Grimenna Read online

  She set aside the letter and statement, then rifled through Viviel’s books and procured his worn leather journal.

  “I have surveyed Mr. Ibbie’s collection of books. Among them were documents found but to be but innocent recordings of farming, animal husbandry, and an interest in herbs and plants. All this is not uncommon for a gentleman farmer and does not concern me. However on further perusing I came across a compilation of myths, folklore, and old wives’ tales from across the land. This has led me to suspect that Mr. Ibbie is indeed fascinated in the beliefs of Old Grimenna. Clearly this shows that Mr. Ibbie does not worship the God, but instead worships the Forest.”

  She looked at Viviel.

  “But this neither is of great concern to me. I understand the people in the far-off village of Birchloam are a little rustic.” She flipped through more pages. “What does concern me is a passage the journal where is described the festival of Mummers-eve. On this night Mr. Viviel Ibbie made a recording of Wildermen he harbored in his own home. This is an offence to the Lord and to the King who has ordained these laws of the land. The law is that no branded man should ever be given hospitality, food, warmth or comfort until his sentence is served. Men like Mr. Ibbie threaten the whole system that has been so long ago established, and if more men like him persist in showing mercy to Wildermen then the system will have to be abolished for being futile. Condemned men will have to spend their lives rotting in prisons instead of being given the chance to redeem themselves and earn a pardon. Do you deny this, Mr. Ibbie?”

  “No,” Viviel said, his voice grating low. Paiva looked to him desperately. She remembered the words Ceitra had spoken to her but a few days ago when she had simply served her wine and spoke of having hope in dark times.

  “I will teach you,” Ceitra had said. The words echoed in Paiva’s mind and made her sick with guilt. Ceitra continued with her interrogation.

  “Above all, which I find most offensive, is that the names of these harbored Wildermen were recorded as well. Bear Jorn, Trapper Terg,” and then a sneer pulled at her face, “and Black Renn. Viviel Ibbie has been proven to give sanctuary to a liar, a thief, and a murderer. And not just any murderer — the very man who took my husband, who took the heir to Pratermora’s legacy away from him. I find this to be unforgivable.”

  Yulin’s face turned as red as his tunic then. Ceitra turned to him.

  “This incident forces me to review Black Renn’s ledger. Please bring him forth and also his ledger.”

  Paiva watched as Yulin ordered his men. A short while later the ledger was presented to Ceitra and Renn’s scraggly shape was hauled towards the High Table. He was soaked from the rain and muddy, a pool of dirty water formed on the floor beneath his dripping, tattered cloak. His eyes alighted on the Ibbie’s with a flicker of confusion, then they turned to Paiva’s white face and filled with muted concern.

  “Black Renn,” Cietra said slowly and he turned his befuddled face to her. “Do you recognize these people? Do you recognize this girl?”

  Renn looked back again, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. Paiva’s heart racketed against her ribs as she waited for his response.

  “No,” he said, “not them. I recognize the girl as a serving maid, that’s all.”

  “Are you sure?” Ceitra asked as her strange smile pulled at her lips.

  Renn bristled at the tone in her voice. He turned his head back to her, his eyes steady on hers. “Yes,” he said blankly, for he must well have known she already knew the truth. Yulin’s face went tight. Ceitra’s eyes fell back to the book before her.

  “Then kindly explain to me this following passage recorded by the man who stands alongside you, Mr. Viviel Ibbie. ‘…There was one man named Black Renn. He is a cantankerous character, deeply bitter and angry at the world though I don’t think the worst of him yet. I was glad to have them sleep by my fire, and did not mind that they had been pilfering my sheep and the sweetbreads of my altar.’” She raised her eyes to stare at him. “This passage is in reference to the night of Mummers-eve in Birchloam. Clearly you have proven yourself to be a liar. Another mark in your ledger, and another for your trespassing beyond the Panderbank.”

  Renn stared at her in silence, his face impassive. Yulin spoke up then.

  “My Lady, you cannot punish a man for ignorance. He did not know who Black Renn was. I am sure it is written in his records of how it came to be that he harbored the Wildermen in the first place. That they saved the poor girl from Varloga.”

