(A/N – Hullo. There are already too many words in this gargantuan chapter so, without further ado….
Virago – Glad I could cheer up a morning tainted with the dark threat of the workplace. Rammstein, eh? I've a whole catalogue of music that reminds me of individual bits of this story. Understandably, most of them are pretty dreary (mope). Thanks for letting me know you enjoyed.
VercisIsolde – Another fabulous review – thank you! I'm glad you feel sorry for Cal – somebody has to (he was only supposed to appear in one chapter and suddenly he's my main antagonist. I really should start thinking these things through….). And I'm very happy you liked the final part of the chapter. Having never before tried my hand at anything remotely fluffy, I was worried it would turn into nausea-inducing drivel. Your encouragement and feedback are very much appreciated. P.S. Write more WoT!
SuperMomSoTired (aka., Amanda) – Hullo and thank you for the splendid review. I don't think I'm giving too much away when I confess that Mai isn't Mat's prophesised bride but I'm very glad you find their developing, and rather skewed, relationship appealing. I haven't written anything else under this pseudonym as yet but I've contracted a particularly virulent writing bug so other stories are bound to escape eventually. If any of them turn out to be readable, I'll let you know. Thank you for the lovely comments and hope you enjoy this chapter.
Jasmina – Good to hearfrom you again. Nope, Mai is officially not the dreaded Daughter of the Nine Moons. The subject is briefly mentioned in this chapter, very briefly, actually - blink and you'll probably miss it! Also, Mai's 'healing powers' are of the natural variety. Sorry if I gave the wrong impression (and I often do), but Mai's curative skills extend only to such draconian methods as blood-letting, bezoars and the odd leech. Big thanks for the prod to get me motivated into finishing this chapter and, as always, your comments are very much valued.
Lolli – I was on the verge of posting this chapter when I decided to check for any new reviews….and saw your marvellous critique. Gosh. At present, you're up to chapter three and have noted, quite accurately, my penchant for purple prose. I hope you find time wade a little further because a valuable lesson about the bane of flowery writing was learned (eventually). I've tried to make the whole thing terser and I hope to discover what you make of this in later chapters. Thank you, thank you, thank you for the wonderfully in-depth reviews. I'm quite overwhelmed!
Ennui Alert - This chapter contains huge dollops of plot-plop. Yes, there actually is a narrative buried in all this mess, much as I hate to admit it. And it's a touch on the long side. Apologies in advance if you find yourself lost in the black kaleidoscope of boredom. Sorry folks. (runs)
Disclaimer - T'ain't none of it mine.
Chapter EighteenIt was too hot, the air stifling. Sweeping damp curls from her face, Mai opened her eyes.
Pale sun lit a cache of masculine regalia; empty wine bottles, a lone boot lying on a crumpled shirt, a spray of cards strewn around a battered tankard and a shabby book sprawled page-down as though flung aside in a fit of pique.
Her first, bewildered glance screamed she had strayed into unknown territory. It also told her she was alone.
Head thumping, she pushed herself upright and tried to wrangle some sense from the previous evening. There was a vague, fuzzy sort of memory of someone plying her with wine as she sat in fits of laughter. Or was it tears? She felt her brow crinkle. Something was very wrong here.
After struggling from the nook of cushions and strewn blankets – and making the unhappy discovery that corsets were not the kindest of bedfellows – Mai risked a stretch before twisting to loosen the laces trailing her spine. What had possessed her to sleep in the thing anyway? Her fingers fumbled at the knots but it was no use; the bodice was strung tighter than a footpad's purse. With a curse borne of sheer frustration, Mai bunched the skirts to her knees. The dress was beyond crumpled anyway. If she ever managed to wrestle from it, she would press the gown before returning it to Leilan. Bright pain seized the thought like a vice of slow, squeezing fingers.
She moaned when the creature's song awoke, it's luring croon a canker in her ears,
Leilan….
Menna….I'm sorry.
Blissful torment shrieked louder still.
'Headache?'
The song ceased. She opened her eyes as Mat stepped into the tent.
'I've something of the same myself. Too much wine, I'll wager.' His smile was one she had never seen before, strained and distant.
He lifted a steaming bowl. 'I didn't know if you wanted any.'
'Thank you.' Knowing her colour had returned in a violent blush, she reached for the bowl he was already lowering to the floor, his eyes darting at anything but her.
'And I thought maybe you would want to get out of that dress. Into some new clothes, I mean.' He dropped a folded bundle beside the bowl. 'They probably won't be much of a fit.'
'That's fine. But I don't think I—' She waved a vague hand to her back. 'Could you just—?'
His eyes widened. 'Right.'
She turned, sweeping her hair over a shoulder. After a long moment, she felt a hesitant pluck at the ties then those hands were unravelling her laces with deft ease.
Why not? He's doubtless done it a hundred times before.
'Sorry.'
'What?'
'You flinched. I thought maybe I'd pinched you.'
'No, it's fine.'
She sighed as the corset relaxed.
'Tillalia was asking about you. They will be leaving within the hour if you want to say goodbye.'
Want. What she wanted was someone to hold her like they were afraid of letting go.
He had already backed away when she turned around.
'Do you need anything else?' That smile flashed again as he edged closer to the exit.
'No.'
He nodded and fled into the sunlight.
