Читать книгу The Melded Child - Rebecca Locksley - Страница 7

A cloud of songbirds, gulls and exuberant parrots swirled in the pale sky above the tower filling the air with a cacophony of shrieks, squawks and songs. Laughing, Duchess Jindabyne Madraga of Lamartaine placed a wide flat bowl of bread and seed upon the battlements.

“Come, come my little greedy ones! There is enough for all,” she cried.

She made the soft twittering sounds that told each species of bird that they were safe - that here was plenty of food and no predators to fear - then stepped back to let them enjoy their feast. A couple of gulls seemed inclined to bully the smaller birds and she used magic to make them go to sleep. Otherwise she did not interfere with their squabbling. Birds were hierarchical creatures and to fight over the pecking order was simply their nature. If you supplied enough food, everyone got enough to eat.

A flock of small finches rose over the battlements and came swirling towards her like a whirlwind of multicoloured petals. One little bird got caught in her hair.

“Hush!” whispered Jindabyne. She willed a sleep spell onto the flurry of terrified feathers and suddenly it was still. Gently she untangled it and held the fragile little creature in her hands, admiring the exquisite form and colour of this tiny piece of the life spirit as the terrified beating of its little heart calmed under her fingers.

“Awake and fly!” she whispered to it, tossing it up into the clear blue sky. The bird fluttered uncertainly for a moment before it joined its fellows clamouring at the bowl.

“Well done!” said her husband Wolf, who was leaning against the top of the battlements smiling at her.

One would think after seven years of marriage she would feel more cynical towards him, but it still turned Jindabyne’s heart in her breast to see his blue eyes smiling. Every good thing in her life stemmed from this man. Ten years ago her memory had been destroyed by a mindblast spell and she had had to re-learn everything: reading, writing, magecraft, even how to tame to life spirit which was forever whispering in her mind. Wolf, the first person she could remember being kind to her, had cared for her during that time and brought the tutors who re-taught her the skills she had needed. She was certain that she had loved Wolf in that forgotten time before the mindblast, for she had loved him from the first moment she laid eyes on him.

“You’re up early,” she said, wishing she could find better words to express the strength of her feelings.

“I must ride out,” he said. He came to her side and put the back of his hand against her cheek. “You’re chilled, my love.”

“Only on the surface,” she said, leaning her head against his shoulder. “Why must you go out so early? Is there a problem?”

“No. No more than my brother arranging a hunting party this morning. That friend of his has just come out from Miraya and he wants him to see the countryside of Yarmar.”

To Jindabyne’s mind, hunting as the Mirayans did it, pursuing a living thing simply for the pleasure of chasing it, was an offence to the life spirit, but she was a good Mirayan wife and said nothing. Wolf already knew what she thought of hunting.

He continued, “I promise that whatever beast gives its life to us will be brought home for the pot so that its spirit will not be sacrificed for nothing.”

She smiled up at him. “Mind reader!”

He squeezed her. “I am filled with regret.”

“Why?”

“I’ll be out hunting instead of waiting in our bed for you to come back from your birds. I could warm you up in some ... more efficient way.”

“Mmm!” she said, nuzzling his neck. He was not much taller than her. “Perhaps there is time before you go.”

He laughed ruefully. “They are bringing out the horses already. Ah well. There is always tomorrow.”

There was a sadness about him.

“Is something amiss, my lord?”

“Nothing particularly. Last night Serge and Lev...”

“Another argument?”

“Why can’t Serge be more controlled? Not that I can truly blame him. Why does Lev find fault with everything about Yarmar? He cannot expect it to be like Miraya. Why did he come back here?”

“Why indeed?” echoed Jindabyne, who heartily disliked her brother-in-law, but for Wolf’s sake, tried to hide it. Lev had made his disapproval of her quite clear when she married Wolf seven years ago, and he had done nothing to heal the breech since he had come back from Miraya. Sometimes she wondered why Wolf, who was normally such a good judge of character, put up with this thorn tree in his flower garden. She sensed some past guilt toward Lev, but she did not like to inquire too closely into her husband’s life before their meeting. Before they had married he had told her that there had been a woman who had hurt him very deeply, making it difficult for him to love again. Yet at moments like this, she was certain that he had come to truly love her.

