The Scrivener's Tale #1

EIGHT

As Reynard was banging in an apartment door in Paris, Fynch and Cassien had already been travelling north in Morgravia for six hours at a steady clip. Fynch had been determined not to wear out the animals with hard riding, and as much as Cassien urged him to push the beasts to a gallop, Fynch refused.
‘If we cover eighteen miles today, it will be a good journey and our mounts will have time to rest, to eat and be fresh for tomorrow.’
‘Where will we reach by this evening?’
‘By sundown we should crest Vincen’s Saddle.’ At Cassien’s frown Fynch gestured with his hands toward the rise ahead. ‘The path leads us up this hill and then another soon after, and from afar the landscape looks like a horse’s saddle.’
‘From a dragon’s back one could be fanciful about any landscape,’ Cassien suggested in a wry tone.
Fynch smiled and it was full of affection. ‘Indeed.’ But that was all. Cassien decided he would not pry further.
‘And Vincen?’ he said instead.
‘No idea.’ They both grinned. ‘There’s an excuse for an inn in the village below. The village is called, rather fancifully I might add, Partridge Vale, and the inn is even more deluded, boasting the name of the Queen’s Rest, but the ale is honest and the food passable.’
‘I don’t eat much,’ Cassien admitted. ‘I can go without if necessary.’
‘Nothing doing. Just don’t eat the pigeon pie if it’s on.’
‘Why?’
‘You don’t want to know,’ Fynch said archly. He slid off his horse and walked it to the stream they’d been following for several miles. Cassien followed suit. It was a lonely road and they’d met few other travellers, certainly none in the last few hours.
He leaned against his horse as it quenched its thirst, and became aware of the new weaponry perched around his body. It was hard to credit how comfortable it felt — as though it had always been there or had been moulded to him. He blinked, realising another aspect about the weapons as he watched Fynch dig out an apple and feed it to his mount.
‘Have you noticed that Wevyr’s weapons make no noise?’
‘I wondered how long that would take,’ Fynch replied absently.
‘How can metal at my side make no noise?’
‘Ask Wevyr.’
‘Doesn’t it intrigue you?’
Fynch changed subjects. ‘You’ll need to push yourself to mix with people. Stoneheart is like a small city within the larger one of Pearlis. The palace is going to challenge you in ways you can’t imagine and one of the most simple and yet perhaps most daunting hurdles will be feeling comfortable around the endless movement. Stoneheart never sleeps. There are always people working.’
‘I’m sure I’ll manage.’
‘You have to do more than manage, son. I am asking you to infiltrate the life of a queen. It is a tricky task and the politics surrounding her will make you dizzy.’
Cassien nodded. ‘It doesn’t matter about me. What matters is her life. I’m being sent in to keep her safe.’
‘Well said.’
‘Tell me, what does the queen think of this notion of a complete stranger walking into her life and shadowing her every move?’
‘I don’t think she minds the notion yet.’
‘Yet?’
Fynch shrugged. ‘I don’t think she minds just yet because she doesn’t know you’re coming,’ he explained.
‘Shar’s wrath!’
The older man scratched genially at the close beard that made him look as though he’d been dusted with flour. ‘Florentyna will see reason, I’m sure of it.’
‘Reason,’ Cassien murmured, shaking his head. ‘What reason should I go with? A demon is coming to kill you, your majesty, and this man you see before you who, by the way, has just walked out of the woods, is here to keep you safe?’
‘Sarcasm is a cheap form of attack, Cassien, or didn’t Brother Josse teach you that?’ Fynch chided. ‘You must trust me. I think Florentyna does. I just don’t think most of the people around her do.’
‘Who else trusts you? Knows about this?’
‘Two others.’
‘And you trust them?’
He nodded and his expression became as sombre as Cassien could remember. ‘We should keep riding.’ He led his horse back to the road and Cassien followed, easily catching the apple that Fynch tossed over his shoulder for Cassien’s horse.
‘I have entrusted only one man with the information you now know. He is from the court, one of the most senior noblemen and a close advisor to the queen. He was, to some extent, like a father to her after she lost her own.’
‘That’s a relief. I’ll likely need some allies in the palace.’
‘He’s not in the palace, I’m afraid … not any longer.’
‘So how does he help us?’
‘He helps by observing someone.’
‘Master Fynch,’ Cassien said, pausing, ‘I’m going to have to ask you to be clearer. You were specific when you wanted me to leave the forest with you and yet you fall back on being vague now.’
