The Midsummer Floral Dance was Tor’s favourite local event. In spite of his distracted, melancholy mood since the bridling, his spirits lifted greatly as he guided the wagon to Minstead Green that morning.
One of his earliest memories was holding his mother’s hand, watching while the village girls weaved their intricate patterns of steps. He still loved the colour and pageantry of the festival.
This was the first year he would attend Minstead on his own and the sense of freedom was seductive. It was made particularly intoxicating by the fact that Alyssandra Qyn would dance for the first time this year. She had reached womanhood and was permitted to take a husband if she chose.
He longingly watched her gossiping with the other girls on the Green. She smoothed her honey-coloured hair; its golden glints sparkled in the sun. There had
never been anything vain about Alyssa, though her radiance was plain to all. With her mother long dead and Lam Qyn in his cups most of the time, she rarely had the benefit of the invaluable parental guidance Tor enjoyed. Alyssa had virtually raised herself, caring for her drunken father as best she could, and now earned the family’s pitiful income from her salves and simple herbals.
Tor had been captivated by her from the moment they first spoke. Dangerously, some years back, she had opened a link, cast out randomly and locked onto him. When it happened, the shock caused Tor to spill a pot of ink across a new tablet of paper which resulted in a fiery scolding from his normally good-natured father. Tor had no defence. How could he blame a cheeky nine year old who lived on the other side of the river? Through him she listened to the rebuke and when it was over whispered,
Sorry, whoever you are.
From that time they had linked daily, wondering with each conversation if the Inquisitors would sniff them out. As children, it had seemed vaguely dangerous fun. Now, older and wiser to the horror of discovery, they quietly marvelled at their invisibility. Both had agreed to restrict the link to each other, as it was obviously something about one or both that kept them safe.
Tor sighed. There was not a prettier girl in the surrounding villages, though it was Alyssa’s strength and companionship he most adored. He revelled in the whispers of the ladies nearby agreeing that she was a great beauty but bristled at the suggestion that
a wealthy merchant would sweep her off her feet one day soon.
This was precisely why he intended to speak to her in earnest today. They so rarely saw one another and though they linked often he worried that she may not welcome his offer of marriage. Nevertheless, he had promised himself he would pledge his love and ask for her hand just as soon as he caught that damn posy of flowers.
Tor imagined the culmination of the Floral Dance when the girls would close their eyes, then loft their flowers high over their shoulders. The eligible men would try to catch the posy belonging to the lady of their choice. The tradition of the dance held that any man who proposed marriage, without the flowers having left his clutch, would have his wish accepted. The girls believed that if they became betrothed on the day of the Floral Dance the marriage would be happy, their first child a son and their husband would remain faithful.
This summer some forty women had gathered on Minstead Green with their bright meadow flowers held together by woven straw. Plain or beautiful, the spinsters of Minstead all looked lovely dressed in their finest cottons. Alyssa had chosen a soft green linen. Fashioned simply, it showed off her slim neck and tiny waist to perfection. It also cunningly matched her eyes. Tor knew she must have gone without many meals to afford the fabric.
Tor was not the only fellow smitten by her charms and he realised this. A quick glance was all it took to
confirm that too many of the young bachelors had eyes only for Alyssandra Qyn.
She stopped fussing with her dress and hair, looked over and smiled. His heart raced.
I’ll kill you Tor, if Rufys Akre catches my flowers!
she said across the link.
Mmm, imagine those gravestones for teeth waiting to nibble you each night.
He laughed as he cast this thought to her and Rufus Akre, standing next to him, looked at him strangely, wondering what was so funny.
Just catch my posy because if desperate Rufus doesn’t, Eli Knox has already told me he will.
Tor looked around for Eli and saw the handsome storekeeper talking with friends, his head nodding towards Alyssa as he spoke.
Tor scowled.
Don’t worry about me. You just worry about throwing it straight!
There was never any doubt in his or Alyssa’s thoughts who would catch her posy. It would not have mattered whether there were twelve dozen men of a mind to win her attention that day; the posy belonged to Tor. He had magic on his side and he wielded it with exquisite subtlety that afternoon, guiding her clutch of daisies, bells and cornflowers through the air to his lifted hand at the completion of the Floral Dance. He clung to her posy tightly even though seven men blundered into him, knocking him backwards to the ground; a few even daring to wrestle for it, Eli Knox being one of them.
Alyssa bounded over. ‘Claim your prize, my Lord,’ she said, effecting a terrible curtsy.