“Anyway Lev told me he will return to Miraya before the year is out.”

Thank life! thought Jindabyne. But aloud she said, “You regret it?”

“Yes and no. This is obviously no place for him. I just wish it could be different. He’s my only brother.”

“I understand,” said Jindabyne, squeezing him again.

“That’s them calling me. I suppose I must go.”

She caught his face in her hands and kissed him on the lips.

“Till tomorrow morning then,” she whispered, making him laugh with delight.

“Till this evening,” he countered, kissing her back. “I cannot possibly wait until tomorrow.” He let her go and turned away, before hesitating and turning back.

“Oh, and when Serge finally shows his face don’t go giving him healing. I know how kind hearted you are, but if he has to live with a hangover maybe he’ll learn not to get so drunk and ill-tempered.”

Serge was Jindabyne’s favourite among Wolf’s sons. The others were nice lads, but Serge had only been a child of eight when she had come to Lamartaine ten years ago. Since eight was still young enough for a boy to enter the women’s quarters unchaperoned, she knew him better than the other two. He and his sister, Sasha, who was now married and living far away on another island, had been her first friends apart from Wolf and had helped her learn Mirayan.

When later that day, she did encounter a very green-faced looking Serge in the courtyard, Jindabyne felt sorry for him and would have healed him against Wolf’s wishes. But Serge must have known of Wolf’s wishes because he refused her offer of healing and would not even take a simple herbal potion. He might be a feckless lad, but he had a sense of pride and he was not about to go behind his father’s back. Jindabyne left him to it and went back to her chores and the seemly endless preparations for Paulus’ wedding to Dianou Seagani.

Though Jindabyne still lodged in the women’s quarters, she no longer held to the stultifying seclusion typical of a well-bred Mirayan woman. She was not one after all. She was Tari, a native this island of Yarmar and revered by the other native tribes as a kind of holy person.

“Tari seek balance,” her tutor Ezratah Karanus had told her. The life spirit that surrounded her and flowed through her had guided her into seeking her own balance between Mirayan and native-born womanhood, so she went about with her face uncovered, but made sure she was always modestly dressed and chaperoned. The more stuffy Mirayans such as brother-in-law Lev still disapproved, but those who had recovered from the shock of their lord marrying a native, had learned to live with her unconventional behaviour. The native Yarmarians, both Seagani and Mori, simply treated her with more adoration than she deserved.

There was too much to do to spend life skulking indoors. With the help of Bebeth, Wolf’s children’s old nurse and her housekeeper, Jindabyne ran Wolf’s household more efficiently than any retainer had ever done. There were her beloved birds and her rose garden, and she had set up a healing hospice under the walls of the fortress. Here she spent hours helping Seagani healers to care for the poor and very sick, thus putting the astonishing power she had been gifted with to good use.

Ezratah had said that most Tari were stronger than her, that the mindblast spell that had robbed her of her memory had robbed her of much of her power as well. That was how she had discovered that he had known her before, in that blank time before she had been mindblasted. She had pestered him to tell her about it and eventually he had told her that she had been manipulated by an older relative into killing someone. The mindblast, a spell that destroyed memory and knowledge, had been her punishment for the murder she had committed.

She had been too shocked to sleep for days afterwards, tormented by the wrong she had done.

“It’s past. You are a different finer person now,” Wolf had comforted her. “You’ve paid for your actions. A good life is the true penance for such an act, a creative life that honours the life spirit.”

After that she no longer sought to know about her shameful past. She focussed on the present, on Wolf and their happiness.

