanted to snap it up, of course, just as he wants to do with everything.’ She chortled. ‘I tried to explain that if he did, someone somewhere would be bereft of correspondence and ever after doomed to wonder why their beau didn’t write, or if their sister was still sick, or any of a thousand things. Of course he refused to understand any of it. In the end, the only way to save the poor creature was to convince Grimra it would be tough and stringy with filthy feathers that would get caught in his throat. I didn’t hold out much hope, as he has no throat that I can see, but his food has to go somewhere, doesn’t it? Anyway,’ she blushed, as she often did at the end of a ramble, ‘I’m sorry, lord. You’re probably trying to sit in peace.’

She still apologised a lot, he reflected. ‘I don’t mind,’ he said. ‘It is peaceful listening to you talk.’ That did nothing to stop her blush, which Losara also did not mind.

From outside the inn came a loud clucking, and the bartender cursed, grabbing a crossbow. As he opened the door, Losara raised an eyebrow at Lalenda. There was always a chance that the hens were simply being traumatised by a fox or some other predator, but more than likely . . .

‘At least it’s only hens,’ said Lalenda. ‘I’m surprised he hasn’t gone for anything . . . or any
one
. . . larger.’

‘Anyone that we know about,’ added Losara, which made her frown with worry. He liked that she was concerned, but in truth she needn’t be. He was quite sure the ghost was obeying
most
of his commands.

A low chuckling sounded from the floor and whiteness was momentarily visible swirling up through the floorboards.

‘Grimra,’ said Losara in a low voice, ‘have you been attacking chickens?’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Grimra, and sighed in satisfaction. ‘Grimra has.’ The angry-looking barman re-entered with his crossbow unfired. ‘So tasty and fat they be, Grimra gnash gnash gnash!’

Losara waved his fingers and erected a wall of silence around the table, lest other customers become aware that a large and malevolent spirit was in their midst.

‘Not like stringy stormcrow – Lalenda be right about that,’ the ghost continued. ‘All stringy and feathery and
papery . . .
erch!’ He made a spitting sound and for a moment his teeth flashed into view.

‘Grimra!’ Lalenda admonished. ‘You ate the crow, after all?’

‘Erch!’ Grimra reiterated.

‘I thought we agreed that livestock was off limits?’ Losara said.

‘Aye,’ said the ghost sadly, ‘but Grimra be Grimra. So fat and squashy, gnash gnash! How be Grimra resisting? If Losara doesn’t want Grimra, why bring Grimra?’

‘It wasn’t my idea,’ said Losara. ‘In fact . . .’ From his neck he lifted the pendant that bound Grimra to the world – a simple leather cord through a mottled stone. Reaching over, he dropped it around Lalenda’s neck. ‘It was Lalenda’s idea to bring you, so it’s only fair she bears the responsibility.’

Lalenda looked surprised, but not displeased. She held the pendant up for closer inspection.

‘Lalenda bring Grimra?’ said the ghost. ‘Thank you, flutterbug! Grimra’s favourite!’

He whooshed around, causing several guests to glance up to see if a gust had just blown open the door, and disappeared. Lalenda giggled and Losara gave a little sigh.

‘Well, soon he’ll have plenty of wildlife around him,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow we’ll reach Swampwild.’

Mention of her home quelled Lalenda’s laughter and he felt a twinge of regret at having brought it up. He knew she was tense about her return – she had said as much, if it hadn’t been plain – and after almost two decades away she hardly knew what to expect.

‘Praise be to Assedrynn,’ she whispered, ‘let her be alive.’

He reached across the table to pat her hand.

‘It still feels like you,’ she said.

Losara raised an eyebrow in query.

‘The illusion – it doesn’t change the way your hands feel.’ She put her free hand on top of his, which was on top of hers, cupping it between. The sensation brought him right out of his head. ‘Like silk,’ she said. ‘No. Smoother than silk.’

‘And yours,’ he said.

