Perrin stared around. The clearing was strewn with bodies – three, four, five, all Baltimaran soldiers, some moving, some stilled. Tansy was high on Penthesi’s broad back, with Elvie clinging to her; packs and blankets and food-bags dangled any old way. Skir leaned down from Sedge, his hand outstretched. ‘Quick, I can’t hold her –’
Perrin hauled himself up: he used his right hand, unthinking, and he gasped with pain. It was as if he’d closed his hand around a knife instead of Skir’s fingers. Penthesi and the girls had already thundered away. Then Skir gave Sedge her head and they were flying along the river path, the road to Rarr. ‘Not this way!’ called Perrin. The bandage on his hand was red with fresh blood. The wound had split; he’d fought with it all that time and not even felt it.
‘Not this way!’ he shouted again. ‘The Captain –’
Elvie yelled over her shoulder. ‘– the only road. Go fast!’
Branches whipped them as they galloped on. Skir clung to Sedge’s mane with one hand, leaned over and was sick. Perrin saw that Skir’s shirt was dark with blood, too.
‘You hurt? Skir?’
Skir shook his head, and was sick again.
Tansy called, ‘He killed someone.’
They galloped through the town, hoofs clattering on cobbles slimy with discarded food and filth. The market-square was stark in the moonlight, the colonnade deserted and the streets empty. The stark fingers of Wanion’s fortress, with the moons behind them, cast multiple shadows across the town, like the bones of a skeleton’s hand held over someone’s face. The horses galloped through the bars of shadow, silver and black, as they sped away into the night.
Perrin groped for Sedge’s bridle and turned her off the road. The fields here were freshly mown for hay and the high heaps of the new haystacks rose silver in the moonlight. ‘Tansy! North.’
Tansy heard, and turned Penthesi to ride beside Sedge. They were already going fast, but now the black horse put his head down and ran like a colt, as if the two girls on his back didn’t exist. Sweat spattered his flanks as he galloped across the meadows, up and down the billows of the fields. Sedge dropped back. Skir swayed, only just holding on. The wind tore at them. At last the fields that streamed away beneath them turned to wild grass, grazing land, dotted with trees. A herd of goats started away at their sudden approach.
Penthesi slowed to a canter, then a trot; his sides heaved. When he came to a creek, he didn’t jump it, but stopped abruptly and lowered his head to drink. A glow ran along the horizon to the east, and the whole sky was fading to white. It was almost morning.
Tansy slid off Penthesi’s back and helped Elvie to drop down. The blind girl sank to her knees in the long grass. Automatically, Tansy yanked up a handful of grass and began to rub down the horse. ‘Hush now, hush now, it’s all right, it’s over, it’s over.’ A sob caught in her throat.
Sedge limped up, her sides flecked with sweat and foam. Skir slithered to the ground, doubled over and vomited into the grass. Perrin jumped down and gripped his shoulder.
In the strengthening light, Perrin could see Skir’s face, mud-coloured under his blackened hair. The front of his shirt was soaked with blood.
Skir croaked, ‘I pushed the dagger at him. I didn’t mean –’ He gagged again, and pressed his hand to his mouth. ‘It stuck . . . in him . . . and –’
‘I was sick too,’ said Perrin. ‘After my first kill.’
Skir closed his eyes. He said thickly, ‘Sorry.’ He put out one hand, then stumbled to the edge of the creek. He lowered his hands into the swift water and watched as the thin threads of scarlet lifted and swirled away; then he tore off his stained shirt, soaked it and wrung it out, over and over, until the stream ran clear, and even after that he kept on dipping it and squeezing it out, until his hands were raw.
Elvie sat in the grass where she’d sunk down. She didn’t turn her head as Perrin squatted beside her. ‘Is he all right?’
‘He will be,’ said Perrin.
‘Your house – it burned,’ Tansy whispered. ‘Like the luck-piece.’
‘Yes,’ said Elvie. ‘We shouldn’t have done that.’
‘Someone must have followed me from town.’ Perrin shook his head. ‘I was so sure . . .’ He remembered the scene he’d caused in the marketplace, when he approached the Captain; that was a mistake.
Elvie said, ‘Someone in the town might have spied on you. There are many in Rarr who would sell their own family for money for rust, let alone a stranger. Or Madam Wanion knew, when we burned the luckpiece.’