Fynch stared at him thoughtfully. ‘You’re right. But what I have to say you will find hard to believe.’
‘Are you sure?’ he said, a tone of scepticism creeping into his voice. He heard it and tempered it, schooling his tone to be respectful. ‘Given what I’ve already had to accept perhaps you will allow me to be the best judge of what I find credible.’
Fynch nodded and began slowly. ‘Someone I think of as my friend and who was a close counsel to the queen, though astonished by my story, agreed to humour me and introduce me to the sovereign so I could bring her my warnings directly. The queen, though attentive, was dissuaded by her sister, Darcelle, who wields considerable influence.’
Cassien’s gaze narrowed. ‘Hmm, that does change the complexion of this situation.’
‘Yes.’
‘Why did Florentyna go along with her sister’s decision if she trusts you?’
‘Believing she trusts me is probably stretching the truth,’ Fynch admitted. When Cassien’s mouth tightened, he hurried on. ‘But she listened without scorn. However, without the close counsel of my ally in her presence — his name was Chancellor Reynard by the way — she was persuaded by the others. Her sister believes I am some sort of mad old fellow who has been chewing the dreamleaf or is in his cups.’ Fynch stopped his horse and whispered something to it before he climbed into the saddle.
Quietly, Cassien followed suit.
‘You see, Cassien, Queen Florentyna has no idea who I am. She likes me, humours me, perhaps because I’m old, more likely as someone who once knew her father.’
‘Why haven’t you told her the truth?’
‘You admit the only reason you believe me, trust me, is because of a wolf and because I know about your magical roaming. Do you really think a modern young queen — an empress, in fact — such as Florentyna is going to believe in magic?’
‘Have you asked her?’
‘I didn’t dare.’
‘Well, surely —’
‘And Chancellor Reynard assured me it would be dangerous to permit such talk around the palace. Too many ears. It plays right into the hands of Cyricus. We don’t know who our enemies are.’
‘Why did Reynard trust you, then?’
Fynch shrugged. ‘He comes from a line of courtiers — advisors to the Crown. His great-grandfather — a Briavellian, I think — was an old, old friend of King Valor, Valentyna’s father. So Empress Valentyna brought him to her court and enjoyed his counsel. The Reynards have enjoyed royal favour ever since … I suppose I was able to tell him things about his grandfather, for I remember his grandfather as a very young lad and I was not much older than him. I had followed Wyl Thirsk to the Briavellian palace … I won’t go into it.
‘Anyway, we met briefly and talked as lads do. I needed help at the time and all I had as currency was a small token my mother had given me. She had carved her and my initials into a disc of wood that she’d polished and varnished.’ He shrugged at Cassien. ‘We were very poor, you understand. I showed Reynard’s great-grandfather that disc and he liked it. So I snapped it in half and gave him one of the halves, which contained my initial.’
‘What did you exchange?’ Cassien asked.
Fynch smiled. ‘Food for my companion — a dog called Knave. Anyway, I was relating this story to Reynard in the hope that it would convince him that I knew his family. But he did better than I’d hoped. Reynard produced the half-disc. It was a valueless trinket that had been passed down but he had always loved it.’ Again Fynch shrugged. ‘I could have wept to see it again after so many decades. I was able to show him my half, which joined with his perfectly, and told him the initial he held was mine. He was astonished, shaken, of course. He didn’t really want to believe it but could not discredit it. He began to listen and the more I told him, the more he wanted to assist but was almost embarrassed that he believed me. You can understand how far-fetched it all sounds?’
Cassien nodded. If not for Romaine …
Fynch continued. ‘Despite logic, he followed his instincts and agreed to throw in his lot with me. He said he’d help but we could not press her majesty again. He offered to attempt the journey of shifting worlds that I spoke of.’ Fynch lifted a sad shoulder. ‘I don’t think he ever believed it would work.’
‘How do you know it has worked?’
Fynch’s expression clouded. ‘I don’t but I have faith that the imminent sign — the confirmation — will come.’
‘How are you so sure that this demon exists? That he’s coming?’
‘Because of Aphra. She can’t hide herself as well as Cyricus. She leaves a trace.’
‘Magical, you mean?’
‘Curiously visceral, actually, except it comes to me through ethereal means. Does that make sense to you?
Cassien gave an uncertain shrug. ‘Go on.’
‘She became suddenly active recently.’
‘Here?’
Fynch looked pained. ‘No, she’s still in another world.’
