Satima's Blogspot: The Cloak of Challiver, Chapter 3

Tuesday 28 August 2018

The Cloak of Challiver, Chapter 3

Tuesday, August 28, 2018 |

Posted by Satima Flavell

So here we go with chapter three. Comments welcome.

Chapter 3

* * *

Artwork by Marieke Ormsby

‘Good Girl, Vanrel,’ said Ven Istrovar, rolling up the scroll they had been studying. ‘Now, before you go, see if you can remember the names and attributes — in order, mind — of the Sky Wanderers.’

Vanrel rested her elbows on the edge of Ven Istrovar’s huge desk, closed her eyes and counted on her fingers. ‘Mirthrev, the Messenger; Vernstrith, the Beautiful; Mordestan, the Warrior; Javnor, the Beneficent; Styrak, the Limiter…’ She screwed up her eyes in concentration.

‘And what about the two guardians of the Lady’s journeying?’

‘Kedris, the Guide, and Kurdilis, the Challenger.’ Vanrel opened her eyes and smiled in delight. ‘I got them all, didn’t I?’

‘You did indeed, child. If your mother can spare you, you can come back later and read a little on your own. You can start learning the characteristics of persons born under each of the Wanderers.’

‘Thank you Ven Istrovar.’ She started for the door then turned back hesitantly. ‘There is something I don’t quite understand, sir. May I ask a question?’

‘Of course, child, but make it quick. His majesty often sends for me about this time.’

‘Are the Wanderers and Guardians really gods, or are they more like angels? Is it right to pray to them?’

Ven Istrovar sighed and put aside the scroll. ‘That’s a question, Vanrel, that sages and theologians argue over. You know they are sometimes called the Seven Lesser Gods, and that’s the way most people think of them. Some find them more approachable than the Lord and Lady, and certainly prayers to one’s own ruler, based on one’s hour of birth, are often efficacious. So perhaps regarding them as minor deities is quite acceptable. On the other hand——’

Vanrel was not to hear the other side of the argument that day, for at that moment the Venerable

Tandrian, the chamberlain, put his head in the door, requesting Ven Istrovar’s immediate attendance on the king. The portly chaplain heaved himself to his feet, hastily collected a set of scrolls from the shelf above his desk and bustled off to the king’s tower, leaving Vanrel to turn over the argument for the existence of minor gods in her mind as she made her way back towards the quarters she shared with her parents above the mews.

She took a detour, however, deciding to stroll through the kitchen gardens. Other people’s work often looked much more interesting than her own. Not that she minded the prospect of being a fletcher, but there were so many other things to learn about, too. How lucky she was that Princess Lyrien had persuaded the king that the castle children ought to be taught their letters! The scrolls she studied with Ven Istrovar had opened up a whole new world.

She smiled as she thought of Princess Lyrien and her kindness, and of her brother, Prince Linvar. Many a time, they had both romped with the artisans’ children in the fields around the castle and on the sandy shore that lay below it on the seaward side. Even now Princess Lyrien would read stories to the younger children, and sometimes she would hand Vanrel the book and ask her to read for a while.

On impulse, Vanrel took another detour, this time through a corridor of ancient rosemary bushes towards that same arbour where Princess Lyrien would sit to read. She had not gone far, however, when she was pulled up by shouting from behind. Turning, she was almost bowled over by her younger brother Vedran, leading a tribe of noisy children. Only a year or two earlier she would have been running with them, barefoot and wild, answering to no one unless her parents caught her and gave her errands to run. Now and then, of course, Ven Tandrian, the chamberlain, would admonish the young vagabonds, and they had all learnt early to dodge his heavy hand.

Nowadays, Vanrel was more sedate. After all, she was fifteen, wasn’t she? Another couple of years and she’d be well and truly marriageable. Not that she wanted to marry — it seemed to Vanrel that women had the lesser portion when it came to marriage — but what else could she do? She could work as a fletcher under her father, of course, and if she married a fletcher, as her father hoped she would, her labour would be valued, but unwed, she was unlikely to be given respectable employment in her own right. Apart from household service, usually for a relative and unpaid, only two paths in life were open to unmarried women: harlot and nun. Vanrel did not want to be either.

