Tyrant's Blood (5 page)

On the other side of the realm, in a sparsely populated hamlet not far from Minton Woodlet, a dark-eyed youth with hair the colour of damp soil broke his fast with a bowl of creamed oats. He sat quietly at a plain scrubbed table and stared out of a small window into the overcast, drizzly day that the south was experiencing. From time to time he’d trickle a small amount of thick milk into his bowl to cool and liquefy the steaming, delicious glug.

There were only three small rooms to the tiny cottage and a man bustled in from one of the others now. ‘Nearly done?’ he asked brightly. ‘Did I get it right?’

The youngster turned and nodded. ‘Delicious,’ he said, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

‘Good. Hurry up and finish. I’d like us to get going early,’ the man continued conversationally, leaning to look out of a window as he poured himself some dinch from the pot simmering at the fire. ‘It’s not too cold but the wet weather means you should be able to find us some saramac. I have to go out for a short while. Just to Minton Woodlet.’

The youth kept ladling the oats into his mouth, eating precisely, swallowing carefully.

‘Oh, and excellent news, my boy. I don’t know what you did but the hens are laying again and Bonny’s leg is healed fully. She’s going to be just fine. I’d like to think it was my herbals,’ the man
said, turning to stare affectionately as the boy scraped the last of the oats from his bowl, ‘but I know it was you.’

The youth put his spoon into the bowl with a soft clang and looked up. ‘Not all me.’ He shrugged, self-consciously. ‘I like to use it for good.’

‘I know. Just remember, we must keep those skills between us. Never show them off. Never.’

The boy nodded. ‘I know that. I’m finished,’ he said, standing. He lifted the bowl and jug to take them outside to rinse.

‘All right, then. You leave that. I can clear things up. Let’s get you on your way. You know what to look for. I need as many of the fungi as you can find.’

‘You won’t be long, will you?’

‘No, Piven.’

Piven nodded. ‘Be safe, Greven,’ he said, slinging a small sack around his body and reaching for his hat from the hook behind the door.

‘You too, my boy.’ Greven smoothed away the flopping dark waves of hair and kissed Piven’s forehead, as he always did when they said goodbye.

Piven regarded him gravely. ‘The sores have almost gone.’

Greven nodded. ‘I can hardly believe it. All that’s left to remind me I’ve had leprosy is this tremor,’ he said, holding out a hand.

‘I’m sure I can heal that too,’ Piven said. ‘If you’ll let me,’ he added.

Greven watched the orphaned adopted son of the Valisars leave the cottage quietly. He frowned. He’d never questioned that he’d done the right thing in stealing the boy away from the barbarian. That big black bird of omen had led him to Brighthelm and to the child in need—he was sure of it. He’d fought the inclination to follow the bird but he had especially fought getting so close to city folk, and particularly folk of the palace. But the raven had been persistent, staring at him for days, then when Greven finally agreed to follow, returning time and again, swooping and demanding that
he continue on the pathway. And though Greven knew where the bird was leading him, he didn’t know why and he feared what he might discover.

He found a helpless, invalid child. And the bird had somehow called to that child, for Piven had looked up and looked straight at them, even though they had been hidden in the tree line on the edge of the forest. The boy had risen and without any hesitation had moved towards them. Greven had felt the irresistible pull towards the young boy, and in spite of every screaming reservation, he had held out a hand and welcomed the child.

Their life had been quiet and uneventful, each of them deriving security from the other. And while Greven offered Piven a life, the boy—fast becoming a young man—had offered Greven hope.

He’d been running from the threat of his pursuer all of his life, so why now, when he was more free, more isolated than he’d been in a long time, did he feel so anxious?

People knew him as Jon Lark, the herbalist who lived with his son, Petor. Once again he was raising a child alone. He’d known about this adopted son of the Valisars who had been mute, indeed lost in his mind—everyone in Penraven knew of the beloved Piven. But within days of their first clasping hands Piven had shocked him by talking. At first it had been halting and of course childish. He had, after all, only been five. Now he was a gangly youth of fifteen anni.

