Tyrant's Blood (6 page)

‘I thought curing her would make me feel happy; I try to use my skills wisely but for all the good they can do, I’m paying a price. I’m sure of it. My heart is filling with hate, Vyk; I feel increasingly angry at my situation and yet just a few months ago I couldn’t have been happier. And nothing’s changed. I’m leading the same life, which I love, and yet I feel such rage. I can control it—my anger—but when I exercise that control, quelling the power inside, quietening my fury, something bad happens, like the soured milk. And it’s going to get worse. I sense it. I’m frightened by it. I just want everything to remain the same but I think Greven’s meeting today will change everything.’ He knew he was
rambling; words were tumbling out of his mouth furiously, crowding together and turning into a tirade.

The bird shifted on his shoulder, making a clacking sound near his ear. It sounded like a question.

‘I don’t know. That’s just it, I don’t know, but this darkness, this growing up so fast and this new awareness about myself is driving me towards something, or someone, and I’m not sure I can control my urge any longer. Besides, Greven thinks he’s got me fooled. I admire his cunning and I especially admire his courage because this life of his must require a will of iron, but he underestimates me. And soon I won’t be able to shield him from the truth any longer.’

He shrugged and the raven leapt to another branch. ‘It’s the magic, Vyk, it’s not me. Promise me we’ll always be friends, no matter what. I sense you understand me, even if you can’t tell me as much. Don’t desert me, even if I disappoint you—or frighten you. The magic controls me now and I need to understand it more. Someone somewhere must know what it wants.’

Piven turned sadly and trudged deeper into the forest in search of the fungi he knew they would never use.

Oblivious to Piven’s pain, Greven strode into Minton Woodlet, a village with one inn but with a second being built, testimony to the growing importance of the village’s hardy golasses vines. It seemed the barbarians enjoyed the dense, dark wines of the south that drew their flavours from the salty air of the sea nearby and the earthiness of the forest that they flanked. Greven was sure that even within a few anni, Minton Woodlet would be a flourishing southern town with a burgeoning population, swelled by the transient workers who streamed into the region at grape-picking time. His and Piven’s days were numbered here.

‘Hello, Jon,’ an attractive woman said, slowing her walk as she approached him.

He liked Evelyn but not as much or in the same way that she liked him. He could almost regret the tumble they had taken together in his bed when Piven had once again been out hunting down the precious saramac fungus. That had been when the outward signs of his leprosy had begun to disappear and he had been feeling particularly joyous about Piven’s astonishing healing skills. Piven could work miracles; the boy made him look like a charlatan with his silly herbals. But now those skills frightened him. Piven had been a lot sunnier then and Greven knew that the boy’s present disposition was not simply the result of
becoming a moody youth; it was more than that. It was a feeling of darkness.

‘Jon, you old devil, you look more handsome with each passing moon,’ Evelyn said. ‘Your skin looks mighty good.’

Even from the early days with Piven the side of his face most affected by the lesions had dried up, looking more like a skin complaint than anything more serious. He’d stuck to that story, explaining it was a result of accidental poisoning from some of his less predictable plants, and people had accepted it, especially as the sores no longer looked like traditional leprosy.

‘Yes, it seems the poison has finally worked its way out of my body,’ he smiled.

‘Indeed. You look very good, very smart.’

‘Thank you. I’m seeing some people who knew me from my childhood at Medhaven,’ he said, hoping to move on quickly.

But Evelyn clearly wanted to linger. ‘Oh, that would be the couple staying at the Grape and Whistle?’

Greven felt a prick of fear sting him but he kept his voice even. ‘Probably,’ he replied absently and then in an effort to distance himself from the visitors added: ‘I hope I recognise them. I haven’t seen them in many anni.’

‘I’ve just been speaking with them. Clovis and Reuth, right?’

Greven feigned a smile. ‘That’s right,’ he said, as if he’d heard their names for the first time in a very long time.

‘Nice people.’ She frowned, and he could almost see her reaching for the opportunity to prolong this meeting. ‘How do you kno—?’

‘Forgive me, Evelyn, but I mustn’t be late. And I’ve promised to call in on old Bern; his gout’s playing up.’ Greven began to move forward. ‘I really must find a better remedy than the one we’re using now.’ He smiled in genuine apology. ‘Sorry to rush off.’

She returned his smile, although hers was tinged with sadness, as if she knew he needed to escape her. He would have to confront this matter again, he realised. He needed to be forthright
but gentle, rather than relying on this cowardly avoidance. But not today.

He lifted a hand in farewell and turned his back on Evelyn to complete his journey into Minton Woodlet. It was a busy morning. He’d forgotten it was market day but that suited him; more people around meant it would be easier to talk to the strangers without drawing attention.