Healing work usually refreshed Jindabyne, but that day she felt weighed down by a restless black mood. Several of her most difficult cases were making good progress, yet something was wrong. Had she forgotten to do something important? She wished Ezratah was here so that she could have talked this feeling over with him. But he had been gone for ten days now, on one of his mysterious missions for the Guardians.

She left the hospice with Bebeth and her guard earlier than usual and as they turned towards the fortress, a great cloud of ravens came out of the east and flew a full circle around the tower of the fortress. The harsh croak of their voices was like the sound of darkness breaking into the world and Jindabyne’s presentiment of wrong suddenly became overwhelming.

“Something terrible has happened!” she cried, picking up her skirts to run.

When Jindabyne and her guards came bursting into the great hall they found a peaceful scene. Serge was sitting in the great hall listlessly rolling dice with his friends while around them the servants bustled about at their usual tasks. The moment Serge saw Jindabyne’s face his hand went to his sword belt in alarm but Jindabyne did not stop to explain. Instead she rushed up the stairs, two at a time seeking her daughter, Olga. When she found her playing happily with her nurse, Jindabyne seized her in her arms almost crushing her, trying to make sure she was safe.

“What is it?” cried Serge, hovering in the doorway.

Jindabyne could not stop trembling.

“Something terrible has happened,” she cried and suddenly she knew what it was. “Wolf! Oh no! Please! Life be merciful!”

“Serge, protect Olga!” she cried, thrusting her daughter into Serge’s arms and racing headlong back down the stairs.

Thus it was that she met the messenger as he came galloping into the courtyard to tell her of the Mori attack on the hunting party and thus it was that a short time later, breathless, and with her hair falling loose, she met the survivors of the hunting party at the town gate, bearing the dead body of Wolf Madraga, first Duke of Lamartaine, on a stretcher.

The men tried to stop her, but she brushed them easily aside with her magic. She pulled the covering from the corpse and faced the unthinkable, unbearable truth. There he lay covered in blood, wounds at his neck and chest, dead, her dearest, most beloved man. She could only scream and beg him to come back to her.

As the hunting party had ridden through the deep forest east of Lamartaine, a party of 30 Mori warriors had attacked them. Of the 15 men who went out that day, only four returned alive. Wolf, his two older sons, Paulus and Gideon, and five huntsmen were killed.

Lev Madraga and his friend Neevus had been separated from the main party, exploring another trail and, hearing the sounds of an attack, they had rushed to the party’s aid. Being a very powerful mage, Lev had been able to chase the Mori raiders away, but it had been too late to save most of the party. Only two huntsmen had survived. From the way Lev wept as he told this story, no one could doubt that his brother’s death left him heartbroken.

“We shall make them pay!” he cried, shaking his fist towards the Mori forest in the east.

As for Jindabyne, she let them use healing magic to make her reality hazy and lay on her bed, her hair over her face, too heavy with grief to move. Olga was brought to her, crying because they had told her she would not see her father again and Jindabyne found some comfort in soothing her and cuddling her while she slept. But when she woke, the little girl got bored with Jindabyne’s stillness and Bebeth took her away to play. She was too young to truly understand that Wolf was gone for good.

The sky outside Jindabyne’s window was full of birds. Sparrows chirruped. Finches twittered. Thrushes sang. They had come because they sensed her grief, but their beauty felt like a reproach because he was not here to share it with her. She hardly noticed when they fell silent.

Over the next three days, the castle became full as people came to pay their respects to Duke Wolf.

“I hope that Serge is up to the task,” muttered Bebeth. “He’s so young.”

“What do you mean?” asked Jindabyne, who had given no thought to the world outside her room. Serge had come to see how she was every day, but she had barely noticed him through her dull curtain of grief.

“Serge is Duke of Lamartaine now,” said Bebeth patiently. “It falls to him to keep the peace between the Seagani and the Mirayans.”

