Grimenna Page 14

  “Great Forest,” she whispered into the shadows, “please guide me. I am alone and I am afraid of you.” Somewhere on the other side of the river her father was just as alone as she was. The thought of him, the want to have his warm, unfaltering presence beside her to face this night with made tears burn behind her eyes. She found no rest despite her weariness. She stayed awake, listening as the midnight calls of animals lifted across the black waters of the river, and hummed her father’s song to herself quietly to keep the creeping shadows at bay.

  By midmorning as she made her way along the road, weary with exhaustion and fatigue, she stopped to point her head at the sky and shake her head in dismay. The clouds opened and spouted rain on her, making her journey all the more dismal. She sighed as her face was sprayed with raindrops. She dropped her head back to the ground as the woods became alive with the sound of falling rain. She continued on nonetheless, though she allowed herself to expel her ingratitude towards the weather with a series of hushed curses.

  Paiva was following the woodcutter’s road north when she suddenly had the fleeting feeling she was being followed. It was the same feeling she had when she sat in her father’s pastures and felt a wolf lurking nearby. She could not see it, but the presence was there nonetheless, prickling the hair on the nape of her neck. Quickly, she slid behind a tree. She listened for sound, then peeked an eye around the tree, waiting breathlessly.

  Her heart leapt when a red cloaked figure on a tall horse rounded the bend in the road behind her. A ranger. He seemed to be alone and without dogs, but he was bent over the horn on his horse’s saddle studying the ground, following her tracks. She looked about for an escape, eyeing the river and its swift current. She was not a strong swimmer; her facet was running. An image of being swept into the rapids and her cloak and skirts catching on rocks strangling her came to mind and she decided for a clean break through the trees. There was a rocky outcrop she spotted not far off. If she could make it there she might have a chance to evade him.

  She darted silently towards the rocks, great boulders heaved together and fallen on their sides with streaks of hardened sediment. She cast a glance over her shoulder and crouched low, then saw the red cloak pass through the trees. She was suddenly thankful for the rain, thinking perhaps the great forest was lending itself to her cause, for it muted her trespass through the trees. She saw the ranger pass her trail and continue on down the road. With relief she skirted onwards to the rocks, then crouched and hid, not knowing what else to do.

  To her horror Paiva saw him rein his horse to a halt. He doubled back, making tight circles until he picked up her trail again. He swung the horse’s head in her direction, pointing it into the trees. The ranger’s head lifted searchingly, and then he discerned her in the damp leaves.

  For a moment they were both frozen. The horse snorted and she whirled and took to a mad run towards the stones. She heard the horse crash through the trees behind her, heard the ranger’s voice yelling out. She ran with the feeling that any moment an arrow or a sword would pierce her back, and she tore through the trees with all abandon. She dropped her basket, its contents spilling across the forest floor.

  She was nearly at the stones when her foot sunk through the dead leaves into a hollow of roots. She went flying forwards into a sprawl on the ground. The wind was knocked out of her, her elbows stinging. A sharp stick came dangerously close to her eye and raked across her cheek as she fell.

  The ranger vaulted off his horse and darted forwards as she tried to scramble away. She cried out as she realized he was an immense person, his movements quick and steeled. Then she realized something else. His boots were worn through at a toe, the seams tearing and frayed. She tilted her head up to him as he bent over her and recognized the glimpse of his obscured, dirty face beneath his red hood.

  “By all the shining stars,” she cried. “Renn!” She sat on her knees and stared at him in disbelief, trying to catch her breath. He lowered his hands to her and pulled her upright. “Why are you wearing a red cloak,” she asked, trembling.

  “Yulin,” he said simply, then she recognized the horse as well. “Wasn’t hard to slip out with the Rangers when they went out looking for you. I even gave young Ramsi a good direction to go in.”

  “Where?”

  “Up his arse.” He drew his hood further over his eyes to keep the rain out of them.

  “How did you find me?” she asked, still shaken, as he went to gather her basket.

