Stonehill downs, p.5
Stonehill Downs, page 5
When the bowl was empty, and she had wolfed down the final bit of bread and licked the last of the butter from her fingers, Avani inclined her head.
“Very good,” he said, as though complimenting a child. He stood up, dug around beneath his cloak, and tossed several coins onto the table. “Bundle up, and we’ll go.”
She almost laughed aloud at that, but instead obediently wrapped her cape around her shoulders. She wondered if he noticed the holes in her tunic and trousers, or the worn sheepskin on her feet.
What would it feel like, she mused, to wear real leather boots?
Mal put his hand on her back, and firmly steered her through the common room. The Widow looked up as they pushed past patrons, but kept her silence.
Unhindered, they slipped from the tavern and into the chill afternoon.
The fall of snow had tapered off. Avani thought she could see blue on the horizon. Drifts were knee high, but someone had cleared a neat path along the cobblestones. Probably Liam, she thought, looking around for the lad.
“There down the road,” Mal said, as though he’d read her mind. “A friend of yours?”
She found the skinny lad across the cobblestones, and lifted her hand in a wave.
“He belongs to the Widow, but I like to keep an eye on him.”
“He’s looking after my horse.”
Avani shrugged. She started along Liam’s path. The cobbles were slippery, and she stepped carefully. Mal followed at her heels. She heard him suck in a deep breath of fresh air.
“I can still taste smoke.”
Avani kept her eyes on her feet. “The Widow’s is the only tavern in Stonehill. She does well.”
“She said the cider was your own recipe.”
Then she did look over her shoulder, and caught his dry expression.
“My mother’s recipe,” she said. “But the Widow makes it too sweet.”
“Then you’ll have to brew a mugful,” he returned, “and correct my palate.”
She almost laughed again. “You are very sure of yourself.”
“Yes,” he said, unembarrassed. Then, “Where are your sheep?”
“I live across the village, on the edge of the Downs. The herd is there. Do you really know how to turn sheep?”
“I learned,” he said. “A long time ago, after I was made foster.”
She saw the pain in his eyes, and turned away. But he touched her elbow.
“Is that your bird?”
She looked into the sky, and whistled. “Ai! Jacob!”
The raven circled and dove, fetching up on her shoulder with a dramatic flap of his wings. He turned his head side to side, eyeing Mal, and muttering deep in his throat.
“Admirable. Does he always come at your call?” Mal asked, regarding Jacob doubtfully.
“He is my partner,” Avani answered simply. She waited as Jacob settled his feathers. Then she walked on.
She led Mal through Stonehill, across snowbound fields to her own corner of land. As they walked, she glanced several times over Jacob’s head at the man, trying to read his face.
He seemed vaguely interested in the village, and in her little house when it appeared over the hill, but for the most part his face was still, his mouth without expression.
When they reached the pen, she loosed Jacob and clamored over the fence. Mal paused, leaning his elbows on the nearest sturdy post, and studied her mud-encrusted herd.
“The smell is exactly as I remember,” he said, wry. “They look healthy enough.”
“The best wool around,” Avani boasted, proud of her hard work. “People come from all across the Downs for my cloth.”
“Indeed.” He didn’t sound as if he believed her.
“I trade it through the keep, as well,” she said, defensive. “His lordship takes a cut, but he gets me what I want.”
“Blackwater?” This time his disbelief was tangible.
“He’s a great head for figures,” Avani scolded, annoyed. She started across the pen.
Mal hopped the rails and came after.
“I’m astounded. The man looked too frightened to do anyone any good.”
“You’re a cold one,” she retorted. “Certainly his lordship would be frightened. He’d four murdered men in his keep, and a man more powerful than the king”—here she mocked without care—“come to poke the corpses.”
He stepped around her, blocking her path. When she scowled up into his face, she saw that his eyes had gone to green ice.
“Murdered men,” he repeated. “Are you guessing, or do you know?”
“Goddess take you. They were torn to pieces!”
“Are you guessing,” he asked again, chill as the snow at their feet. “Or do you know?”
“I know!” she admitted, furious. Shrugging off his gaze, she dodged the reach of his hand, and kicked through the snow to her sheep.
Mal followed in silence. When she whistled at the sheep, turning them from one end of the pen to the other, chasing them across the slope, he stepped into the work with the ease of old skill.
It took her half the time with his aid. When the last of the animals had found a new place to stand in the thin sunshine, Avani was surprised to discover she had energy left over.
She turned to thank the man, and found him watching Jacob.
“What is he doing?”
Avani frowned, and glared at the raven, but she didn’t have the heart to lie. Not with the sheep turned and time still remaining in her afternoon.
“The men were found there, on that patch of grass.”
“He’s scenting their blood?”
“You might say that.” Avani crossed to the center of the pen, knowing he would follow.
She crouched on the frozen ground where the men had died, and crossed her arms, keeping away from the raven. She didn’t want Jacob to draw her in, not here, not with this man looking on.
“Tell me,” Mal said. His shadow fell across the grass.
“They were here,” she said. “Side by side. Ripped apart. Split open. Skin flayed from bone. What more do you need?”