Jindabyne knew what that meant. Lamartaine, which covered some of Western Seagan and all of Eastern Seagan up to the Mori forests, was a large territory. In many places Wolf had used the local Seagani tribal leaders to help him maintain it, absorbing them easily into the Mirayan system of vassalage. In others he had used other Mirayans, refugees from the war in Miraya, who had been part of the initial wave of colonisation. He was a good judge of men, taking only those who agreed with his light hand on the natives, but even so there was constant tension between his Seagani and his Mirayan vassals. Wolf had had to work hard to keep the peace between them.

“At least his uncle seems keen to help. Though if he really wanted to be useful, he would send that dog Guilius Appius packing.”

“Is Guilius Appius here?” asked Jindabyne dully. She remembered how Wolf had distrusted the mercenary captain, describing him as a greedy young hound skulking around looking for territories to snatch up.

“Yes, apparently he’s come to pay his respects. Appius is all confidence at a time when Serge is unsure. ‘Let us attack the Mori’, he says. ‘You must avenge your father,’ he says. I see only trouble in that one, worming himself into the empty space.”

She came over to Jindabyne and squeezed her shoulder.

“You must bestir yourself tomorrow, Your Grace. Tomorrow is the funeral and Mirayan widows have duties to perform.”

On the morning of the Duke’s funeral a great flock of silver thrushes, normally solitary birds, flew out of the forest and settled on the battlements and towers of the fortress singing their beautiful liquid songs. The sound woke Jindabyne from drugged sleep. Her heart was filled with joy and she reached out for Wolf before she remembered why she was alone.

Crawling from her bed, she allowed her maids to wash and dress her while she stood at the window in the grey morning listening to the birdsong and trying to draw strength from the life spirit in it. Wolf has returned to the circle of life and one day you will to, the song seemed to say.

“The funeral procession is ready for you, madam,” said a maid servant. Bebeth and another maid arrayed her in the traditional mourning veil of a Mirayan woman, a huge piece of black cloth which covered her body completely. The only gaps were a latticework of embroidery through which she could see and slits in the front through which she could put her heavily gloved hands at necessary moments. She looked like a black ghost. Jindabyne had entered a calm, empty place where she was looking at herself as if from the outside. It was less painful place to be.

As she stepped out into the courtyard, Serge came over and drew her hand through his arm.

“How are you?” he asked. His face was pale and strained - all his joyful liveliness gone. Poor Serge, who had expected to lead the life of a loyal servant following Paulus’ orders, now found himself master of a very unruly domain. She must try to remember to tell him that she had faith in him. He was very clever, perhaps the cleverest of all Wolf’s sons.

She and Serge joined the funeral procession going into the darkness of the chapel. Only the women of the deceased’s immediate family attended a Mirayan funeral. Wolf’s mother and his daughter, Sasha, lived a long way away on other islands and could not attend, so aside from her, it was an all-male occasion as were so many of the rituals in Mirayan life.

Hierarch Taddeus wearing his finest vestments lead the procession, swinging the sun shaped incense burner. Jindabyne loved the dignified old priest, who had always nurtured her relationship with Wolf. A choir of acolytes followed him singing the funeral dirges of old Miraya and behind them came the mourners, Wolf’s comrades and vassals, tall and splendidly dressed in shining armour, all walking in time to the rhythm of the dirges.

She did not shame the Madraga family by publicly breaking down, but several times during the service she wept secretly under her all-encompassing black veil, especially when they lowered her beloved’s coffin on ropes through the floor of the darkened chapel into the crypt. So far down. She wanted to jump up and protest that he was not really dead and must be kept close until he awoke. But he was dead. She had felt the absence of life from the moment she had first seen his corpse.

At last the choir of acolytes began to the sing the final dirge in their deep bass voices and the service was over. Serge came over and took her arm to lead her from the chapel and as he did so, he pressed a piece of paper into her hand. Something about his face told her this was a secret. She pulled her gloved hand back though the arm hole of her veil, but it was too dark under this cloth to see what the note said. She put it inside her glove for safe keeping.

