Taste of Lightning Read online

  Skir said, ‘Well, I’ve had ten years of geography lessons. I could draw a map of the Threelands in my sleep.’ He scratched with a stick on the dirt floor. ‘Here’s Baltimar. This is Arvestel. We’re about – here. There’s the border with Cragonlands. This is Codlin’s Gulf –’ Without thinking, Skir scratched the Signs that spelled out the name.

  ‘What’s that?’ said Tansy, leaning over his shoulder.

  Skir scuffed out the Signs. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘It’s witch-writing,’ said Perrin at the same moment. ‘Only sorcerers know it.’

  Skir and Perrin exchanged a swift, mutually surprised glance.

  ‘There are forests all along here,’ said Skir quickly. And some villages – look, it doesn’t matter.’ He erased the rough map with his boot. ‘As long as we keep north till we reach the sea.’

  ‘Didn’t expect you to be our navigator.’ Perrin grinned. ‘That’ll give them a laugh at High Command. They enjoy a laugh.’

  ‘Do you like being a soldier?’ asked Skir.

  ‘No,’ said Perrin. ‘I hate it.’

  ‘Then why do it?’ asked Tansy scornfully.

  ‘I didn’t have any choice. I was drafted at sixteen, like everyone else.’ He stretched out his legs, clad in soldier’s boots. ‘So, we head due north. Not that we’ll make it. We’ve no food, no supplies, nowhere to hide, and the whole Baltimaran Army on our tails.’

  ‘Not the whole Army,’ said Skir. ‘They won’t want to admit they’ve lost me.’

  Perrin raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re right, you know. They’ll try to keep it quiet as long as they can. They’ll only send out their crack troops. Anyway, they’re too busy defending Cragonlands to spare many men.’

  ‘Just the crack troops? Nothing to worry about then.’ Skir tried to smile as he massaged his aching knees.

  ‘You’ll be all right, whatever happens,’ said Perrin sharply. ‘It’s me and the laundry-maid who’ll be executed if we’re caught. No one’s going to harm a hair on your pretty red head . . . Speaking of which, we should do something about your hair. Cut it short at least. They can probably see it glowing from the border.’

  ‘It’s awful bright,’ agreed Tansy, eyeing Skir critically.

  ‘Cut it off then,’ said Skir abruptly. ‘Go on.’

  Tansy sawed through Skir’s pigtail with the dagger that had belonged to Doughty. When she was finished, Perrin said, ‘Burn it. It’ll stink, but we can’t leave it lying around for Fingers to find.’

  Tansy lit the lamp again. She lowered the hair into the flame, and it shrivelled into smoke. The acrid stench filled their nostrils, and the horses snorted and turned away.

  Tansy held out the dagger to Skir. ‘You better have this. I got the sword already.’

  Skir shrank back. ‘I couldn’t use it.’

  ‘I can teach you. Go on. You need something.’

  ‘But I’m not allowed to –’

  ‘Take it,’ came Perrin’s voice. ‘What, you’re not allowed to slice bread? Not allowed to cut through a branch in your way? Not allowed to cut a rope or a piece of cheese?’

  Skir hesitated, then held out his hand. Gingerly he buckled the belt around his waist and slid the dagger into its sheath. Perrin chuckled, and Tansy glared at him.

  ‘It’ll be useful,’ she said encouragingly, and Skir gave her a wan smile.

  Exhaustion crushed him like a boulder. He spread his coat over himself and lay back in the hay. He was still hungry, sunburned, dirty, rubbed raw, aching and bruised in every bone and muscle. He murmured, ‘I’ll never be able to . . .’ His eyes flickered, then closed, and his head dropped.

  Tansy watched him. ‘He did all right today, seeing as he ain’t much of a rider.’

  ‘For a spoilt princeling, that young feller of yours has done pretty well,’ agreed Perrin. ‘We can use those sacks for saddles. But we can’t go on riding without some kind of bridle. Although it doesn’t matter, does it, since we’re setting the horses free . . .’

  ‘Oh shut up,’ said Tansy. She patted Penthesi’s flank. ‘They don’t want to go home yet. They’re having an adventure – aren’t you, my loves? Reckon I can turn that coil of rope up there into a bridle or two.’

  Perrin nodded, stretched, and winced. ‘What I wouldn’t give for a hot bath! Or even a cold one.’

  ‘Perrin,’ said Tansy awkwardly, using his name for the first time. ‘Show me your hand.’

  Perrin held it out. ‘What’s the verdict?’