Cassien took a slow breath but kept his expression even. ‘And you know this because …?’
‘I could smell violets on the wind. There are no violets in the Wild to yield such perfume.’
Cassien’s lips thinned with growing consternation. ‘And that’s her trace?’
‘Yes,’ Fynch said softly. ‘Breath of violets.’
‘And if she’s active then so is Cyricus?’
‘Cyricus uses her. She is his acolyte and most effective minion. She can be anything to anyone in the female form … her preferred shape. It would take me centuries to teach you all I know, all I’ve seen, all I’ve read, all I’ve gleaned through my long, long life. You have to choose to trust me.’
Cassien breathed out and his shoulders slumped slightly. He scratched at his beard, well aware of needing a shave — he must look a sight, he thought, in fine clothes and ragged chin. ‘Right, so you realised Aphra was active,’ he repeated. ‘What else?’
‘I needed her followed. She was our only route to Cyricus … the only connection I could trust.’
‘So Reynard agreed to follow Aphra,’ Cassien presumed.
‘Yes. Reynard was entirely unknown to Aphra or Cyricus. He possesses not an ounce of magic. Only I knew the secret of world travelling. He trusted me, and his fears for Florentyna overcame any dread he might have had of my magic. I sent him, guiding him to Aphra’s trace.’ Fynch shook his head sadly. ‘I can’t watch him unless I leave this world but I needed to get you involved. Before you ask, the only way I will know that he has found what we seek is through his death.’
Cassien stared somewhat dumbfounded at Fynch. ‘The queen’s chancellor has to die to get a message to you?’
‘Former chancellor. Yes. It’s a special sort of death,’ Fynch admitted. ‘It allows him to utter words that will be carried across worlds and I will know that he’s found Aphra. And if she has effected her death, I will know she’s on her way back to our land to meet up with Cyricus, who was trapped here.’
‘In the Void,’ Cassien qualified.
The old man shook his head. ‘I wish it were still so. I blame myself. In trying to protect the Crown, I have made it vulnerable. Over the years I have sent three people out of our world to another, all connected with seeking Aphra. Reynard was the last.’ Cassien wanted to ask who each was but Fynch kept talking. ‘I considered myself clever … thinking that if I could retain control of events then I could contain Cyricus. I thought it wise to know what the enemy is doing. I designed a way to bring Aphra back to our world and I planned to fling her once and for all into the Void with her demon and then our world would not be troubled by them again. But what I didn’t realise is that using the Wild’s powerful magic for sendings weakened the Void’s hold on Cyricus. He escaped, although he doesn’t know why it occurred; his glee is so intense that he isn’t questioning it. He doesn’t know me, has no sense of me. However, I’ve set something in motion now that I must stop. He will use Myrren’s magic, of that I have no doubt.’
Cassien shook his head at the complexity of Fynch’s tale. ‘And you’ll know it’s begun.’
‘Exactly. If she has found her way back, she has her mortal host.’
‘Wait. You said there was another person you trusted who was helping.’
Fynch straightened. ‘Reynard was a man — mere mortal. This second companion is a creature. He is a friend of mine who was once a bird, then a man, and learned he could only be a man in this world, but that he could still be his magical bird shape in other worlds.’ Fynch smiled sadly in the lowering light. ‘It’s complicated, Cassien. Suffice to say Ravan is one of the most special creatures I’ve ever had the privilege to know: formed by a god, answerable to that god, but a friend of men.’
‘And?’
‘I think when we met on my travels Ravan was a little lost. He needed a purpose. I gave him one. Reynard couldn’t be everywhere; I needed him watching Aphra, while Ravan kept her target under observation.’
‘The host that you speak of, you mean?’
Fynch nodded. ‘Ravan readily agreed to be the second observer.’ Cassien gave an encouraging gaze to Fynch. ‘Ravan knew he too would have to relinquish his life — in this case, his life as a bird — in order to get back to our world. He will be safe, will walk as a man again. Reynard sadly cannot survive if he sees out his mission.’
They were all meaningless names to Cassien although he tried to sound respectful of Fynch’s obvious sorrow. ‘If Cyricus is trapped here, what is Aphra doing in her world?’
‘If my hunch is right, she’s sourcing a carrier to get herself back. It will need to be a very special individual who is somehow in tune — knowingly or otherwise — with other worlds.’
‘But you don’t even know what this vessel, this man in this other world, looks like.’