‘Where’re you off to, Sis?’ Vedran demanded, letting the younger children run ahead. ‘Father was looking for you earlier.’

‘I was studying with Ven Istrovar.’

‘What are you, some kind of teacher’s pet?’ Vedran scoffed. ‘You’re too old for schooling. I wish I was. I’ve already got more than enough learning for folk of our kind.’

‘Ven Istrovar is giving me private tuition in Geography and Astrology. He says I’m too clever for a girl and it’s a pity I’m not a boy, then I could be a clerk.’

‘As if that’ll help you fletch arrows and feed babies! Girls can’t be clerks, everyone knows that.’

‘So what? I like having lessons with Ven Istrovar. Listen, I know the names of all the Wanderers and Guardians.’ And counting on her fingers as she had for her teacher, Vanrel again rattled off the seven names.

‘Everyone knows those. They’re just the days of the week, only a bit different.’

‘They’re more than ‘a bit different’. They’re in a different order, for a start, and besides, I have to learn all about the qualities of people born under each Wanderer.’

‘I’d rather listen to stories than read them. Or play hide and seek in the herb garden.’ And indeed, the younger children were already chasing one another around the circular paths that surrounded a little arbour, the one where Princess Lyrien sometimes read to them. Throughout the spring it had been a scented hideaway as the herbs, one after the other, came into their season of bloom. Lavender had come in early this year. Its purple spikes rose proudly above the low-growing plants that bordered the plots, so there were plenty of hiding places. The children would be safe, Vanrel knew, unless Ven Tandrian caught them and sent them packing.

She rounded a corner to find the children crowding around Princess Lyrien, who was laughing. ‘I came out for a quiet read in the garden and find I have to tell a story instead. Which one do you want to hear?’ The princess had set her book aside and was leaning forward. The children shuffled and shoved for places at her feet.

‘Tell us the one about the Siege of Sarutha, your highness,’ demanded one ragamuffin lad.

‘Please, your highness, tell us the one about how Lord Melkavar tamed the Divine Eagle,’ a small girl pleaded.

‘I know what story I’ll tell you!’ Princess Lyrien said. ‘Would you like to hear how the Three Kingdoms came into being?’

‘Are there any battles in it?’ Vedran asked.

‘Oh, yes indeed,’ replied the princess. ‘There was a mighty battle when the three kings united to drive away the wicked elvishman, Fiersten, and their equally wicked cousin, Prince Nidvar.’

‘Once upon a time,’ she began, ‘the kingdoms of Dresnia, Challiver and Syland were one, and a blessed land it was, until there came to the throne a king whose three sons squabbled bitterly over the inheritance. The boys were of an age, born at one birthing, and who could tell which came first? They were as alike as acorns on a branch or eggs in a nest. The queen did not know, or if she knew she would not tell, and the midwife swore that she had marked the firstborn with a raddle, but could not find the mark again when her work was done and all the babes were safely in their cradles. Indeed, she had to find two extra cradles, since who might have suspected that the queen would have triplets?

‘As the young princes grew, they became as alike in their rivalry as in their appearances. Their suspicion and jealousy of each other even led to open fighting. One was a master with the lance, and he could always best his brothers at jousting. The king ordered the heralds to make sure the lances he used were blunt, so that the other princes’ armour would not be pierced.

‘Another was the finest swordsman in the kingdom, and when he took part in tournaments the king would not allow the other two princes to compete, lest they be slain by their sibling.’

‘Did he kill anybody, madam?’

‘They say he killed a great giant once, but that’s another story.’

‘Tell us that tale, your highness!’

‘Maybe tomorrow. Let’s finish this one today. Which prince were we up to?’

‘The third, madam!’ chorused the children.

‘Ah, yes. The third prince was a fine bowman, and the king had to confiscate his weapon more than once, fearing he would lie in ambush for his brothers.’

‘My eldest brother is a bowman,’ reported one little girl importantly. ‘He went all the way to Kyrisia to join their army.’