Mai knelt to retrieve her new clothes but her hand strayed instead to the tattered book. The Travels of Jain Farstrider. She fondly brushed the burnished lettering before uncurling the pages and placing the book on a cushion. After some rummaging, she found a mate for the forlorn boot and found them a home atop a dusty chest. That was when she saw the spear, its blade sleek and cold as a sickle moon. Her finger traced the strange lettering upon the glossy haft as though the slow caress could divine their secret. She could feel him there, an imprint of possession so strong the spear seemed to resent her touch.
With shallow breaths, she crouched instead to grasp and fold the shirt. She was sliding the cards into a neat pile when it overwhelmed her. Pressing her face into her skirts, she let tears come. She tried to mourn, to weep for Leilan and her neverborne child, but her pain was tired and familiar, like the ache of an old wound.
Weep for her, you selfish wretch. How dare you cry for your own sorrows?Mai wrenched at the corset, flung it to the ground and twisted the skirts free. Mat was right about the clothes; they weren't much of a fit. She rolled the sleeves to stop cuffs from spilling over her hands and gave thanks that the baggy breeches were at least a decent length.
The stew might as well have been boiled water for all she tasted. She managed to empty the bowl though for a worrying moment thought she might follow by emptying her stomach. After stamping into the snug boots and snatching up the dress, Mai took a deep breath in the dazzling light and headed for the huddle of carriages winking through the copse.
Pots clattered, breakfasts burned and the air sizzled with rumours of last night's events. As if the whispers weren't trial enough, heads turned like sunflowers at noon to follow her passage through the maze of white tents. Wide-eyed silence descended and Mai felt slithering panic creep through her innards. Clutching the dress with white knuckles, she hurried for the sanctuary of a deserted infirmary. Or so she thought.
The fading fire must have been giving scant warmth to the porridge the handful of rumpled men slopped into their bowls. Mai froze, making sure she was from sight as the group sat to prod at their breakfasts.
'Hardly got any bloody sleep at all.' A sullen, sharp-nosed man was muttering. 'What with all that ruckus last night.'
A fellow with black braids with tiny bells – bells – on them, stifled an impressive yawn. 'Not that nonsense about a flying Lurk again?'
'I keep telling you it wasn't a Fade. It had big, black eyes. And those wings.' The dour man hawked and spat into the fire. 'I'll say it again, that was no bloody Fade.'
'Wonder why it came here.'
'Ten crowns those Tinkers brought it.' A stout, balding man stabbed at his porridge. 'They'd steal your bairns before you could wink. Shifty, the lot of 'em'
'I reckon it's this place. Our luck's run low since we came here.'
A contemplative silence settled. Mai was about sneak away when a new voice snarled:
'It's that mongrel stray.'
All head swivelled to the burly man stooped on the log.
'Knew there was something about her.' He muttered, his bluff face working a slow frown. 'Got eyes to chill your marrow.'
'You think too much, Rae.' Braided-hair flashed the others a wide grin. 'What's Mai ever done to you?'
'I don't like her, is all.' Rae hunched deeper into his shoulders. 'Can't see what he's keeping her 'round for. Got no use for her now.'
'Probably keeps his blankets warm. A high price for putting up being poked with all those bones, though.'
The dark fellow's braids tinkled as he nodded. 'Truly. But when the keg's run dry, a man'll settle for the dregs.'
Their laughter was bitter music to her ears.
'You all right there, girl?'
Despite the newcomers bulk, he had crept behind her as silently as a dormouse. She gave a stunned nod.
He clapped a meaty hand to her arm. 'There's a good lass.'
With a grin that split his impressive red beard, the man strode to the fire. 'What you waiting for, boys? Doom? Get your pathetic, snivelling rumps to the armoury. Move it, Rae, you scurvy lump of….'
Rubbing her shoulder, Mai slunk from the infirmary. More eyes were peering from the tents in response to the big man's bellow.
Most of her audience looked wary, as though expecting an explosion of tears at any moment. Others wore open smirks.
Bloody fools. She felt a sudden, stifling urge to scream. Mongrel stray? Fire seared through her veins. She would show them. She would….'Oh bloody Light.'
Too late. He had surely seen her.
Less than a three-pace away, Cal was sitting on an upturned keg, the dregs of which had stained the ground a grim burgundy.
He acknowledged her with a twitch of his smile and carried on lathering a slice of soap over his jaw.
'Good morning, Mai.' He reached for the water-filled bowl at his feet. His blade made a sharp tink as it clipped the porcelain. 'Feeling better?'
'Much.'
His eyes flicked in a deliberate fashion, seemingly in the direction of Mat's tent. 'It's amazing what a good night's sleep can achieve.'
Her smile faded. 'I wanted to thank you.'
The blade rasped as he drew it over his throat. 'Don't mention it.'
'No. What you did was very brave.'
'Hardly.' He scraped the edge over his cheek. 'Just good timing, I suppose.'
The knife dipped to the sud-scurfed water. He was stripped to the waist and already the sun had dusted a golden hue to his bare shoulders. Water slithered from the blade, glistened a trail to his belly.
'I thought you had left.' She blurted.
Silence. The only sound was the song of steel on flesh.
'That must have been dreadful for you.' He said finally, sweeping a white flannel over his face. 'Now, if you will excuse me, I think I'm going to take a bath.'
'You've cut yourself.'
Cal dabbed at his throat. 'So I have.'
He slicked the crimson smear on his breeches and walked from her with slow, heavy steps, the sunlight glinting on his broad shoulders.
