Silvermay (5 page)

‘Get a move on, girl,' she said, her voice almost jolly. ‘Fetch Lucien while I settle Nerigold among the cushions.'

‘No, I can't,' I said, too loudly.

Birdie looked at me, not yet angry. Her eyes asked what was going on.

‘I'm tired of this,' I said. ‘The baby makes so much noise. I don't want to be a nursemaid any more — not for him, not for anyone.'

Before my terrible confusion caused any more hurt, I headed for the door.

Birdie let me make it into the open before she caught me, careful to let enough ground pass under our feet so that our words wouldn't reach back to the house. Her grip on my elbow would have snapped bone if I hadn't stopped instantly.

‘What's got into you, speaking like that in front of poor Nerigold when there can't be a gentler soul in the entire kingdom? Where's my Silvermay, the daughter I'm so proud of?'

It would need a seamstress of words to fit together the sobs and sounds that tumbled out of me; or, better still, a skilled puzzle maker. Birdie had a little of both in her, but mostly she was a mother with a keen eye. She hugged me and whispered, ‘It's the young man, isn't it? Your heart is pulling you in a hundred ways, and you want them all as much as you want none of them.'

That was one way to describe it, and at least I'd earned a hug instead of the slap I deserved. Not that she let me off the hook.

‘This is what you're going to do, Silvermay. You'll go back inside the house, you'll say you're sorry to Piet for being so rude, and you'll help Nerigold finish feeding little Lucien. And you'll go on looking after Lucien until his mother is well enough to care for him herself.'

That's exactly what I did do; not because I was afraid of my mother, but for myself, as a way to redeem my heart, which continued its unruly reign over me through every minute of the day until I thought I would go mad.

Only one thing changed. Where once I had wanted these three to stay forever, after that day I couldn't wait for them to leave.

In Vonne

‘Y
ou've had more news of Nerigold,' said the woman.

She stepped through the doorway into the joyless room; a room that others dared enter only on the command of its occupant and even then with trepidation.

‘Come in, Ezeldi,' said Coyle Strongbow.

He offered no smile and, though he had spoken calmly, made no effort to disguise the ironic tone in his voice. The woman was already in the room, after all. Anyone watching from the shadows would have been surprised to learn this pair was man and wife.

‘You seem to know about this business as quickly as I do,' he said when she stopped a few paces before him. ‘You're not still jealous, are you? I told you, she was just a plaything. I sent her off long ago, once she no longer
amused me, like I did with all the others. Why do you keep asking about her.'

His wife gave no answer. ‘What's the news?' she asked instead.

Coyle pointed to a letter on the table beside him, which had arrived by courier only an hour before. ‘Queasel has watched the ports for a week but there's been no sign of her. He's leading his men back along the roads to search villages and farms that might have taken her in. They'll work methodically until they find her.'

Ezeldi shook her head. ‘Unless she's underground, already in her grave. Is there any point keeping up this search?'

Her husband had been tolerant until now, but at this suggestion he became tired of the game they were playing with one another. The room was already cold but, when he answered, his words brought an even heavier chill to the grey stone walls. ‘You wouldn't say that if you knew why I want her found.'

Ezeldi gave a disdainful bow and left her husband's chamber as abruptly as she had entered.

She made for her own rooms on the other side of the grand residence. These weren't as cold and bleak as the rest of Coyle's stronghold. The décor was hardly as plush as the queen's suite in the palace, but she particularly liked the gold and blue chair beside the window where
she sat on sunny mornings. If the Wyrdborn could command such things, she would make the sun shine through that window every hour of the day.

She went to the window now, but with a different purpose, one that
did
lie within her power, if she could find the right creature. The view showed her the bustling city of Vonne and, beyond its walls, the chequered pattern of barley fields and corn interspersed with woods. It was a sight she never tired of, though today her eyes scanned the sky above. There were no birds visible; or, rather, none of the type she needed.

She glanced at the inviting chair beside her. No, she must act quickly. She would stay vigilant until what she needed appeared as a speck in the distance, even if it meant standing by the window for the rest of the day.

 

My mother wouldn't let Tamlyn take his family back onto the road until Nerigold was strong enough, and that day seemed as far off as ever. There was nothing I could do but keep the promise I had made to myself: to care for my little Smiler and be a friend to Nerigold. Since the rift between Hespa and me was taking time to heal, I could do with a friend; and, despite the struggle between my head and my heart, that's exactly what Nerigold had become. As for Tamlyn, I stayed out of his way and denied myself the sight of his face.