Or you sent word to Lady Wanion yourself, thought Tansy.
Elvie stood and brushed down her skirt; she’d slept in her faded dress, as she always did, but her feet were bare. ‘I can hear birds. Is it dawn?’
‘Yes. It’s quite light now.’
‘Then you mustn’t stay. You must go on. Someone will see you.’
Tansy stared around at the blank horizon. ‘There ain’t no one here but goats.’
‘Where there are goats, there’ll be a goat-herder. You must go.’
‘But you’re coming with us,’ said Perrin. ‘We can’t leave you.’
Elvie shook her head. ‘No. I’ll stay here.’
Tansy pulled Perrin aside. ‘Maybe it’s for the best,’ she muttered. ‘We don’t know who told Wanion.’
‘That wasn’t Wanion tonight. It was the Balts, the Army.’
‘You don’t think the soldiers do her bidding too?’ said Tansy. ‘We can’t take her. We got to get Skir home safe.’
‘Yes,’ said Perrin. ‘Our precious Priest-King.’
Elvie raised her voice. ‘I can’t come with you. I would be a burden. Please, leave me. It’s what I want.’
Skir came up; Tansy expected him to argue, but he didn’t. He pulled out his coin-purse and pressed it into Elvie’s hand. ‘Take this.’
Elvie shook her head and let the purse drop into the grass. ‘No. Someone will cut my throat for that. I have other ways to earn my keep. I’d rather leave my hands free.’
There was a moment’s awkward silence. Then Tansy said roughly, ‘Good luck.’ She climbed onto Penthesi’s back, and sat watching without a word as Perrin hugged Elvie, and Skir took both her hands in his.
‘I won’t forget you, Elvie.’
‘And I won’t forget you, Ren.’
When Skir swung back for one last look, Elvie was standing in the long grass, her faded pink dress warmed by the rising sun. She smiled bravely, and lifted her hand in farewell; but she was facing the wrong direction, waving her goodbye to no one.
CHAPTER 10
The Coast Road
THEY travelled steadily northward all that day, across plains starred with tiny orange flowers of goose-blossom. As the day grew hotter, more and more flowers opened, until it seemed they rode through a lake of fire.
The horses were weary, so they all walked, with Penthesi and Sedge carrying only the heaviest packs and bundles. Tansy and Perrin walked side-by-side. After a long silence, Perrin said, ‘You fought well.’
She shot him a sideways glance. She wore the blue scarf, and her eyes were the same colour as the summer sky.
‘I mean it,’ he said. He wanted her to believe him; it was important that she did, and for the first time he doubted that she would. ‘You fought like a soldier. Truly.’
She smiled uncertainly, and quickly looked away. ‘I never had to do it for real before. It were always, you know, just playing.’ Her voice was soft. ‘It weren’t like I expected.’
‘I know.’ Perrin thrust his hands deep into his pockets. ‘I remember my first battle. Only two years ago, but it feels like a century. I was a kid of sixteen, a drafty. It was a shambles, that battle, at least it was to me. Noise, and steel clashing, and terror, and stink. I wet myself. I saw – well, never mind.’ He looked at her. ‘Last night was a good fight. You can be proud. It was a good victory, not too easy, not too hard. We earned it.’
As he spoke the words, he almost believed them; and it was true, the soldiers
who’d attacked him had fought hard. But the men who’d fought Skir and Tansy had held back, tried not to hurt them. They would have been surprised that the kids had defended themselves so fiercely. Tansy had fought as hard as she could, she had fought well. Perrin said what she needed to hear.
Tansy nodded, and her chin went up. It was a secret dream of hers that if she’d been a boy, she might have been a soldier, a horseman on a proud charger like Penthesi. Until today, she’d thought she’d make a better soldier than Perrin, with his songs and his dandy ways. Look at what he’d bought in the market: a comb and a finger-harp! When he could have bought saddles and proper bridles! But now she realised there was more to being a soldier than she’d thought, and she wasn’t so sure she’d make a good one.
All her brothers back home on the farm knew how to fight; every man did, up near the border, in case the war in Cragonlands spilled southward. As a child, Tansy had pleaded with Cuff to teach her, too. Nay, Cuff had said. Da and us boys’ll look after you and Ma, if it comes to that. Don’t you fret on it. But Tansy had begged, and at last Cuff had taught her to wrestle, how to use a boy’s weight against him to tip him off his feet. She’d used that trick last night.
