Malice

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CORBAN

‘Where do you think he’s from, Mam?’ Cywen asked. Corban was picking at a bowl of porridge, stirring a spoonful of honey into swirling shapes. Gwenith frowned at Thannon absently as she sat in front of the hearth, toasting bread on a long fork.

Gwenith sighed. ‘I don’t know, though doubtless you don’t believe me, because if you’ve asked me once you’ve asked me five score times.’

‘Someone must know,’ said Cywen despairingly. ‘Da?’

‘Sorry,’ mumbled Thannon over a mouthful of honey-cake.

‘A white eagle on the shield. That’s what you said, Ban, wasn’t it.’

‘Aye.’

‘Who’s sign is that?’

‘We’ll eat in the feast-hall tonight. Maybe Brenin will announce who his visitor is over the evening meal,’ said Gwenith, sliding another thick piece of toasted bread onto a plate in front of everybody. Belying his size, Thannon snatched it first, and smiled to himself as he spread a thick scoop of butter on it. Cywen was silent, her nose crinkling in that familiar way when she was thinking.

‘You’re probably right, but that’s ages away.’

‘Patience, lass,’ said Thannon, leaning contentedly back in his chair, rubbing his belly. Corban frowned. That was one phrase that he really found objectionable, as it usually meant shut up, or let’s change the subject. By the look on Cywen’s face she was thinking something similar.

‘C’mon, lad, let’s get the fire lit. More scythes to make today.’

Corban grimaced. His shoulder was aching from yesterday’s hard work, and a particularly painful blister was throbbing in the crease where his thumb met his hand.

‘Oh, I forgot,’ Cywen said, ‘Gar told me he needs to speak to you today, Ban. I’m going straight to his stables — walk with me, eh, go to the forge after? If that is all right with you, Da.’

‘Aye, that’d be fine. I’ll see you after, Ban,’ said Thannon, standing and brushing crumbs from his tunic. He strode from the kitchen, his hound Buddai following. Corban and Cywen left soon after, leaving their mother still sitting by the fire, staring into the crackling flames in the hearth.

‘What does Gar want?’ Corban asked Cywen. He was back on speaking terms with her now. The horror of Dylan’s death had at least caused him to reassess the gravity of Cywen’s impulsive crime.

‘I don’t know. I did ask, but he wouldn’t tell me. He can be very close-mouthed sometimes.’

‘Huh,’ Corban grunted in agreement.

The stables were a massive building of wood and thatch. The giant Benothi had of course not ridden horses, and so had not built stables, thus Ard had had to build his own amongst the stone buildings of the old fortress.

They found stablemaster Gar in the paddocks near the stables with the roan colt that Cywen had bought at the Spring Fair. He had the colt’s foreleg balanced across his knee and was applying some kind of salve, digging it out of a pot with his fingertips, plastering it liberally on the cut where Cywen had removed the thorn. Corban and Cywen stood quietly by while he finished bandaging the hoof, Corban wrinkling his nose at the smell of the salve.

‘He’s doing well,’ Gar said, patting the roan’s neck.

‘Cywen said you wanted to see me.’ Corban said.

‘That’s right.’ Gar looked pointedly at Cywen. She frowned and didn’t look up, picking instead at a burr in the colt’s mane. The silence stretched for long, uncomfortable moments, then a voice called Cywen’s name.

Edana was walking quickly towards them, a smile on her face, a warrior striding close behind her.

‘Hello, Cywen, Gar, Corban.’ The Princess smiled in turn at them. ‘I was hoping to find you here,’ she said to Cywen. ‘If you have the time, I was wondering if you might like to join me on a ride.’

Cywen grinned. ‘I’d like to very much, but Gar has not told me what my morning chores are yet.’ She looked at her feet.

The stablemaster gave a rare smile of his own. ‘Ride with the Princess,’ he said. ‘Please.’

Cywen wrapped her arms around Gar, planting a kiss on his cheek, then she and Edana set off towards the stables, the warrior with Edana taking long strides to keep up with them.

‘How are you, Ban?’ said Gar.

‘Well enough,’ Corban said with a shrug, feeling suddenly uncomfortable, looking at the turf.