Besotted? Poor Leilan had been wrong – the man could barely stand the sight of her.
He wasn't going to fall asleep. Not really. Even though the sun was a golden blanket and the grass a plump pillow for his head. Sighing, Mat pushed himself from his snug and forced his eyes to stay open.
Pips wiffled at a nearby turret, content with his roadside rest despite the flies that whipped his tail into frenzy. Mat might have been just as affable if that bloody storm hadn't snapped and yowled all night. It hadn't even had the decency to rain and now the morning burned like an unquenched thirst. But he had snored through worse and woken fresh as a dewdrop long after other storms had taken their complaints elsewhere. It was the Draghkar's fault he hadn't slept. Or the wine.
All he wanted was a bed. Nothing fancy, just a mite cozier than some clump of grass smack between the camp and that midden-heap, Laybridge. But some stupid urge trapped his bones and all for the off chance that a recent acquaintance just might happen by. Light, his luck was good, but it had its limits.
If only Tillalia's maps hadn't been so bloody useless. Despite the woman's assurance that the ink was barely dry on the things there was still no mention of a Farwell. The place must have sprung up like a toadstool after spring rain. The odds of him never having to darken Laybridge for more tidbits looked bleaker with every notch the sun climbed that sickeningly merry sky. He scowled as one of his mother's oft-intoned sayings interrupted his self-pity;
'Only a fool wishes for an easy life.'
But he sure makes a cheery-looking corpse. Mat smiled and fanned himself with his hat. Best that his mother had never heard that silent little addition.
He supposed his current task at least lent the happy opportunity of giving him a rest from the camp. He knew the men were edgy, but he could have done without Per and his; 'My Lord, the men are restless. The men need a distraction. The men are bored....'
'Fine, Per. Bloody, flaming fine.' The little fellow had leapt at him before he could hop from his tent, but he had still heard the girl's sobs through the wittering. 'Call a torneien.Weapons of choice, no steel, bronze or iron. Fifty crowns to the last man standing, twenty to his opponent.'
Per had simply blinked at him with those owl-eyes. Little wonder; there hadn't been a torneien for five hundred years. Flaming, flaming ashes. 'Just set a contest, Per. A few friendly spars with a prize for the winner.' Light, he wished the girl had stopped those sobs. 'Get the Redarms to watch over. Any broken heads, and I'll break another ten for each of them.'
And that should be keeping them busy.
Restless the men may be, but it was nothing compared to his plight. It was stronger this morning, choking almost, and the more he wrestled that invisible noose the tighter it snagged, yanking him towards the Light knows where. Just thinking about Rand and all that ta'veren nonsense made his teeth ache but he had learned the hard way that resisting earned him nothing but strife and scars - and he had plenty of both already. A few days. Just a few more days, that's all he needed to ferret out some news.
Pillowing his head in laced fingers, Mat lay back down on the roadside. Still not so much of a hoof-beat from either direction.
Pips had ambled to a ridge of gorse, clearly intent in relieving the hedge of its small, yellow flowers. Unsurprisingly, the horse soon abandoned its quest with a pricked snout and much disgruntled snorting. Thick spines marred the branches of the gorse, black and vicious, but it was the paler smudge amongst the gnarled spines that lured Mat for a closer look. A pair of mice had been speared on the barbs, their tiny bodies limp and bloodied. Mat knew what predator would do such thing; the butcherbird was hardly rare. He had heard their shrill chatter all his life, a cry that chipped at the ears like a lime-chisel.
It had been a while since he had seen a Shrike's larder, though. The memory was patchy, just like the rest, but he clearly remembered the struggle to rein his mirth as Perrin paused a boyhood expedition to pluck three, tiny field mice from a berry-bramble. The snicker had finally got the better of him when his friend went on to dig a small hole. Rand's kick had soon snuffed that laugh and the taller boy hadn't stopped glaring until they were both kneeling to help Perrin pat the little animals into the dirt. He had chuckled about it for years afterwards, dredging the incident during a bout of banter or 'just happening' to mention it whenever Perrin was shyly talking to some village girl. But now, with roads stretching empty leagues into the distance and the drowsy heat fogging his mind, the beetle-black gaze of those dead mice made his skin feel a size too tight.
Shrugging his shoulders against such foolishness, Mat closed his eyes and let the sunlight seep into his muscles. In the soft, mock summer morning, its warmth was almost an embrace.
With the stares and whispers finally shielded by the leafy copse, Mai drew a long-awaited breath only for it to be clawed from her lungs. This was not going to be easy.
Dappled in sunlight and lively with sound, the Tua'athan camp was like some bright netherworld. Mai froze as a trio of children rushed to cling at her breeches. Cheeks plump with glee, they chirped excitedly at the prospect of a new playmate. Mortified at the attention, Mai tried to untangle their chubby fingers from her limbs.
'Good morning, Mai.'
Thea's smile almost shattered her tenuous reserve. She managed a curtsey that the children rushed to imitate, their eyes bright with mischief.
'May I speak with Tillalia?'
'Of course.' Thea motioned her to follow. The children trailed their shadows, tawny faces openly curious, until Thea shooed them into a squawking scatter.
Mai chanced a look at the girl gliding beside her. Thea was truly beautiful in repose, her tilted eyes tawny in the sunlight and her lips a perfect bow, the type she supposed most men would yearn to savour.