This was the final insult for Eli Knox. ‘Your father’s pickled mind is rubbing off on you, Alyssa, if you believe a poor scribe like Gynt can give you a decent life.’
Tor could not help himself. He spiked Knox who suddenly found himself unable to complete a sentence without a profound stutter.
Tor mimicked him. ‘Oh, Kn-Kn-Knox, Anabel Joyse said you could have her f-f-f-flowers.’
Anabel Joyse was an excessively large, ruddy-cheeked spinster of middle years with a thatch of flaming orange hair and just four teeth. She had given up the Floral Dance years previous but her terrifying legend lived on with the young men.
‘F-f-f-you, Gynt,’ Knox stuttered.
‘Oh and f-f-farewell to you too, Knox. Come on, Alyssa.’
He grabbed her hand and they ran away from the Green, eventually finding themselves near the Minstead stables. It was the first time in many days that Tor had been able to laugh: the Twyfford Cross bridling had seriously unsettled him. Though he had daydreamed of it many times, cursing his shyness, he had every intention today of asking Alyssa if she would be his wife. He had the Floral Dance on his side. He could not fail now.
She leaned back against the stable. ‘You nearly lost my posy, you oaf!’
‘But would I have lost you?’ he asked, wanting to kiss her.
Alyssa decided he was never going to pluck up the courage so she did it for him. Pulling him to her, she gave him no choice but to close his lips against hers. The kiss was so much more delicious than in his dreams. The reality was slow, deep and so passionate he lost all ability to hear. Silence reigned in his world. Only Alyssa’s sweet, soft mouth mattered.
Alyssa finally pushed him back from her. They were both breathing deeply.
She looked serious.
Ask me
, she said via the link.
Tor was about to speak when he heard a horse shift in its stall. Glancing over her shoulder, his ardour died the second he caught sight of the fine black stallion bearing the royal Tallinese oriflamme. He stepped back from Alyssa, staring with disbelief into the murkiness of the stable, where lazy flies buzzed around the horses.
Tor?
Alyssa shook his arm. He did not respond but the alarm on his face was plain. She felt him snap their link shut.
‘Whatever’s wrong?’ she asked aloud, trying to see what he was looking at so intently in the shadows of the stable.
Tor’s mind was spinning with fright. The grisly scene from Twyfford Cross came racing back. He unwrapped her arm from his and turned to face her slowly.
‘We have to go.’ He said it quietly but deliberately.
‘Go? Go where?’
‘Away from here,’ was all he said, taking her hand and pulling her back towards the Green.
She switched back to the link, her irritation clear.
Tor what’s going on? I thought we were—
He cut her off. ‘No link,’ he said aloud, fiercely.
He pulled her across the street and past the Green towards his father’s wagon where Lady was chewing contentedly on a bag of oats.
‘Stop it, Tor! You’re frightening me.’ Alyssa refused to budge.
‘We must get away from here, then I will explain everything.’
Tor kept walking but Alyssa had not moved. ‘Tell me now,’ she said, confused, her voice filled with disappointment.
As Tor swung angrily around he saw him. The old man who had been at the bridling. The King’s man. The man of magic.
Physic Merkhud had indeed been looking for the young scribe ever since he had witnessed that arrogant trickle of magic against the hapless Marya at Twyfford Cross. It had surely saved her life but could so easily have sounded the death knell for the scribe. And yet Goth and his dark band of Inquisitors had not so much as twitched an eyelash in acknowledgement of such power being wielded before their eyes. The discovery of the boy and his potent, indetectable magic had stunned Physic
Merkhud, and he grasped hungrily at the thought that this was the One. In three centuries of searching, none but his own unique magic had gone undetected by the Inquisitors.
The tall handsome lad was running from him once again. He would not lose him this time.
Alyssa followed Tor’s startled gaze. His thick dark hair had come loose from its thong and his strange, brilliantly blue eyes were wide and blazing at an old man standing at the edge of the Green. She made her fateful error then, angrily re-opening the link and speaking deliberately across it.
Who is that man? Why are we running?
Merkhud, startled for the second time in almost as many days, shifted his gaze from the young man he was following to the beautiful young woman standing on the other side of the street. There they rested with wonder, as Torkyn Gynt knew they would.
It was as if everyone in Minstead had stopped in their tracks at the precise second Merkhud heard Alyssa’s voice on the link. Children playing, women talking in groups, couples laughing—all still, held silent in their acts of normality, while Tor’s life flipped into anything but. And all he could hear was the pounding of his heart.