He hesitated. ‘No,’ Fynch then said, ‘but Reynard is hoping to mark him somehow. We couldn’t plan for something we neither knew nor understood. Fortunately, I was able to send him on the trace of the violets almost directly to Aphra, but it was his decision how he would clue me into the carrier from then on.’
Cassien took a long, slow breath as he digested all that he’d learned. He realised they’d crested the second rise that formed Vincen’s Saddle and down below them was the village known as Partridge Vale beginning to sprawl outward, perhaps with visions of becoming a town — but not yet. ‘Looks like we’re here,’ he remarked.
‘Tomorrow we’ll reach Orkyld.’
Cassien was pleased by the sight of softly smoking chimneys and the hint of cooking on the air. ‘Can you smell that?’ he asked. ‘No pigeon pie, Fynch, but roasted chicken, I think. It’s been a long time since I’ve tasted that treat.’
He expected Fynch to smile but his companion looked suddenly troubled. ‘Violets,’ he breathed. Then looked at Cassien, his gaze raw and intense. ‘You smell roasted poultry. I smell Aphra.’
Fynch swayed in the saddle and Cassien leapt down from his horse and rushed to the old man just as he slipped sideways. Cassien’s fast reflexes caught him and carried him easily. The man was as light as his namesake.
‘Master Fynch!’ he cried, looking around for help, but there was none.
He hoisted Fynch over his shoulder and grabbed the reins of both horses to lead them into a nearby grove. After lowering Fynch gently to the leaf litter, he secured both animals. Returning, he noticed that the man he had thought looked so youthful, now suddenly appeared as ancient as the landscape they were traversing and the gnarled trees that shrouded them. His eyes were closed, his features slackening into wrinkles and creases, his skin taking on the look of parchment.
‘Fynch!’ he called again, rubbing his companion’s cold hand.
To his relief the man stirred. ‘It is done,’ he murmured.
‘What?’
Fynch opened his eyes and their light had dimmed: no longer like bright gemstones but more like pebbles on a shingle beach, dashed and rolled around until dulled. He spoke again, croaky this time. ‘My friends … their souls have spoken. Aphra is travelling and she’s bringing someone with her.’
Gabe woke properly, coming to his senses gasping, hands on knees, to draw breath. There was pain everywhere. He couldn’t isolate it. Even his mind hurt.
Be strong, Gabe, said a voice he knew. He straightened with a groan and looked around. He seemed to be alone and had probably imagined Angelina’s voice. He was in a shed of some sort … no, a barn but it was huge and full of wheat or barley in sheaves. How quaint. He staggered to the enormous doors and pushed on them. They were solid and heavy, but also barred from outside.
Through a wide gap in the doors he could see beyond to a patchwork of fields — uneven, ragged oblongs of brown and gold, and even pale grey for as far as he could see. There were people working … they were dark specks but he could make out signs of labour. No machinery, just the regular swinging of arms, probably with some sort of tool, he thought. And suddenly a man was approaching. Gabe gave a soft sound of panic and lurched back as the man lifted the bar and unlocked what sounded like a padlock. Sunlight burst in as the doors creaked back. Gabe blinked in the soft rays and saw an elderly man in a black robe regarding him.
‘How did you get in here?’ the man asked.
Gabe shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’
‘You’re naked, man!’
He looked down, only now aware that he was indeed standing there without a stitch on. He cupped himself, embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know what I’m even doing here. Where the hell am I?’
The man lost his immediate fear and his voice softened. ‘Too much cider for you, eh?’ he admonished gently. ‘Well, I don’t know how you got in here, but go on, be gone with you. Quickly now, or I’ll have to tell Master Flek and he does so hate for anyone to be in the tithe barn.’
‘Who are you?’
‘I’m Pel. No-one important.’ Gabe stared at him. ‘Why do you look so scared? I’m not going to punish you. What’s your name?’ he asked.
‘Gabe … Gabriel. I’m lost.’
‘Where do you hail from? Perhaps I can help,’ Pel said kindly. ‘Is that a quill you’ve got in your hand, son? I hope you haven’t taken that from here?’ Gabe shook his head. ‘No, I don’t recognise it, but even so, a naked man and a fine quill.’ He made a small tutting sound.
Gabe’s sense of dislocation intensified. Say nothing! Angelina snapped and he only now realised she was talking in his mind … Gabe now felt deeply frightened but urged himself to stay calm, draw on all his counselling skills and practise what he knew. This was some sort of anxiety attack, for sure. He just needed to take a deep breath and be rational.