Then Nellip had helped her shoot straight, and Dory had shown her how to use a sword and throw a spear. She was only little then; she’d needed two hands to lift the wooden training sword. But she’d practised every chance she’d, even though Ma scolded her. Da didn’t mind. It’s no shame for a lass to be handy with a bow, and a good thing if she can fight for herself, he’d said in his soft voice, and smiled down at her. His girl. A lump rose in Tansy’s throat.
‘You all right?’ said Perrin.
‘Grit in my eye,’ said Tansy.
All day Skir walked behind them. He didn’t speak. He clutched Sedge’s bridle tightly in his hand, as if he were drowning, and only that short length of rope kept him afloat. Every so often the mare would shove him gently with her nose, as if he were a foal; but Skir hardly noticed.
When they stopped at nightfall, Skir sat down abruptly in the grass and stared off to the horizon. He plucked up one blade of grass, then another, and let the evening breeze blow them away. He looked pathetically young, his hair plastered to his head, his eyes bruised and hollow.
Perrin sat down beside him. ‘Give it time. You’ll feel better soon.’
‘No.’ Skir’s voice was low. ‘I killed a man. I’ve defiled my priesthood. I can’t be Priest-King any more. I can’t do anything.’
‘Don’t be stupid. No one’s going to care. It was self-defence. You fought well. It was a good clean fight.’
But the words that had worked so well for Tansy had the opposite effect on Skir. He looked at Perrin almost with loathing.
‘Clean? What was clean about it? It was – awful. You’re talking like a soldier. I’m not a soldier. I’m a Priest of the Faith.’
‘Yes.’ Perrin plucked some grass too. ‘But I’m not a very good soldier.’
‘And I’m not a very good priest.’
There was a short silence. Tansy built a fire and was busy with the cooking pot. Smoke drifted white above the ground, a cloud of unspun silk. The horses cropped at the grass nearby. Sedge gave a huge sigh, as if she were glad the day was over.
Skir said in a low voice, ‘Maybe it was Tansy’s witch. I killed her little dolls, so then I killed a real person. Do you think she could do that, make that happen?’
Perrin looked away. He said, ‘You don’t have to tell anybody, you know, if that’s what’s worrying you.’
‘But it happened. I did – what I did. I can’t undo it.’
Perrin glanced at him curiously. ‘You want to tell them, don’t you? You sound relieved. Don’t you want to be Priest-King?’
Skir flushed. ‘It’s not that. I –’
‘Here, eat this.’ Tansy squatted beside them with the cooking pot. ‘Careful, it’s hot. It’s porridge, with wine in it.’
‘You used the oats? The horses’ oats?’ Perrin raised his eyebrows.
‘Penthesi and Sedge won’t grudge us. Not today.’
Perrin told her, ‘Skir doesn’t want to be a priest any more.’
‘It’s not a question of wanting. There are rules.’ Skir stood up. ‘I took a life. I’ve broken the Faith.’
‘Have some porridge, Skir. You’ll feel better if you eat something.’
‘I’m not hungry. I wish I was dead!’ He stalked away across the plain toward the red and purple streaks of sunset, kicking his way through the tiny closed-up flames of goose-blossom.
‘You’d better go after him,’ said Perrin. ‘He won’t want me to see him cry.’
‘He ain’t crying!’ said Tansy. ‘Sorcerers don’t cry.’
‘Oh yes they do,’ said Perrin. ‘You poured that good wine into porridge? That’s enough to make me cry. Give me the spoon.’
For several days, they veered back and forth across the plain, dodging a farmhouse here and a herder there, careful to keep out of sight. Finally, they reached the ocean. At the top of the cliff Tansy halted Penthesi and simply stared. She tasted salt in the air, and the wind blew her hair into stiff spikes. Far below, the waves crashed and roared against the rocks, but she was dazzled by the wide belt of turquoise, a breathing jewel that spread from land to sky.
‘What’s the matter? Never seen the sea before?’ Perrin’s hand was still bandaged, but it was healing cleanly, and he could hold the reins in his fingertips. He wheeled Sedge so he could see Tansy’s face. ‘Big, isn’t it?’
‘Don’t tease me,’ said Tansy, unable to drag her eyes from the great wide sparkling sea. ‘It’s grand.’