He forced himself to breathe deeply before speaking across the link, not caring now that the mysterious man could hear, anxious only for Alyssa’s escape.
Alyssa, if you do nothing else for me ever again, go now. Take the wagon and leave. No, don’t even mention where to. I’ll get word to you soon. Now go.
He turned and began to walk away from her.
Tor, wait!
she cried.
Go!
he screamed. And she did, running towards Lady, stung by his coldness and aggression.
Tor did not wait to watch what the man did. He knew he would already be hurrying back to the stable. Instead he veiled his mind from Alyssa, broke into a sprint and headed across country, taking care to stay as far away from the roads as possible.
It had been two days since the second sighting but Tor remained badly shaken. He had spun a tale of being roughed up by drunken revellers as they left Minstead, saying that Alyssa had escaped unhurt but with the wagon and Lady. One look at his dishevelled appearance and distressed expression and his parents could believe it. Fortunately the story gave him the excuse he needed to lay low at home.
Tor felt terrible about lying to his parents and the extra burden it created for his father. They had always lived frugally, in a small stone dwelling in Flat Meadows. It was a village of no fascination other than its excellent inn and its proximity to the main road, which led to the capital of Tal. His father worked hard to provide a good home for his family and to give his son a trade. His mother earned a small wage cooking for the local inn.
She had recently bustled back into the house; it was never quiet when Ailsa Gynt was home and Tor listened absently as she chatted about the marvellous fruit pies she had baked today.
She pulled one of them out of her big basket and set it down on the scrubbed table in the kitchen where Tor sat. The scrumptious aroma alone would normally send his stomach into spasms but not today.
‘I smuggled one out for you, son. You need fattening up…you’ve been looking so pale these last days.’
Tor said nothing. He was desperate to link with Alyssa but he had been unable to reach her. Curious. He could imagine what she was thinking, what strange ideas she would conjure from his silence after his harsh behaviour at Minstead. If only he could talk to her and set her mind at ease. She was veiling, he decided, and yet there was no veil of hers he could not navigate his way around. This, if he was being honest, did not feel right.
His mother continued chattering, oblivious to her son’s anguish, moving about her kitchen with practised ease and a surprisingly light step for such a heavy woman. Tor often wondered how he had managed to turn out so tall and slender with such short, round people for parents.
He had missed the question.
‘I said, are you still feeling poorly, Tor?’ his mother repeated.
He shook his thoughts clear. ‘Er…no, much better today. I’ll be able to work tomorrow,’ he replied.
‘Well, about time, Torkyn!’ said Jhon Gynt, but not unkindly, as he entered through the back door. ‘There’s a mighty storm brewing, mother. Look at the sky.’
Tor joined his father at the door. Bruised clouds were gathering in dark clumps and the day’s early breeze had stopped making the trees show their respect. The late afternoon had become ominously still. The air felt brittle, expectant.
‘Are you worried about Lady?’ Tor asked guiltily.
‘No. Alyssa will have the sense to have her in that barn of theirs and this storm may not even hit Mallee Marsh. Lady’s better off where she is. I’ll need her by Fourthday though, son, so I hope you’re well enough to get over there and bring her back by then.’
Tor nodded and felt his father’s hand on his shoulder.
‘All right, let’s see what treat Mother Gynt has in store for us,’ his father said kindly.
The storm banged angrily against their front door two hours later.
Ailsa Gynt shivered. ‘I hate thunder and lightning—sends a chill up my spine,’ she commented from her rocking chair, fingers travelling swiftly with a needle and yarn.
‘Why?’ Tor said, yawning and closing his book.
‘Oh, it’s silly, but my grandmother always used to say it was a bad omen…you know, that perhaps the gods are angry.’
‘Oh Ailsa, my love, stop that nonsense,’ Jhon grumbled gently. ‘Son, I can hear that back gate swinging against the wall. It’s going to come off its hinges if we don’t secure it.’
Tor pulled on a large hat and blanket from the hook by the back door and loped off. As he left, a hand of lightning lit up the sky, swiftly followed by a deafening crack of thunder.
‘That was close,’ Ailsa muttered, sewing frantically. ‘The gods must be furious!’
Jhon Gynt clicked his tongue in feigned irritation and returned to his accounts. It was then they heard a different sort of banging on their front door.