The Grape and Whistle loomed. Greven felt a mad desire to turn and run, to run as far away from this place as possible. He had an ominous sense of doom closing in. It was getting harder to fight the illness he’d suffered since birth, of course. He thought of it as a disease and rather than fighting his urges he’d given in to them, little by little. By exposing himself to his desires, he had taught himself how to stay on top of the driving need. The forest helped, and the forced removal from society that the telltale leprosy had required was the best remedy of all, but still he tempted fate, deliberately remaining close to the eye of the storm, in the hope that as the years passed he would master full control.

And he had. By the time he found the courage to follow the raven to the fringe of the forest that day, he was confident of his immunity to his weakness. And had demonstrated it. But he wondered now if Piven’s wild and powerful magic might somehow seek out the truth. He didn’t understand it—it didn’t make sense—but he found himself unable to spend great lengths of timearound the boy. He particularly hated his testiness around his child but lately he was having to dig deeper and deeper to wrestle his urge to walk out of the forest that hid him so well. Perhaps he should tell the boy. Piven might be able to help him.

Greven shook his head. It was a glorious Blossomtide day, and this meeting had nothing to do with that old fear. Still, he needed to summon his courage to force himself across the threshold of the inn.

Minton Woodlet was not a direct route to anywhere in particular but it did serve as a logical stopping point for anyone
heading to or from the island of Medhaven. As he cast a glance around the main front room of the inn, he saw only strangers—all travellers, he assumed—aside from the familiar faces of the people who worked at the inn.

‘Ho, Jon,’ someone said and Greven looked over to the counter where the innkeeper was drying and lining up cleaned mugs for the day’s service.

‘Hello, Derrin.’

‘They’re out the back, in the courtyard. Warming their bones, they said.’ Derrin smiled. ‘They said they haven’t seen you for donkey’s anni. Family?’

Greven shook his head. He wanted to say as little as possible about these people he feared. ‘People I knew when I was very young.’

Innkeeper Derrin nodded. ‘Plenty to chew the cud over then,’ he said. ‘Shall I send you out a pot of dinch? They’re taking their time over a morning meal.’

Greven nodded. ‘A strong one.’ He moved to the back of the chamber and through a doorway into the back of the property where a picturesque walled courtyard opened up. A small, circular fountain in the middle was the focal point. Around it skipped two children, the boy older than the girl, who was presumably his sister. And sitting at the back wall, talking quietly, was a couple in their middle age. They both stood as Greven walked towards them, and Greven was taken aback to see that they appeared as nervous as he felt.

‘I’m Lark.’ He pasted an expression of puzzlement on his face. ‘You asked to see me?’

‘Clovis and Reuth Barrow,’ the man replied. ‘These are our children.’ He held out his hand.

Greven prided himself on being a good judge of character. The face of the man standing before him struck him as sensitive. Despite his broad chest and height, Clovis Barrow didn’t seem to be in any way threatening. In fact, it was the dark-eyed woman in whom Greven sensed real strength. He shook both of their hands.

‘Welcome to Minton Woodlet, though what interest it could possibly hold for you I don’t know.’ He forced a gentle smile. ‘This is a very sleepy hamlet.’

His amiable tone broke through the initial tension. ‘Will you join us?’ Reuth said. ‘We’ve just finished breaking a late fast but—’

‘Dinch is on the way,’ Greven said reassuringly. Curiously, they sounded more unsure about him than he felt about them. Why would they be so hesitant?

‘Please,’ Clovis said, gesturing to a third chair at the small table.

‘Forgive our mess,’ Reuth added, trying to clear away the debris of four meals.

Greven sat, watching his hosts fuss. They were both roughly the same age—the woman slightly older, perhaps—and now that he looked at them more closely he would put them at approaching fifty anni, older than he’d first thought. The woman was silvering at the hairline while the man’s hair and beard were streaked with grey throughout—and yet their children were young. Second marriage, Greven guessed. But what had this family to do with him? He waited, preferring to let them do the talking.

‘I know you must be wondering why we asked to see you,’ Clovis began.

‘I am,’ Greven replied.

‘Please don’t fear us, Mr Lark,’ Reuth assured, looking at her husband and nodding encouragingly.

‘I don’t,’ Greven lied.

‘We’re not here to cause trouble,’ Clovis continued.

‘Thank you,’ Greven said, determined to give little of himself away.

Reuth looked up as the door into the courtyard banged. ‘I think your dinch is here, Mr Lark.’

‘Call me Jon,’ Greven said, ‘since apparently we’re all old friends.’

The man and wife nodded, glancing nervously at each other. They were frightened, Greven realised. That made him feel more assured than he’d felt since the moment he’d first received word of
being asked after. And Piven was safe in the woods, where no one would find him.