“You said they were murdered. How do you know?”
“I saw it.” She sighed. “There was a darkness, it tasted of deep places. It came upon them, and they had no chance. Whatever it was, it ripped them apart.”
“You were here?” His voice was harsh.
She found some humor in the idea. “And alive to tell about it? No. When your Kingsmen were murdered, when Thom was murdered, I was safe in my home. Mulling cider, mixing dyes. I didn’t sleep well, that night. But I didn’t hear anything, or see anything. Not until the next morning.”
“Blackwater said you had a fit. Suffered visions.”
Avani thought she could still send him away. It wouldn’t be easy, but he would go.
Yet as she frowned up at him, saw the mud stains on his expensive trousers, and the tear in his leather sleeve where one of the ewes had scored him with a hoof, she softened.
“Come into my home,” she said, straightening. “And I’ll fix you a mugful of cider to correct that palate.”
Mal followed her obediently back across the field. He watched the swing of her hair against her spine. Like a black curtain of silk, it fell to the curve of her lower spine. He wondered if she left it loose for warmth.
Certainly the clothes she wore provided little protection. Mal noted the way she shuddered in the cold. He doubted the frayed boots she wore were any shield at all from the wet.
“You tell me your business is fabrics,” he said, “yet take little care with yourself.”
Her shoulders stiffened. Mal hid a grin.
Why, he wondered, did he feel the need to prod at her temper? Why did he feel her quick flares of irritation so satisfying?
“It’s my business,” Avani muttered, as she climbed between fence rails. “Not a vanity. The money I make goes directly back into the land, into the sheep. Dyes and loom, and rent.”
“Rent?”
She waited as he scaled the fence.
“You wouldn’t be thinking I own this land?” she said, politely scornful. “I pay your king good coin for the use.”
“Of course. I’m sure His Majesty would be touched by your sacrifice.” Mal gave her ugly cape a pointed look.
Flushing, Avani whirled around. She stomped up the slope; the raven swooped overhead. Mal followed more slowly, content to enjoy the grace of her temper.
Grass and snow cracked beneath his feet. The temperature was dropping again. Mal supposed dark came early in the hills.
Avani’s home was little larger than a shed. The graystone foundation was buckling, and the old wood siding almost as dark as the rock. The roof was pitched, and mostly free of snow. Mal found himself hoping, for her sake, that the tiny building didn’t leak.
Avani knocked mud and ice from her boots before stepping through the front door. Mal paused to do the same.
When he followed across the threshold, he stopped and stared, amazed.
Avani’s home was warm, as warm as Stonehill’s tavern. The floors and walls were covered by carpets and tapestries; the ceiling was hung with more samples.
Each color was more striking than the next. Mal studied one length of wool, and then the next, and another, unable to stop. He wanted to see more, wanted to touch. He reached out and ran fingers down the closest tapestry.
The wool was rough but finely woven. The colored patterns drew Mal in, and he found himself lost in the shapes.
Here, he realized, was real skill. He’d found a crafter talented enough to weave for Renault.
He released the fabric, intending to praise.
Avani stood on a pile of rugs, arms crossed over her breast, chin held high. He realized she expected derision.
The vulnerability he saw in the stubborn set of her mouth tightened something in his chest.
In the end Mal said nothing. He only inclined his head, and crossed the small room to a pile of bright cushions.
“May I sit?”
Avani grunted. She paced away to poke at a small wood-burning stove. Mal sank into the cushions. The raven perched on a rafter and buried his beak under a wing.
“He likes to keep an eye on guests,” Avani said, as she fanned flames to life. “Don’t let him fool you.”
As Avani puttered, Mal took off his cloak and shed his gloves. He examined the tear in his sleeve.
“I’m afraid it’s ruined.” She sounded honestly regretful. “Hennish is impossible to mend properly.”
“It was ruined the moment I stepped into the tavern,” he replied, unconcerned. “Smoke that thick will cling forever.”
“Fresh air and lavender,” Avani said. She crumbled leaves into a pot of boiling water.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Hang it out in fresh air, and then pack it in dried lavender for a sevenday. It will take the stink right out.”
“I’ll remember.” He spread the cloak over his knees.
Avani crossed back over her rugs. She handed Mal a mug of hot cider.
As she bent to pass the drink, the ends of her hair brushed the inside of his wrist. Mal’s heart jumped in response. He took a deep, steadying breath, inhaling spice, then realized the scent he enjoyed was more the women than the cider.
Avani sat cross-legged at his feet. Mal edged back on his pillows, away from the woman, and forced his treacherous mind to business.
He took a swallow of cider, then bowed his head in homage.
“You’re right,” he said. “The Widow brews it too sweet. This is beyond description.” He took another drink, widening his eyes in appreciation.
Avani scoffed, but pleasure flickered in her smile. A smear of mud darkened her brow. Mal almost reached across to thumb the dirt away. Instead, he balanced his mug on his knee, and examined the ring on his finger until his thoughts were again of his duty.
“Tell me,” he said at last.
Avani sat quietly, hands clasped and still in her lap. Golden bangles slipped down around her arms, encircling her wrists.