  “Ah Master Warden,” Ceitra smiled, “that is all written — the true story of what came to pass that night. Ramsi Lier brought me the statement that Viviel signed, which records an entirely different story. Another lie.

  “That does bring me to another topic I wish to address today. It seems I have suffered another loss of faith in you, Yulin. Mr. Ibbie kindly wrote of you as well in his journals, of how you dissuaded him from revealing the part the Wildermen had to play in this story to keep him safe from persecution. Mr. Ibbie spoke very highly of you, for your reserve and intellect and the confidence you instilled in him. I, however, do not share his sentiments. I therefore have decided to strip you of your title and replace you with someone in whom these sentiments I can instill.” Her eyes trailed to the proud face of Ramsi. “I think Ranger Lier would be fitting for this title, for he has proven his loyalty and dedication to me.”

  Ramsi’s chest swelled. He cast a sidelong glance at Paiva and smiled. Paiva remembered his outrage when she had left Birchloam on his horse that Yulin had taken from him. She remembered the cold promise of vengeance in his eyes and knew this was the moment he had been waiting for.

  “By my soul,” Yulin hissed, “this is preposterous. I have dedicated my entire life to being loyal to the Pratermoras. I have sacrificed everything. Sparing an ignorant farmer is a small slight.”

  “You have proven to be lacking. You may leave now on your own accord, or you may leave under force.”

  “I am loyal!” Yulin roared. Ceitra glowed with contentment.

  “If you are loyal, then throw the brand in the fire and burn this man’s hand. For he will be thrown into the Wilderlands,” she said.

  Yulin gaped at her. For a long moment they held each other’s gaze.

  “Won’t you, Viviel?” she asked. “To the woods, is it not?”

  “To the woods, Milady,” Viviel whispered.

  Yulin reached up and tore the cloak from his shoulder, throwing the silver brooch that marked him as Master Warden to the cold, hard ground.

  “I am not your hound,” he said and stormed from the Great Hall. Bessil sagged against the wall of the stairwell, a hand to her fluttering heart. Paiva turned her wide eyes back to Ceitra.

  “Viviel Ibbie,” she said, “I accuse you of breaking the laws of the land. You will be branded and thrown away.”

  Viviel gaped at her, his face shattering.

  “Furthermore,” Ceitra continued, “your land and your home will be forfeit to the Warden of Birchloam to do with as he pleases. Your wife, who is your conspirator, will be sent to Quarrytown where she will cut stone until you are either dead or pardoned.”

  Paiva heard her mother let loose a low sob. Ceitra’s eyes found Viviel’s and her strange smile returned to her perfect lips.

  “Master Warden Lier,” she said. “Throw the brand in the fire. He will go to the woods.”

  Ramsi bowed deeply and went to the great hearth where he set the long crook of iron into the flames and watched it grow hot. It was then that Renn gave a start, swinging his black head towards Ramsi with a snarl. He took a step forward, but a guard’s sword-point leveled at his throat and stopped him. Paiva felt her heart begin to beat deafeningly in her ears. Her blood ran piercingly cold through her veins. As Ramsi lifted the glowing brand from the fire and strode towards Viviel, Paiva cried out and flung herself towards her father. She wrapped her arms about his broad
chest and rasped her cheek into his coarse beard, as if her little body could shield him from the fate he was soon to meet.

  “I love you, Paiva,” he murmured, as tears trickled from his eyes. A man at arms pulled her roughly away and she screamed, fighting against him. Another man cut loose her father’s bonds and tied a rope about his wrist, stretching his hand forwards and into the wooden press so that Ramsi could sink the burning iron into the meat of his palm.

  Paiva heard the sizzle of flesh, smelled the vapors of melting skin and screamed all the louder. Her mother dropped to her knees, wrenching her head away from the sight, and sobbed bitterly.

  Ramsi withdrew the smoldering iron, and there was a moment wherein he looked down into the blistered brand with satisfaction. Viviel’s golden eyes glimmered with tears as he looked into the melted skin, then in a low voice he began to sing. His lilting voice echoed softly through the vaulted ceilings:

  “I’ll travel far into the woods,

  When I am gone from here,

  I’ll find the Vale of Spirits,

  Where hidden deep is Morinvere.