The harvest began, and any remaining grumbles in the village about Tamlyn quickly faded when he was first into the fields each morning and stayed until the last of the weary figures made their way home to supper. Even the mean-eyed elders marvelled at his energy.

It had been a good summer and, when the last of the grain had been threshed, our barns were full. They wouldn't stay that way for long, I knew that by now, and, at sixteen, I was old enough to resent it as much as anyone. Like every other pair of eyes in Haywode, mine began to scan the road to the south, waiting. When would he come? How bad would it be this year?

An answer to the first question came soon enough. ‘He's here!' cried a boy with sharper eyes than the rest of us.

‘It's as though he waits on the road, just out of sight,' said my father as he hurried from the house.

I watched from beside him as two riders led the way into the village, followed by a line of wagons. Two more men on fine horses eased along among the wagons, one on the far side, the other trailing behind the last. Of the leading pair, only one was armed: a large man with narrow, darting eyes who watched us cautiously as the richly dressed lord beside him approached the inn. The wagons were driven by labourers no different from
Haywode's men who watched them enter the village with such sullen resignation.

Father went closer to the road but I wasn't left alone for long.

‘Who are those men?' asked Tamlyn, who had come down from yet another roof he was fixing.

‘The one in the golden cloak is Religo Norbett,' I told him. ‘He's lord of our district, appointed by the king. His manor house is ten miles to the south, past Cricklethorn. He comes every year at the end of harvest to take our tribute.'

‘Tribute?' repeated Tamlyn.

‘Yes, in grain and livestock. Some goes to the king; the rest he keeps for himself. A tax, he calls it, but my father calls it robbery.'

‘So many wagons,' said Tamlyn.

I sniffed in disgust. ‘Yes, so many.'

‘Who are the others?' he asked.

‘The big man next to him is the sentinel who guards Norbett in case anyone tries to harm him.'

‘But there are fifty strong men in Haywode and none of them looks very pleased to see him,' he commented. ‘They could overpower one man without any trouble.'

‘Yes, that's why the other two are here.' I nodded towards the horsemen half hidden among the wagons. ‘With those two to protect him, there could be a hundred
angry warriors in the village and Norbett would still be safe.'

Tamlyn's eyes sought them out quickly and watched until a single word escaped his lips. ‘Wyrdborn.'

‘Yes, both of them,' and though I had known it from the beginning, just hearing the word was enough to send an icy shiver through my blood.

There was nothing in particular to distinguish the men from commonfolk or hint at the terrible powers they possessed. The one near the leading wagon had come last year; I remembered his dull grey vest and the insolent set of his face. The other simply looked bored.

Word continued to spread — ‘He's here, the wagons have come!' — and, across the village, men were emerging from their homes. It was a tradition in Haywode that when Religo Norbett came with his wagons, the men of the village gathered near the inn and along the road in silent defiance. I'd never understood what good it did, since the lord took away whatever he wanted and no man ever lifted a hand to stop him.

The women chased their children indoors. The tension I remembered so bitterly was building now that Norbett and his sentinel had dismounted at the inn and accepted the stiff courtesy of the elders. They led him inside, leaving the rest of us to wait while the list was negotiated. That list, tallied up while they sat around
Nettlefield's table, would decide how much of our harvest was carried off by men who hadn't lifted a finger to grow it.

I went closer for a better view. Not too close, though. There had been rumours from other villages: when the lords came calling for their tribute, the Wyrdborn sometimes took prizes of a different kind — young women like me. They disappeared inside distant castles and weren't seen for months. When they came home, they were unharmed and had no memory of being gone at all. Yet all the stories ended with the same sad refrain: the youthful joy that had made the girls so beautiful was gone forever.

At last, the religo emerged from the inn. Behind him came the elders, ashen-faced, their leader clutching a scroll, which he unfolded and began to read aloud.

‘The following tribute is to be loaded in the wagons,' he began. ‘Bags of grain …' Here he paused to swallow hard while the men of the village drew closer to hear. ‘Two hundred and thirty.'

A groan rose up from every throat, even my own. That was twenty more than last year and even that had seemed too much. One thing was already certain: we would all be thinner before the end of winter.

The list went on, naming bales of wool and the number of lambs. At last, the elder reached the end
of the scroll and, despite the shock and the weight of what lay ahead, Haywode sighed in relief. The worst was known now. Or so we thought.

As men began to turn away, Norbett stepped across to the elder and whispered something. The weary elder raised his voice again and said, ‘Plus Sweetmead's sow.'

