Taste of Lightning

  For the first time since the arrow had hit him, he wondered what had happened to Skir and Tansy. He couldn’t see them. Maybe they’d drowned. At that moment, he didn’t care; he had his own skin to save. He tilted his head back. The stars were always brighter at moondark. The clouds had melted away. Water filled his ears, blurring the noise of yells and splashes. Breathe, Perrin. That’s an order.

  Tansy saw Skir go under as the Gani writhed in the water; it took her a moment to realise what had happened. She duck-dived as the arrows sizzled around them; down into the cold, rushing water she plunged, down and down, until she thought her lungs would burst.

  An image flashed through her mind: the luckpiece Wanion had given her, blazing into flame and then drenched with water. Fire then water. The Gani’s boat was on fire, and now she was drowning. Wanion’s magic was punishing her after all. Cold fingers pinched at her heart. As she came up she banged her head hard against something. Skir had stamped on the luckpiece, and now the Witch-Woman was stamping on her head. But she pushed out blindly with her hands and felt the wreckage of the Gani’s boat. She gasped for breath, eyes squeezed shut, groping along the side of the boat with her hands. Skir couldn’t save her now. Tansy clung to the wreckage with her fingernails, and waited for Wanion’s death spell to claim her.

  When Perrin disappeared, Skir had just enough presence of mind to gulp in another lungful of air and kick out hard, away from the hail of arrows. It was true he could swim a little; Beeman had insisted on trying to teach him, but the Baltimarans were horrified by the very idea, and it had been difficult to arrange lessons. The knapsack dragged him sideways, but Tansy had pulled the straps too tight – he couldn’t wriggle out of it. Skir kicked and splashed blindly until he ran aground; he staggered to his feet and found himself some distance upstream, in the shallows by the riverbank, face-to-face with a Palace guard, his blue-and-scarlet uniform daubed with mud, waving a short sword in one hand and a blazing torch in the other.

  ‘Don’t move!’ He was young, no older than Skir himself, and the sword shook in his grasp. He yelled, ‘Sarge!’

  Skir raised his hands. He felt oddly calm. ‘It’s all right. You mustn’t hurt me. I’m the Priest-King of Cragonlands. I’m valuable property.’

  The young guard took a wobbling step forward and ran his tongue over his lips. In the livid light of the torch, his face flickered copper and bronze. ‘I said, don’t move! One step and I’ll run you through.’

  ‘You know you can’t do that.’ Skir took a step back into the river. The water was up to his waist.

  ‘Sarge!’ bawled the guard, but the only response was a fierce, unearthly squeal from the direction of the woods. The young guard’s head jerked round, just for a heartbeat, and silently Skir slipped under the water.

  Skir let himself swirl in the current as long as he could before he risked snatching another breath. He was close to the boat. He dropped his head back into the water. He might not have the power of chantment, but he was well trained, first by the priests of the Temple at Gleve, and then by Beeman. One thing he could do was to hold his breath for a long, long time.

  A hand grabbed the strap of his knapsack and hauled him closer, and his head reared up, spluttering.

  ‘Ssh!’ hissed Tansy. ‘It’s me.’

  He could see her face dimly; it was starting to get light. They were on the far side of the charred wreckage of the Renganis’ boat, hidden from the soldiers. Tansy’s teeth were chattering, and one of her hands was thrust into a gap between scorched boards to keep herself afloat. Skir found a handhold and they trod water side by side.

  ‘You all r-right?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Ssh!’

  Voices carried across the water. ‘– no time to find nets. Get some poles to drag the body in from the bridge.’

  ‘– almost sorry for the poor kid –’

  ‘More sorry for old Hooksey. Wouldn’t want to be the one to make that report.’

  ‘Did you hear what happened in the woods?’

  The voices lowered, sober. Tansy could only hear the words boar and two men. Then the voices faded altogether. Everything was quiet. No shouts, no splashes.

  ‘They think I’ve drowned,’ whispered Skir.

  ‘Thought I was going to, too.’ Tansy’s face was pale. ‘That was her. Wanion. We shouldn’t never have hurt that luckpiece.’

  After a moment, Skir said, ‘They shot him, you know – the Rengani.’

  But Tansy shook her head. ‘He’s holding on over there.’

  Now Skir saw, in the strengthening light, a hunched shape attached to the side of the boat. ‘Is he all right?’