Tor marvelled at the theatrics of nature above him, but did not tarry for the rain was hard and furious, turning the yard into slimy mud. He cast to Alyssa for the umpteenth time in two days and again found only strange bleakness on their link. Tor felt so glum he allowed the rain to pummel him for a few moments. Then, gingerly edging his way around the deepening puddles, he heard his mother calling to him from the back step. He squinted through the rain and could see her beckoning for him to hurry.
What now? he thought irritably.
He stepped back into the house, uselessly trying to stamp off the water from the drenching as he hung the sodden blanket and hat back on the hook. When he turned he felt his stomach flip. Between his parents, and smiling benignly, was the old, silver-haired stranger. Instinctively Torkyn shielded himself and his parents in an instant.
Impressive
, said the old man directly into Tor’s head.
But fear me not, I am no enemy of yours.
Jhon Gynt was speaking. Tor wanted to shake his mind clear of the old man’s touch. His father sounded overwhelmed by the importance of their evening visitor.
‘Torkyn, this is Physic Merkhud. He tends their majesties, King Lorys and Queen Nyria.’ His father’s emphatic look suggested he show due respect.
Why do you stalk me, old man?
Tor slammed back across the open link whilst effecting a neat bow to their guest.
Merkhud nodded courteously in return.
Patience, boy. I will explain all
, and then the link was cut. He spoke aloud. ‘Forgive me, please, for this late and dramatic arrival. I’m due in Tal by Firstday but had to talk with your son before I left the district. We met at Minstead a few days ago.’
‘Oh, you didn’t mention that, Tor,’ his mother chided as she bustled the old man into a comfortable chair near the fire. ‘Now, have you eaten?’
Food was ever the first thing that came to his mother’s mind, Tor thought sourly.
Merkhud, by contrast, looked delighted. ‘Well, to tell you the truth I’ve been riding all day and haven’t had the chance to nibble on so much as a crust.’
Music to her ears, Tor thought, trying to force a polite expression onto his face. Was this the bad omen his great-grandmother’s superstition had warned about, he wondered? Another crack of thunder answered him.
‘You must be chilled, Physic Merkhud. Let me get you a warming nip of something,’ Jhon Gynt offered.
It was rare his parents had guests, let alone one with the ear of the King, and they were obviously going to enjoy it, Tor decided. He did not allow the shield to slip but returned to his seat, curious and frightened, wondering where this was leading. The men made polite small talk whilst Ailsa moved noiselessly and efficiently about her kitchen. As the conversation wore on, Tor could not help but become fascinated with the physic’s talk about life in the capital, Tal.
The old man had a smooth, musical quality to his voice and close up appeared anything but threatening. His beard, though long, was trimmed neatly and the wispy hair was now tied back so his deep grey eyes were visible amongst friendly wrinkles.
‘What’s King Lorys like?’ Tor asked as their guest leaned back into his chair for Ailsa to place a tray on his lap.
‘Thank you,’ Merkhud said softly, smiling directly into Ailsa’s eyes. He turned to Tor. ‘Um, Lorys…let me see now. He’s an exceptional King. Far better than his father and grandfather before him who both ruled with fear. Lorys has an empathy for his people; he and Queen Nyria—’
‘Then why does he allow his people to be maimed, tortured and killed? What is he afraid of?’ Tor hurled back.
He enjoyed watching Merkhud’s lips purse in reaction to his aggression. Their guest covered his irritation by eating some bread.
‘He’s a good man, Tor, but if he has a flaw it’s his traditional intolerance of sentients. He blindly follows his ancestors and their archaic laws which, at the time, were passed from fear. It makes me sad too.’
Ailsa returned with a bowl of steaming stew. ‘Here now, this should warm your old bones.’
Her rabbit stew, with its blend of spices and fragrant herbs, was famous in the district. She set down a plate with some extra hunks of bread thickly smeared with butter.
Merkhud needed no further encouragement and set about consuming the delicious, simple fare. ‘This really is an extraordinary stew,’ he uttered between mouthfuls and Ailsa beamed.
She wanted to return to her sewing but thought it impolite, so she smoothed her skirts instead, cleared her throat and stared at her husband, willing him to make some sophisticated conversation. Her son, she could see, wore a sullen countenance. His normally radiantly blue eyes were blanked dull; they looked like those of the rabbit she had killed earlier that day. She did not understand his bad humour but this visitor was far too important to ignore.
Jhon Gynt took the hint. ‘So, Physic Merkhud, having you share a humble meal in our house is a pleasure, but you said you needed to see Torkyn?’
Direct as usual, his wife thought, abandoning all hope of a long evening in fine company. She picked up her sewing.