  “Well, to start, I figured if I was you my only exit was through the kitchen. I saw the urchins huddled across and asked them, but they were loyal to you. Didn’t say a word until I showed them my brand. From there I went to the south gate.” He returned with her basket and stood but a few paces away.

  She stood unmoving and staring at him with wide eyes. “Why did you come after me?” she asked worriedly.

  “Yulin says Ceitra summoned Varloga on you,” he replied. “I wouldn’t have believed it if it hadn’t been for Mummers-eve. I need to know what happened.”

  “She is not human,” Paiva whispered. “She is the Strix, the Eater of Hate. She is evil.”

  Their eyes met through the rain falling steadily between them. She could not read his impassive face but his intent stare left her slightly breathless. She told him everything that had transpired in the tower; there was no reason not to. What more could she lose by telling him?

  When she had finished she took her basket from him, dropping her eyes from his as she rearranged its contents nervously.

  “Your father is a heretic, not an Incarnate,” he responded, studying her. Again she met his eyes and held them until it was he who looked away. She shrugged.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “But I sincerely doubt you are the cold-blooded murderer they make you out to be, and I don’t know what you will do now. Ceitra will continue to ruin families and eat the hate that comes of it.”

  “But I don’t hate her. I never have,” he answered.

  “Maybe that’s why she wants you dead then. Regardless, there is no safe place for either of us now.” She swallowed a lump of pain that rose in her throat.

  “There is.” His head swiveled and he looked out to the river and beyond to the rising hills of the Wilderlands. “I’ll help you cross the river.”

  “I’m going to Quarrytown to find my mother,” Paiva said. “She’s the only one who can yet explain all this. I need to help her.”

  “You can’t go to Quarrytown,” he sighed.

  “I’m not crossing the river. I’m not going into the Wilderlands.”

  “Every ranger and Warden in the whole country side will be out looking for you. The most obvious place that you would be headed is to your mother. I figured as much myself.”

  She felt her lips tremble and her eyes burn with tears. “Renn, I have to find my mother.”

  “I am willing to help you. I will keep you safe,” he said. “But I cannot help you if you go to Quarrytown.”

  She shook her head, then turned away from him and headed back down to the road. “You go your way and I’ll go mine. I am going to find my mother.”

  “Paiva,” he growled angrily and started after her.

  “I don’t need your help, Renn. None of this would have happened if it hadn’t been for you.” She said it a little too strongly. She couldn’t help the words from spilling out and she relished pinning the blame on him when in her heart she knew all this trouble had started the night of Mummers-eve when she had broken her simple promise to her mother. But she couldn’t look back; she offered no apologies, even though she knew her words had cut him. If there was anything that could hurt Renn, it was more blame.

  She broke into a run and disappeared down the bend in the road.

  — «» —

  She pulled her hood up high over her head as she walked into Quarrytown. The road was churned into mud and as she travailed alon
g her feet plunged into a rut and remained stuck, sucked down in the mire. An oxcarter came along then, huddled under his cloak in the rain, and cursed at her for blocking his path. Her shoe was sucked off, and as she bent to retrieve it he cracked his whip over her head. She hurried out of the way and the ox trod over her shoe, sinking it deep into the mud where it disappeared. Her other shoe soon met a similar fate as she pressed her way into the town, and she arrived barefoot with mud streaked up her legs to her knees and her skirt hems black with sludge.

  Oxcarters hauled their stone-laden wagons by while laborers pushed by wheelbarrows filled with pit run and chaff. The clamor of chisels and striking hammers in stone rose up above the dismal sounds of grunting oxen and laborers. Rangers on tall horses with their hounds were milling through the town, but none looked her way, for she was not noticeable amongst the other dirty, muddy peasants milling about.