‘Yes, lots of our people join the army in Kyrisia,’ responded Lyrien. ‘Prince Ruthvard was a military surgeon there when he was a young man. But let’s get back to the story. The king and queen were so distressed by their sons’ constant quarrels that in the end, the king divided his land in three, and at his death, each son was to take one part. To the north lay lovely Challiver, land of plains and mountains, and in the south lay Dresnia, full of barley fields and bees. And over the sea from both of them, by just a few hours’ sailing, lay wet and windy Syland with its rivers, lakes and trees. The old king ensured there was a fine castle in each thirding, so that all three sons would have equal rank and dignity. He found for each of them a good and beautiful wife of noble birth, and he died believing that the Three Kingdoms would flourish.’

‘What did he die of?’ demanded Vedran.

‘A nasty wasting disease. He was only forty-four.’

‘My grandfather died last year,’ said another child. ‘Ven Istrovar says he’s gone to live in heaven with the Lord and Lady.’

‘My father says that’s rubbish,’ responded Vedran. ‘There’s no such place as heaven, is there, your highness?’

Princess Lyrien smiled at the boy. ‘Maybe there is. It would be nice to think of people living on in a happier place, wouldn’t it?’

‘What about the three princes?’ Someone at the back was obviously impatient for the story to continue.

‘Well,’ Lyrien went on, ‘they would have continued to fight, but their mother, Queen Ellyria, came of elvish stock, and she made for each of her sons a magic talisman. To Volran, King of Challiver, she gave a cloak of her own weaving. “As long as your descendants wear this cloak,” she told him,

“Peace will prevail in your land.”

‘To Melrad, King of Syland, she gave a mirror of her own making. “As long as your descendants look in this mirror daily,” she told him, “Peace will prevail in your land.”

‘To Beverak, King of Dresnia, she gave a dagger of her own forging. And what do you think she told him? “As long as your descendants carry this dagger …”’

‘Peace will prevail in your land!’ chanted the children.

‘Yes! And it came to pass as the queen had foretold. Her three fine sons swore to remain friends forever, and each still rules his allotted country well.’ With that, the princess stood up. ‘We’ll have to leave the final battle for another day. I must go now, as I have to make a journey tomorrow for my father, the King. But I’ll read to you all again when I get back.’

Vanrel curtsied as the princess departed. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to listen to stories all day long?

But that could never be. Sighing, she turned her feet for home.

Her father’s workshop nestled beneath their living quarters in the heart of Castle Beverak. The room was wide open to the elements to let in plenty of light, and Vanrel stood at the entrance, watching her father fit arrowheads to shafts. Her mother sat hunched over the bench beside him, applying neat pieces of fletching to her husband’s handiwork.

‘What did you learn today, lass?’ Mother asked. ‘Was that a writing class you were having?’

‘Yes. Ven Istrovar is letting us try illuminating.’

‘Illuminating? Whatever’s that, under the Lady’s Moon?

‘Making the first letter of a story stand out and look special by adding decorations. It’s a trade in its own right, Ven Istrovar says. Some clerks spend years mastering the skill, so all we can do is play around with it, really. It’s beautiful. I wish I could do it for a living.’

‘Well, you know there’s no chance of that,’ her father remonstrated, ‘and look, your mother is nearly out of goose feathers. Why don’t you run down to the town and ask if Master Ostraner can spare me some? Tell him I’ll replace them when the next lot of birds is slaughtered.

‘And here…’ He fished in the purse at his belt. ‘Here’s a copper to buy yourself a sweetmeat or a ribbon. Hurry back.’

A treat! Vanrel ran across the outer ward to the gatehouse. What should she buy? They’d had some pretty red ribbons last time she’d looked in the haberdashers. If they were not too dear, maybe she could get one for Mother as well.

As she hurried down the road that led to town, excited anticipation occupied her mind until she was distracted by something that kept flashing in and out of her field of vision to the right of the path. At first she thought it was a pair of rabbits, but the sun was still high in the sky and rabbits, Vanrel knew, were only seen along the roadside at dawn and dusk. Was it ground-nesting birds of some kind? Hardly: it was far too late in the season for that. Only a week or two to Autumfest! Once again, excitement filled her mind as she thought of the seasonal feasting and celebrations that would follow. And best of all, the chanting in the chapel to cheer Lord Melkavar as he began his lonely journey to the south. Vanrel loved the stories and ceremonial that went with the rituals at festival times even better than the feasting.