  Tansy let it drop. ‘It don’t look good. I reckon a healer should see it.’

  ‘So my hand’s rotting, just to complete the perfect picture.’

  ‘It ain’t my fault.’ Tansy reached along the coil of thin rope and began to measure lengths for a bridle. Perrin lay back and watched her fair head bent in the lamplight, her face severe with concentration as she unpicked and re-wove the strands of rope. Without looking up, she said, ‘Skir and me ain’t sweethearts, you know. So you can stop calling him my young feller, all right? I ain’t going to tell you again.’

  ‘All right,’ said Perrin. ‘He says the same, so it must be true.’

  ‘Does he?’ said Tansy. ‘Then it must be.’

  ‘It’s a shame, really. I’m all in favour of young love. Ah well. Maybe things will develop.’ Perrin smiled lazily as Tansy’s face flushed pink. ‘Or do you already have a young feller, is that it?’

  Tansy laid down the rope and glared at him. ‘You put one finger on me, Gani, and I’ll smack you so hard your teeth’ll rattle.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Perrin amiably. It was a new experience to meet someone apparently immune to his charms. Only Tugger – ‘What’s that?’ he said abruptly.

  They both froze, listening.

  ‘Just cats,’ whispered Tansy.

  The howling died away. Perrin nodded. ‘Wake me for my watch when you’re sleepy. And don’t forget to put the lamp out.’ He rolled over, and before he’d taken three breaths he fell into a soldier’s instant sleep.

  CHAPTER 8

  The Fastness of Rarr

  SKIR started awake as Tansy shook his shoulder. He stared at her blankly for a moment before it all rushed back: the escape, the chase, the horses. He sat up, and just as quickly lay down again. Movement was agony. Slowly, painfully, he dragged himself upright. He could smell his own rank breath, the fetid stink of unwashed clothes and bodies and the overpowering odour of the horses. It was still dark; Perrin was moving around the barn. The horses snuffled and pawed the ground. Tansy whispered, ‘Time to go.’

  There was no breakfast, no basin of warm water to wash in, no tray of muffins and jam and hot reviving tea. Skir moved stiffly, trying not to fall behind the others. Tansy gave him an encouraging smile, and that straightened his bent back for a little while. As they crept from the barn, the cliff loomed over them, a solid, threatening slice of darkness against the pale sky. They led the horses across a field speckled with wildflowers to the shelter of the woods beyond. A bird whirred up from the trees and Skir jumped.

  ‘This way, right, Skir?’ said Perrin.

  Skir nodded. ‘This forest runs – it should run all the way to the River Shale, I think.’

  ‘But the trees are too close together,’ objected Tansy. ‘We can’t ride through that.’

  ‘Now you want to let the horses go?’ Perrin asked. ‘After you sat up all night weaving that bridle?’

  ‘Not all night,’ said Tansy awkwardly.

  Perrin narrowed his eyes. ‘That’s the beauty of the plan. Fingers knows we’re on horseback. So he’s less likely to follow us somewhere horses can’t go.’

  ‘So you’re saying we really can’t take the horses?’ Tansy looked dismayed.

  ‘No. But we’ll have to lead them.’ Perrin’s head swung round. ‘Speaking of Fingers – listen . . .’

  A dull, rhythmic noise echoed up from the valley below: the tramp of soldiers’ boots. A great many boots.

  ‘Not just half-a-dozen men this time,’ said Perrin
softly. ‘He’s brought a whole platoon.’

  Skir swallowed. Tansy’s hand crept to her throat. The tramping noise swelled louder. Perrin kept his eyes on the valley road; he didn’t turn around, but backed very slowly into the shelter of the trees, singing softly, and the horses followed him.

  ‘Come on,’ whispered Tansy, and Skir let her pull him into the forest.

  There was no more talk of releasing the horses to find their own way home, and at times it seemed that they were the keenest members of the party, picking their way steadily through the trees, day after day, without complaint.

  Tansy walked with Penthesi, and Perrin led Sedge. Every step was painful. The woods were eerily silent, except for the rustle of unseen animals. Skir glanced around nervously at every sound, expecting to see soldiers jump out from between the tree-trunks. He stumbled along in a fog of hunger and exhaustion and fear, wondering why he’d ever left Arvestel, torn between guilt over missing the Palace, worry about Beeman, and terror at being captured. A dozen times a day he’d look up to find the others had vanished ahead, and he’d break into a breathless, limping run to catch up.

  ‘Skir ain’t hardly eaten for three days,’ Tansy whispered to Perrin; she glanced at Skir where he sat examining his blistered feet.

