Scrivener's Tale (18 page)

‘How do you know it has worked?'

Fynch's expression clouded. ‘I don't but I have faith that the imminent sign — the confirmation — will come.'

‘How are you so sure that this demon exists? That he's coming?'

‘Because of Aphra. She can't hide herself as well as Cyricus. She leaves a trace.'

‘Magical, you mean?'

‘Curiously visceral, actually, except it comes to me through ethereal means. Does that make sense to you?

Cassien gave an uncertain shrug. ‘Go on.'

‘She became suddenly active recently.'

‘Here?'

Fynch looked pained. ‘No, she's still in another world.'

Cassien took a slow breath but kept his expression even. ‘And you know this because …?'

‘I could smell violets on the wind. There are no violets in the Wild to yield such perfume.'

Cassien's lips thinned with growing consternation. ‘And that's her trace?'

‘Yes,' Fynch said softly. ‘Breath of violets.'

‘And if she's active then so is Cyricus?'

‘Cyricus uses her. She is his acolyte and most effective minion. She can be anything to anyone in the female form … her preferred shape. It would take me centuries to teach you all I know, all I've seen, all I've read, all I've gleaned through my long, long life. You have to choose to trust me.'

Cassien breathed out and his shoulders slumped slightly. He scratched at his beard, well aware of needing a shave — he must look a sight, he thought, in fine clothes and ragged chin. ‘Right, so you realised Aphra was active,' he repeated. ‘What else?'

‘I needed her followed. She was our only route to Cyricus … the only connection I could trust.'

‘So Reynard agreed to follow Aphra,' Cassien presumed.

‘Yes. Reynard was entirely unknown to Aphra or Cyricus. He possesses not an ounce of magic. Only I knew the secret of world travelling. He trusted me, and his fears for Florentyna overcame any dread he might have had of my magic. I sent him, guiding him to Aphra's trace.' Fynch shook his head sadly. ‘I can't watch him unless I leave this world but I needed to get you involved. Before you ask, the only way I will know that he has found what we seek is through his death.'

Cassien stared somewhat dumbfounded at Fynch. ‘The queen's chancellor has to die to get a message to you?'

‘Former chancellor. Yes. It's a special sort of death,' Fynch admitted. ‘It allows him to utter words that will be carried across worlds and I will know that he's found Aphra. And if she has effected her death, I will know she's on her way back to our land to meet up with Cyricus, who was trapped here.'

‘In the Void,' Cassien qualified.

The old man shook his head. ‘I wish it were still so. I blame myself. In trying to protect the Crown, I have made it vulnerable. Over the years I have sent three people out of our world to another, all connected with seeking Aphra. Reynard was the last.' Cassien wanted to ask who each was but Fynch kept talking. ‘I considered myself clever … thinking that if I could retain control of events then I could contain Cyricus. I thought it wise to know what the enemy is doing. I designed a way to bring Aphra back to our world and I planned to fling her once and for all into the Void with her demon and then our world would not be troubled by them again. But what I didn't realise is that using the Wild's powerful magic for sendings weakened the Void's hold on Cyricus. He escaped, although he doesn't know why it occurred; his glee is so intense that he isn't questioning it. He doesn't know me, has no sense of me. However, I've set something in motion now that I must stop. He will use Myrren's magic, of that I have no doubt.'

Cassien shook his head at the complexity of Fynch's tale. ‘And you'll know it's begun.'

‘Exactly. If she has found her way back, she has her mortal host.'

‘Wait. You said there was another person you trusted who was helping.'

Fynch straightened. ‘Reynard was a man — mere mortal. This second companion is a creature. He is a friend of mine who was once a bird, then a man, and learned he could only be a man in
this
world, but that he could still be his magical bird shape in other worlds.' Fynch smiled sadly in the lowering light. ‘It's complicated, Cassien. Suffice to say Ravan is one of the most special creatures I've ever had the privilege to know: formed by a god, answerable to that god, but a friend of men.'

‘And?'

‘I think when we met on my travels Ravan was a little lost. He needed a purpose. I gave him one. Reynard couldn't be everywhere; I needed him watching Aphra, while Ravan kept her target under observation.'

‘The host that you speak of, you mean?'