Next came the feast. This was also a man’s occasion, but traditionally the ceremonies began with a ritual toast to the soul of the deceased by one of his female relatives. Bebeth had already told Jindabyne what to say. Now, whispering last instructions, Serge lead her up to the dais and helped her sit upon her usual stool at the foot of the Ducal throne. The throne itself would remain empty during the feast. The heir to the throne and the guests would all sit at the tables which lined the room and as the day went on they would make toasts to the throne and to the man who had once sat there.

Light streamed in through the huge arched windows on either side of the room, illuminating the rough stone walls from which the hangings had been stripped for the funeral, making the dais where she sat bright. Her huge veil made a little private world. Remembering the note, she slid it out of her glove and surreptitiously held it up so that she could read it by the sunlight coming in the latticework in her veil.

‘You and Olga are in danger. Be prepared to flee the fortress tonight. Destroy this note.’

She stared at the note unable to comprehend it. Then her hand began to tremble and as quickly as she could she stuffed the note back inside her glove.

Olga in danger! She fought down panic. Life spirit protect us all!

At that moment Lev Madraga came up to the dais bearing a cup of wine.

He bowed before her.

“Honour to you, sister-in-law,” he said.

Jindabyne took an iron grip on herself, determined not to appear weak in front of this horrible man. She took the wine from him and was immediately so shaken she could not help gasping.

The wine was deadly! It did not have the life giving nature of wine, but a dark absence that indicated poison.

“Now, now.” Lev smiled at her. “Be brave! You must show us how strong a Tari can be.”

He put his hands over hers pressing them around the cup. His smile seemed kind but his blue eyes were cold and in them she saw an enemy. He knew he was giving her poisoned wine.

For a moment she was paralysed with fear. Then she realised that he could not see her face through the veil and could not know she had realised.

Sweet life. She couldn’t drink it and yet custom demanded that she drain the cup. Even though she must drink the wine under the veil everyone would notice if she spilled a whole cup. She scanned the room desperately looking for help. There were no Seaganis here! Only Mirayans. How could that be? To not invite Wolf’s Seagani vassals to his funeral. Such an insult...

Lev was very much in control here. Now he was giving orders to the servants to fill the cups of the guests while Serge simply sat sadly at his place staring at the table. Jindabyne felt the jaws of a trap closing round her. Lev was popular with the Mirayans in Wolf’s domain. She was not. If she accused him of giving her poisoned wine, would they believe her? A mere woman and a non-Mirayan at that. Or would they just say that she was a hysterical woman bringing shame on Wolf Madraga’s funeral feast and have her locked away. Away from Olga.

The room fell silent with expectation as she stood. With a trembling voice, she said the toast and then she stood just there helplessly holding up the cup until the men below waiting with their glasses raised began to look uneasy.

Serge came to her side.

“Are you unwell?” he hissed. At that moment an escape plan came to her.

“No, no!” she screamed. “He’s dead! He’s dead!” and dropping the cup, she threw herself down on her knees, screaming and wailing, ignoring the murmur of anger from among the men.

“Just like a native,” she heard one of them sneer quite loudly.

Serge, bless him, did not waste time disdaining.

“Call her women!” he cried, lifting her up.

“Step-mother!” he whispered. “Try to calm yourself. This does my father no honour.”

She ignored the anguish in his pleas and clung to him still wailing so that without waiting, he helped her from the room. Outside, as her women gathered round her, she continued to cling to him, so that he was forced to help them carry her up to the women’s quarters. Not knowing who among her servants to trust, she kept up the humiliating farce of hysteria all the way. Only when they were climbing the narrow staircase to her quarters, her women strung out on the stairs behind them, and only Serge and her trusted Bebeth level with her, did she stop screaming. She let herself go limp as if she had fainted so that Serge had to take even more of her weight and hold her closer.

“Do not drink the wine,” she whispered to him then, “it’s poisoned.”

“Jin...” he stammered and then he looked over his shoulder and dropped his eyes.