  Perrin grimaced as he flexed his wounded hand. ‘I notice you’ve got over your finer feelings. No problems now about strangling the bunnies and the birds I catch, let alone eating them.’

  ‘I’m hungry,’ said Tansy bluntly. ‘Don’t mean I enjoy it. But he still won’t touch a morsel.’

  Skir called out dully, ‘I know you’re talking about me. You may as well do it so I can hear.’

  Tansy went to kneel beside him. ‘You got to eat something. Or you’ll fold up like a pea plant with no stake to hold it up.’

  ‘No steak!’ said Perrin. ‘That’s not bad, Tansy. By the bones,’ he said longingly. ‘A steak with roast potatoes and green beans and butter –’

  ‘Shut up,’ said Tansy crossly. ‘Unless you can pull one out of your pack.’ She rubbed Skir’s shoulder. ‘Won’t you just try a mouthful of meat? Perrin’s got a fat rabbit all ready to cook.’

  Skir shook his head.

  Perrin squatted beside him. ‘Listen, you stubborn little frugger. You’d better make it to the border, because if you die before we get there, High Command will have me executed. Now, what’s more important, my life or a bunny’s life?’

  Skir wavered, Perrin saw, but then he said faintly, ‘I’m not dying yet.’

  Perrin threw up his hands. ‘Starve yourself to death if you want to. But you won’t be much good to the people of Cragonlands then, will you?’

  At that, Skir’s face closed up altogether.

  At night they huddled by the warmth of the horses, on the chilled ground. No one slept much. Skir often heard Tansy cry out in her sleep. No, Madam – please, no! In the morning she would be pale and anguished, but she never spoke of her dreams.

  She was in a grimmer mood each day, worried that the horses weren’t getting enough to eat. At least her gashed cheek had closed up neatly.

  As they set off on the fifth morning, Perrin stretched out his injured right hand for Sedge’s rope bridle without thinking, and crumpled as if he’d been shot.

  ‘Let’s see,’ ordered Tansy. She pulled away the grimy bandage and Perrin went white about the lips. ‘That hand smells. Needs a healer.’ She turned to Skir. ‘Any towns near here?’

  Skir gave her a glazed look. ‘A town? If we follow the Shale upstream for a day or so . . .’

  ‘Good,’ said Tansy. ‘We need food. The horses, too. But Perrin needs a healer first.’

  ‘Even before oats for Penthesi? I’m touched.’ Perrin tucked his hand gingerly away in its sling. ‘But we can’t risk it. Don’t forget your boyfriend here – sorry, sorry, your friend – isn’t some insignificant little horse-thief. He’s the Priest-King of Cragonlands, hostage to the King of Baltimar. Fingers will be crawling over every town near Arvestel like maggots on dead meat.’

  Skir said, ‘When we reach Rarr, perhaps we should –’

  Tansy stopped short. ‘What?’

  ‘When we reach Rarr –’

  ‘Rarr!’ Tansy’s face was green. ‘You never said we were going to Rarr; you never told me that! That’s where she lives, the Witch-Woman! Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘I didn’t know – I didn’t know she lived there,’ stammered Skir.

  ‘A Witch-Woman?’ said Perrin. ‘Sounds interesting.’

  ‘Wanion ain’t just any witch,’ said Tansy. ‘She’s the Witch-Woman. Ain’t you never heard of her? She tortures people, Ganis like you. I seen what she does, I know –’

  ‘Be quiet,’ said Skir. ‘Stop shouting. They’ll hear you in Rarr if you don’t shut up.’ He was trembling.

  ‘Rarr,’ said Tansy under her breath. ‘Of all the places. Rarr.’

  Perrin threw his arm around her shoulders. ‘I’ll protect you from the big bad witch.’

  ‘Oh –’ Tansy bit her tongue; she brushed him away and went to Skir.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Skir wretchedly. ‘I didn’t know.’

  ‘That’s all right.’ Tansy was pale. ‘She’s watching me, see, watching me in my sleep. No wonder, if we’re so close to her own place. It ain’t your fault.’ She reached for his hand and held it; Skir, surprised, squeezed it eagerly. After a moment Tansy glanced back to see if Perrin was watching, but he was leading Sedge over a fallen log. Penthesi rolled his dark eye at her reprovingly. Tansy frowned, squeezed Skir’s fingers hard, and let his hand fall.

  It was just after midday when Tansy caught sight of a dilapidated hut in a clearing beside the river. She drew her sword as she crept from the shelter of the trees, peered about, then beckoned to the others. ‘Safe. There’s grass for the horses, and we can rest in the hut. Tie up Sedge to the willow, Skir.’