Greven had hoped the boy would forget his past but Piven had forgotten nothing; his recall in fact was daunting. He could describe Brighthelm in detail, walking Greven mentally through the various chambers. He spoke lovingly of his parents especially his mother, whose face he remembered so well that he had drawn her for Greven, and he could see that Piven caught her likeness with uncanny skill. Most of all he talked about his brother, Leo, and had talked a great deal about reuniting with his sibling. He never spoke of Leo as his half-brother, nor did he speak of the years he had been trapped in his silence, his own world.

Greven had tried to discover why Piven had been unable to communicate and, more to the point, how he could suddenly speak so well and so easily for a person who had not used his voice. When he asked Piven the boy would shrug and become introverted and Greven had long ago decided that he was fortunate to have the child at all—and animated besides. The whys and wherefores of his life before they shared it were of no relevance—or so Greven told himself. He himself never spoke of the life he’d had before Piven, and when word had filtered down through the folk who lived amongst and around the forest that Lily had looked for him, he had resisted the deep urge to answer those enquiries.

But what did puzzle, and to some extent unnerve Greven, was the youngster’s ability with magic. The extent of that skill remained untapped, and if Greven had his way, that was how it would remain. But Piven was still a very young man, with all the foibles of youth. There had been occasions on which Piven had shown off, hoping to impress Greven with what he could do. And there were other times, when he was angry, that Greven feared for what havoc the child might wreak. He mostly contented himself with healing magics but Greven was worried that Piven was simply biding his time with his skills. More recently he had begun to catch his adopted son deep in thought, a darkness haunting the youngster’s face, giving it shadows that shouldn’t be there at his age. But Piven refused to discuss those haunted moments.

To be fair, as he matured he also refused to take credit for all the brightness that his skills did bring. Curing the leprosy had been an astonishing feat that Greven still struggled to comprehend. How had Piven done that? He had simply passed his hands once over the afflicted areas and the eruptions that had once so plagued Greven’s life had instantly begun to recede until only the lightest of scarring could attest to the fact that he had ever suffered the disease. And the scars continued to lighten. The tremor alone told the truth of what he had been…what he still was.

In the last few moons, though, the moments of shadow had increased. Not so noticeably that it had become an issue but sometimes he would catch Piven standing alone outside, as if caught in a trance. And when Greven would call out to Piven, and the boy would turn and look at him…there was something odd about it. It wasn’t frightening so much as unnerving; he couldn’t fathom what the boy was thinking. He sometimes wondered if Piven knew the truth when he looked at him like that.

The most recent of these events had occurred six days previous, when he had risen to give Piven the news that Bonny, their donkey, had gone lame. Piven always rose first, curiously enough, and had set the oats on to cook, stirring dutifully to release all their gluey starch. After Greven had told him about the donkey Piven had gone outside, saying he would milk Belle, their cow. Greven had let him go, thinking the boy was upset about Bonny, but not long after he’d walked up to the hearth and found Piven in one of his dark trances, his face pinched in a frown. Greven had said his name loudly but Piven had not reacted, or even given the impression he’d heard. But moments after that the boy had returned, beaming a smile that looked full of the warmth of a thousand suns. ‘You don’t have to destroy Bonny. I believe she will recover,’ Piven had said.

Right enough, the swelling around the beast’s leg had begun to dissipate when Greven went out to check. He’d shaken his head. He had thought he would be slitting the animal’s throat. Instead, he was giving it a fresh nosebag of feed. Now the leg had healed.

Yes, life with Piven was good.

However, as if Lo himself had decided to intervene, word had arrived from Master Junes at Minton Woodlet that there was a nice couple looking to speak to him—
an older couple from Medhaven who seem to know you from your youth,
Junes had added and for some reason Greven’s internal alarms had begun to sound. He didn’t know why but he found it worrying that these people
were interested in his child. In Piven. Did they know? He felt anxious and fearful.

‘But it must not show!’ he admonished himself. And it wouldn’t. His grey-peppered hair was tied neatly back into a pigtail. He had clipped his beard this morning and he had on his best shirt. He looked tidy, clean, respectable…not at all like the once-wandering leper who had crept through the forest with a five-anni-old boy and a strange black raven for company.

He left the cottage. It was time to face them. If worst came to worst, he and Piven could go on the run again, but he needed to know what they were up against. He needed to know if Emperor Loethar had discovered his secret.