There it is again! This time, she deliberately slowed her pace and looked out of the corner of her eye to where she had seen the fluttering movement in the grass. It was, in fact, a pair of birds, but they were birds such as Vanrel had never seen. Their plumage was bright red with gold-tipped flight feathers. Being a fletcher’s daughter, Vanrel thought she knew all about birds and their feathers, but it seemed she was wrong. She stopped for a closer look — and right in front of her eyes, the extravagantly plumed creatures turned into a pair of starlings.

Vanrel blinked rapidly. There must be something in her eyes. She lifted her hands to rub them, then bent down for a closer look. Perhaps the red and gold was just a trick of the light. Or maybe she was going mad! All that reading — her father had said it wasn’t good for her. Before the thought was fully formed, however, the starlings had become a couple of playful kittens, chasing a small stone and batting it with their paws.

Vanrel, already squatting on her haunches in her efforts to see the birds clearly, sat down in shock.

‘Enough’s enough,’ she thought. ‘I really have been reading too much. Maybe I should go home and tell Mother I’m unwell, and I’ll go to see Master Ostraner tomorrow instead.’

The kittens disappeared into a clump of bushes, which started to wave as if some larger creature was pushing its way through. Vanrel was sure she could hear giggling. ‘Come out and show yourself,’ she said, in her best imitation of her mother’s voice when she was cross. ‘I’ve had enough of your silly jokes.’ Silence, then whispers which Vanrel could not make out.

‘Very well, we’ll come out,’ came a boy’s voice from the grass.

‘No, Tommavad, we mustn’t. Remember what mother said.’ This was a girl’s voice, more urgent than the first.

‘Who’s going to tell mother? I’m not, and if you do I’ll turn you into frogspawn and I’ll be a stickleback and I’ll eat you, so there.’ And with that the bushes parted and a boy crawled out on his hands and knees, followed uncertainly by a girl.

From the talk about obeying their mother she had supposed they were children, but on looking more closely Vanrel was surprised that the boy appeared to be roughly her own age and the girl only a little younger. They were like no one she’d ever seen before. The boy’s skin was green and his hair fiery red. His sister, while her skin was quite normal, sported grey fur instead of hair.

Seeing Vanrel’s horrified look, they turned to each other and burst out laughing.

‘Bother,’ said the boy. ‘Got it wrong again.’ He squeezed his eyes shut and slowly his skin turned a more normal shade and his hair faded to auburn. The girl did likewise, but her head remained obdurately furry. In fact, it turned tortoiseshell.

‘Sorry,’ said the girl. ‘I keep getting cat mixed up with every shape-change I try.’ She squinted in concentration and Vanrel couldn’t help laughing.

‘How do you do that?’

‘With great difficulty,’ responded Tommavad with a pompous dignity that ill-suited his urchin-like appearance. ‘I’m nearly sixteen, so I’m getting better at shape-changing, but Spirivia here will never be any good at it.’

‘I will so too!’ The girl’s voice was indignant. ‘I’m only fourteen. Just wait until I’m as old as you. I’ll be much better at it than you are.’

‘You’ll never be as old as me,’ scoffed her brother. ‘By the time you’re sixteen I’ll eighteen.’

‘And I’ll be seventeen,’ put in Vanrel. ‘So my age is right in between.’ She didn’t add that she felt decidedly grown-up alongside these two.

‘Yes, but you’re a grumlee,’ Tommavad answered as if addressing that very thought, ‘and grumlees only live sixty or seventy years, so they have to grow up faster than elves. That’s what my father says, anyway.’

Vanrel noted that they spoke with what sounded like a slight foreign accent, and what was more, she detected a superior tone in Tommavad’s voice, but it hardly gave authority to what he was telling her.

‘You’re elves? Oh, come on! How is it that I can see you, then?’

‘Because we’re practising looking like grumlees, silly. You wouldn’t be able to see us otherwise.’

Vanrel sat silently, staring at the strange children. Everyone knew of the elves, of course, and how they could take on the appearance of any living being they chose, but she had never heard of anyone actually seeing them do it.

‘You’re pulling my leg,’ she finally said.

Tommavad folded his arms. ‘Pulling your leg, are we? You don’t know what we can do. Come back tomorrow and we’ll show you things that will make you change your mind.’