Fynch nodded. ‘Ravan readily agreed to be the second observer.' Cassien gave an encouraging gaze to Fynch. ‘Ravan knew he too would have to relinquish his life — in this case, his life as a bird — in order to get back to our world. He will be safe, will walk as a man again. Reynard sadly cannot survive if he sees out his mission.'

They were all meaningless names to Cassien although he tried to sound respectful of Fynch's obvious sorrow. ‘If Cyricus is trapped here, what is Aphra doing in her world?'

‘If my hunch is right, she's sourcing a carrier to get herself back. It will need to be a very special individual who is somehow in tune — knowingly or otherwise — with other worlds.'

‘But you don't even know what this vessel, this man in this other world, looks like.'

He hesitated. ‘No,' Fynch then said, ‘but Reynard is hoping to mark him somehow. We couldn't plan for something we neither knew nor understood. Fortunately, I
was
able to send him on the trace of the violets almost directly to Aphra, but it was his decision how he would clue me into the carrier from then on.'

Cassien took a long, slow breath as he digested all that he'd learned. He realised they'd crested the second rise that formed Vincen's Saddle and down below them was the village known as Partridge Vale beginning to sprawl outward, perhaps with visions of becoming a town — but not yet. ‘Looks like we're here,' he remarked.

‘Tomorrow we'll reach Orkyld.'

Cassien was pleased by the sight of softly smoking chimneys and the hint of cooking on the air. ‘Can you smell that?' he asked. ‘No pigeon pie, Fynch, but roasted chicken, I think. It's been a long time since I've tasted that treat.'

He expected Fynch to smile but his companion looked suddenly troubled. ‘Violets,' he breathed. Then looked at Cassien, his gaze raw and intense. ‘You smell roasted poultry. I smell Aphra.'

Fynch swayed in the saddle and Cassien leapt down from his horse and rushed to the old man just as he slipped sideways. Cassien's fast reflexes caught him and carried him easily. The man was as light as his namesake.

‘Master Fynch!' he cried, looking around for help, but there was none.

He hoisted Fynch over his shoulder and grabbed the reins of both horses to lead them into a nearby grove. After lowering Fynch gently to the leaf litter, he secured both animals. Returning, he noticed that the man he had thought looked so youthful, now suddenly appeared as ancient as the landscape they were traversing and the gnarled trees that shrouded them. His eyes were closed, his features slackening into wrinkles and creases, his skin taking on the look of parchment.

‘Fynch!' he called again, rubbing his companion's cold hand.

To his relief the man stirred. ‘It is done,' he murmured.

‘What?'

Fynch opened his eyes and their light had dimmed: no longer like bright gemstones but more like pebbles on a shingle beach, dashed and rolled around until dulled. He spoke again, croaky this time. ‘My friends … their souls have spoken. Aphra is travelling and she's bringing someone with her.'

Gabe woke properly, coming to his senses gasping, hands on knees, to draw breath. There was pain everywhere. He couldn't isolate it. Even his mind hurt.

Be strong, Gabe
, said a voice he knew. He straightened with a groan and looked around. He seemed to be alone and had probably imagined Angelina's voice. He was in a shed of some sort … no, a barn but it was huge and full of wheat or barley in sheaves. How quaint. He staggered to the enormous doors and pushed on them. They were solid and heavy, but also barred from outside.

Through a wide gap in the doors he could see beyond to a patchwork of fields — uneven, ragged oblongs of brown and gold, and even pale grey for as far as he could see. There were people working … they were dark specks but he could make out signs of labour. No machinery, just the regular swinging of arms, probably with some sort of tool, he thought. And suddenly a man was approaching. Gabe gave a soft sound of panic and lurched back as the man lifted the bar and unlocked what sounded like a padlock. Sunlight burst in as the doors creaked back. Gabe blinked in the soft rays and saw an elderly man in a black robe regarding him.

‘How did you get in here?' the man asked.

Gabe shook his head. ‘I don't know.'

‘You're naked, man!'

He looked down, only now aware that he was indeed standing there without a stitch on. He cupped himself, embarrassed. ‘I'm sorry. I don't know what I'm even doing here. Where the hell am I?'