‘No,' came a shout from among the disgruntled onlookers. A short man with a red face and wiry grey beard pushed his way through. It was Delit Sweetmead and it wasn't hard to know why he was so upset. ‘My pig's not on that list. Go on, you show me where it says my pig has to be stolen as well.'

He was on dangerous ground using words like stolen. But he was right, too: the sow had been added on a whim after the rest of the list had been read out and we all knew it. Delit Sweetmead knew it better than any of us.

‘I've raised her from a piglet. She's going to feed the guests when my son marries in the autumn. You're not taking her.'

Delit was too angry for his own good. He came on three more paces towards the lord, enough to make the sentinel step in his way. A heavy sword was already in the man's hand and if Delit went any closer his head would soon be rolling free in the mud. The sight of the sword finally brought sense to the poor man's mind
and he backed away, but he still wouldn't give up on his precious pig.

‘What of my son's wedding? There'll be nothing on the table. Leave the pig, my lord, so the whole village can feast on my boy's wedding day.'

Norbett's answer came quickly. ‘That sow will make a fine feast, I'm sure, but it will be at my table, not yours. Now fetch the pig at once, and you can help load it into my wagons for your trouble.'

The callous reply was too much for Delit Sweetmead. Fear of the sentinel's sword kept him well back but it didn't stop his tongue. He let loose with a barrage of curses fiery enough to burn the thatched roofs Tamlyn had spent so long mending. He raged on, his words angrier and fouler with every breath, until suddenly, in mid-sentence, he fell to the ground and began to writhe from side to side. His face contorted in agony and his curses were replaced by the moans of a tormented beast.

No one dared go near him. The only man to move was the Wyrdborn in the grey vest who strolled a few steps into the wide space that had opened up around Delit Sweetmead. His hands remained by his sides but his eyes focused harshly on his victim.

I'd heard of the Wyrdborns' terrible magic but had never seen it at work before. The sight sickened me; for
the pain it brought to a man who'd done no more than protest in anger, and even more for the way the entire village stood by, utterly helpless.

Religo Norbett watched with a faint air of disgust, then turned his eyes away from the groaning Delit to the villagers. This was a warning to anyone else who challenged his right to steal away the harvest. But when Delit began to clutch at his throat and the unmistakable gasps of a choking man filled our ears, he called to the Wyrdborn, ‘That's enough.'

Delit continued to gag. His face was turning blue.

‘Do you hear me? Let him up!' Norbett shouted, but the wizard didn't want to hear him. His face shone with a brutal glee in what he was doing. Delit would certainly have died if the second Wyrdborn hadn't stepped in and released him.

What happened next fascinated me as much as it frightened me. As my father and two others rushed to help Delit, the Wyrdborn in the grey vest turned on the other. ‘What are you doing? You broke the enchantment!'

‘You'd gone too far. Norbett called enough.'

‘I wasn't going to kill him. You should have stayed out of it.'

‘Not when a fool like you loses his head.'

For a fearful moment it seemed the two Wyrdborn would draw their swords and hack at one another. Men
had already begun to back away in case they were caught up in the struggle.

‘Come to your senses, both of you,' said the religo in a voice I'd heard parents use on warring children.

Even then, the grey-vested man insisted on a last word. ‘If you interfere with my magic again, I'll put that sword of yours through your ribs.'

So my father's stories were true. When he'd first told me of the Wyrdborn who lived among us, I had listened wide-eyed and shaking with fear that one person could be more powerful than a hundred. Then, as I grew older and learned more of the world, I began to question him.

‘The king must be a Wyrdborn, then,' I said. ‘To rule over so many, his magic would have to be stronger than the rest, wouldn't it?'

To my surprise, my father shook his head. ‘You would think so, yes, but our king is not Wyrdborn, and neither are the lords who steal our harvest. They are commonfolk like you and me.'

He could see that this didn't make sense to me so, with a grim smile, he explained further. ‘The Wyrdborn have great powers, but their weaknesses are almost as strong. Each thinks only of himself, and that makes every one of them greedy for what his powers alone can win. Because of this, they trust no one, they betray their allies as soon as it suits them and they are forever getting into
petty squabbles with other Wyrdborn just as powerful as themselves. No one Wyrdborn can ever dominate, because there are so many who would immediately be jealous of his power.'

‘Are they all men?' I asked.

‘No, no. Women as well, and they can be just as heartless.'

The only Wyrdborn I had seen came with the lord on his yearly visit.

‘Do any live in the villages around Haywode?' I asked.

My father shook his head again. ‘Most drift towards an easy life in castles and palaces where rulers employ them instead of soldiers. Clever lords keep three or four Wyrdborn, and never less than two.'