‘Mr Pel. I don’t know where I find myself. Forgive me, but I need your help.’ He heard Angelina hiss inside his head. ‘I’m from Paris.’
‘Paris?’ Pel asked reasonably. ‘I can’t say I know that place.’
‘Paris … France,’ Gabe insisted.
The man shook his head with an expression of gentle concern. ‘No, my boy, I can’t bring it to mind. It’s obviously not in Morgravia or I’d know. Is it somewhere in Briavel perhaps?’
‘Morgravia … Briavel? Where are these places?’
Pel frowned, his concern clearly deepening. ‘Do you need a physic, son?’
‘A physic?’
‘Perhaps you need a potion to clear your head. You’re in Morgravia, west, about two days’ ride from Pearlis. Do you mean Pearlis, not Paris?’
‘The cathedral,’ Gabe bleated, suddenly recognising something of what the man was talking about.
‘That’s right,’ Pel said, his expression now one of relief.
‘Mr Pel?’
‘Yes, Gabriel?’
‘I don’t belong here. I don’t know how I come to be here. It was magic. One minute I was in Paris, the next moment I find myself in your barn. She worked a spell on me. I don’t understand it. I’ve been brought here to another world from …’ Gabe shook his head as his voice trailed off. He knew he was making no sense, could see confusion reflected in the kind man, who was beginning to lose patience with him.
‘Have you been drinking liquor?’
‘A little wine, mainly coffee,’ he answered obediently, without thinking.
It was the wrong answer. Pel smiled knowingly as if he understood that alcohol was behind Gabe’s troubles. ‘Hurry now, son,’ Pel urged. ‘Master Flek isn’t nearly as forgiving as I. And it’s obvious you haven’t stolen anything. Get yourself dressed and be on your way. Everything will make more sense when you’ve cleared your head.’
The man was not speaking French, Gabe suddenly noticed, and yet he understood the language, though it wasn’t one he recognised. Strangely, he seemed to be absorbing the words and their meaning and responding without consciously making any effort.
The stranger smiled. ‘You are in the Harpers Riding tithe barn. We’re not far from Ramon, but a long way from Pearlis, where I presume you’re from.’ He went to the door and pointed down the slight incline. ‘Head that way, you’ll come into the town. If you’re from Port Wickel, though, bear left at the ten-mile marker near the crossroads. It’s quicker on foot taking that route. But be warned. It’s busy as a beehive, what with the royal ship from Cipres arriving.’ He walked outside and turned to Gabe. ‘I presume your clothes are thrown around. Gather them up and get yourself clad. I’ll be back to lock the doors shortly,’ he said, but not unkindly. He looked up at the sun. ‘Master Flek will inspect after his quart of milk, which he likes to take around now. He’s a creature of habit is Master Flek, so he won’t be late. Don’t be found or he’ll have you thrown in the stock, or even irons, without hearing any explanation.’
Gabe nodded, so bewildered he didn’t know what else to say. The man disappeared down the hill and Gabe moved further inside the gloomy light of the barn. The shaft of golden light that streamed in through the doors lit a tiny cloud of gnats that bounced and flitted. He swatted at them. What had happened? He had been in his apartment. The phone was ringing and buzzing, a great black bird was beating on the glass of his windows … and Reynard threatening outside the door.
‘Angelina!’ he called, his voice cracking as it shattered the silence, recalling suddenly a blade and blood … then blackness.
I am with you, Gabe. You must not fret.
He swung around. ‘Where …?’ He didn’t finish, her voice hadn’t come from nearby — it had come from within.
I am here. Inside you, she said and he could hear her satisfaction that she’d shocked him.
‘Inside? What are you talking about?’
You can feel me if you try hard. You brought me with you. I know you are thinking about the knife and all that blood, but it wasn’t really me, Gabe. I tried to tell you that. I was never truly of that world … but then neither are you.
‘I don’t understand any of this.’ He leaned against a tall stand of sheaves.
You released me from that body. Made me free to come here. I won’t stay long with you. I will find a new host.
Gabe had no patience for the nonsense in his head and yet couldn’t explain Angelina’s voice. He was either spiralling into madness — perhaps she’d drugged him? — or, more likely, he was in a nightmare. He had always dreamed vividly. He pinched himself. He felt the bruise of it, but didn’t wake — the barn did not disappear. ‘Where am I?’
That man just told you. Harpers Riding.
‘Where is Harpers Riding?’
He told you that too.
‘I heard him. But I am not familiar with these places. I want to know exactly where I am.’