  The town houses were crowded and built atop each other, standing all the way to the edge of cliffs that gave way to the quarry below. It was a huge pit, perhaps four times the size of the actual town — a great, naked hole in the ground that had been formed after years of men cleaving limestone. The Keep itself had been built from its stone. There were fires smoldering where laborers were burning limestone to make mortar, rigging and scaffolding built against the face of the cliffs where workers toiled in the rain and the dirt, cutting stone from the cliff face. People milled about below, like ants busy in an anthill. At the edge of the Quarry was the river where stone barges waited to be loaded and sent downstream to the Keep. Oxen carted wagons up a treacherous, winding road towards other areas where stone was needed. There was a fine mason’s lodge built on one side of the pit, and on the other side were little scattered huts built from stone rubble. They were big enough for one, maybe two people to lie down in to sleep at night. Some had a canvas roof, some had no more than branches or driftwood instead. In these little huts lived the wives of the branded men. About these huts were wooden platforms and tables on which these women were carving stone in the rain.

  Paiva followed the stream of workers down into the pit, then dodged through the crowd of laborers and animals towards the huts. She scanned the women with their backs bent over their stones, chipping away with empty, defeated eyes. Her feet stung as she walked over the sharp shards, and she noticed many of the other women too had no shoes.

  Suddenly she saw her mother. Her head bowed low against the rain, an angry glint in her eye as she clumsily struck her chisel. Paiva slowly approached and called out to her. Her mother looked up as if she had heard a voice from a daydream, then looked at Paiva standing in the driving rain with bleak eyes.

  Recognition dawned on her Kess’ face, then fear crept into it. She dropped her chisel and mallet.

  “Paiva?” she cried. The other women looked up towards Paiva, each one with guarded, empty eyes.

  “Mother,” Paiva breathed and ran towards her, dropping her basket in the mud as she threw her arms around her. Her mother’s arms encircled her and clung to her desperately.

  “You should not be here,” she wept. “You should not see me like this.”

  “Mother, something horrible has happened,” Paiva cried into her arms. Kess pushed her away and then led her into one of the huts. They huddled together inside, for it was hardly tall enough to stand in. On the ground were reed pallets to sleep on and a flimsy wool blanket, a pot for water and a small dish for eating. Her mother embraced her again and kissed her wet cheeks as they sat down together.

  “Paiva,” she crooned. “My child. You should not have come here. You should have stayed safe and warm in the kitchens with Bess.”

  “Mother…” Paiva felt her eyes explode with tears, and then in a spew of excited words she told Kess everything that had come to pass at the Keep.

  “There are rangers after you?” she exclaimed with a worry-frayed voice. “Paiva, they will find you here.”

  “Mother, you have to tell me the truth. Who is Father, really? Why did Ceitra call me his Virtue?”

  Her mother’s green eyes clouded with worry, her lips pursed in silence.

  “Who is he?” Paiva pled. “What is he?”

  Kess looked at her with anguish, opened her mouth to speak, and froze. From outside came sounds of hurried footsteps, then the canvas door to the little rubble hut was swept aside and a man pressed his face inside.

  Paiva’s mother bolted to her feet, bent beneath the shallow roof. “Master Rojik,” she said. “I am sorry, I am headed back to work now.”

  “Are you?” the man growled. His narrowed eyes fell on Paiva. He had a felt cap on his head, his beard glistening with rain. At his belt was a coiled whip.

  “Outside, the two of you, now,” he said gruffly. His head receded back outdoors. Paiva looked worriedly to her mother. Together they stepped out into the rain and Paiva felt her heart leap into her throat. There, standing in a semi-circle about the contours of the hut, was a party of men in red cloaks. Their hoods were drawn up against the rain, giving them a formidable air. Paiva swallowed hard as she faced them and her mother reached out and clutched her hand. Master Rojik unfurled his whip and let it drag through the mud as he came towards them. He was a short man with thick shoulders and a scowly face. His hands were like calloused mitts, his eyes dark with ill will.

  “Mistress Ibbie,” he said. “It seems we have ourselves a problem. Can you tell me — that girl there, is she your daughter?”

  “No,” said Kess. “She is my niece. She was just visiting. She only recently had news of my situation. She does not know she is trespassing.”

  “Trespassing,” a voice laughed, and one of the red-hooded men strode forward. Paiva felt her blood run cold, for she knew the voice as she knew the silver brooch that gleamed wetly on his shoulder.