‘Hah!’ Vanrel scoffed. ‘I’ve heard that story before. ‘I can do all sorts of things, but not today … Do you think I was hatched last spring?’

‘No, really,’ said Spirivia. ‘We are learning shape-changing and scrying and translocation — all kinds of things. But we have to go now, so we can’t show you today. Mother will be looking for us.’

The girl’s eagerness touched Vanrel’s heart. ‘All right, I‘ll come again tomorrow. But if you don’t show up I’ll know you’re just a pair of mountebank children who’ve learnt a few stupid tricks.’

‘We really do have to go now,’ said Spirivia, almost hopping from foot to foot with anxiety. ‘Come on, Tom, or we’ll be in trouble.’

Tom turned to follow his sister into the bushes. ‘See you tomorrow!’ he called over his shoulder, leaving Vanrel, mind awhirl, to set her reluctant feet back on the road to town.

* * *

Court duties again. Linvar sighed as he dressed in his formal surcoat with the fox fur trim. The weekly courts involved purely local business such as any baron has to deal with: arguments about farmstead borders and complaints about unfair trading among tenants of the king’s lands around Castle Beverak. Ever since he was about ten, he had attended many times with his tutor, watching from below the dais, but now he often sat alongside his father. It wouldn’t be so bad, if he had something to do instead of sitting there like a straw dummy, trying to look interested in the tenants’ arguments.

He dragged his feet as he descended the steps to the Great Hall. His father was already there, deep in discussion with the chamberlain and the bailiff. Linvar nodded to the two servants and bowed to his father before they took their seats.

It wasn’t that he hated court duties, but he did prefer to be doing something rather than listening and thinking. His father had insisted that he learn the workings of the kingdom from the ground up, so he knew a good deal about the mechanisms of the castle and the jobs of the people whose home it was. There were harness makers, smiths, armourers, bowyers and fletchers, as well as the huntsmen, falconers, stable hands and kennel boys. Everyone knew everyone else’s name and most other things about them as well, since whole families had served the royal house for generations. And Linvar knew them all.

But court duties? Meh. Linvar settled in for another morning of boredom.

The first case involved two of his father’s yeoman tenants. A miller was suing his neighbour for having diverted a stream onto his own property. ‘There’s not enough water to drive the millwheel now, sire,’ complained the miller. ‘I can’t make a living without water, and people are having to take their corn into Rannerven for grinding.’

The farmer, for his part, complained that due to the dry summer, there was insufficient water for his stock, and so as not to lose all his cattle he’d had no option but to build the dam. ‘Tis but a small dam, sir,’ he said. ‘I’ve not taken the whole flow, by any means. Yon Nevran is trying to do me out of my livelihood.’

‘That’s not true and you know it, Adifer,’ retorted the miller. ‘You could have driven your stock down to the water’s edge, rather than make a dam.’

‘You’ll have your turn again in a moment, Nevran,’ said Beverak. ‘But for now you must let Adifer speak. Go on, Adifer.

‘The banks are too steep on my land, sire, and if the cattle crossed Adifer’s land to get to the stream he’d have been complaining about them trampling his field. I do believe, sire, that this man holds a grudge against me for not letting my son marry his daughter.’

‘I wouldn’t have your shiftless idiot of a son in my family if you paid me,’ said Adifer. ‘It’s you that holds the grudge because I wouldn’t grind your corn for nothing.’

Beverak thumped the bench with a gavel. ‘Enough!’ he thundered. ‘Stand down, the pair of you, while I consult with Prince Linvar.’

Linvar’s guts clenched. Why on earth couldn’t the old man have given him some warning? He’d been sitting on this damned bench twice a month for the past three or four years, and never once had he been consulted on a case. Besides, what did he know of dams and cows and wayward daughters?

‘Forget all their other complaints and stick with the case in hand,’ his father murmured. ‘We need to try and make sure the farmer has water for his stock without taking water from the mill. Now, what do you think?’

Linvar frowned and thought for a moment. His mind raced around in circles, briefly examining one crazy notion after another before he found one that fitted. ‘Couldn’t they make a right-of-way from the road to the stream, alongside Adifer’s property? Then other local farmers could drive their stock down to the water, too. In a dry summer like this one they must all run short of water.’