“I hear you,” he said softly. “Be ready. If something goes wrong, go to Hierarch Taddeus.”

“I will,” she murmured.

In her quarters she allowed Bebeth to pretend to revive her and then sent the rest of her women away. While Bebeth packed a small bundle of belongings, Jindabyne put on her favourite locket, which had a lock of Wolf’s hair in it, and dressed Olga in her travelling clothes. That done, she and Bebeth set about sewing the rest of her jewels into the hem of her travelling cloak.

That fiend Lev Madraga! Had he had Wolf killed? Now she considered it, the story of an undetected Mori war party so deep in their territory was ridiculous. The Hooded Queen had never shown any interest in Seagani territory before.

Why would Lev do such a thing? A mage could not be ruler of any land. Did he simply want to start a war with the Mori? Was that the reason her dear Wolf had lost his life? Was that all? She cursed Lev and vowed vengeance. But some other time, when Olga was safely away from here.

Just before night fall there was a sudden outcry from the hall below and a clash of arms. One of the women came bursting into the room.

“Madam! There’s fighting!”

Jindabyne grabbed Olga’s hand and the bundle she had made for her.

“Where is Lord Serge?” she cried to the woman.

“Here! Let me in!” shouted a voice in the corridor. Jindabyne flung the door open and Serge came charging through, sword drawn and bloody, his two Seagani friends, Alain and Luc, at his heels.

“Quickly, they’re right behind me!” he shouted.

Jindabyne slammed the door shut, bolted it and locked it with magic.

“My Uncle accused me of calling up the Mori to murder my father and many of the others supported him,” Serge shouted. “We have to escape.”

Jindabyne ran to the window and flung open the shutters. Outside the setting sun was casting blood red streaks across a sky heavy with cloud.

“You men there! Get up here. I will fly you down,” she cried.

Nervously Serge’s companions climbed onto the window sill and using her magic Jindabyne pushed them one by one out of the window and made them glide diagonally through the air so that they just cleared the curtain wall beyond the fortress yard and landed on the other side of the moat beyond. She waited till she felt the pressure of each body touch the ground before she reached for the next man.

Fists were pounding on the door of the women’s quarters. Jindabyne’s serving women huddled together in a corner. She thrust her bundle into Serge’s arms and pushed him up onto the window sill.

“Come on Bebeth!” she shouted, as she climbed up beside him.

“No madam,” cried Bebeth, passing Olga into her arms. “You go! I will be safe enough here.”

There was no time to argue.

From the window sill the drop to the yard of the fortress beneath was dizzying. Men carrying torches were running around in the courtyard below. She could hear shouting and the clash of metal.

“Do not be afraid, my heart,” she told Olga. “We are going to fly now. Hold tight!”

She flung herself out of the window, pulling Serge with her. Down they glided, first too fast, now too slow. She worried that the weight of all three of them might make her hit the curtain wall. The men below began shouting. Had they noticed them? She was almost at the wall.

Suddenly something caught her, jerking her back as she was being dragged by a net. She fell backwards on the top of the curtain wall with a thud, Serge and Olga sprawled on top of her, Olga kicking her painfully in the ribs.

She felt the hiss of power and a figure loomed over them.

“Where do you go with such guilty speed, sister-in-law?” cried Lev Madraga loudly.

Jindabyne had never pitted her power against Lev. She knew he was extremely powerful for a Mirayan mage and that she herself was just a faint shadow of what a Tari mage could be but at this moment, it didn’t matter.

“Olga! Serge! Run!” she shouted, pushing them off her and trying to roll to her feet, her legs caught up in her dress.

Without waiting to stand, she threw a desperate bolt of power at Lev. He threw it off with a flick of his hand. It crashed into the battlement wall with boom and a shatter of stone fragments. Staggering to her feet, she threw another power bolt. As she did, she saw Serge lift his sword and run at Lev.

“No!” she shouted.