There was a long silence. Corban eventually raised his eyes, meeting Gar’s gaze. ‘How am I supposed to be? My friend is dead. Dylan was murdered.’ He sighed. ‘I am many things, Gar: angry, sad. Sometimes I even forget about what has happened and feel happy, for a time. That is the worst.’

‘Have you seen that young bully Rafe since the Spring Fair?’

‘Only from a distance. It doesn’t seem as important now.’

Gar grunted. ‘That is good. But it will not go away. My offer still stands — do you remember?’

‘Yes.’

Cywen, Edana and the warrior rode out of the stable doors.

‘Do you still wish to meet?’ the stablemaster asked, quietly.

In truth Corban had all but forgotten Gar’s offer of teaching him, but memories of Rafe came vividly back.

‘Aye, I do.’

‘Then meet me here, tomorrow morning. If you are not here when the sun touches the peaks of the cliffs I will know you’ve changed your mind. We’ll not speak of it again.’

Without another word Gar limped towards the stables.

Corban had never seen the feast-hall so full. All were welcome at the King’s table, but in reality most of the smaller holds within the fortress, such as Thannon’s, took their evening meals in their own homes. Not tonight, though. Conversation thrummed around the room as Corban sat on a bench, squashed between his da and his sister. A door at the rear of the chamber opened; the murmur of voices in the hall faltered. Brenin swept in, Ardan’s King stern-faced, accompanied by the eagle-messenger.

Brenin made his way to the firepit and cut the first slice of meat to begin the meal.

All became noise again as the rest of the hall set about eating.

Corban washed his food down with a mug of ale, scowling when he saw Rafe standing behind Evnis.

Brenin pushed his half-filled trencher back and stood, all eyes turning to him.

‘On the morrow I must leave Ardan, for a time,’ he said.

Silence.

‘A messenger has come from Tenebral,’ he continued, gesturing to the man sitting at his side.

‘Aquilus, King of Tenebral, High King of the Banished Lands, has called a kings’ council.’

Gasps around the hall now.

‘This is the first time this has happened since the Exiles were washed up on the shores of these Banished Lands, over a thousand years ago. I must be there. I leave Alona in my stead. She will rule in my place until I return.’

‘What about Darol and his slaughtered family?’ a voice cried out, faceless in the crowd. Brenin nodded slowly. ‘I have not forgotten my oath. Pendathran will take a warband into the Baglun Forest. He will not return until he has caught those responsible. Alive, I hope, so that they may face my judgement when I return.’

Pendathran thumped the table with his fist, trenchers and cups leaping into the air.

‘May the Ben-Elim protect you while I am away,’ Brenin said, then he turned and left the chamber.

Noise erupted around the room as the door closed, everyone in the hall talking at once.

Corban lay in his bed, fingers laced behind his head as he stared at the roof, watching shadows flicker across it cast by torchlight from the hall. The muted sound of conversation drifted into his room, his mam and da talking in the kitchen. He snorted. They had been annoyingly silent when he and Cywen had wanted to talk about Brenin’s announcement, but since he and his sister had been bustled off to their beds the two had not seemed to stop talking.

His mam paid special attention to teaching him and Cywen their histories, as far back as the Scourging, and he had recognized the name of Tenebral as soon as Brenin had mentioned it, a hot country far to the south and east, where men wore sandals and skirts, not boots and breeches. He snorted at the thought of it. Tenebral. Just the sound of it had him excited, somehow. He sighed. He could not sleep, although he had been lying here a long while.

A soft tapping filtered into his room, the latch of the kitchen door turning, a draught suddenly blowing around him. Footsteps and then the door clicked shut. He held his breath to hear better, but there was only silence, then the clinking of mugs and the scrape of chairs. Silence again.

Sleep completely banished by curiosity now, he carefully pulled back his woollen blanket and inched himself out of bed. He tiptoed to his open doorway, crept a few paces down the corridor to the kitchen, stopping when he dared go no further, and held his breath again, straining to hear who the visitor was. More silence, then Gar’s distinctive voice drifted from the kitchen.

‘It is coming then. We must be more vigilant than ever.’

‘Aye,’ his mother sighed. Then chair legs scraped and Corban fled back to his bed.