His father smiled. ‘Good thinking. See how easy it is?’ He banged the bench again.

‘All right, Adifer and Nevran, stand forward. Prince Linvar has suggested, and I agree with him, that you should get together with other tenants along your road to build a pathway down to the stream. It will come off your land, Adifer, but you will be compensated by a fee levied on all the farmers who’ll have right-of-way.’ He turned to the bailiff. ‘Futhred, we’re charging you with overseeing this work. The path is to be completed by next quarter day — that gives you nearly a month — and Nevran is to dismantle his dam as soon as the work is done.’

Linvar felt quite proud of himself, and his father congratulated him on his creative solution. ‘The local court doesn’t present any serious problems, Linvar. A small fine here, a little compensation there, a short time in stocks where a petty crime’s been committed… you’re getting the hang of it, I can see.’

Maybe sitting in court wasn’t so bad, after all.

* * *

Vanrel was in two minds as to whether she should bother to return to her rendezvous with the elvish pair, but in the end, her curiosity drove her to turn up. Sure enough, Tommavad and Spirivia were there again, playing shape-changing games by the roadside. They were kittens when Vanrel first saw them, but as she approached they took on the forms of the previous day, except this time Tommavad’s skin was purple and Spirivia had a cat’s ears as well as tortoiseshell fuzz atop her head. Vanrel laughed.

‘How long will it take you to master shape-changing properly?’ she asked.

Tommavad looked miffed. ‘I’m very good at it, for my age,’ he replied stiffly. ‘I’d like to see you try.

It’s not easy, you know. We have to practise for hours.’

‘But it looks just like playing!’

‘Oh, I expect it would look like that, to a grumlee.’

‘What under Melkavar’s sun is a grumlee? I’ve been wondering about that ever since yesterday!’

‘An ordinary mortal. Someone like you.’

‘It’s not a nice word’.

‘Tommavad smirked. ‘It’s not supposed to be.’ He picked up the stone the kittens had been playing with and tossed it from hand to hand. ‘I’ll wager you don’t know what this is.’

Vanrel regarded the stone cautiously. ‘It looks like a stone to me. You can find plenty more just like it down on the strand below the castle.’

‘Oh yes, it’s a stone all right.’ Tommavad held it up to the light and gazed at it. ‘But it didn’t come from the seashore. Our father gave it to us so we could practise scrying.’

‘Scrying? You mean, telling the future?’

Tommavad shrugged. ‘Of course. If I put this in water, I can see anything I want to see.’

‘Can I look at it?’

Tommavad handed Vanrel the stone. She examined it carefully.

‘I don’t believe you,’ she finally said. ‘It’s just an ordinary pebble.’

Spirivia was indignant. ‘It is not! It’s a real scrying stone. We were practising with it earlier, weren’t we Tom? Why don’t we show her?’

For a change, Tommavad was the cautious one. ‘I don’t know if we should, Spivvy. That would really get us into trouble if mother found out.’

‘She won’t find out, will she? Come on, we told her we’d prove we’re elvish. Let’s go down to the stream and show her some scrying. If she’s brave enough to come, that is.’

Vanrel was indignant. ‘Of course I’m brave enough. Come on then. Show me what you can do with your silly stone.’ She marched past the pair and into the bushes, which, she knew, bordered one of the many streams that flowed into the river on its way down to the port at Rannerven. Her new friends followed.

By the streamside lay a still, shallow pool where part of the bank between two trees had washed away. There, Tom knelt at the water’s edge and submerged the pebble. ‘Now, we all hold hands, see? And we all breathe together. In…out…in…out.

Vanrel’s breath quickly fell into the rhythm. Fascinated, she stared into the water, which had become cloudy. Suddenly, it cleared and Vanrel gasped. What she saw was herself: older, certainly, but quite recognisable. She was wearing a long grey overgown and a grey veil, like a nun, and she appeared to be teaching a group of young girls how to sew. The picture was there only for a breath or two then it wavered and disappeared.

She reached into the water, lifted the stone out and stared at it in disbelief. Doubt immediately assailed her.

‘That can’t be right. I’m not going to be a nun. I’m going to be a fletcher, like my mother and father. I still think you’re just playing tricks on me.’