‘I sailed right across there.’ Perrin flung his arm out to the western horizon. ‘It took a whole year. We went to all the little islands, and the people came racing to the harbour like we were gods.’
‘You would have liked that,’ said Tansy with a sniff, and they grinned at each other.
‘What do you think, Skir?’ said Perrin.
Skir sat behind Tansy; he could balance now without holding onto her waist, and he sat stiffly upright, withdrawn from her, still wrapped tight in his misery. He said, ‘I’ve seen the sea before.’
‘Ain’t it grand?’ said Tansy. ‘It’s beautiful.’
Skir gazed dully at the ocean. ‘I suppose.’
The north coast of Baltimar wound east to west along the long shore of Codlin’s Gulf. It was a mostly deserted region, a bare wilderness of salt-scrub and windswept grasses. As Skir had predicted, there were only two or three small towns scattered along the whole length of the shore: isolated fishing villages, cut off from the rest of Baltimar. The so-called coast road was no more than a rutted track, stony and overgrown with weeds.
Day after day the three rode along the cliffs and across the hard-packed sand without seeing any sign of life but gulls and crabs, until one morning Perrin abruptly halted Sedge, and Tansy had to wheel Penthesi aside so as not to run into them.
‘Careful, you lackwit!’
‘What’s that? Over there.’
At the top of the next rise, high on the cliffs, stood a huge grey haystack. But it was far bigger than any haystack: it was an immense, weathered pile of driftwood that towered over their heads. Whole trees had been thrust onto the pile; branches poked out randomly, stripped bare, grey and eerie as ancient bones. Tansy urged Penthesi nearer, then cried out so suddenly the stallion half-reared and Skir almost fell off.
‘Don’t go near it! It’s witches’ work.’ Tansy’s hand groped automatically, uselessly, round her throat for a luckpiece.
‘Out here? Are you sure?’ said Perrin. ‘What is it, little dollies tied to the branches?’
But when Sedge came nearer and he saw what Tansy had seen, he gave a low whistle and turned away.
Skir looked sick. ‘What is it?’
‘Shore fire,’ said Perrin. ‘Tugger told us about them. Meant to ward off the western chanters. Keep the Singer of the Westlands at bay, stop her from bringing
her Rising here.’
‘Rising? What’s that?’ said Tansy.
‘The revolution of the chanters. Chanters will take over all of Tremaris, if the Singer has her way. That’s why my parents ran away from the Westlands. They –’
Skir interrupted; he’d heard enough about the Rising. ‘What about the – that thing inside the pile?’
‘Punishment.’ Tansy’s face was pale. ‘ “The Witch-Woman will send you to the shore fires,” that’s what they say. This is Wanion’s work.’
‘Whoever that was,’ said Perrin, ‘they’ve been dead a long time.’
Tansy twined her hands into Penthesi’s mane to stop them shaking. The two horses trotted away swiftly, as if they too were glad to leave the gruesome sight behind. For a long time after, the three young people sensed the high, brooding presence of the bonfire on the clifftop behind them, and they all breathed easier when the shoreline curved and it dropped from view.
‘Sedge has a loose shoe,’ said Tansy when they stopped that night in a hollow in the dunes. ‘We need a smithy.’
‘I don’t think we’ll find one,’ said Perrin. ‘Even if we could risk going into a village.’
Tansy looked at him hopefully. ‘Can’t you fix it?’
‘Don’t have the right tools.’ Perrin helped himself to a slice of hard-cake.
‘I mean, can you sing something?’
‘Sing what? You need an ironcrafter for this sort of job.’
Skir asked abruptly, ‘Can we still ride her?’
‘Yes. But it ain’t good for her hoof. You better ride her alone, Skir, you’re the lightest, and don’t carry nothing.’
Skir picked at his toes without looking up. ‘I can’t,’ he muttered.
Tansy and Perrin exchanged an exasperated glance. Tansy said, in a bright, encouraging voice, ‘Course you can manage her! You’re nearly as good as me now. Old Ingle wouldn’t know you. Just let her favour that right foreleg. You’ll be all right.’
Skir’s face set in a sullen frown. ‘Just don’t blame me if something goes wrong.’
‘Nothing’ll go wrong,’ said Perrin. ‘By the bones! I know you’re not happy, but do you have to make us all suffer?’