  ‘Must be an old woodsman’s hut.’ Perrin poked his head inside and blinked as his eyes adjusted to the dark. In a different tone, he said, ‘Hello. I think someone lives here.’

  ‘But it’s falling down.’ Skir joined him in the doorway. The hut was a single room with a fireplace against one wall; close to it was a bedstead piled with quilts. There was a table pushed against another wall, and bunches of dried leaves and flowers hung from the roof-beams. On the table was a cut loaf of bread and a wedge of cheese. Skir closed his eyes with longing. ‘It’s someone’s house,’ he said. ‘We can’t.’

  ‘Rubbish. You’ve been in Baltimar too long, my friend. Go on, take it!’ He gave Skir a little push.

  Skir shook his head. Then, shamefaced, he darted into the hut and seized the bread and tore it apart with his teeth.

  Perrin’s face twisted in a cynical smile. He turned from the doorway to see Tansy stock-still in the clearing, with Penthesi’s bridle in her hand. Skir came out of the hut.

  A girl in a shabby pink dress had just walked up from the riverbank with a bucket of water in her hand. She stopped in the sunlight. Her mouth stretched into a grimace of fear. ‘Who is it?’ she called. ‘Who’s there?’

  Perrin touched Skir’s arm. He said softly, ‘She’s blind.’

  Skir saw the girl’s blank eyes, and knew it was true. A crooked band of scar tissue ran across her face, over her eyes; one eyebrow was missing, and the scarred skin was puckered and twisted like a skein of pink string. Skir held the bread guiltily, pointlessly, behind his back. ‘Don’t be frightened. We won’t hurt you.’

  ‘I’m not frightened. I want to know who you are.’

  Tansy said, ‘We’re travellers. I’m Tansy, and this is my horse, Penthesi.’

  The girl turned toward the new voice. ‘A horse!’

  She set down the brimming bucket and stepped forward as confidently as if she could see, with her hands held out. Tansy guided her fingertips to Penthesi’s neck. The girl ran her hands over Penthesi’s big, warm, muscled flanks, and smiled as he snorted in her ear.

  ‘He’s splendid.’ />
  Tansy laughed. ‘Isn’t he? And this is Sedge.’

  ‘Two horses!’ The girl stroked the chestnut mare. ‘Are they thirsty? It’s hot again today, but there’ll be rain tonight.’

  ‘How do you know?’ Tansy squinted into the sky, but it was simmering blue and cloudless.

  ‘I can smell it,’ said the blind girl. ‘Who else is here?’

  ‘My friend –’ Tansy stumbled; she’d almost blurted out Skir’s name. She shot Skir an agonised look; deceit did not come easily to her. ‘My friend Perrin. And this is . . .’

  ‘I’m Ren,’ said Skir, from his full priestly name, Eskirenwey. He took the hand she held out; it was small but strong, as brown as a bowerberry, and roughened with calluses. The girl’s hair and her skin and her mouth were all chestnuts and roses; if not for the ruined eyes and the scar slashed across her face, she might have been beautiful.

  Perrin bounded up and clasped the girl’s other hand, and she let go of Skir. ‘The horses aren’t thirsty, but we are,’ said Perrin.

  Skir felt a pang of furious jealousy as the girl turned her face toward the warm laughter in Perrin’s voice.

  ‘I’m sorry I can’t shake your hand properly,’ Perrin added ruefully, but the blind girl’s fingers travelled swiftly over his bandaged right hand, and her face changed.

  ‘You’re hurt!’ she said sharply. ‘You’d better come in.’

  It was crowded in the little hut when they were all crammed inside, but the girl moved about with brisk confidence. She poured water into earthenware cups and cleared spaces for them to sit. Skir tipped his stool against the wall and closed his eyes, resting his aching limbs and blistered feet. For the first time in days he felt safe, sheltered in the dim, fragrant hut.

  The blind girl led Perrin to the single battered chair beside the fireplace. As she bent her head, unwinding the bandages so deftly it seemed impossible that she couldn’t see them, Skir heard Perrin say in a low voice, ‘We didn’t ask your name.’

  The girl’s eyes flickered randomly left and right in surprise. ‘I’m Elvie.’ She touched Perrin’s wound with her fingertips and he flinched. ‘I have a salve that will help this, but I must clean the wound out first. No, no, don’t help me,’ she said, as Tansy sprang up. ‘I know where everything is. Didn’t they send you from Rarr?’