Merkhud had just finished cleaning up the rich, sticky gravy with a hunk of the bread. He sincerely
wanted to lick the remains of that juice from his fingers. Instead he dipped them into the water bowl on his tray, picked up the accompanying napkin and set about cleaning his hands and whiskers. All of this gave him precious time to think.
‘You’ll forgive my frankness,’ he said finally.
Jhon Gynt nodded. ‘I’d appreciate it.’
Merkhud looked directly at Tor when he spoke.
‘I am aware that your son is sentient…Please, let me finish,’ he said as the boy’s parents gasped and he felt the shield around them tighten.
Get out of here, physic!
Torkyn snarled across the link.
His mother was jabbering and his father was on his feet.
‘Let me finish, please. I’m not here on the King’s business and I am certainly no member of the butchers who go by the name of Inquisitor,’ Merkhud implored.
Then more emphatically and directly at the boy. ‘Tor, you do not intimidate me so stop your threats. You do, however, amaze and reassure me. In you I see hope for us all.’
‘He speaks in riddles.’ Tor waved his hand as if to dismiss the ravings of an old man, but once again strengthened the shield around himself and his parents, terrified of what the sentient physic was capable of.
Jhon Gynt’s normally gentle voice sounded suddenly commanding.
‘Physic Merkhud, forgive my son’s indiscretion…whatever he’s done. We don’t discuss Torkyn’s power
for obvious reasons. That you bring it into the open so casually is very frightening for all of us after his lifetime of hiding it. Please say what you’ve come here to say. I fear this is no visit of chance.’ An icy look was sent towards his son to ensure he gave no further interruption.
Merkhud nodded his head. ‘You are correct, Jhon Gynt. This is no social visit. I am sentient too.’ He allowed that to hang between the four of them for a moment. ‘And, like Tor here, the Power Arts I wield go strangely unnoticed by Goth and his merry band. I know not why.’
He lied. He had to.
‘Until I witnessed your son use his powers to help that poor girl at Twyfford Cross, I had never met anyone else in my life whose magic was undetectable.’ Again he lied.
The silence was heavy. He knew the boy’s parents had no clue if or when their son wielded his magic and felt sure they had forbidden him all of his life to use those skills. He took a deep breath, knowing this was the critical moment he had quested towards for so long and time was so short. He could not fail now.
‘With Tor’s consent—and yours, of course—I would like him to come to Tal and be my apprentice.’
‘At the Palace! Why?’ Ailsa shrieked, unable to contain herself.
‘By the light, man! Are you mad? It would be like giving him to Goth. We might as well paint a sign on his forehead that reads “bridle me”,’ Jhon Gynt bellowed in a rare show of rage.
‘No, Gynt, you’re not thinking. I’ve just told you that both your son and I can wield our power without detection. He will be safest at the Palace under my absolute protection. No one would dare touch him there, and no one will. I will teach him the healing craft. He will be my successor at the Palace: wealthy, respected and safe from the barbarians who roam this land. Who knows, perhaps it is Tor who will bring about change with me…’
Merkhud stopped himself. He was excited, clutching at his one sparkling chance. Surely this boy was the One. He must not lose him.
Come with me, boy
, he whispered across the link. It was only then he saw the light shining in Tor’s strange blue eyes and knew he had won.
‘You want us to give you permission to take away our son—our only child?’ Ailsa Gynt’s tears were already flowing.
‘I am asking you to give him into my care and, at risk of being dramatic, to give him to the people of Tallinor.’
‘Physic, have you ever had a child? Do you know what it is to give up a son?’ Jhon Gynt’s voice was gritty with emotion.
For a moment it felt as though the world had stilled. The sound of the storm outside seemed to fade to silence. Merkhud’s reply was barely more than a murmur.
‘I do. I had two sons, once. The first beautiful child died almost as soon as he was born. The second boy was a gift to soothe our hearts and I loved him more
than I have loved anyone…but he too left us, tragically. It was a long time ago and I’ve been lonely and embittered ever since. Turning my back on the many young men who have begged to be given a chance to learn, to train and perhaps take my place one day.’
No one said anything.
‘What’s in this wine, Jhon Gynt? My old gums have not flapped that precious piece of information ever.’
‘Physic Merkhud, in truth this must be Torkyn’s decision. I will not force or even ask him to leave us—heaven knows, I am in need of his eyes and hands here. But it’s a grand opportunity for him—much grander than a father dare dream for one of his own.’