•

They made a strange group flying together. Losara lifted himself with power, tempering his speed to match Lalenda’s. She flapped her crystal wings, and her endurance grew by the day. He was able to give her a boost whenever she needed one, letting the edges of himself partially tear away into a swirl of shadow that eddied underneath her wings to lift her. Sometimes the ghost would allow her to ride on his ‘back’. Grimra was fast, and often shot off ahead or went about the land exploring. Often they would see a line of plants bending as Grimra tore along stirring up prey. Rabbits and pheasants would appear briefly, only to be seized in his invisible clutches and torn to pieces.

Losara began to appreciate why the gods had told him not to ‘whisk about’ with his new powers. There was something satisfying about journeying slowly, taking in the surrounds and learning the land. He knew that if he wanted to, he could be at Swampwild in the blink of an eye, but that did not bear serious consideration. For one thing, Lalenda was the reason they went there and he could not take her with him through the shadowlines.

The Ragga Plains, which filled most of the distance between Skygrip and Swampwild, were flat and fertile. Blue grasses grew lushly between groves of larger vegetation, giving the land a soft look. Prosperous towns spread lazily, and tended fields clustered in groups, a patchwork of green and blue and dark red crops and sometimes livestock. Shepherds guided flocks of horned beasts that Losara had not seen before, except, he was sure, in the form of meat. At one point he dived a little closer to inspect a Grey Goblin who wore simple cloth and culled his crops with a scythe. That was the life Tyrellan had escaped from, and Losara had trouble imagining him in it. The farmer chanced a look skywards and almost dropped his scythe in surprise.

Lalenda fell into a hover beside Losara. ‘You’d think this was the first time he’d seen a man floating in the air,’ she said, and giggled.

They journeyed on, and soon drew close to Swampwild. The land beneath grew wetter, and grass gave way to reedy ponds. Here and there ran raised pathways of compacted mud, slippery and hazardous. They reached the bog proper, where marshes were dotted by soft green hillocks. A rich and earthy smell rose to meet them – things growing, things decomposing, water full of life. An abundance of plants grew: willows and ferns, grasses and reeds, moss and free-floating tresses of weeds. The air buzzed with the sound of insects, and flecks of silver glinted as wings caught the light. Lalenda slowed, and Losara slowed to match her. He could sense her trepidation.

‘Which way?’ he asked.

‘Deeper,’ she said, and on they flew.

•

He stood, taking in his surrounds. The huts of the village Twir were built of dried reeds and mud, simple and hump-like. There was only enough room on each hillock for two or three, but most hillocks were connected by bridges in different states of decay, some as simple as toppled logs. Willow trees draped over the water and tangled with their neighbours, and a group of pixie children flitted about them, playing some kind of chasing game. The huts spread out around the base of an ancient willow tree, with a labyrinth of branches issuing from its thickly twisted trunk. It was full of wooden treehouses, more elaborate than those below, and a large town hall was the highest of all. It was here, on a landing, that Losara waited as Lalenda spoke to a wrinkled and grey-haired Mire Pixie mayor.

Grimra wafted by, rustling Losara’s cloak. ‘Grimra,’ he said, ‘go softly.’ Grimra growled his acquiescence and eddied to a stop. Probably Losara need not have said anything. The ghost seemed to understand the current mood and had remained close and quiet ever since they’d arrived here.

‘The flutterbug,’ whispered Grimra, ‘is not happy to be home?’

‘It is not the homecoming she dreamed of,’ said Losara.

The mayor turned and went into the town hall and Lalenda came to join them. Losara noticed that while her eyes were puffy, she was not weeping.

‘She left a letter,’ said Lalenda. ‘In case I ever returned.’

Losara felt uncertain what to do. Should he embrace her? Or did she prefer to be left alone?

‘I am sorry,’ he said awkwardly.

‘Sorry, flutterbug,’ echoed Grimra. He swirled about her slowly, rustling her hair – his version of the embrace that Losara lacked the courage to offer.