She cursed her treacherous complexion as her thoughts turned to the last victim of that rosebud smile.
The short walk to the carriages only served to worsen her dismay. The small encampment was disconcertingly merry. Music tripped from struck strings and every face bore a placid smile. How could they be so blithe? The small homes themselves sickened her with their crass flamboyance. Last night the carriages had looked unreal, dream-like. Her lips crooked at the comparison. By daylight, the caravans looked a counterpoint to her own dreams; nerve-shatteringly awful.
'I am glad you came.'
To the unwary ear, Thea sounded almost genuine. Mai quashed the uncharitable thought and masked her suspicion with serenity.
'I wanted to offer my regret. You were beyond honourable last night and yet I showed no respect. For that I cry your pardon.' Skirts held wide, Thea dropped a deep curtsey.
'Truly there's no need.'
The girl remained in that deferent pose.
'Thea, please. I give you pardon.'
Thea rose with stately grace, her proud bearing making Mai feel the humble one. 'Tidings, Mai. Please give Mat my regard.' A small smile. 'I wish you happiness with your chosen.'
'Cal is not my chosen.' She snapped.
Consternation marred Thea's brow. 'I do not—'
'Dearest.'
Mai wheezed as arms clasped her.
'Thank you for coming.'
Dressed tip to toe in purest white, Tillalia was even more beautiful than Mai remembered. The woman waited until Thea drifted back to the others before giving Mai a solemn look.
'I worried for you last night.'
'Oh, I was quite well. I wasn't alone.'
Tilly arched a brow. 'That's precisely my meaning.'
She felt like she should be blushing but it seemed sorrow was a harsher mistress than modesty.
'They all think the same.' Her tongue felt dry, awkward. 'And they think him a mockery for it.' Now indignation coloured her cheeks. That they should believe such things of him. Of her.
'Tongues will always wag, and often with due reason. My warning stands true, child.' Fingers curled around her own. 'Now, come along.'
She followed Tilly up creaking steps and through the snug doorway of a caravan. If she had not been so numb, Mai would have gaped in wonder. The bright, horrid hues had been drowned in flowers. Countless white blossoms, from daisies to eyebrights, bedecked chairs, tiny sills, and spilled onto the floor. But she had no time to wonder where the Tua'athan had harvested such a bounty. In the midst of all those ivory petals was Leilan, lying motionless and radiant as though she had merely paused for rest and fallen into slumber.
She dimly recalled Mat smoothing her hair as lightening tore the darkness, his low voice soothing the same assurance over and over; that Leilan wasn't dead. She hadn't believed it until now.
Leilan's cheeks were pink and her parted lips eased a slow, steady rhythm of breath. Again, Mai felt that overwhelming outrage. How could they mourn someone not yet dead?
The cabin suddenly reeked of the choking blossoms, rank in their sweetness. Mai wanted to tear at the hateful blooms, shriek at the wrongness of it all.
Her hand at least remained steady as she stroked Leilan's brow. It was still warm. 'I told her to run.'
'Because you thought that would save her.' Tillalia watched Leilan with soft, implacable eyes. 'What you did was admirable at the very least.'
'I should have done more. I should have screamed, warned the camp.'
'Oh, Andry did enough screaming for both of you.' Lips thinned in a grim smile. 'My nephew, not noted for his discretion, came roaring into the camp with a tale of some 'monstrous winged creature'. Your blond friend plunged into the night and by the time half the men had staggered afoot, Cal was back, you swooning in his arms and he silent and steadfast as a hero from the old yarns.'
'I suppose he didn't mention the part about me emptying my supper over his boots.'
'Oh, he's far too much of a gentleman for that, dearest.' A hand tilted her chin. 'And far too loyal and doting to a certain lady.'
Mai's smile died when she looked again to Leilan, half expecting to see her sweet smile and a teasing glint in her chestnut eyes.
I told you, Mai, try kissing him a few times. How she wished she could remember Leilan so; fond and playful, not lost in a bed of flowers like some alabaster doll.'Make your choice and be happy, Mai, but make it soon. The boy won't wait forever. Now, on your way.' Weariness tainted Tilly's rich voice and Mai realised that pragmatic smile hid a sorrow etched to the bone. 'Leilan will be glad you came to say goodbye.'
'Her dress….'
'It's yours. Leilan thought you a vision in it, and she never erred in matters of beauty.' Tillalia kissed her on each cheek. 'It's what she would have wanted.'
'Thank you.' Gulping against tears, Mai reached to stroke Leilan's tiny hand. 'What of the child?'
Silence. Unspilled tears blurred until Leilan seemed to drift in a corona of purest white. Mai placed a cheek to the girl's rounded belly. 'I'm sorry little one.'
She felt it then; a tiny flutter, like a moth wing in the dark and, despite the sick-sweet flowers, the cruel stillness and the distant, plaintive storm, Mai smiled.
It was a low, dark growl, the sound of something faraway but growing steadily close. He thought it a dream until a roar split the darkness. A fang of jagged light had her trembling and clutching for his hand.
'It's just a storm.' Her cheek burned beneath his touch. 'Go back to sleep.'
The foxhead glinted at her throat. 'What if it's out there?'
'Then it wouldn't stand a chance.' He pulled her close. Her hair was a veil on his chest, warm and sweet as sunlit thistledown....
The bawl of thunder jolted him upright. Wincing in the light, Mat pressed fists to his eyes and moaned.