  Tansy shrugged. ‘He ain’t let go.’

  Skir half-paddled, half-pulled himself along the side of the boat until he reached Perrin. The Rengani’s head turned sharply and his teeth flashed white as he grinned. ‘Well, well,’ he said softly. ‘Long live the boy-king. They’ve all gone off to fish your body out of the river. Good time to swim to shore, while it’s quiet.’

  ‘You’re not too badly hurt?’ asked Skir timidly.

  Perrin held up his hand with the arrow shaft sticking through it; the flesh around the wound was swollen, raw and seeping blood. ‘Think I can make it.’ His voice changed. ‘No such luck for Doughty.’

  ‘Doughty? Your friend?’

  Perrin jerked his chin. The boat dipped and swayed as Skir heaved himself up to peer in. A swollen shape bumped about in the water at the bottom of the boat; it looked like a mattress rolled up and tied with string. Skir lowered himself back into the river.

  He whispered, ‘I’ve never seen a dead body before.’

  ‘Now you have,’ said Perrin acidly. He’d lost count of the bodies, and parts of bodies, he’d seen since he joined the Army. Tugger, with his throat ripped out . . . Perrin bared his teeth in a mirthless grin. ‘Well, can’t hang around here all day, it’ll be light soon. Better hold onto this.’ He shoved the end of the oar at Skir.

  ‘What about Tansy?’

  ‘Your girlfriend isn’t part of my mission. She’ll have to take care of herself.’

  ‘She’s not my –’

  Tansy had hauled herself hand-over-hand until she was beside them. ‘I can take care of myself,’ she whispered fiercely.

  ‘Good,’ said Perrin. ‘Take Doughty’s dagger. He won’t need it any more.’ And he struck out one-handed for the riverbank.

  With more splashing than Perrin would have liked, the three struggled back to the shore. The sun had fully risen now, and already heat pulsed from it as if from an open stove. It was going to be a blazing-hot day.

  Perrin crawled over the mud until he found solid ground to rest on, and examined his hand. By daylight, it didn’t look too bad; he’d seen far worse on the battlefield. Just a scratch, really. If Tugger and the lads had seen him fussing over that last night, he’d never have heard the end of it.

  But Tugger was dead.

  Again Perrin pushed the knowledge away. Still, the boy was alive, and while he was alive, so was the mission. Perrin had orders to follow.

  He found a flat rock, and turned his hand so the arrow head pointed to the sky. Swiftly he banged his hand down on the rock so the arrow-shaft was forced up through his palm. ‘Frug!’ He tugged on the arrow-shaft and it slid free with a gush of blood and liquid. The two bedraggled kids just stood there, watching. Skir’s long hair was in rats’ tails. There was a gash across Tansy’s cheek, and a swelling bruise on her forehead. Perrin tried to tear a strip off the bottom of his shirt for a bandage with his teeth and one hand, but the cloth was too tough and he was shaking too much.

  Without speaking, Tansy ripped a long band from the bottom of her own shirt and held it out to Skir.

  He shied away. ‘I don’t know how.’

  Tansy snatched back the length of cloth and said to Perrin, ‘Give me your hand. Is it clean?’

  ‘You tell me. You’re the laundry-maid. Ow! That’s too tight.’

  ‘It’s got
to be tight. Can you walk?’

  ‘I was shot in the hand, not the foot. Of course I can walk.’

  ‘Get up then. I might be just a laundry-maid, but I got an idea.’

  Skir gazed at her eagerly. ‘What is it?’

  ‘You still got that money? Well, I thought we might borrow something else from the King.’

  Tansy led them through the trees to a low thorn hedge built close against the woods; beyond it, half-a-dozen horses cropped the grass. ‘Ingle keeps the hunters in the Long Field, now the weather’s warm.’ Her voice was reverent. ‘That’s Warble, and Jasper, and Peak. The chestnut mare’s called Sedge, she’s a gentle one.’

  ‘I like that big black stallion,’ said Perrin.

  Skir blanched. ‘Can’t we take the gentle one?’

  ‘We’ll need more than one,’ said Perrin.

  ‘You want to take Penthesi?’ Tansy’s eyes lit up, but she shook her head. ‘He’s the King’s own hunter.’

