The Queen's Blade Prequel I - Conash: Dead Son (4 page)

Chapter Two

Jarren looked
up when a boyish scream came from the direction of the goat shed,
dropping his hoe to run towards it. Rounding the corner, he skidded
to a halt and stared in surprise at the tableau before him.
Eight-year-old Conash lay on the straw, held his stomach and cried.
Twelve-year-old Rykar cowered at the back of the shed, his arms
raised. Rivan stood over him, his lips drawn back in a snarl.
Jarren walked closer, eyeing the irate cat.

“Conash, call
Rivan.”

The boy sat up
and looked around, and the cat bounded to him and licked his cheek,
purring.

“What
happened?” Jarren demanded.

“Rykar hit
me.”

“Why?”

“He was being
an ass!” Rykar shouted.

“How was he
being an ass?”

“He stuck dung
down my trousers!”

Jarren quelled
a chuckle. “So he was playing a prank?”

“He was being a
moron!”

Jarren strode
over to his oldest son and gripped his ear, forcing him to his feet
with a sharp tug that made him yelp. “He was playing a prank! You
shouldn't have hit him. How many times must I tell you? Stick dung
down his trousers, Rykar, but don't you ever hit him!”

“He's a damned
weakling!”

“Don't curse at
me, boy. He's your brother!”

“He's a runt,
look at him!”

“And you're an
idiot.”

Jarren released
Rykar and turned away. Scooping Conash up, Jarren carried him to
the house, where Misha looked up from the pastry she was rolling.
He sat the boy on the edge of the table and wiped the tears from
his cheeks. Misha came over, rubbing her hands on her apron.

“What
happened?”

“Rykar hit him
for sticking dung down his trousers.”

Misha hugged
Conash, then drew back to kiss him and gaze into his eyes. “Rykar
was naughty. Mama's going to spank him.”

“No, don't.
Rivan bit him already.”

“Did he?”

Conash nodded.
“Just a little bit.”

“Good.”

Jarren glanced
around at the cat, which lay in a patch of sun, washing his face.
He paused to look up, the pink tip of his tongue protruding. Misha
followed Jarren's gaze, then met his eyes, giving a slight nod.

“I don't think
Rykar will do that again,” he said.

Conash clutched
his stomach. “It hurts, Mama.”

“Let me see.”
She lifted his shirt and probed his belly, and he winced. “It'll
get better,” she told him.

The boy smiled,
then his eyes rolled back and he keeled over. Misha cried out and
caught him before he fell off the table, and Rivan sat up with a
lash of his tail. Misha cradled Conash, her eyes filled with
anguish.

“Fetch the
healer!”

Jarren ran to
the door and bellowed the instruction to Rykar, then hurried into
the bedroom, where Misha placed Conash on the bed. The fragile
boy's features were so refined that he looked more like a
six-year-old. Misha sat beside him, chafing his hands. Rivan
prowled around beside the bed, growling. Jarren edged past the cat
and sat next to his wife. Beads of sweat stood on Conash's brow,
and he breathed in laboured gasps.

“It's another
fever,” she muttered.

Jarren bowed
his head.

She said,
“Fetch the priestess, too.”

“No...”

“Yes!”

Jarren ran to
the door again. Rykar was mounted on the dun pony he had bought for
the children, and turned at his father's shout.

“Bring the
priestess too, Rykar.”

“I didn't hit
him that hard, Papa!”

“It's another
fever. Go, boy!”

Rykar kicked
the pony into a gallop down the track to the village in the valley,
and Jarren hurried back to his wife's side. She placed cold cloths
on Conash's brow and removed his shirt to wipe the sweat from his
chest. By the time the old healer, Emtan, arrived, with Priestess
Mirtel, shivers racked the boy and his lips were blue.

Emtan placed a
hand on the Conash's brow, shaking his head. “He's burning up,
Mistress Misha.”

“What is
it?”

“I don't know.
He's a weak child; anything could spark it off.”

Priestess
Mirtel stepped closer. “He needs the Death Rites.”

Emtan nodded.
“Better to be safe.”

“This boy was
born dead, Emtan. He wasn't meant for this world.”

Jarren said,
“You should stop saying that, Mirtel, until he's actually
dead.”

Emtan dug in
his bag. “I'll give him a tonic. It will strengthen him.”

