The Snowy Tower (9 page)

He tossed the scrap of paper into the fire, where it crumpled, curled and crumbled into red hot ash. The message he had deciphered worried him greatly. It churned around in his brain, creasing his forehead with worry.

Master Drummond sighed deeply and started thinking through all his plans.

Nutmeg, Caramel, Moonbeam, Mischief and Toffee jogged forward in the early morning sunshine. Ethan rode with Aisha slung uncomfortably in front of him. The travellers had left the forest far behind and were now riding on the main road north, heading towards the village of Trowbridge.

The country road followed the River Bryn, which wound its way lazily through the lush green valley like a fat brown snake. Clouds of yellow wildflowers swathed the bank. Occasionally the river would stir itself, rippling over shallow rapids with sparkling whitecaps dancing in the sun.

The roadway was paved with flat grey stones, meandering through copses of trees, with wild red poppies growing along the roadside. Wide paddocks held black and white cows, their udders heavy with milk. Horses watched curiously over the fence, while their foals gambolled along on ridiculously long legs. Chocolate-faced sheep, heavy with white unshorn wool, slowly grazed while their tail-wagging lambs suckled blissfully.

Ahead the smooth, rounded foothills rose in banks of rich green. Further to the north they could see the first mountains, rocky and wild, wreathed in drab green forest and grey cloud, and capped with dazzling white snow. Two tawny hawks soared on a cross current, searching for foolish rabbits or fieldmice.

In the late afternoon the children rode into Trowbridge. Unlike the south, where many villages had been ransacked and burned, Trowbridge was deliciously peaceful, with no outward sign of the Sedah invasion.

On the outskirts of the village, they dismounted and chose a small stone cottage, with a sprawling garden of lavender and roses, where three small children were playing hide-go-seek. Lily knocked on the door, which was opened by a kind-looking farmer’s wife, her arms dusted with flour.

‘Good evening, mistress,’ Lily said, with a warm smile. ‘We are travelling to the north and wondered if we could please purchase some supplies and perhaps a bed for the night in your barn? We will be leaving first thing in the morning.’

The woman scanned the faces of the four children, weary from a long day in the saddle, and thought of her own precious brood.

‘Of course,’ agreed the farmer’s wife, smiling in empathy. ‘Come around the back.’

In return for a few silver coins she gave them fresh bread and milk, tiny green cucumbers, tomatoes warm from the sun, pale pink ham, boiled eggs and crumbly yellow cheese, which they ate on a bench in her garden in the golden evening sunshine.

The barn was warm and spacious, with a wide soft bed of last year’s hay.

Aisha flopped into the hay in exhaustion, too tired to even turn around three times to flatten her bed. She covered her eyes with her paws and started to snore. Charcoal scampered coquettishly in the hay, smelling traces of mice and revelling in the freedom of moving after sleeping in her wicker basket all day.

Ethan, Lily, Roana and Saxon tended to the
horses, grooming them, picking out their hooves, feeding them oats. The children fell asleep breathing in the sweet smell of hay and horse sweat, and listening to the sounds of horses rustling and stamping.

The cocky rooster woke them before dawn with his self-important yodel to welcome the Sun Lord. Everyone stirred to action, eager to be on the road once more. They washed under the icy cold gush of the garth pump. The farmer’s wife brought them fresh, warm bread, dripping with butter and honey, and steaming milky tea. She smiled with pleasure as the children gulped hungrily, licking their fingers in delight.

She handed Lily a parcel wrapped in cloth, and tied up with string.

‘A morsel to eat on your journey to Bryn, my dears, and may the Moon Goddess light your way, every step of your travels,’ the farmer’s wife blessed them.

The children smiled, comforted by the familiar proverb. Calling and waving their thanks and farewells, they clambered up into their saddles and clattered out onto the cobbled road. At Trowbridge, the road crossed the mighty River Bryn, over a gently arching sandstone bridge, then continued
north on the western bank. A massive, gnarled and twisted ancient tree grew on the left side of the road, weeping down towards the rushing water.

As they continued north, the countryside became wilder and cooler as the road gradually climbed towards the foothills of the Silent Mountains.

It took two days of long riding – alternating walking, trotting and cantering – to reach the northern town of Bryn. They passed lonely farmhouses, and the occasional hamlet or village where they could buy supplies or a night in the hay. On the fast-flowing River Bryn, they passed barges floating away downriver, carrying cargo of logs and sacks of vegetables for market, or empty barges towed upriver by draughthorses straining against the current. The bargemen waved, calling out merry greetings.

Bryn itself was a bustling town of elegant sandstone bell towers and grand public buildings with arched bridges spanning the river.

They found a cheery bakery, following the wafting yeasty scents of hot bread and sweet pastry, and bought a large canvas bag bulging with food. The four children sat down on the river bank, with their bare feet dangling in the freezing snow melt water. Saxon passed over steaming hot meat pies
and sausage rolls, the pastry golden and flaky. It was good to eat hot food once more.