‘Not far from Ramon,’ said a new voice — a gruff one. It belonged to a huge man carrying a sharp-looking tool. He was dressed in leather motley. ‘Ramon is a biggish town in the far southwest of a realm called Morgravia,’ he continued. ‘Morgravia’s capital is Pearlis, arguably the principal city of the triumvirate of Morgravia, Briavel and the Razor Kingdom … or should I say former triumvirate? To say empire these days is to be hopeful rather than truthful. It teeters on a knife edge.’ He smiled.
Gabe was on his guard. Nothing was making sense.
‘Are you … are you Flek?’
‘I was. Not any longer.’ The man grinned and Gabe could see whiskers of milk at the corner of his mouth. Hadn’t Pel said Flek was taking his quart of milk?
‘Aphra?’
‘I am well, beloved,’ Gabe said but while it was his voice, he hadn’t spoken. Angelina had. He gagged, coughed.
Flek laughed.
Gabe felt lightheaded. Nothing was making sense: not this conversation, not these surrounds, not the voices talking at him, nor the tithe keeper before him, nor Angelina talking in his head and using his voice.
‘You see, Gabriel,’ the man continued, shocking him by knowing his name, ‘while Flek was handy, he is a dangerous vessel for me because he is known. But you … well, you are “clean”, for want of a better word. You can move around Morgravia unnoticed by anyone or their magic — at least for a while.’
‘I don’t —’
The man stopped him speaking by holding a hand in the air. ‘It doesn’t matter what you understand.’ The words were sympathetic but neither the man’s tone nor his expression were. ‘We hunted far and wide for you. And of course my beautiful Aphra found you. You’re perfect. There’s barely a handful of people like you in your world, who dream as you do, but you trespassed into our world because you worked so hard at your dreamings. That cathedral of yours was perfect in every way, except that you couldn’t touch it. And the reason it was perfect was because you were seeing it in a different reality. Am I making any sense to you?’
‘None at all.’
‘Oh well,’ Flek said jovially, ‘it’s of little consequence. Now I need you to kill me.’
‘What?’ Gabe shrank away, shock trilling through him.
Be calm, Gabe. It’s just like before, Angelina, or the voice in his mind that the tithe keeper called Aphra, soothed. It won’t hurt. He is already dead. What you see is simply a shell.
‘Stop it, both of you. Whatever you are, whatever you’re doing, it stops now.’ His voice shook.
‘Run this blade across this man’s throat, Gabriel, or I will do it to yours. It’s a simple choice,’ the tithe keeper threatened.
Gabe realised he was trembling. Vulnerable and naked, he was struck by how many of his patients must have felt a similar fear. Alone, isolated, in danger.
‘Let me go back.’
‘Too late. Nothing to go back for.’
You’re a murderer now, Gabe, Angelina said. They will have found my body, stabbed with that ugly blade, blood everywhere in your apartment. No, there’s nothing in Paris for you. But you can help us. You’ve always wanted to help me. You’ve begun by bringing me back — thank you. Now I need you to help my master. You have no choice. Kill or die. Either way, he lives. Your body might as well live, too.
The body that belonged to Flek advanced on him and Gabe gave a frigid yelp. He was so frightened he couldn’t run to save himself. He realised he was still holding his quill, which in an instinctive, defensive gesture, he now held in front of him and felt it press against the chest of his attacker. In his moment of panic, he heard a sizzling sound and the smell of scorched flesh, but then the keen blade of a farm tool he didn’t recognise flashed before him.
When Pel returned he was astonished and deeply saddened to see a naked body lying among the sheaves. As he ran over he presumed it was the stranger with the quill. But he leapt back shocked when he pulled at the shoulder of the fallen figure to see someone he recognised. It was Master Flek, the tithe barn manager. Flek’s blood was being hungrily drunk by the sheaf of barley the body had been slumped over. A distraught Pel sucked in a breath.
‘Shar’s pity, Master Flek, what befell you?’ he murmured, terrified by the gaping wound at the man’s throat. Pel shook his head, ashamed that he’d taken the naked man for a decent one. ‘Murder,’ he whispered, guilt-ridden. ‘But why? What could you give him other than your clothes?’
He ran from the tithe barn as fast as his old legs would move him, down the hill again. He had noted the stranger’s features and he would be able to describe him to the authorities. They would catch him, and Pel would stand at his trial and point him out as a cold-blooded killer of one of Ramon’s most honest men.