Lev flicked his hands again, deflecting power bolt she had aimed at him towards Serge. Using magic Jindabyne deflected the bolt away from Serge before it could smash him against the battlement wall. A shatter of stone rained over them as the bolt hit the wall without Serge.

She threw up a shield of defence just in time to stop a shattering blow from Lev.

Sweet life! He was so strong!

In the shadowy light from flickering torches, Olga huddled like a small bundle against the wall. Was she hurt? Jindabyne moved back to shield her better, fending off several blows from Lev. At last she could put her hand on Olga’s head and the child jumped up and put her arms around Jindabyne’s waist, whimpering.

Hot red ferocity filled Jindabyne’s mind. She would kill this bastard before she let him harm her baby. Teeth clenched, she began throwing bolts of power at him.

Blast! Blast! Blast! The speed of her attack disconcerted Lev, but he managed to speed up his own. Back and forth the magical blows went, each one showering stone fragments everywhere as they hit the battlement walls. Each one of Lev’s blasts shook Jindabyne’s defences and she could not see that her attacks were having any effect on him.

Suddenly something flew past them and thudded into Lev. He fell backwards, eyes widening in shock as he saw the arrow sticking out of his chest. Beside her Serge lowered his bow. All around him were Madraga troops, standing with weapons raised or hanging limply in their hands, obviously confused, under orders to attack Serge, but unable to bring themselves to do so.

“Men! I am your true Duke!” shouted Serge. “You knew my father! You know me! Lev Madraga is the only murderer here!”

But even as he spoke, more armed men began pouring out of the guard tower further along the wall. Appius’ mercenaries. They would have no scruples about attacking Serge. Jindabyne could see mages among the soldiers their robes flapping as they ran to get into range. The guards surrounding them began skittering along the wall toward the other guard tower.

“Quickly! Go! Save Olga!” cried Serge to Jindabyne, as he ran after the fleeing guards.

Clutching Olga to her chest, Jindabyne launched herself off the wall, glided over the moat and the roofs of the closest houses of the town beyond and landed in a small street. The mages on the wall threw a few blasts of magic after her, but they fell far short and once she had landed, she was out of sight and range.

Down here, the town was in an uproar, the streets full of townsfolk alarmed by the magical blasts and sounds of fighting coming from the fortress. Jindabyne managed to land in a small street and few people noticed her. Still carrying a trembling Olga in her arms, she was hurrying towards the cathedral when a woman pushed past her screaming, “My house! Help me!” and Jindabyne, staggering under her impact, glanced backwards. The houses nearest the fortress were burning.

Those stupid mages! Their magical blasts must have set the wooden town on fire.

Jindabyne hesitated. More than anything she wanted to get Olga to safety and the church would be the best place for that. This was not woman’s work. Surely the townsfolk were organised to deal with fire and surely they could manage it. Wolf had.... The thought of Wolf made her stop. This was his town. Another roof burst into flame.

“Hold on tight, sweet,” she whispered to Olga and hoisting her further up onto her hip, she hurried back towards the fire.

The burning buildings did not take long to put out. It was just a matter of rebalancing the hungry element of fire by calling forth the element of water from a sky that was already close to rain. She simply made it do so earlier and all in one spot. As the rain quenched the burning houses, the townsfolk recognised her and gathered round, desperate for news. Anger filled her as well as a kind of triumph at using her magic. She found herself, all shyness gone shouting at them.

“Lev Madraga and Guilius Appius are trying to overthrow Lord Serge. Quickly! Go aid him! Spread the word!”

Most of the townsfolk were Seagani and hated Lev Madraga. People began to seize sticks and stones and rush towards the fortress gates and Jindabyne would have been swept along with them had not someone seized her arm.

She looked up into the kindly face of Hierarch Taddeus.

“Come! This is no place for you or Lady Olga. Lord Serge has mages enough on his side. Let us get you to safety,” he said and gently drew her along the street to the cathedral.