Bloody fool! Falling asleep when any idiot could happen by.
Sleep sliding from his flesh like a silken sheet, Mat struggled to his feet and hobbled to the dusty road. He was trying to walk the cramp from his limbs when another snarl of thunder rattled the pebbles. So the storm had returned after all. He was so certain he had been dreaming, something about lightening and nettles. Or was it thistles?
The jangle of bells roused him from these faintly troubling thoughts. His foot almost slipping on the moss-slick verge, Mat dashed to lean a nonchalant pose on Pips saddle.
Around the bend came the Bellwether, its shaggy head nodding in the heat, followed by the old grey-haired coot himself. Upon spying him, the man creaked his neck as though looking for some way of escape. Unless he fancied a scramble through several yards of gorse and hedgerow, his chances didn't look good. Evidently realising the same thing, the farmer plodded on, his woolly herd tottering behind.
Mat put on his best smile as the man grew near. 'Excuse me.'
The old shepherd muttered something that sounded like 'Gowway.'
'I was wondering if you could help me. I'm interested in what you said the last time we spoke. About the Whitecloaks.'
'Aye?'
'Let's see.' He made a show of pondering. 'Ah yes. 'They'll get theirs. Just like the last time.'' He grinned at the man's slitted gaze. 'I've a very good memory.'
'What you after?'
'Just a little information. I'm looking for someone who can tell me about a Farwell.'
The man stopped short. 'Why?'
'You know the place?'
'Aye, for all my efforts to rid it from my brain.' The fellow delved a grimy hand into a stained pocket and fished out a small, wooden box. 'Snuff?'
Mat shook his head.
'Suit yourself.' The man inhaled a pinch with loud relish, closed the box and pocketed it with a fond pat.
'Well?'
'Well what?'
Mat gritted his teeth. 'Can you tell me anything about Farwell?'
That earned him level stare. 'No need to snap your gums. Just be a waste of your time anyway.'
'What's that supposed to mean?'
Rheumy eyes scanned the hazy horizon before settling on Mat. 'Farwell don't exist.'
'I thought you just said it was a place.'
The man gave a creaky nod.
'And now you're telling me that it never existed?'
'I said it don't exist. Place can't just dis'ppear - can be destroyed.' He spat hard, as though to rid a bitter taste. 'If I tell, you'll leave me be?'
Mat nodded, desperately reining the urge to shake the fool until his few remaining teeth rattled.
The old man hooked thumbs into his twine belt and chewed thoughtfully on his gums before beginning. 'It was a mining town, and a good one. Lots of folk got rich there. They brought families and made the place look more than the pock of dirt it was. Then the Whitecloaks came.' He forked a superstitious gesture and spat. 'Sniff wealth a hundred-pace off, those vermin can. Took the town under their protection, starting punishing folk to keep them cowed. Saw to it that the earth was all but picked clean. The place was full of mines and dust and sickness. But that wasn't the worst of it.' He gave a nasty chuckle, clearly relishing the promise of disaster. 'Those fools didn't think where to put all the muck they yanked out of the earth. They just piled it high 'til it was just another hill and put it out of their greedy minds. I warned them, mind. Had a sister there and told her straight. I said 'Mark my words, that'll come down and swamp the lot of you.' Even offered for her and the whelps to live with me for a time. But she was proud, her and that uppity husband both. Too used to the good life and hungry for the stuff that made them money.'
Silence save for bleat of the milling herd. 'What happened?'
Those choleric eyes took on a spiteful glint. 'It came down one morning. All the slurry, all at once. It buried the town and every soul in it. Some men from Laybridge went to see if they could drag any wretches from the muck. But we found nothing. All those people, and still nothing.'
Mat felt his hand drop from Pips' saddle. The only clue he had, and it was as good as useless.
'Sorry, boy.' The old shepherd mumbled, sounding anything but. 'Had you family there?'
'No. I was told that finding it could answer a few questions.'
'Farwell is a dead place. Best forgotten. Leave your questions be.'
The flock milled into a huddle as thunder, its cry wan and distant now, knelled beyond the barren dales. 'Are you sure that no one survived?'
'There was gossip, rumours that some had managed to flee. But I never met none. Seen the place with my own eyes. Old and weak they are, but saw enough. No soul could live through that.'
'Where is it?'
'City boy never heard of a map? Go find it yourself. I've told you plenty.'
'It's not on any—' He paused, a sick feeling brewing in his gut. 'How long ago did this happen?'
'About nine winters.' His voice was reedy on the dander-flecked air. 'You'll never find it. The place'll be nothing but grass and fen by now.'
With a bark that could have been a laugh or cough, the old man stumped on.
'Thanks for nothing, you bloody, flaming son of a goat-swilling--'
It was perhaps fortunate that a swell of thunder buried his expletives at that point. Pips flicked his ears and shot a reproachful look.
'Just shut up.' Mat flopped onto the grass and wrenched an unoffending clutch of forget-me-nots. Their sweet, familiar blue calmed him, if a little. He idly plucked the tiny petals and let them flutter to the ground.
His glare settled upon the two dead mice. Mat stood, flowers forgotten, and approached the grisly scene. Blood had caked the thorns and oozed to clot the leaves a macabre russet. Gently, he plucked first one then the other mouse from the thorn and dropped them to the grass. There. With a quick glance around, he fell to his knees and thumbed free a clod of dirt. When the two creatures were whisker to whisker in the small hole, Mat crumbled the earth over the tiny bodies and patted them into the ground.