Mirtel placed
the grey cloth of bereavement around her neck and clasped her hands
in prayer. “Great Tinsharon, look down upon this child now, as the
time of his death approaches. Bless him, and welcome him into the
Everlasting and your loving arms...”

Jarren stopped
listening to the Rites. He had heard them spoken over his second
son twice before already. Emtan dribbled tonic into Conash's mouth,
and the boy coughed. Misha held her son's hand and wept. Rivan
paced around the bed, spitting and growling. Jarren sank down on a
chair and buried his face in his hands, praying that this would be
the last time he had to go through this. Either the boy must die,
or he must grow stronger. He had spent too many years teetering on
the brink of death.

***

Jarren sighed
as his second son prodded the laden potpear tree with a stick,
trying to dislodge a fruit. Conash had sprouted like a weed, and,
at twelve, was almost as tall as Alenstra. He remained slender, but
he had not had a fever for four years. Rivan leapt up the tree,
climbing it with sinuous ease, and Conash threw down the stick and
followed. Jarren sat up in alarm. The only problem with his son's
familiar, he found, was that Conash was inclined to try to emulate
him.

Jarren jumped
up when the boy gripped the trunk and started to climb, reaching
him before he got too high up.

“Conash, come
down.”

“I'm all right,
Papa.”

“I said come
down, now.”

“But -”

“Don't argue
with me, boy!”

Conash shinnied
down the tree, landing beside his father with feline grace. Jarren
nodded and returned to his seat on the veranda, picked up his pipe
and lighted it.

“Can I take the
pony for a ride, Papa?”

“All right, but
don't go too far.”

“I won't.”

The boy ran
off, the black cat bounding beside him, and Jarren reflected that
life was good. He had six healthy children. Alenstra had bonded
with a spiderhawk just four moon-phases ago, the last to find her
familiar. Rykar was wolf kin, and now had a brown wolf at his side.
Shinda doted on her sorrel filly, and even six-year-old Ryana had
bonded with a jewel-like humming bird. Orcal's gentle doe was
seldom seen, but brought him great joy. In Orcal, Jarren finally
had a child who had inherited his brown hair and green eyes.

Conash was
still his favourite. His gentle fey son, whose smile could charm
the birds from the trees. Next year, when he was thirteen, he would
get his blessing, and his true name; Tyequin. God Touched. Jarren
puffed his pipe, smiling.

Conash urged
the pony into a canter. Its jolting trot jarred his teeth and
bruised his rear end. He disliked riding, but it was a lot quicker
than walking, and less tiring. Rivan loped alongside, and Conash
smiled at his familiar, revelling in the sensation of graceful,
almost effortless movement. The cat seemed to have springs in his
legs, and the boy longed to be just like him. His father was far
too overprotective. He could have climbed the potpear tree with
ease.

Conash pulled
the puffing pony to a halt and turned to gaze at the vista. The
village of Goat's Rest nestled in a lake-dotted valley whose
sweeping green slopes undulated into the distance. Farmsteads
divided up the grazing, raising mostly goats to provide meat, milk,
cheese and hides. In the village, the industries that thrived on
this produce dominated the economy, and a trading post bartered
with drovers who transported the wares to distant cities.

Most of the
leather went to the Queen's armies to the east, where it was used
to make armour. Meat was also sold to the soldiers, who kept the
village safe from the marauding Cotti. Visible through a cleft
between two hills, the Deep Forest stretched away like a dark,
lumpy velvet blanket. Around each homestead, a grove of coalwood
and potpear trees provided firewood and fruit. Coalwood trees grew
swiftly and provided hard red wood that burnt slowly and made hot
coals. A grove provided enough wood for each homestead without ever
having to cut any down. Potpears bore fruit all summer long, which
were fermented to make potent cider and dried for the wintertime.
Life was simple here, but sweet, and he wanted no other.

Conash turned
when Rivan gave a warning chirp, and studied the man who walked
towards him. A herder, judging by his garb and the five goats he
drove before him. Conash glanced beyond the man, wondering where he
had sprung from. Behind him, the Endine Mountains, which guarded
Jashimari from the desert, rose like jagged grey stone teeth, their
lofty peaks blanketed with snow and streamers of cloud.