What must it be like to lose someone?
he wondered. He’d lost his mother too, but knew it wasn’t the same. If he had known his mother before losing her, would he have felt more passionately? Maybe, maybe not. It was sad when life ended, perhaps, but there was nothing surprising about it. In a way, he thought, her mother’s death meant that Lalenda was free. If her mother had been alive, Lalenda would no doubt have wanted to stay with her, who knew for how long. Meanwhile, he would have needed to press on with his pilgrimage and may have had to leave her here. That wasn’t what he wanted. He realised a small part of him was relieved there was nothing to bind her to this place, and he wondered if that was selfish.

He found himself moving to embrace her, a natural thing once it started. As he reached around her, she moved against him, her head resting just below his chin. He stroked her hair, and for a moment she clutched his back and shuddered – but as she pulled away, he saw no tears.

‘You do not weep,’ he said.

‘I’ve wept enough. And this sorrow is too deep and old.’

He wasn’t sure that made sense to him.

The Mire Pixie mayor returned carrying a sealed letter. ‘Here you are, child,’ she said. She glanced furtively at Losara, whose presence had not really been explained to her. He got the sense she was holding something back.

‘Don’t mind me, ma’am,’ he said reassuringly. ‘You may say anything you like.’

‘Well,’ she said, and turned to clasp Lalenda’s hand, ‘it was only to say, we never did find out who . . . who told Skygrip about you. If we had, well . . . they would have been made unwelcome.’

Lalenda nodded blankly.

‘If you wish to stay, I can arrange lodgings,’ said the mayor.

Lalenda shook her head. ‘I will visit my mother’s grave and then we will depart,’ she said. ‘There is nothing left for me here save the distant echoes of what should have been.’

She spread her wings and glided from the landing, and Losara stepped out after her. She led the way to Twir’s graveyard, and as they flew between trees Losara felt eyes staring at him. Being a human who could fly was no doubt responsible for the interest. Losara was glad they didn’t know who he really was, or else there would have been fuss of some kind, and that would have overshadowed their real reason for being here.

The village fell away behind them as Lalenda followed some invisible route. Grimra disappeared as well, probably off to see which type of frog tasted the best. They came to an area where the willow trees grew thickly, and Lalenda brought them down on a hillock. Carved into tree trunks in spidery letters were names. She wandered slowly in a circle around the hillock’s edge, examining them. The bog around them was still and thick, and Losara noticed that at the water’s edge were luminescent red flowers with star-shaped petals.

‘They are graveblooms,’ said Lalenda, appearing beside him, ‘planted around the ponds where we bury our dead.’

She sat down on the slope of the hillock and Losara joined her.

‘This is where your mother’s body went in?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did your mother’s note . . . did it . . .’ He struggled to phrase the question.

‘It said that she loved me, and missed me, and was sorry,’ said Lalenda. ‘Simple things.’

‘But important things.’ Losara sighed. ‘Battu was wrong to treat you as he did.’

They sat for a time in silence, staring into the muddy water. Occasionally a fat bubble would come to the surface, hold for a minute or two, and finally burst with a soft slurp.

‘What was she like?’ Losara asked.

Lalenda thought for a moment and a smile chanced across her face. Losara was relieved to see it, if only briefly. ‘Stubborn,’ she said. ‘Kelan – the mayor – said she fought the wasting disease right until the end.’

Several bubbles broke at once.

‘She wanted to see me again, you see, that’s why she held on so long. I am too late by only a year. She was modest too. We lived in a mud hut, not in the tree. She wanted an ordinary life, I think. Probably she had one. Probably it is not unusual to lose one’s family. Ills equal and worse befall many.’

‘I expect so,’ said Losara.

Something humanoid rose from the bog. Mud streamed from its misshapen head and off broad shoulders, running down root-like arms that ended in silver claws. Two pearl-like eyes appeared above a maw full of razor shards, and tendrils sprouted all over its body, grasping at the air. Lalenda hissed and leaped in front of Losara, her own retractable claws flashing out, low to the ground and ready to spring with her wings flat against her back. Losara could not say which surprised him more – the sudden arrival of the Mireform, or the way Lalenda instinctively protected him.