Tommavad shrugged. ‘What will be, will be. That’s what we saw, and it’s very likely to come true. Scrying stones don’t lie, but the future isn’t fixed, either. You’ll just have to wait and see.’

The two children suddenly looked at each other and seemed to have forgotten Vanrel. ‘Mother’s calling,’ said Spirivia in horror. ‘Quick, Tom, we must run. It’s all your fault! You know we’re not supposed to be down here…’

Vanrel had heard nothing, but Tom and Spivvy scrambled to their feet and ran off as though the ground were on fire. By the time Vanrel pushed her way back through the bushes they had both vanished. She waited for a few minutes in case they came back, but they did not, so she stowed the scrying stone in her purse and set off back to Castle Beverak.

Back at the castle, she couldn’t wait to try the stone for herself. Maybe it would only work with elvish people, so she wasn’t holding out too much hope of more visions, but as soon as she placed the stone in water, the cloudiness appeared, quickly giving way to a vision of a wedding feast in the castle’s Great Hall. And there was Vanrel, waiting on the tables! She had been begging Binny to let her help on feast days. Maybe she was going to get a chance to do it soon! Next came an image of Princess Lyrien with a baby, then a strange one of soldiers in some foreign place. Vanrel recognised Prince Ruthvard as a young man, and realised she was seeing a scene from the past, when he had been a surgeon in the army of Kyrisia.

Vision followed vision: feasts and funerals; everyday events involving fellow residents of the castle; even some intimate scenes that embarrassed Vanrel. She was sure, for instance, that Balifer, the huntsman, would not want people to know he was paying secret visits to the wife of one of the guardsmen. All the same, she couldn’t stop looking...

* * *

A month had passed since the court case between the miller and the farmer. Linvar decided to ride out that way to see if the work had been finished as ordered. This was more his kind of thing. Talking to people and learning about their daily lives was far more interesting than sitting in court.

Nevran and Adifer, it seemed, had forgotten their enmity. They were sitting in the sun by Adifer’s mill, sharing a pint of ale. They set their beakers down and stood up as soon as Linvar’s horse leapt the five-bar gate that marked the edge of Adifer’s holding.

Linvar cantered up the path to the mill and dismounted. ‘May I join you, gentlemen?’

Nevran and Adifer looked a trifle embarrassed, no doubt at being called gentlemen, but they bowed politely. ‘We’re honoured to see you, your highness,’ said Adifer.

‘All the work finished then?’

‘Yes, sir,’ replied Nevran. ‘All done. No worries there.’

‘That right o’ way is going to be a nice little earner once the wells run dry in summertime,’ said Adifer. ‘I’m grateful to your highness and his majesty for thinking of it, for the extra income will pay for my daughter’s wedding.’

‘Oh, so she’s going to wed, after all? Who’s the lucky fellow?’

‘Why, my Dev, of course, sir,’ put in Nevran. ‘Did we not tell you they were courting?’

Linvar decided not to mention Adifer’s previous opinion that Nevran’s boy was a shiftless idiot. ‘I’m pleased to hear that, Nevran, and I wish them every happiness.’

‘I wish to Melkavar we’d had more children, sir,’ Nevran told Linvar gloomily. ‘Another well-grown lad to help with the autumn ploughing would be a godsend to me. I’m well past the age when I could do much of it myself, and it’s too much for young Dev on his own. My sister’s daughter from over near Tethring is coming over, but she’ll be no use on a plough.’

‘Why don’t I come and help?’ Linvar asked. ‘I’d enjoy it, really I would, Nevran. I’m not frightened of hard work.’

Nevran looked shocked. ‘Oh, sir, we couldn’t have you handling a plough!’

‘I’ve done it before, Nevran, on the castle’s home farm. I’ll not be as good as you or Dev, of course, but I’m happy to help. I suppose you’ve got two ploughs?’

Now Nevran looked embarrassed. ‘No sir, only one. My old one broke at the end of last season, and I haven’t been able to afford another.’

‘Then I’ll see if I can borrow one. I’ll come back tomorrow and let you know.’ And with that, Linvar leapt onto his mount, went at the five-bar gate at a gallop, cleared it and gave the horse its head all the way back to town.