The stranger
hailed Conash, who returned his greeting with a smile. The man
paused, leaning on his staff, while his goats continued towards a
distant homestead. A scruffy little dog sat beside him.

Conash urged
his pony closer. “Where did you come from?”

The man
grinned, revealing missing teeth. “The watering hole, of
course.”

“What watering
hole?”

The herder
gestured behind him. “Through the gorge, in the middle of the
mountains. It's a secret place, hidden there.”

Conash was
fascinated. “How do I get there?”

“Keep heading
up to the scree, and you'll see some bushes and trees. Go through
them. It looks blocked, but it's not.”

“Thank
you.”

“Be careful
though; don't let the Cotti see you.”

Conash nodded
and kicked the pony into a trot. The chances of seeing a Cotti in
Jashimari were slim to none. The man was surely jesting. He
followed a faint path up the scree into a narrow gorge that looked
like it ended just a short distance ahead. Even the pony was
reluctant to enter it, but did so at his urging. Conash pushed
through the dense branches, following a narrow, twisting path. The
mountains loomed over him on either side, their steep slopes
covered with loose stones that had, over the aeons, slid down to
form a gravel bed amongst the trees.

Conash pushed
through the last branches and entered a green bowl with a sparkling
blue lake at its centre. On the far side, a wide gap in the stone
barrier gave a glimpse of pale golden sand rippling away into the
hazy distance, the sun beating down on it like a hammer of hot
light. Kicking the pony into a canter, he circumnavigated the lake
and stopped to gaze at the shimmering desert. This was his first
glimpse of it, and he wondered how anyone could live there. Then
again, the Cotti were savages.

Returning to
the edge of the lake, he dismounted and let the pony graze,
stripped off his clothes and leapt into the crystal water with a
yell. Rivan paced up and down the bank, watching his friend with
worried eyes. Conash splashed and paddled, swimming further out,
then back to splash the cat. Rivan spat at him and moved away. The
boy giggled, ducked under the water and swam down to the pebbly
bottom. Silver fish darted away, and the water was so clear that he
could see for some distance.

Surfacing, he
wiped his eyes and smiled at Rivan, who patted the water with a
tentative paw. Clearly, he was concerned about his friend, but
unwilling to get wet. Conash giggled and splashed, ducking under
the water, then surfaced in a welter of bubbles.

“Help! Rivan!
I'm drowning!” he shouted, filling his mind with panic and
fear.

The wood cat
leapt into the lake with a mighty splash. The boy laughed and
splashed his feline friend, who gripped his arm in his jaws and
tried to drag him to shore. Giggling, the boy slipped free and swam
away. The cat shook water from his ears and spat before heading for
shore, where he flopped down on the grass to lick himself dry.
Conash followed and stretched out, the sun warming away the water's
chill. Rivan watched him with accusing eyes, clearly annoyed at
being duped.

When he was
dry, Conash donned his clothes and looked around for the pony,
which had wandered away in search of sweeter grass. Rivan's warning
thrummed in his mind as a scrape of metal on stone made him turn
towards the gap that led to the desert. Five men rode into the bowl
on tall steeds whose long manes flew from arched necks. The
soldiers' silver armour glinted over yellow livery, and they stared
at him with hard dark eyes.

Conash sprinted
for the pony, his mind blank with terror. The Cotti soldiers
shouted as he grabbed the pony's trailing reins and scrambled into
the saddle. He kicked the animal into a gallop towards the
tree-choked gorge, where branches whipped and scraped him as he
forced the pony to trot through the yielding barrier.

Emerging into
the valley, he urged his mount back into a gallop down the
treacherous scree slope. He dared not look back to see if the Cotti
had followed him, his dread was too great. Surely they would not.
They would have turned back when the scrub had swallowed him.

Halfway home,
he slowed the blowing pony to a trot and glanced back. The distant
gorge looked empty and innocent, to his relief. He continued at a
trot, allowing the pony to cool off. If he arrived home with a
lathered, blowing mount, it would arouse suspicion and questions
that he did not want to answer.

By the time he
arrived home, the pony's sweat had dried. Rivan was uneasy, but
only Conash could sense the cat's disquiet. It would be all right,
he assured himself. He dismounted outside the goat shed and
unsaddled the pony, brushing it before releasing it into its
paddock as twilight fell.