  ‘So he’s the best.’ Perrin stepped close to the hedge and sang out softly to the horses, a lilting call. The black stallion turned his head, and one by one the other horses pricked up their ears. Perrin held out his hand, singing. Tansy stared at him sharply. Skir had wrapped his arms around his body, his eyes fixed nervously on the horses. They were an awful lot bigger than the ponies he was used to.

  The stallion trotted up to the hedge, his tail swishing like a black flag, and whinnied at Perrin.

  ‘Penthesi,’ whispered Tansy. ‘Curious as a kitten, Ingle says.’ She held out her hand and the horse snuffled at her palm. ‘I ain’t got nothing for you now. But you’ll get a treat later, I promise –’ She reached up and stroked the velvety nose of the big animal.

  The chestnut mare had followed Penthesi, and she craned her head over the hedge, staring at the three visitors with a rolling liquid eye.

  Skir took an involuntary step backward, acutely conscious of the sheer size of the horses, their strong smell, the power of the muscled bodies that seemed barely contained by horsehide. He touched Tansy’s shoulder. ‘Someone’s coming down the lane.’

  ‘Time to go,’ said Perrin briskly, and he scrambled clumsily over the low hedge, holding his injured hand close to his chest. He sang something, and the two nearest horses, Sedge and Penthesi, bent their front legs and kneeled in the grass.

  Skir said to Tansy in sudden panic, ‘I can’t do this.’

  ‘I’ll help you. Come on, we gotta hurry.’ She boosted him over the thorns and clambered over herself. Perrin had a hand on Penthesi’s mane, but Tansy elbowed him aside. ‘I better take Penthesi. He knows me, see. You take Sedge, she won’t hurt you. Come on, Skir, get on behind me and hang on tight.’

  Skir climbed onto the wide, slippery expanse of the big horse’s back, clinging to Tansy for balance, and the stallion swayed and majestically rose, higher and higher, impossibly high. Skir moaned a little and shut his eyes as they trotted up the field toward the gate. Tansy crouched low on Penthesi’s neck; Skir pressed himself hard against her. Perrin was just behind them, leaning lopsided over the chestnut mare’s neck, one hand wound tight in the mane, his lips moving. The two horses broke into a canter as they approached the gate.

  Then in a smooth, gathered movement, they leaped, and the next instant they were thundering down the lane. Skir’s eyes flew open as the stallion jumped, and he glimpsed a blurred figure by the hedge, waving a cap, mouth open in an impotent shout.

  Tansy headed them back to the cover of the woods, and slowed the big stallion to a trot.

  ‘Was that old Ingle yelling at us?’ Skir dodged a branch as they bumped along. ‘He knows me.’

  Tansy turned her head, one hand twined in Penthesi’s mane. ‘Ingle likes me. Maybe he won’t tell.’

  But even as she spoke, they heard the horns ring out. Ingle must have reported the theft of two of the King’s horses to the Palace guard, but even Skir was surprised at the speed of their response.

  ‘Doesn’t like you as much as you think,’ panted Perrin as he fought for balance on Sedge’s back. They were near the edge of the woods now.

  ‘Hold tight, Skir!’ cried Tansy. ‘Time for a gallop.’

  ‘Aren’t we already –’ jerked out Skir in alarm, but then Tansy leaned over the horse’s neck and urged it from a trot into a canter, and then a gallop. Skir fell forward and wrapped his arms even tighter around her waist; at any other time he would have enjoyed wrapping his arms round Tansy, but he was jolting too hard to even think about it.

  They broke from the cover of the trees and the horses’ hoofs thundered across soft turf. The shallow hills of southern Baltimar rolled gently away like the billows of a green sea, as far as the horizon. And Tansy was whooping – cheering! With the Baltimaran Army on their heels! Skir could just hear Perrin’s slight chuckle as he encouraged his mare into a gallop, leaning low and holding hard with his one good hand.

  And now they flew. The strong muscled machine of the black horse gathered power beneath them, and the ground blurred; the drumbeat of hoofs rang in Skir’s head and vibrated through his body, and all he could do was hang on.

  The hot summer sun rose higher on their right-hand side, turning the dull green hills to warm gold with lakes of shadow between, and the horses galloped, strong and free, even with the weight on their backs, glad to run, as if they knew that even the Baltimaran Army could never catch them.