The pot of dinch was served. ‘Can I get you anything else?’ the girl asked his hosts.

They both shook their heads and she smiled sweetly and left. Greven poured from the pot, more for something to do than from a desire to drink. When the couple remained silent, he spoke up boldly.

‘Master Clovis, Reuth, I don’t know either of you but I’ve had to pretend I do in order not to confuse the folk I live alongside each day. Now whether you’re from Medhaven or as far flung as Percheron I could not care, but I require an explanation for why you are here, masquerading as old friends.’ He sighed. ‘I don’t care for secrets,’ he lied.

Reuth nodded. ‘Tell him everything, Clovis.’

Clovis cleared his throat and Greven gave the man his full attention, surprised to see the couple give a surreptitious glance around.

‘We are alone,’ he assured. ‘Whatever you have to say will not be overheard.’

‘I was at Brighthelm soon after the invasion of Penraven—so was my wife. We had been rounded up and taken with other Vested to learn our fate. Some of us they wanted, others they killed. There was no way of knowing which we’d be. It was a terrible time,’ Clovis said and Reuth placed a hand on his arm. ‘Anyway,’ he continued. ‘That’s all history. We were saved by a man called Freath—one of the close aides to the Valisars. We never fully appreciated his perilous position and how he endangered his life daily to keep us safe and to protect the Valisar sons.’

‘Forgive me. While tragic though it all was, I have to wonder at this point why I’m here…what your story has to do with me,’ Greven said, as politely but firmly as he could.

Reuth smiled. ‘Clovis is always one to tell a story.’

Clovis cleared his throat. ‘I shall finish it quickly then,’ he said but without any offence in his voice. ‘While Reuth was fortunate to be given an escape route by Freath, I was kept behind and became privy to some of Freath’s plans. I know not only did the heir, Leonel, escape the palace but I also know that the other adopted son who was simple of mind, also somehow got away. He was lost, in fact, for want of a better word. Freath was inconsolable and as I did not have the stomach for his intrigues and what they required, I agreed to leave the relative safety of the palace to find Piven. I found Reuth first but I have never stopped looking for the boy.’

‘This is all fascinating, I’ll admit,’ Greven said, eyeing the couple, masking his despair with an ingenuous smile and a soft shake of the head. It seemed his fears had finally come home to roost this bright Blossomtide day. ‘But I fail to see how—’

‘The boy you live with is the son of the Valisar royals, isn’t he?’ Reuth pressed, leaning forward.

Greven didn’t know how to answer. He froze, searching for the right response that did not incriminate him or Piven.

Clovis sighed. ‘Master Lark, you should know that as a Master Diviner, my inherent skills have assisted in finding you. But, more importantly, my wife has visions. It was her magic that, after years of me searching, led me to you.’

Greven regarded them both, his face deliberately devoid of expression but his insides churning with anxiety.

‘You have nothing to fear from us, Master Lark,’ Clovis repeated. ‘As I explained, it has been my mission for the last decade to find the boy.’

‘Why?’

‘Do you admit that the child you call Petor is Piven, the invalid adopted son of the Valisars?’

‘Absolutely not,’ Greven replied, his throat threatening to close on the lie. He filled his lungs with indignation and continued, ‘This is an outrageous claim and I’ll ask you not to levy such accusations publicly.’

Clovis shook his head. ‘I only want to protect him. I would do nothing that might bring him harm. I know you wish only the same, which is why you are covering Piven’s true identity.’

‘Master Barrow—’

‘May we meet him?’ Reuth asked, cutting across Greven’s outrage.

‘Pardon?’

‘May we meet the boy? Although I only know of the child, Clovis has seen him at close range. He will know him.’

‘I have no intention of permitting you to scrutinise my son,’ Greven snapped. ‘How dare you,’ he muttered. ‘How dare you walk into my life like this and make such claims.’

Clovis shook his head with sorrow. ‘Master Lark, I witnessed many people lose their lives brutally on the order of the barbarian tyrant. Reuth watched her beloved former husband led away to be slaughtered in a dingy courtyard; she could hear his death cries alongside those of the others who posed as Vested. My first wife and my precious infant daughter were hacked to death by the barbarian warrior who calls himself general. Our magnanimous emperor who now masquerades as a just and good ruler stole his crown in a sea of blood, Master Lark. I’m sure you know that.’

Greven nodded unhappily, shocked and helplessly touched by the tale of this pair.

‘We have reason to hold a grudge against the tyrant.’

‘But what does my son have to do with your mission?’ Greven asked carefully.

‘If he is your son, then he has nothing to do with us,’ Clovis said. ‘If he is Piven, as we believe he is, then he is integral to the struggle.’

‘The struggle? What are you talking about?’

Clovis lowered his voice still further. ‘To reinstate the true king onto his throne.’