Pips craned his neck as Mat put boot to stirrup.
'I said shut up.'
He vaulted into the saddle and heeled the gelding's flanks, the dying thunder an echo to the galloping hooves.
The storm had dwindled to an ashen smear when he thundered into the camp. Pips' sides were a strained bellow, and his legs shook as Mat yanked him to a halt. Uyren looked over the gelding's frothed muzzle and lathered sides with silent disapproval.
'No pasture.' Mat tossed the reins to the burly fellow. 'Feed and settle him for the night.' Was his parting command as he left the roan huffing at the groom.
Mat stomped past the deserted tents, too livid to give much thought as to why the place was so quiet.
It was the furious clack of wood that finally penetrated his foul mood. It didn't take him long to find the men huddled around the unmistakable scuffle of a practice ring. He waded through the knot of bodies, not caring about feet he trampled or ribs he nudged.
'Per!'
A small head popped up like a moorhen amongst reeds. 'My Lord?'
'What the bloody Light is going on?'
Per piped something above the crowd.
'What?'
The man edged through the throng, muttering apologies at those who shunted him like a dinghy at high tide. 'A contest, my Lord,' he gasped. 'Is that not what you decreed?'
Ashes. What was had he been thinking?
'Of course, of course. I was just wondering how things were coming along.'
'Well, Estean fought tremendously well, my Lord. And young Trey, he gave quite a performance. Talmanes was in fine fettle until that tall Saldean fellow clipped him quite senseless and Delaine is positively….'
Mat left Per twittering to his shadow. He had seen enough to know the whole thing had sunk into a melee. Bloody marvellous.
He tramped towards a very sorry-looking Nalesean. The man was sitting on the scrubby grass, one hand to his gullet and the other holding a dripping cloth to his temple.
'What happened to you?'
'Estean.' His voice was even hoarser than usual. 'The little git tried to rip my throat out.'
'What about that?'
Nalesean lifted his hand to reveal a nasty knot on his forehead. 'Ferrell's doing.'
Mat gave an appreciative whistle.
'Wasn't happy that I didn't break when he called foul.' He covered the purpling lump with a grimace. 'Who's fool idea was this anyway?'
'Mat.' Estean almost tripped over his own toes as he hurtled towards them. 'Where have you been?'
'Enjoying the countryside.' He drawled.
Estean had spied Nalesean glaring at him from his uncovered eye. The boy sidled until he had Mat positioned between himself and the scowling Tairen.
'Some of the men were wondering if you would have a turn. There's just the one round left, you know.'
'Aye, Mat.' Nalesean's eye took on a spiteful glint. 'It's only sporting to let our champion bask in your presence.'
Mat clenched his fists. Right now, he had never needed to hit something so badly – which made it the worst possible time for a fight.
Estean's simper was bad enough, but Nalesean's questioning smirk was nothing short of a challenge.
Mat gritted a smile, turned and trudged for the clump of men, telling himself that a good, friendly spar might be just the thing to set his mood to rights. The crowd raised a cheer when they saw his intention and Mat aired a gracious wave. He was actually grinning by the time he stepped into the circle, a positive picture of geniality. Until he saw his opponent.
Cal stood in the centre of the ring, not at all breathless and hardly sweating a drop. The man had already chosen his weapon; a narrow sword length of willow planted nub-first in the dust. His brief enthusiasm well and truly snuffed, Mat plodded to a nearby rack. He took as long as possible choosing a staff, tilting it this way and that as though testing its mettle while frantically trying to work a way out of this mess. Cal looked on, all indolent disinterest as he rested his sword-arm on that wicked epée. It was not until the man flicked a look to the crowd that something other than scorn registered in his eyes.
Mat tracked that glance to a very familiar face amongst the throng. His smile, the first genuine reaction in this nightmare of a morning, seemed to soften her concern.
Dust puffed from his boot heels as Mat sauntered to his opponent.
Cal smiled. 'To the victor the spoils?'
'Why not? You could make good on all that coin you've wagered.'
Cal's grin grew tight. 'I'm not talking about gold.'
'Clean fight.' Ferrell cut a menacing figure as he strode to tower above them. The big man's hand seemed to dwarf Cal's shoulder and Mat's own knees almost buckled under Ferrell's hearty slap. 'No kicking, biting or head-blows. And keep all the jabs above the waist.' The bearded man dropped Mat a wink. 'Agreed?'
Mat nodded.
Ferrell glared at Cal, who matched that fiery look with a barely contained smirk.
What was the man playing at? Just when it seemed that Cal was in line for an impromptu cuff to the head, he presented a flowery bow and a disarming, 'Of course.'
His colourful curse thankfully muffled by his red beard, Ferrell backed a few paces. 'On my mark. And when I call break, make sure you bloody break.' He threw a meaningful look in Nalesean's direction. 'Mark.'
Mat adopted a narrow stance, one that he knew would best counter Cal's brand of attack. His opponent, however, simply raised the willow length in strange salute, his glare made all the more sinister for being split by a blade edge, wooden or no.
'Begin.'
The willow wailed through the air. Mat staggered as the blade whistled past his hip to shear a furrow in the dirt. Grip tightening, Mat whirled the staff and locked the sword-tip to the ground. The vivid smack of wood rang in the silence. 'Good move.'