  CHAPTER 7

  Widow’s Cliff

  THAT first day, it was like a glorious game to Tansy. She’d loved to play hide-and-seek, and hunt-the-bear, with her brothers when she was small: the breathless mix of terror and excitement as she peered out to see if it was safe to dash home, the glee when she outwitted the seekers. This was even better. The blood sang in her veins. For the first time since she’d come to Arvestel, she felt fully alive.

  It was wonderful to be out in the open country. All around Arvestel were the Royal Farms, with low stone walls between the neat green meadows and pale yellow fields of ripening wheat. Copses of spander trees and birch were dotted here and there, and creeks tumbled down the gentle hills.

  The two horses knew this country well; the Royal Hunt ranged across these farms. Penthesi and Sedge flew from one sheltering grove to the next, leaping the creeks and the low walls, always ahead of the slower, heavier horses of the Palace guards, but never quite shaking them off. Even the fact that they were the prey, not the hunters, couldn’t spoil the wild joy of the chase. Tansy had always admired Penthesi from a respectful distance, but now she fell in love with him.

  Her eyes shone as she urged Penthesi onward. Behind her, Skir clutched her waist and groaned occasionally, but that didn’t bother her – as long as he didn’t fall off, he wasn’t much of a hindrance. Penthesi galloped, strong and joyous, a storm cloud driven by the wind. The chestnut mare, Sedge, followed him faithfully, with the Gani balanced on her back; Tansy had to admit he wasn’t a bad rider.

  But even the King’s hunters grew tired at last. Over short distances, nothing could catch them, but they weren’t bred for endurance, and by nightfall both horses were drooping and lathered with sweat. They’d left the Royal Farms behind, crossed Well’s Water at a flying leap and were headed east, through the rich valleys of Middle Baltimar. Tansy pulled Penthesi up in the shelter of a birch grove and let him gulp fresh water from a stream.

  ‘We ain’t seen soldiers for a while. The horses need a rest.’

  Perrin stretched. ‘Excellent idea. I vote for an inn, a square meal and a soft bed.’

  ‘We ain’t even a day’s ride from Arvestel!’ said Tansy.

  Perrin pulled a mocking face. ‘It was a joke, sweetheart.’

  The tips of Tansy’s ears turned red, and Perrin grinned. ‘There’s a barn over there. Not as comfortable as an inn, but more suitable for fugitives.’

  Tansy glanced at the shadowy shape on the hillside. ‘You go and scout, Gani. Ain’t you soldiers trained for that kind of thing?’

  ‘But he’s wounded,’ said Sk
ir.

  ‘I’m all right,’ said Perrin. Indeed, he and Tansy seemed as alert and excited as each other. He slipped from Sedge’s back and skulked along the hedgerow that snaked across the top of the ridge.

  Skir said anxiously, ‘His name’s Perrin.’

  ‘I know what his name is.’

  ‘Well, you can’t keep calling him Gani. It’s offensive.’

  Tansy snorted. ‘Then you tell him I ain’t his sweetheart.’

  Skir unclasped himself and half-slid, half-fell from the great height of Penthesi’s back. Penthesi turned his head and blew mildly through his nostrils, as if pleased to be rid of an annoying beetle. Skir knelt by the stream and slurped up water. His arms and legs were shaking; he’d never been so exhausted. He felt as if every bone in his body had been crushed by a heavy roller, the insides of his thighs were raw, and his head throbbed. He could hear Tansy humming happily to the horses. Skir put his head down. In Arvestel, it would have been time for his bath, lemon-scented and steaming, and then into clean clothes for dinner: ginger broth with dumplings, roasted parsnips, honey pastries . . .

  A twig cracked and Skir started backward. Perrin bared his teeth in a grin. ‘Settle down, Your Highness, it’s only me. The barn’s dry. Full of hay, and no one in sight. The farmhouse is down in the valley. A big place. There’s a huge, steep cliff hanging over it like a wave about to break.’

  ‘Widow’s Cliff,’ murmured Skir.

  ‘What’s that?’ Perrin cupped his ear. ‘Speak up, young fellow.’

  ‘This must be Widow’s Cliff. It’s north-east of Arvestel. It’s exactly the direction they’ll expect us to go, straight for the border.’ He glanced over his shoulder, shivering. In daylight they could see the soldiers coming. Now dusk had fallen, anyone could be out there, and they wouldn’t know until it was too late. He wouldn’t be able to run; he could barely stand upright. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad thing if they took him home . . .