The man lost his immediate fear and his voice softened. ‘Too much cider for you, eh?' he admonished gently. ‘Well, I don't know how you got in here, but go on, be gone with you. Quickly now, or I'll have to tell Master Flek and he does so hate for anyone to be in the tithe barn.'

‘Who are you?'

‘I'm Pel. No-one important.' Gabe stared at him. ‘Why do you look so scared? I'm not going to punish you. What's your name?' he asked.

‘Gabe … Gabriel. I'm lost.'

‘Where do you hail from? Perhaps I can help,' Pel said kindly. ‘Is that a quill you've got in your hand, son? I hope you haven't taken that from here?' Gabe shook his head. ‘No, I don't recognise it, but even so, a naked man and a fine quill.' He made a small tutting sound.

Gabe's sense of dislocation intensified.
Say nothing
! Angelina snapped and he only now realised she was talking in his mind … Gabe now felt deeply frightened but urged himself to stay calm, draw on all his counselling skills and practise what he knew. This was some sort of anxiety attack, for sure. He just needed to take a deep breath and be rational.

‘Mr Pel. I don't know where I find myself. Forgive me, but I need your help.' He heard Angelina hiss inside his head. ‘I'm from Paris.'

‘Paris?' Pel asked reasonably. ‘I can't say I know that place.'

‘Paris … France,' Gabe insisted.

The man shook his head with an expression of gentle concern. ‘No, my boy, I can't bring it to mind. It's obviously not in Morgravia or I'd know. Is it somewhere in Briavel perhaps?'

‘Morgravia … Briavel? Where are these places?'

Pel frowned, his concern clearly deepening. ‘Do you need a physic, son?'

‘A physic?'

‘Perhaps you need a potion to clear your head. You're in Morgravia, west, about two days' ride from Pearlis. Do you mean Pearlis, not Paris?'

‘The cathedral,' Gabe bleated, suddenly recognising something of what the man was talking about.

‘That's right,' Pel said, his expression now one of relief.

‘Mr Pel?'

‘Yes, Gabriel?'

‘I don't belong here. I don't know how I come to be here. It was magic. One minute I was in Paris, the next moment I find myself in your barn. She worked a spell on me. I don't understand it. I've been brought here to another world from …' Gabe shook his head as his voice trailed off. He knew he was making no sense, could see confusion reflected in the kind man, who was beginning to lose patience with him.

‘Have you been drinking liquor?'

‘A little wine, mainly coffee,' he answered obediently, without thinking.

It was the wrong answer. Pel smiled knowingly as if he understood that alcohol was behind Gabe's troubles. ‘Hurry now, son,' Pel urged. ‘Master Flek isn't nearly as forgiving as I. And it's obvious you haven't stolen anything. Get yourself dressed and be on your way. Everything will make more sense when you've cleared your head.'

The man was not speaking French, Gabe suddenly noticed, and yet he understood the language, though it wasn't one he recognised. Strangely, he seemed to be absorbing the words and their meaning and responding without consciously making any effort.

The stranger smiled. ‘You are in the Harpers Riding tithe barn. We're not far from Ramon, but a long way from Pearlis, where I presume you're from.' He went to the door and pointed down the slight incline. ‘Head that way, you'll come into the town. If you're from Port Wickel, though, bear left at the ten-mile marker near the crossroads. It's quicker on foot taking that route. But be warned. It's busy as a beehive, what with the royal ship from Cipres arriving.' He walked outside and turned to Gabe. ‘I presume your clothes are thrown around. Gather them up and get yourself clad. I'll be back to lock the doors shortly,' he said, but not unkindly. He looked up at the sun. ‘Master Flek will inspect after his quart of milk, which he likes to take around now. He's a creature of habit is Master Flek, so he won't be late. Don't be found or he'll have you thrown in the stock, or even irons, without hearing any explanation.'

Gabe nodded, so bewildered he didn't know what else to say. The man disappeared down the hill and Gabe moved further inside the gloomy light of the barn. The shaft of golden light that streamed in through the doors lit a tiny cloud of gnats that bounced and flitted. He swatted at them. What had happened? He had been in his apartment. The phone was ringing and buzzing, a great black bird was beating on the glass of his windows … and Reynard threatening outside the door.