Grimacing, Cal clipped the blade free and stepped back.
'Break.'
The sword whicked past his ear. Mat dodged the fast, upward swipe, an outraged cry strangling his throat. His ankle twisted in a bright spark of pain.
'Burn you, Delaine, break.'
Cal spun away with a snarl. Hacking at the dust in his throat, Mat steadied hands on knees and gasped a breath. The blonde man paced before him, eyes hooded and feral.
'Cool your heels, Delaine.' Ferrell snapped. 'Mat?'
Mat straightened with a nod.
Disapproval darkened Ferrell's face. 'Mark.'
Cal raised the sword before him in that strange salute, his eyes dark enough to sear the stout willow. Mat let him wait, walking the kink from his ankle before planting a deliberate stance. He gave his most insolent grin. 'Play nice.'
He was ready this time, blocking Cal's thrusts with whirls of the staff, hoping the man would wear off a little steam. No such luck.
Face twisted in a savage snarl, Cal launched parries and lunges as though trying to drive true steel between Mat's ribs. They were both panting when Ferrell called the next break.
'Friendly spar, not brawl, remember?' Mat thumbed the sweat from his eyes. 'Ease up a little.'
'Why? Getting tired?' A vicious smile. 'But then, I don't suppose you got much sleep last night.'
'Oh, it takes more than a little storm to keep me awake.'
Cal lashed with the blade. Cursing, Mat feinted wide then snapped back, twisting the staff with a sharp flick of his wrists.
There was a crack and a harsh intake of breath. Tossing the sword to his other hand, Cal sucked bruised knuckles and glowered.
Ignoring Ferrell's outraged 'Foul!', Mat levelled the quarterstaff at Cal's chest. 'I will call end to this now if you keep trying to split my flaming skull.'
'Why? Can't stand not being the victor for once?'
'Light. Here, have your bloody win.' A muted gasp sounded as the staff clattered in the dust. 'Congratulations.'
Cal snatched up the staff and thrust it at him before he could cry yield. 'The least you can do is fight.'
'Enough.' Mat grabbed the weapon but held it clamped to his side. 'You're not yourself.'
'I saved her this time, Mat. Me. But she still ended up in your bed.'
Mat barked an incredulous laugh – which was something of a mistake.
The feint was quick, so quick that Mat didn't register the true blow until he was gasping in the dust.
'Break.'
Hand clutched to his ribs, Mat spat into the dirt, Ferrell's livid bark humming in his ears.
Cal stood over him. 'Thought she had a shine for you.' He breathed. 'Just never thought she'd stoop to being a farmboy's whore.'
The staff streaked upwards. Cal reeled from the strike with a strangled grunt. Mat lunged, ready to plough the man to the ground when an arm swung about his chest, tearing him back.
'I said break, lad.' Ferrell's nose was all but pressed against his own. 'Calm down.'
Cal's teeth bared in a near triumphant smile as he inspected bloodied fingertips. Her cheeks pale, Mai rushed to attend the gash on the man's brow, stroking his hair from the wound in a near caress.
Breathing hard, Mat wrenched free of Ferrell's grip.
Indecision warred with the concern on Mai's face. Blood was running freely now, spilling over Cal's cheek like some grisly mask. She shot a look at Mat, frustration and appeal in equal measure, and then she was leading the blonde man through the murmuring crowd.
Hobbling to an obliging rock, Mat sank down with a hiss. Light, but his ribs were on fire.
'Any broke?'
'I bloody well hope not.'
Ferrell nodded but kept watching him, his pale eyes no less intimidating despite their concern. 'That was dicey.'
Mat grunted.
'You could have broken the fellow's head.'
'Only to stop him breaking mine.' He winced as he probed at his tender side.
'Want me to fetch Mai?'
'I think she's busy.'
There was not a hint of the girl's customary calm now. Her cheeks were pale as she fussed about Cal, holding her hand before him and demanding that he follow that finger and count these fingers and did he feel sick, faint, ill? For his part, Cal sat slumped on the grass, his gaze only lifting from the dirt to follow the girl's increasingly strange commands.
'Don't know what's gotten into that lad.' Ferrell shook his head. 'Thought he had some promise, but a temper like that's use to no one.'
Mai pressed a cloth into Cal's hand and mimed raising it to her brow. After a moment, Cal followed her lead, wincing a little as the cloth touched his torn flesh. The man swayed when Mai helped him to his feet but quickly shrugged off the girl's help. She watched him limp away, her sleek braid swaying almost to the small of her back. He had a brief image, almost painful in its clarity, of that hair draped across his chest like a fragrant veil. Light, maybe Cal had landed a drub to his head after all.
Then Mai was striding towards him, her lips set in a firm line.
'Captain Ferrell, would you be so kind as to fetch an alum-salve from my bag? Per will show you where to find it.'
The bearded man gave a bow worthy of the finest court and, sparing a consoling look for Mat, set off on his mission.
Mai watched him leave with hands planted on hips too narrow for even the smallest breeches he had found for her. The shirt was nearly as loose. Well, in most places. He made a play of wide-eyed innocence when she rounded upon him.
'What is the matter with you two?' She demanded when Ferrell had blundered from earshot. 'I thought you were hurt.'
'I am hurt. Besides, it was Cal's fault.'
'How exactly?'
'He—' Her face was flushed, her gaze large and expectant. 'It doesn't matter.'
