Scrivener's Tale (46 page)

There had only recently been a guard change. A whole bell before they'd rotate again. He stared at the door; the dragon stared back … and dared him.

Cassien chose.

He shifted to lean against the balustrade and used the skill he'd possessed since his earliest memories of life, and withdrew into himself. It happened fluidly. One moment he was entirely in control of his physical self, the next he was a guest of his body. He would give himself the briefest possible time; he just had to be sure nothing was approaching in a spiritual form.

Perhaps he should have woken Ham, asked him to sit next to him. Too late. Even withdrawn into the tiny kernel that was his spirit, his gaze was still fixed on the dragon. He drew some comfort from it.

Watch over me, Fynch
, he cast out. And then Cassien lifted fully away from his body and he roamed.

In the Great Forest, a she-wolf looked up from her nuzzling brood. They were too sleepy to fully suckle, but were safe in the comfort of their mother's warmth, her smell, her rhythmic, reassuring breathing. She wondered what had disturbed her and eased herself away from her cubs, which moaned at the loss and tucked themselves in around each other. She nuzzled them closer, paused until they were quiet again before moving soundlessly out of the cave-like overhang of rock and trees where the pups had been born. In the clearing she could see the other wolves from the pack — some with their head resting on their paws, others lying on their sides. Her mate looked up as she emerged, but satisfied himself that she was simply stretching and settled his large dark head back onto his huge paws and closed his eyes. She knew he wouldn't sleep. He was as alert as she, determined they raise their young safely to maturity.

Romaine stretched her large, lean frame while she listened. There was nothing to hear other than the comforting, muffled sounds of the forest at night, where it was so quiet even an insect could make itself heard scrambling over leaf fall. Clearly nothing unusual had made a noise to disturb her or the other wolves would also be startled. She straightened, lowered her ears.
Cassien
. Romaine closed her eyes and listened inwardly while she cast out her senses and waited.

She heard the echo.
Watch over me, Fynch.

Cassien was roaming. She hated him roaming at any time, because of its inherent dangers, but especially now when she was nowhere near to look after his cooling body. Romaine tipped back her head and howled.

In the Wild, many leagues into the far northeast, Fynch stirred fitfully and woke suddenly. He thought he'd heard a call. He swung his legs down from the modest pallet he slept on, padding across the stone floor warmed by a hot spring that ran deep below the hut in which he lived. His predecessor, Elysius, had chosen his position well, he thought absently, sighing at the small comfort on this cool night.

He stared out the window to the moon and a clear spring night sky. It would be sunny tomorrow. His gaze searched the near and far distance. Nothing stirred.

Fynch listened. All was quiet. He blinked, turned inward and heard the whisper reach him.

Watch over me, Fynch.

And then he heard in his mind the anguished howl of a wolf.

Cassien was roaming.

Trust him, Romaine
, he soothed, casting the thought back to the she-wolf in the forest.
The sacrifice is his to make, his burden to bear.

Moving as swiftly as he could he roamed Stoneheart. Seeing it from many different angles in this guise, Cassien began to appreciate its sombre, clean-lined beauty. Whimsy was permitted in its courtyards and groves, some beautiful connecting passages; they were perfectly structured to suit the inherent ‘order' that was Stoneheart and yet each so creative within itself. These particular spaces ensured airflow would help the palace breathe and allow the perfume of blossom and flowers to scent its halls and occasionally catch drifts of conversation or birdsong … harmony was one way of thinking about it. He admired it; even in the darkness, it stood proud.

Cassien was aware of the cathedral soaring up to the gods nearby. He desperately wanted to visit it, especially in this form, but he was mindful that every moment might cost an animal its life as much as threaten his own. He focused on the palace, searching for magic or anything of an ethereal power, and satisfied himself that no demon was within its walls … not tonight anyway.

He found his body again, hating the way it stared so sightlessly at him in the form of invisible spirit. He dreaded the cost, but hesitated no longer and re-entered himself.

As he stretched his stiff limbs, feeling the first waves of nausea wash over him, he heard the screams begin.