Olga went to sleep, wrapped up in her cloak on a bench in the chapter house, her head on Jindabyne’s knee.

“How has this happened?” wondered Jindabyne, listening to the sounds of shouting and explosions coming from the fortress. “Serge sent a note warning me to be ready to flee. He must have known something.”

“He did,” said Taddeus. “I discovered something strange about Duke Wolf’s death and warned him.”

Lev had insisted that his own servants lay out the bodies of those killed in the hunting party and Taddeus, all unsuspecting, had agreed. But one of the reasons Hierarch Taddeus was so well beloved in Lamartaine was that he allowed the Seaganis to practice their old religion in tandem with the new worship of Mir that he taught. When the Seagani grandmother of two of the huntsmen wanted to pray over her grandsons and anoint their bodies with the Holy Oil of Nezrhus, the earth goddess, he had allowed her to come secretly into the cathedral with a priestess and conduct her ritual. It was these two women who first noticed the rope marks round the wrists of the two huntsmen and brought Taddeus attention to the fact that both bodies showed no marks of violence except for the sword thrusts that had killed them. Strange that both men had been killed with sword thrusts, they told Taddeus, when the Mori preferred to kill with bow and arrow.

Alarmed, Taddeus sent an acolyte to distract the guards watching over the Duke’s body and when they had gone, he and the priestess examined the Duke and the rest of the dead. None had arrow wounds and most bore the signs of having been tied up.

“At this point I sent secretly for Lord Serge and told him what had been found. We decided to get you and Olga away from here until he had sorted out what had happened. We suspected Lord Lev, but we did not think he would strike so soon. I don’t know if he found out that we knew or if he had planned this all along...” Taddeus shook his head. “Godless wretch. He could not even let his brother be peacefully buried. He must have been the one who had him...” he looked nervously at Jindabyne.

“Assassinated!” said Jindabyne firmly. “At least Serge has given Lev pause by wounding him so grievously.”

“You do not think that he has killed him.”

“Unlikely. Such is the instinct for survival that, in moments of extremity, a mage automatically throws all his magic into saving himself. But he will be too weak to use magic now and with any luck his followers will be cast into confusion.” Jindabyne looked nervously at Olga, not wanting to let her out of her sight. “Perhaps I should go and aid Serge.”

“No! Serge has mages with him and if he is defeated you will need to get Olga away from here. Lord Lev is a mage and cannot rule by himself. But he can still rule on Olga’s behalf.”

“But...” Even as she spoke Jindabyne wondered what she could do. From what she had heard of other Tari they could send whole armies to sleep with a wave of their hand but she no longer had that level of power.

“Holiness, men are coming,” cried an acolyte, running into the chapter house.

Jindabyne scooped Olga up into her arms, but the group of thirty or so men who came trooping into the house had Serge at their head. They had been defeated and were seeking sanctuary.

“They were so prepared,” said Serge. “They seemed to be everywhere.”

One of the healers, who had gathered to help the wounded, came to Serge but he waved him away. Serge’s face was spattered with blood but it did not seem to be his own.

“He must have been planning this for a long time,” said Taddeus.

Cold horror gripped Jindabyne’s heart.

“I should have seen it earlier,” said Serge.

“My lord we must decide quickly what to do,” urged Alain.

“We have to leave the town,” said Serge. “Guilius Appius has said his mages will set it alight if the townsfolk do not hand us over by dawn.”

“And some would do it too, the filthy curs,” muttered Alain. “But most are behind you, Serge.”

“I cannot let the town be burned for my sake,” said Serge. “And I think you and Olga will be safer away from here, Lady. Some of the men have gone to gather horses. As soon as they return we will go north. Lord Petrus of Palffy will surely aid us. I think withdrawing to marshal our forces is the wisest plan at this point.”

So it was that shortly before dawn, forty men rode out of Lamartaine with Serge at their head and Jindabyne and Olga at their centre, and took the road north-east toward the border estates of Lord Petrus.