“For my people,” she explained slowly, “dreams and visions are not unusual. We don’t fear them. We treat them as they are; a gift of the Goddess, messages from our ancestors. A lucky few of us are strong in that gift, and are trained up from the cradle to interpret and teach.”
“You’ve had that training?” Mal guessed.
Avani’s hands twisted in her lap, and her bangles sang softly.
“The gift was strong in my family,” she said. “In my mother, and in her brothers, and their father. I had some schooling, yes.”
Mal set the mug of cider on the floor. He knew better, but still he clasped her nervous hands in his own.
“What did you see?”
“I told you, did I not? Shadows, and rot, and the taste of deep earth. Old blood.”
She paused, as if searching memories. “Violence, rage. Tearing, rending, hunger. They tried to save themselves, but it happened too quickly. Your Kingsmen had no hope of escape. Neither poor Thom, out alone on the Downs. Split open from breast to groin as he was.”
Mal’s grip tightened. “You saw him.”
“Ai, I found him, didn’t I?” Avani looked at Mal in surprise. “You didn’t know that bit. They didn’t tell you the entire story.”
“I didn’t know.” He should have.
“He was the same,” she said. “They murdered him.”
“They?”
“More than three,” she sighed, “less than seven. I think.”
Mal shook his head in frustration. “It shouldn’t be so difficult.”
Avani took her hands back, lifting her chin. “I won’t apologize. I’ve given you what I can. One of my brothers might have seen beyond the shadows, conjured for you their kind, their number, even counted the hairs on their bodies. I was very young when I was forced to leave my home, there is much of my birthright I will never know.”
“You’re shouting,” Mal pointed out, calm. He picked up the cider, and took a slow swallow. He considered her dark, slanted eyes and the shape of her cheekbones. “Which of the Sunken Islands were you from?” he hazarded.
Avani glanced away. Mal had forgotten the raven. He started when the bird hissed.
“Jacob,” Avani cautioned. She rolled her shoulders in a shrug.
“You said you grew up on the coast.” She said, “You would have heard the stories.”
“I imagine the entire land has heard tales of that cataclysm,” Mal said. “But, yes. I helped collect the dead from the beaches. It’s not something a man will ever forget.”
“It’s called the Horn, now. Some of the highest pinnacles still break the sea. Pinnacles not even the strongest of us could scale.”
“I’m sorry. Your family?”
Avani shook her head. “All lost. There are a handful of my people left to confirm your horror stories, and that is thanks to your king and his fleet.” She shrugged again. “I am the youngest survivor, I think, but not the last of my kind. We make what life we can in the flatlands, away from the water.
“I was quite young when the island fell, not fully trained, hardly full grown. I have trouble with visions. Often they come too quickly, and overwhelm. Dreams are easier.” She hesitated. “I dreamed, that night, of strangers from the south.”
“South.”
Avani scratched her elbow. “South, and west, I think. I couldn’t see their faces, but they smelled of the sea and sang songs of the Low Port.”
“South and west is Wilhaiim,” Mal murmured. “His Majesty’s capitol. The Kingsmen.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “There is nothing else.”
Mal heard the hesitation in her voice, and wondered. He knew he could force the rest from her, make her speak, share every secret. Renault would expect it of him.
He didn’t want to hurt her.
So instead he adjusted his cloak around his shoulders, climbed from the mountain of cushions, and returned his empty mug to her stove.
“I thank you.” He bowed politely.
Avani appeared abashed and then, he thought, ashamed.
“If I think of anything else—” she began.
“I’ll come back,” he agreed easily. “Perhaps tomorrow, on my way down the hills, just in case you dream again in the night.”
Her brow wrinkled, but she kept her smile pleasant. “I do not expect that will happen. You may find yourself snowed in, tomorrow dawn.”
“So the Widow suggested.”
When they stepped from the house, he discovered it was indeed storming again. The sun was banished, the afternoon passed to evening.
“Good night,” he said, bowing again.
“Good night,” she replied, the raven watching over her shoulder.
Mal left her there. He found his way through snowfall to the tavern, where once inside he was given a late supper and a mostly clean room.
He recognized one of Avani’s rugs warming the floor by the bed. The rug was patterned in red and black. Mal spent a long while admiring the artistry before he undressed for sleep.
The sagging bed was covered with a spread of more wool. He slipped between threadbare sheets. He fell asleep thinking of her dancing hands. He dreamed he was wrapped in her hair.
HE WOKE FRANTIC, thoroughly aroused. His heart pounded in his throat, and Siobahn was whispering into his ear.
“Wake up!” She hissed, “Get up! They’ve come!”
“Who?” He was already on his feet, lacing his trousers and pulling on his tunic.
“Your shepherdess’s monsters.” She stood by the window, peering past curtains into the night. “Dirt and shadows, rending and rot.”
“You can feel them?”
Mal fastened his cloak. He slung his sword around his hip and, reassured by the weight, he crossed to her side and looked out over the top of her head.
The building across the cobblestone street was burning. The clapboard had already fallen; stone was crumbling to ruin, melting snow. Ash drifted on the night. Down into the village he could make out a second fire, and a third.