Stoneheart woke rudely to the calls of despair. The servants had begun the panic, when those up early enough to start baking the day's bread had found the bodies of doves and swallows littering the ground outside the kitchen.

Next, two horses were found dead, along with sundry dogs and cats, as well as ducks, geese, even one of Stoneheart's cows.

The killing rampage continued. People hadn't woken from their sleep: immediate discoveries were two pages, a pair of scullery maids, a guard. One noble, who had drunk a little too much wine and had strayed out of the great hall, was found slumped by one the wells, stiff in death, as had a gong boy, one of the stable hands, one of the gatekeepers and a travelling monk.

Florentyna emerged from her rooms, still in her night attire, her expression anxious.

‘What's happening?' she said, pushing away servants who ran up and begged her to go back into her rooms. ‘Cassien!'

He was bending over the balustrade, desperately sucking in air.

‘Go inside, your majesty,' he growled, nodding at the two servants. ‘I'll find out.'

Relief coursed through him when she obeyed, although not before she pointed at him. ‘In the time it takes me to get properly attired I want you back here and reporting to me. And you, Elsey, fetch Chancellor Burrage. Where is Sharley? I need to hurry.'

Cassien watched through glazed eyes as the queen, gorgeously dishevelled, allowed herself to be ushered back into her chamber. He steadied his breathing, wrestled control over the weakening nausea and opened the door of the storeroom. Ham was already washing his face in a bowl of water.

‘Where have you been?' the boy asked, looking worried. ‘What's all the yelling about?'

Cassien shook his head. ‘I don't know,' he lied. He thought he could guess, but couldn't imagine why a few dead animals might cause so much commotion. ‘I'm going to find out.'

‘Cassien, you look sick.'

‘I didn't sleep well,' he replied.

‘No, it's worse than that. Do you want to sit down?'

‘There isn't time.'

‘What's happened to you?' Ham held a hand up. ‘If you're about to tell me you've eaten something rotten, don't. I know you ate nothing last night.'

Cassien regarded Ham through bleary eyes. This was bad. He didn't think it would hit him this strongly. A fresh wave of nausea rolled through him. He turned suddenly and fell to his knees at the pail and retched. Ham sensibly waited, saying nothing until Cassien's heaves were done.

‘You look like you're dying,' he said, dipping a cloth into the water bowl. ‘Here.'

Cassien groaned, couldn't move momentarily because the room was spinning. The pain was immense. It felt like his heart was being squeezed out of his chest and that his bones were shattering like glass. He gradually became aware of Ham wiping his face with the damp cloth and its coolness was a balm.

‘Stay here,' Ham said. ‘Do not move.'

The boy disappeared.

He didn't know how long he sat there. It felt like an eternity until he heard his friend return. He could hear something being stirred.

‘Drink this,' said a new voice.

‘Who are —'

‘Drink, Cassien!' Ham ordered and was suddenly pouring the contents down his throat.

He spluttered and gulped, coughed and roared his displeasure at the intensely bitter potion, but Ham got it down him and as suddenly as he'd grabbed him, he let him go.

‘What in Shar's almighty balls was that?' he said, spitting.

The new voice chuckled. ‘Witch's brew,' she said.

He blinked, focused and looked into the eyes of a woman he couldn't immediately age. She wasn't old but she was certainly well into her third decade, with a square-shaped face and hair of indeterminate colour piled into an untidy bun. One aspect of her was striking though … her eyes.

He suspected that in his stupor he was imagining their odd colour.

‘Who are you?' he groaned.

‘I'm Tilda. I don't know what's happening around the palace but anyone could be forgiven for believing a plague has hit. You're the lucky ones.'

He felt the mist clearing. This was unusual after a roaming episode. ‘What did you give me?' he asked, realising he was right — one of her eyes was dark like the berry of the ivy that crept up the palace walls, the other was like a golden leaf faded to dry brown.

‘I met your young friend last night. We broke bread together at the queen's pleasure, in her kitchens.' She shrugged. ‘Queen Florentyna likes my special teas. I make regular deliveries to Stoneheart and yesterday happened to be one of those times. Hamelyn seemed intrigued by my skills.'