  For ‘tis there all good things go,

  When they are pushed away,

  driven there by darkness,

  by creatures gone astray.”

  “You’re nothing but an old heretic now,” Ramsi murmured to Viviel.

  “And you, Black Renn,” Ceitra said, “your ledger is full, and you have proven yet again that you are a liar. You will not go back to the woods. The system has no merit for you, or any hope of redeeming you. You will be hung by the neck until you are dead.”

  Then the men at arms were hauling Viviel away from his daughter and wife, down to the river where he would be tossed on a stone cutter’s barge or a fishing ketch and thrown into the Wilderlands. Kess cried out to him and to Paiva, but she too was seized and hauled away.

  Paiva screamed until her throat was raw, until her lungs seemed to collapse under the weight of her despair. The guard that held her fast kept her from falling to the floor as she sobbed, her tears burning hotly down her face. She bowed her head and shook it, as if trying to dispel a nightmare.

  Ceitra smiled, her eyes like black ink pots. Before Renn was hauled away, back to the pillar where he would await his execution, his eyes trailed over Paiva. His face was awash with sadness, his eyes turning a cold gray with shock. Paiva watched him disappear with the guards, and then it was only her and Ceitra. Somehow, she wished to hurt this woman to stifle her own anguish.

  “I hate you,” Paiva whispered hoarsely. That was a word her father had forbidden her ever to use but now it tasted like honey in her mouth. Sweet and satisfying.

  Ceitra cocked her head and took a deep sighing breath, smiling in her peculiar way. She closed the books and ordered them brought up to the trophy room. Then in a rustle of skirts she disappeared from the hall.

  — «» —

  They sat alone in the storeroom, Paiva atop a pickling barrel and Bessil strewn over a crate. Bessil sobbed bitterly and gave herself another drink from the nearest keg. The maids worked on without her. There were no voices to be heard, only the clatter of pots and pans.

  “Your family is ruined,” Bessil said. “You’ll stay here with me, by my soul, you will always have a job here in my kitchens. And Master Yulin…” Her voice broke into a pitiful wail and she hid her face in her hands. “How could she do that to Master Yulin! He’s been loyal and honorable to his Lord since the very beginning. He never took a wife, he never had a family, all so he could serve his Lord. Fie on the Lady and her black soul.”

  Paiva had not taken one sip of her drink. She was numb and unbelieving. Ramsi Lier had taken her home from her, had taken her family from her. Her mind raced with questions. The one at the foremost of her mind was how Ramsi could have discovered what was in her father’s books. None of it made sense.

  Her father’s song echoed in her head and she wondered what it had meant. Was he trying to send her a message?

  “Morinvere…” she whispered. It pulled at her memory. She saw an inky shape form in her mind’s eye, lifting from the pigment of her father’s scribbles.

  “Aunt Bess,” she said aloud. The old cook looked up at her through red-rimmed eyes. “Have you ever heard of a place called Morinvere?”

  “Morinvere?” Bessil echoed. “It was a temple that the believers of the Old Ways built in the deep of Grimenna long ago. But it was lost; the forest swallowed it up along with any other villages and towns they ever tried to build in the Wilderlands. But don’t let the Goddish hear you talk about Morinvere. They say that is where all the Old Spirits come from. That is where the Folka were born.”

  “Father was singing of it.”

  “Your father!” Bess subdued a flash of rage. “Kess should have never married him. He’s always had good intentions, always been so kind… but he has his ideas about things. I’m surprised it took until now for him to get in trouble. For all you know he is probably going to try and find Morinvere and raise the Old Spirits and try to save the world! He’ll wind up dead, leaving you and your mother penniless and destitute.”

  That was where he was going.

  She sat up straighter. Morinvere, the Vale of the Spirits. She had to find his books.

  — «» —

  Paiva stepped into the trophy room as silent as a wraith and froze at the glassy, sightless eyes that stared down at her. She had little trouble bypassing the men at arms and guards on her way up, for they were used to maids scurrying about the Keep. She raised her candle and peered back down the corridor to make sure it was empty and then slipped inside the room.