  “Trespassing is the least of her problems,” Ramsi said, “and I know on good account, this girl is in fact your daughter. Is she not Mrs. Ibbie?” He canted his head back and revealed his handsome, pompous face. His mouth twisted back in a contented grin.

  Paiva felt her mother’s grip tighten. “Ramsi Lier,” Kess said, trying to repress a sneer.

  He assessed them, from their dirty bare feet to their ripped and stained clothes. “Well, well,” he said. “There we have it. Seize them both.” His men stepped forward at his order, but before anyone could be seized Kess pulled Paiva into a run and together they fled towards the river. There was truly nowhere for them to go, for they could not scale the cliffs or wind their way through the mass of workers and if they tried to cross the river they would surely drown in the swift current.

  Master Rojik’s whip cracked out and Paiva heard her mother fall behind her with a muffled scream. Paiva slid to a halt, her feet slicing over the wet shards of stone littering the quarry floor. She looked back to her mother who lay stricken from the lash of the whip across her shoulders. She struggled to her feet and screamed for Paiva to run, but Paiva could not stand to see her mother in such pain. She darted back and tried to haul Kess to her feet, but she was too late. A ranger hurled himself atop of her; the whip cracked again, and her mother screamed her name. Paiva felt herself crushed to the ground under the weight of the ranger, a knee in her back, while her hands were twisted behind her. She tasted blood in her mouth, heard Ramsi’s laughing voice, and then she and her mother were dragged to their feet to face him.

  She saw it again in Ramsi’s eye then — that same look as when Yulin had taken his horse from him in Birchloam and she had ridden away on it. That cold, vindictive look filled her with dread. She wondered how she could have ever once fancied him.

  “My Lady will be most pleased that I have collected you,” he said. His eyes gleamed darkly in the wet daylight and Paiva had the feeling that he was somehow changed. She wondered if that darkness looking back at her was put there by his new mistress, or if it had been born naturally. He tipped his hood lower and turned away, smiling to himsel
f.

  — «» —

  Paiva and Kess were thrown in a cramped cell in the Warden of Quarrytown’s quarters. It was a foul little room below street level. The tiny, grated window let in runoff and rainwater from the street that dripped down the stone wall and onto the filthy floor covered in moldy straw. There was a heavy iron barred door that held them trapped. The cell was cold and damp and smelled of horrible excrements and rotting things. Ramsi had thrown them in and barred the door, then disappeared with his rangers back upstairs where he promised to keep watch over them for the night until they departed back for the Keep in the morning.

  Paiva worried over her mother’s back, but there was nothing that could be done but to wash it with the little water they had been given. She put her hands over the wounds, much like her father would have done, and willed them to heal. They remained bloody, but Kess was comforted by her touch. Eventually daylight wore out and they huddled together in the dark cell in the farthest corner. The streets outside grew quiet but for the sound of distant brawls and drunken slurs.

  “What do we do?” Paiva whimpered to her mother in the dark.

  “We can’t do anything right now. Just pray to the good spirits. Pray they send someone to save us.” Then Kess leaned her head back against the cold stone wall and sighed.

  “When I was a girl I fell in love with a wolf,” she said. “I would tend to the sheep at the top of the pasture, just as you did. Times were hard. Winters were starving. I lost my brother to sickness, Aunt Bess left Birchloam to find work. Father was cruel, and mother was blamed for all his shortcomings. Yet she was true to him until the end of her days.

  “Father soon died — an inflammation of his blood he got from cutting himself on a rusted blade. Mother became feeble after that and I was alone to tend to the farm which was our only means of survival. The only thing that kept me going was my friend the wolf, who lurked in the shadows of the woods at the edge of the pastures. At first, I had thrown stones at him, thinking he was after my meagre flock. But my stones did little to thwart him, and I soon realized he was more interested in listening to me talk to him. He did not bother the sheep; nothing bothered the sheep while he was near. I’d find him in the gloaming, slunk down in the tall grasses, his fur mottled and brown, his eyes glowing gold like something old and wild. He never fully revealed himself to me, but he was always there, watching over me.” Kess sighed and Paiva felt the weight of her words, the revelation of a great, secret truth.