‘Which are?'

‘Herbs.' She hesitated. ‘Curatives.'

‘Well, your nasty brew has helped,' he said, surprised at how rapidly the symptoms were diminishing. ‘Thank you.'

‘Go fetch me some fresh water, Hamelyn,' she said and he obediently ducked out with the bowl. She sat on the cot and regarded Cassien.

His eyes met hers.

‘That was no upset belly,' she said quietly. ‘This is an illness brought on by magic.'

He hoped it didn't show how startled he was.

‘You don't deny it,' she continued evenly.

‘Who are you?' he repeated.

She shook her head. ‘No-one special. Be careful with that skill. I think you already know its effects.'

He nodded.

‘But still you used it.'

‘I had to.'

She took a slow breath as if too fearful to ask. ‘And is it your magic that has killed?'

‘No-one will miss a few pigeons.'

She helped him to stand. The dizziness had abated and he was further impressed with her bitter brew. ‘It's not a few pigeons,' she replied, as Ham returned.

The boy's face was pinched with shock while his voice sounded dulled. ‘There are people dead all over the palace,' he said, the rise and fall of his usually lively tone absent.

‘What?' Cassien exclaimed.

Ham nodded, his eyes moistening. ‘Meek, the boy I was with last evening … he's one of the dead. No-one knows why. I don't even know how many.'

Cassien stared open-mouthed at him, guilt tightening in his throat like poison as reality hit. He'd never before roamed in a town or village. It had always been in the forest and it had only affected animals and birds; his roaming did not kill once Romaine had guided him to the Thicket that protected, and she also warned the forest creatures. It hadn't occurred to him that his magic would kill people or that they were so vulnerable to fall in numbers. His gaze slid awkwardly to Tilda.

‘Be careful, Master Cassien,' she reiterated, and pressed a vial into his hand. ‘I hope you don't need it. I don't think this is going to be as much help next time.'

‘Why not?' he whispered.

‘Because your skill learns,' she said cryptically. ‘And so must you,' she added, staring hard at him before reaching for her shawl and twisting it expertly around her shoulders and over her head like a hood. ‘I can't be caught up here, I've been told not to wander the palace. If I'm found …' She didn't finish. ‘Farewell. I'm glad I could help.'

‘Wait,' he said, his mind scrambling to make sense of Ham's disturbing news. ‘What will happen if you're found?'

Tilda paused. ‘I've never risked finding out,' she said softly.

‘Then let me accompany you,' he offered. ‘At least let me see you back to the kitchen, where you are obviously permitted.' At her hesitation, he added. ‘Please. If you are with me, no-one will question you.'

‘All right,' Tilda said, looking grateful, ‘but we must hurry.'

‘Ham, find out as much as you can. And if the queen is looking for me, tell her I will be back very soon.' He left with Tilda before Ham could ask questions of his own.

‘How does it learn?' Cassien pressed, without any preamble, knowing time was his foe.

‘I sense it is an ancient magic. Old magics are cunning,' she replied.

‘So the cure you gave me today …'

‘It wasn't a cure. It was simply a remedy for pain and the feeling of illness. What you possess within, Master Cassien,' she whispered, ‘no-one can cure.'

They could hear guards. He was ready with his explanation, but would prefer not to be confronted. ‘Tilda, where do you live?'

She gave a sad gust of a laugh. ‘I don't live anywhere. I roam.'

At her words, he felt a chill. Was she toying with him? He frowned at her as they hurried down the passageway and decided there was no guile in her. She had not given him away to anyone — not even in Ham's presence had she been anything but cautious.

‘You roam the land … like a tinker?'

She smiled. ‘Yes. I come routinely to the palace. I will not be back here now for a few moons. Queen Florentyna has her stocks.'

‘Where will you go?'

‘Where the wind blows me. Ah, here we are,' she said, relief evident in her tone.

‘Which direction are the winds blowing?'

Tilda regarded him and he was struck by the intensity of her odd gaze.

‘Northeast, perhaps,' she said with a vague shrug.

Cassien disguised his surprise with a frown. ‘But that's the Great Forest.'