  She saw her father’s books lying scattered across the Lord’s desk and rushed to them, setting the candle down and sifting through them. She searched furiously for his ruminations on the Old Temple. She did not want to steal the book in case someone should notice it missing, but there were many to sort through and they were all badly organized. Her hands shook as she sorted hurriedly through the pages, the Folka heads above her staring down accusingly, seeming to move in the dancing flame of the candle. She found the page she was looking for at long last, just as her courage began to fail her. She braced her hands on the book about to tear the page out when the door to the trophy room swung open.

  Paiva’s blood ran cold as Ceitra’s face appeared in the doorway, white and ghostly, flickering in the low light. Her dark eyes were black, looking like Viviel’s pools of ink on parchment.

  A slow smile pulled at the corner of Ceitra’s lips. “Whatever are you doing up here, in the Lord’s own chambers?” she cooed.

  Paiva felt ice run down her spine and she quickly closed the book and drew it to her chest protectively.

  “I wanted to retrieve my father’s property,” she spluttered.

  “Your father has no property. Your father has no name to hold anything to now.”

  “Please, I wanted but one token of him. You have taken everything from me. Please. Just let me keep one piece of him.”

  “No, his books have been confiscated. And even if they were due to you, you have no right to be intruding up here. You are a kitchen maid, and now you are a Wilderman’s daughter as well.”

  Pure hatred boiled up through her throat and made her spit her words out angrily.

  “He did not deserve to be cast away. You did it to spite me.”

  Ceitra smiled and tilted her head in a birdlike fashion. “Such sharp tones you take with your High Lady.”

  Paiva was almost blinded by the angry tears that suddenly welled in her eyes. “Why have you done this?” she asked, unable to help the words explode from her mouth. A cold silence hung in the air between them. Ceitra’s smile vanished, her black eyes raking across Paiva’s face.

  “The air is growing stale between us,” she said. Her foots steps clicked sharply as she walked across the stone floor. She unlatched the window
and opened it, drawing in a swift current of cool air that fluttered the pages of her father’s books and threatened to smother the candle. Shadows leapt across the wall in its flickering light, the Folka’s glass eyes glowing eerily.

  “Hmm…” Ceitra mused. “I suppose he never told you then.”

  “Told me what?”

  Ceitra swiveled her head back to her slowly. “That he is an Incarnate.”

  Ceitra’s words hung in the air before slicing into Paiva’s heart. An Incarnate. A spirit who stepped from the woods and took human form.

  “No…” Paiva breathed.

  “It’s all there in those books,” Ceitra smiled. “Your father collected the Old Stories so that they would not be lost. I expect he would one day give them to you to pass on to your children. The Stories that guided lost men through the darkness of the woods, that guided them through the darkness of their own hearts… Surely you know the Wolf Man of old, who flitted through pastures keeping watch over the gentle farmers. Wolves were greatly feared until one-day man learned not to cower, when he heard wolf-song in the hills he knew the Forest was alive and well. For Wolves are not naturally the hunters of men, they are the keepers of the Forest, the governors of natural balance. You would have thought that Hope would have been associated with pretty white winged things, but it was not. It was born from the bitter hearts of men who heard wolf-song in the hills and hoped and prayed the Great Wolf would keep order in the forest so the wolves would not starve and prey on men, that there would be enough game for all, that the forest would provide for all under his watch. With his fangs he ate those prayers, and with his great claws he protected the people from nightmares.”

  “He can’t be.”

  “Yes. And you are his Virtue. Born both of myth and man.”

  Paiva rolled her eyes back to the books in disbelief, wondering if she should instead pity Ceitra for being mad. There seemed to be something about the Pratermora family and everyone attached to them that lent itself to madness.

  Ceitra seemed to hear her very thoughts, for a knowing smile crept over her lips. “Don’t pity me, for I am fulfilling the purpose for which I was created,” she said as she turned back to stare out over the darkened woods. “It seems you have been born into the middle of an old battle, as old as mankind itself.”