Aisha was much better and gulped her sausage roll down in one swallow. Her coat had regained its healthy red-gold gleam, her ears were cocked, and the wounds were healing beautifully, although her flank was still disfigured with a shiny, curved pink scar.

They slept at the Black Bear Inn, down by the river quay, and were woken the next morning by the cries of the bargemen loading their cargoes in the pre-dawn glimmer.

As the sun rose, its red rays lit up the hundreds of rolling peaks of the Silent Mountains stretching away endlessly to the north. Those closer were grim and green, while those higher and further were crowned with white snow and grey cloud. The children shivered as they saw how far they still had to travel. The innkeeper’s wife served them wooden bowls of steaming porridge, topped with cream and brown sugar, served with hot milky tea. The children all ate hungrily. They had no idea when they would eat hot food again.

It took Sniffer two days to walk to Trowbridge. The trail was getting cold, as farmers’ carts and roving herds of livestock obliterated the tracks Sniffer was following.

He slipped into the village in the late afternoon. Two farmers on their way home glowered at him suspiciously, disliking the look of the Sedah stranger.

‘Seen four children – three boys and a girl, with five horses, a dog and a cat?’ Sniffer asked them, jingling a pile of silver coins in his palm.

‘Lots of children in Trowbridge, lots of horses, dogs and cats too,’ snorted one farmer.

‘These ones are strangers from the south,’ Sniffer encouraged. ‘The girl has long curly blonde hair and brown eyes, about this tall. One of the boys is fair, and the others are a bit darker?’

‘We’ve had no strange children staying here,’ declared the farmer firmly.

Sniffer spent the rest of the afternoon knocking on doors, jingling coins and intimidating villagers. No-one had seen or would admit to having seen the children. At one house, the farmer’s wife glanced away, shrugging and shaking her head.

‘What would four southern children be doing travelling on their own up here?’ she asked dismissively.

Sniffer turned away, but something about the woman’s manner made him suspicious. When the door had closed, he skulked around the side of the house and into the garth. There was a large barn there. Sniffer opened the door and slunk inside. He breathed in the smell of sweet hay, farm animals and musty feed sacks. He felt a thrill of excitement. He was sure the children had been there.

‘Get out of my barn,’ came a high voice behind him. The farmer’s wife stood there with a pitchfork raised threateningly.

‘I was just looking for a place to spend the night,’ Sniffer said placatingly. ‘I have silver coins to pay for board.’

‘I don’t want your coins and I don’t want you in my barn,’ the farmer’s wife retorted, jabbing the pitchfork into the air, dangerously close to Sniffer’s head. ‘Just leave now.’

Sniffer left hurriedly.

At a lonely farm, just north of Trowbridge, he slipped into the stables and hastily saddled and bridled a large bay gelding. Sniffer opened all the stable doors, freeing the two other horses, and chased them out into the roadway at a gallop. The farmer and his wife came running from the kitchen at the commotion. By the time they
caught the horses, Sniffer and the stolen gelding were gone.

In the Tower of Sun and Moon, the seven priests of Krad were in conference around the smoky fire. The head priest held a missive from Governor Lazlac ordering the immediate return to Tira of five priests to conduct the ceremony for his marriage to Queen Ashana. The exhausted messenger had just arrived, having ridden almost non-stop from Tira on horseback, and was now eating a meal in the kitchen.

‘What of the boy?’ asked one black-robed priest.

‘He is to be left here until after the ceremony. Then Governor Lazlac will send a troop of soldiers to escort him to Sedah. You two will be able to handle him while we five return to Tira. The boy is completely subdued now, but just to make sure, perhaps you should increase the quantity of the drug he receives each day.’

The priests nodded in agreement.

‘Let us begin preparations,’ the head priest suggested. ‘It is a long journey back to Tira.’

He stood and shivered in the chilly air. ‘At least it will be warmer in the south.’

‘Krad be praised,’ they intoned automatically, rising to their feet.

Upstairs in his freezing tower room, the boy tossed and turned in his troubled sleep, dreaming fitfully. In his nightmare the black-clad priest lunged at him, swishing his cane viciously. The boy screamed in fright, ‘Mama. Mama, where are you?’

He awoke, drenched in sweat, despite the icy air. Consciousness flooded in, bringing with it a wave of despair. He thumped the pillow angrily, yet did not weep. Prince Caspar had no tears left.

The next morning Caspar drank his brimming mug of foul medicine without a murmur. It burned his throat going down.

The priests gave it to him every morning and evening. Originally he had fought the medicine, spitting and gagging, but the priests had held him down, holding his nose until he had swallowed it all. Now he no longer fought them – there was no point. The priests always won in the end.

The boy watched disinterestedly as five of the priests put on their black travelling cloaks, pinned with the malevolent glowing eye of Emperor Raef,
and prepared to depart. He bent obediently over his lessons and recited the Nine Laws of Krad. He did not even look up when the massive front gate swung shut and the heavy iron bolt was dropped once more.