Piven disappeared into the shadows of the forest but once he knew he was no longer visible he turned and watched the cottage. He may be young in summers, he thought, but no one realised, perhaps least of all Greven, how much older in his mind he truly was. In fact, Piven was keenly aware of his own curious maturity and he deliberately tried to keep it hidden as best he could. Initially he had been embarrassed by his own perceptive ability but now he realised it wasn’t a gift. No, to him, the new knowledge, the increasing sense of purpose that was still tinged with confusion but nevertheless gnawed at him relentlessly, had a far darker feeling to it…and was part of the magic he had discovered within himself. His maturity had become his curse and now he hated where his thoughts ran.

As his self-consciousness had increased, he had become cagey about his awareness, hiding it by acting far more naive than he was, hoping his contrived innocence might appear acceptable for a youth of his age. But while he and Greven did lead a closeted existence, well removed from others, naturally their paths crossed regularly with the villagers of Minton Woodlet. During these times he interacted with his peers, and in their company he felt like a stranger. Not because he didn’t know them—some he knew
well—but because the trivia that occupied their conversation or their play seemed so juvenile.

The raven arrived, swooping to land on a branch just above his head to interrupt his thoughts.

‘Hello, Vyk,’ he said softly. ‘Your timing is perfect as always.’

The great black bird stared at him from above and Piven read query in the look even though his companion’s expression never changed. He explained about Greven’s urgency to get him out of the cottage. ‘He says he’s got an appointment but Greven doesn’t have
appointments
.’ He loaded the last word with irony. ‘He’s up to something. He was nervous this morning, very anxious to get me gone.’ He glanced at the bird and continued as though it had spoken to him. ‘No, I don’t know why but I can sense that it’s connected to me; something he’s frightened about. But he can’t have guessed.’

Piven sighed. ‘It’s hard to imagine that I spent the first five anni as a halfwit. Now I wish I wasn’t so aware of life around me. Why can’t I be like other boys my age and fret about whether a girl likes me, or why I can’t kick the pigskin around as skilfully as John Daw, or jump a horse over the nine-mile gate as fearlessly as Doon Fowler? Instead, I’m having thoughts about the politics of our land, or I’m considering the undercurrent in a conversation between Greven and the widow, Evelyn; or I’m constantly ten steps ahead in every discussion I share with Greven, trying to prepare the way so he doesn’t discover that I understand so much more than he thinks…and that I know so much more than he does.’

Piven broke a small twig from a branch in frustration. ‘Why is this happening, Vyk? I’m fifteen, not fifty. I want to be like the boys I know. Instead, I’m terrified by my own dreams. I’m dreaming regularly about a woman. I don’t recognise her but I know she’s special. She’s so real in my mind that I often try and reach out to touch her but she’s just a vision, nothing more. And yet,’ he glanced up at the bird, who appeared to be paying close attention,
‘there are moments when I think she’s aware of me.’ He shook his head. ‘I know that sounds ridiculous. She’s a dream. But she’s so different from my other dreams—the ones that scare me, the ones that are dark and filled with anger. They urge me to allow my true self to come through, but I’m too scared to find out who I am.’

Ravan flapped down and sat on the boy’s shoulder. Piven smiled. ‘You are a comfort to me, Vyk. You always have been. I know you go back to Loethar whenever you’re not here. I like that you listen—I couldn’t let anyone else hear these thoughts. Look,’ he said, pointing. ‘There goes Greven. Why would he be so dressed up? His meetings are usually with farmers and he only wears that jacket and shirt if he’s attending a wedding or a funeral. And I know he’s going to neither.’

Piven watched in silence as Greven disappeared down the incline. Then he continued. ‘Whoever he’s meeting, I know it’s not good news for us. I know it’s going to affect me and this is not a good time.’ He banged the tree. ‘Not a good time at all! Something’s happening to me. Do you know I soured the milk yesterday? Greven made me cross because he didn’t like my mending a squirrel with a broken leg, and my bad humour curdled the entire pail I’d just milked from Belle. I’m sure he knew it too because he hasn’t said too much about Bonny’s lameness that is now miraculously cured.