Blue eyes lingered on his face, as though searching for the lie. He shifted under her scrutiny then hissed as pain jabbed his side.
'Here, let me see.'
Mat fended off her touch. 'They're not broken.'
'And you would know?' She scorned, slapping his hand away. 'How does that feel?'
'Cold.'
She shot him a flat look. 'What about this?'
He swore as her cool fingers probed a raw spot.
'Bruised.' She announced. 'Don't look so smug. I still need to bind them.'
'Sure you can spare the bandages?' He gave her a sly grin, pleased by the sudden colour in her cheeks. Point scored, he gingerly shucked the sweat-slicked shirt over his head.
Mai stared at him in her confounded way, brows creased in that elusive frown. So far, he had narrowed its source as one of two things; deep, meaningful thought or delayed shock at her current situation. Or it could be a mere product of all those strange, female things running through her head. Still, it would make his life a lot easier if she sniffed or tugged on that braid from time to time.
'You've a lot of scars.' She noted in a cool voice. 'Do they pain you?'
'This one,' he pointed at the tail of a ragged scar. 'Aches in damp weather and this one,' his finger slid to a puckered dent just above his hip. 'Complains when its warm. He and I are not on good terms right now.'
'And this?'
He watched her trace the thin ribbon of flesh slanting to his navel. 'Silent as the grave.'
Her gaze lingered on his throat. The scarf had slid free of its knot to dangle uselessly on his chest. The unfamiliar weight of another's eyes on that scar made him shiver. 'Did you see Tilly off?' He asked, a little more gruffly than he intended.
She looked away as he fumbled at the scarf. 'Yes.'
'Then I'm sorry.'
'Sorry?'
'For running off earlier. I should have escorted you.'
That earned him one of her looks, the one he rather favoured; wide-eyed and artless. He thought it meant he had surprised her somehow, in a good way. Not that he strove for that look. It was just nice when one came along.
'I'm sure you had somewhere important to be. Besides, it's I who should be apologizing. I was wrong to trouble you last night.'
'What trouble? You don't snore, you know.'
She flashed him a smile. They were still rare enough to startle him and, as usual, they did not linger. 'Mat, did it hurt when you got your memories back?'
It took him a second to absorb her words. He leaned closer. 'What's happened?'
'Last night I remembered something. Before the attack, I mean. It was a girl.'
'And you've no idea—'
'Who she is? No. But I've seen her in my dreams. When I saw her last night it made me sick, Mat. Light, it made me so sick. And I'm afraid of what might happen if….I'm afraid of what will happen when I find out who she is. Who they all are.' Her plaintive whisper made him forget his dented ribs. Then, quickly as it came, the anguish faded from her eyes. 'I'm sorry. You're sore and I'm blathering on about my fool memories.'
He almost choked. That she, with all her troubles, could put his rack of bruised ribs first…'Thought is the arrow of time; memory never fades. What was asked is given. The price is paid.'
Her stare was quizzical, wondering, those eyes impossibly blue.
'You won't have to pay for what you want. I swear it, seiera.' On impulse, he took her pale, slender hand and raised it to his cheek. 'I swear it.'
The girl stiffened. Her gaze slid to his bare throat, grew wide with comprehension.
Slowly, oh so slowly, her thumb stroked his jaw. He saw the sun had hatched a spray of freckles on her nose, tipped the dark sweep of her eyelashes with gold. Now there was a light of empathy in her eyes, a shadow of understanding.
He lost a breath as she caressed his cheek.
Dovie'andi se tovya sagain.'Mai, does Daughter of the—'
'I found it.'
Her hand jerked from his face. Both looked up to see Ferrell holding a small jar proudly aloft.
'Per weaselled it out in no time.' The big man dropped the pot into Mai's palm.
'Thank you.' She murmured, turning to swipe at her tears.
Ferrell frowned. 'Something wrong?'
'Surely you must be used to your effect on women by now, Captain.'
'Funny, Cauthon. Very funny.'
Mai was looking at him askance, her lips curved in a grateful smile as she began to stroke the balm to his tender short-ribs.
'What was it you were talking about?' Ferrell boomed. 'Daughter of the something. Reminds me of a tavern I once visited. There was this wench there that—'
'Just the name of a book I once read.'
The lie ended in a wheeze as Mai yanked the bandage around his middle.
'Best not to listen, Ferrell.' Her fingers worked a knot in place. 'He speaks such nonsense sometimes.'
'So you've said.' Mat gasped.
A sound escaped her, a soft, low ripple of amusement. 'Now, my lords, I trust you will excuse me.' Her face a little pink, Mai gathered an armful of spilled bandages, dropped a practised curtsey and left, her braid swinging to the measure of her slow, lilting steps.
'Spread the order, Ferrell. We're leaving.'
'When?'
Tonight he would sneak into Laybridge. The thought sent a thrill through him, like filching pies on a Sunday or stealing a moonlight kiss.
He saw her tilt a smile over her shoulder and again heard that low, rippling sound. Then it struck him; it was the first time he had heard her laugh. Mael, mi seiera'an mai?
'Tomorrow.' The smile he gave Ferrell was too wide, too bright. 'We leave tomorrow.'
Trans. -Time to toss the dice.
End Note – The untranslated words/phrases in this chapter are all derived from a genuine Old Tongue resource. As for their meaning….well, you're on your own there kiddo ;)