He found an old plough at the castle and had it carted down to Nevran’s farm along with a pair of oxen, and the very next day he set to ploughing with a will. He was very sore afterwards but he went back to try again, all the same, and soon he could almost keep up with Nevran’s son, Dev.

On the third day, he had been ploughing for a several hours in a freezing wind, when a young girl shyly brought him a slice of mutton pie and drink of hot ale. Linvar stopped work at the end of the furlong and warmed his hands on the beaker.

‘Just what I needed!’ he said with a smile as he returned the container to the girl. He regarded her youthful charms with more than a passing interest. Like the ale, she was warm and soothing with a hint of excitement to be enjoyed if one drank more deeply.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Kitrel, your highness.’ The girl’s eyes were modestly downcast, but her face was flushed and a slight smile enlivened her lips.

‘Kitrel.’ The name tasted like honey in his mouth. ‘You don’t live here, do you?’

‘No sir, I’m from Tethring, up near the county border.’

She cast a glance upwards as she spoke this time, and Linvar was enchanted by her green eyes and the smattering of freckles on her nose, matching her hair. Redheaded women were supposed to be passionate. It might be worth finding out if the reports were true...

‘I’m just here to help my aunt and uncle, sir,’ she added with another shy glance.

‘Will you be staying long?’

‘Another fortnight or so, sir.’

‘Then I’ll see you again, won’t I, Kitrel?’ And with one last smile, the prince returned to his ploughing with renewed vitality. He easily did another two hours before taking himself back to the castle, whistling all the way.

After that, on every single visit Kitrel made some excuse to call by the prince as he worked. After three or four such meetings, she began to walk part of the way home with him. There were, of course, plenty of barns to rest in, and Linvar found himself arriving back at the castle later and later with every visit...

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At the end of a fortnight, Kitrel went back to Tethring. Linvar could not truly say he was in love with her, but apart from a few brief fumbles with harlots in the back streets of Rannerven, she was his first lover as he was hers, and he missed their meetings in the hayshed.

His father had warned him against seducing the daughters of the castle’s workers. ‘It always leads to trouble,’ he had said. ‘Either other girls are jealous, or some boy will be. And while some parents are flattered to have their daughters favoured by a prince, others resent it and see it as an example of royal bullying and arrogance. Take your pleasures elsewhere, and in secret. And remember the risk you take, of getting a bastard on someone’s daughter…’

Linvar’s conscience pricked him. True, Kitrel’s family did not live at Castle Beverak, but her uncle was a tenant of the king and her parents lived close to an elderman’s country residence. Uncle

Dristhev would hardly thank him for causing trouble in his bailiwick. But Kitrel was old enough to know what she wanted, wasn’t she? She hadn’t allowed herself to be seduced in order to seek preferment for her family, as the daughters of some peasants and even lesser nobles would have done.

She had clearly wanted the affair as much as he had. And anyway, it was over now. Or was it? The whole episode was too fresh in Linvar’s mind for him to think about it objectively.

Despite his earnest reasoning, he missed Kitrel. The softness of her skin, the silky feel of her hair against his face as they lay together in the hay, the misty look in her eyes, half closed in passion, her parted lips inviting his mouth to hers…the remembrance brought an aching rush of longing.

His father complicated the issue by giving Linvar something new to think about. Not for the first time, he had turned his attention to the question of Linvar’s marriage, and had drawn up a list of suitable young women for his son’s consideration.

‘Whomever you choose, she must be healthy, sensible and well able to cope with life as queen, for that’s what she will be one day,’ he cautioned. ‘She’ll eventually have to run this household, for a start. A castle needs the hand of a lady; one who has been bred to the work.’

Linvar took the list away and regarded it distastefully. Against the thought of Kitrel, all other young women seemed insipid. Lady Ruthvarda Westlakes — too talkative. Lady Volrana Southwoods — Melkavar be merciful, the girl was downright ugly! Renvaret Lowlands…Linvar laughed to himself. Surely she couldn’t be more than twelve years old.

Anyway, these ideas of his father’s were never followed through. Several times in the past, various girls had been suggested as suitable brides for an heir to the throne, and nothing ever came of those recommendations. Linvar sighed as he tossed the list aside. When would he see his Kitrel again?

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