Faris nodded. ‘The very one.’
‘And he’s contacted you?’ she asked, incredulous.
Faris hesitated. ‘Not directly. But in a roundabout way he has. It’s certainly me he’s after but he’s being deliberately coy, as if protecting me. It doesn’t add up. I want to know what he knows.’
‘Isn’t that dangerous?’
‘Not if I take the right precautions—and you know me.’
‘This isn’t just a chance for you to wear one of my skirts, is it?’
‘Lily, how unkind,’ he said, feigning indignation. ‘No,’ he began again, turning more serious. ‘There’s more to this than meets the eye. Freath is coming to me and he’s coming with stealth and care, it seems. He’s found me in the same way that if I wanted to find me I would. Does that make sense?’
‘You mean, he’s not screaming your name from the rooftops.’
‘Yes. Word has got through he is bringing only a small party. He plans to slip his soldier escort.’
‘All right, so how does this involve me?’
‘He has a companion. Just keep an eye on him for me, that’s all.’
‘One of the men can’t?’
‘You’re far less obvious. I don’t want you to do anything dangerous; I just want Freath alone and feeling vulnerable. I have no intention of talking to him in front of his companion.’
‘How far do I take my spying duties?’
Faris shrugged. ‘Well, don’t sleep with him, my love,’ he laughed, avoiding her determined slap, ‘but stick close enough.’
‘Don’t let him out of my sight, you mean.’
‘Exactly. We are going to separate them somehow and I want someone inconspicuous watching the friend to know if there is anything sinister about Freath’s intentions.’
She sighed. ‘Fine. When?’
‘In the next couple of days. Now, forget that packing. Let me show you how much I care about you.’ He arched an eyebrow.
Lily fell back into his arms and they toppled together onto the bed. Faris tried desperately to lose himself in their affections but at the back of his mind his demon, his ever-present companion, began to gnaw more urgently. He was shocked by Lily’s observation; the fact that Leo had noticed as well meant that Jewd had long been aware of the deliberate distance Kilt had created between himself and the king. Jewd was too shrewd to make his queries as pointed as Lily; no, his friend would watch and make up his own mind. Kilt would have to be very, very careful from here on. He’d given his word to Brennus and would not break it, but in order to keep it he was going to have to exercise still more control while making a greater effort to close that gap between himself and Leo.
On the other side of the realm, in a sparsely populated hamlet not far from Minton Woodlet, a dark-eyed youth with hair the colour of damp soil broke his fast with a bowl of creamed oats. He sat quietly at a plain scrubbed table and stared out of a small window into the overcast, drizzly day that the south was experiencing. From time to time he’d trickle a small amount of thick milk into his bowl to cool and liquefy the steaming, delicious glug.
There were only three small rooms to the tiny cottage and a man bustled in from one of the others now. ‘Nearly done?’ he asked brightly. ‘Did I get it right?’
The youngster turned and nodded. ‘Delicious,’ he said, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.
‘Good. Hurry up and finish. I’d like us to get going early,’ the man continued conversationally, leaning to look out of a window as he poured himself some dinch from the pot simmering at the fire. ‘It’s not too cold but the wet weather means you should be able to find us some saramac. I have to go out for a short while. Just to Minton Woodlet.’
The youth kept ladling the oats into his mouth, eating precisely, swallowing carefully.
‘Oh, and excellent news, my boy. I don’t know what you did but the hens are laying again and Bonny’s leg is healed fully. She’s going to be just fine. I’d like to think it was my herbals,’ the man said, turning to stare affectionately as the boy scraped the last of the oats from his bowl, ‘but I know it was you.’
The youth put his spoon into the bowl with a soft clang and looked up. ‘Not all me.’ He shrugged, self-consciously. ‘I like to use it for good.’
‘I know. Just remember, we must keep those skills between us. Never show them off. Never.’
The boy nodded. ‘I know that. I’m finished,’ he said, standing. He lifted the bowl and jug to take them outside to rinse.
‘All right, then. You leave that. I can clear things up. Let’s get you on your way. You know what to look for. I need as many of the fungi as you can find.’
‘You won’t be long, will you?’
‘No, Piven.’
Piven nodded. ‘Be safe, Greven,’ he said, slinging a small sack around his body and reaching for his hat from the hook behind the door.
‘You too, my boy.’ Greven smoothed away the flopping dark waves of hair and kissed Piven’s forehead, as he always did when they said goodbye.
Piven regarded him gravely. ‘The sores have almost gone.’
Greven nodded. ‘I can hardly believe it. All that’s left to remind me I’ve had leprosy is this tremor,’ he said, holding out a hand.
‘I’m sure I can heal that too,’ Piven said. ‘If you’ll let me,’ he added.
Greven watched the orphaned adopted son of the Valisars leave the cottage quietly. He frowned. He’d never questioned that he’d done the right thing in stealing the boy away from the barbarian. That big black bird of omen had led him to Brighthelm and to the child in need—he was sure of it. He’d fought the inclination to follow the bird but he had especially fought getting so close to city folk, and particularly folk of the palace. But the raven had been persistent, staring at him for days, then when Greven finally agreed to follow, returning time and again, swooping and demanding that he continue on the pathway. And though Greven knew where the bird was leading him, he didn’t know why and he feared what he might discover.
He found a helpless, invalid child. And the bird had somehow called to that child, for Piven had looked up and looked straight at them, even though they had been hidden in the tree line on the edge of the forest. The boy had risen and without any hesitation had moved towards them. Greven had felt the irresistible pull towards the young boy, and in spite of every screaming reservation, he had held out a hand and welcomed the child.
Their life had been quiet and uneventful, each of them deriving security from the other. And while Greven offered Piven a life, the boy—fast becoming a young man—had offered Greven hope.
He’d been running from the threat of his pursuer all of his life, so why now, when he was more free, more isolated than he’d been in a long time, did he feel so anxious?
People knew him as Jon Lark, the herbalist who lived with his son, Petor. Once again he was raising a child alone. He’d known about this adopted son of the Valisars who had been mute, indeed lost in his mind—everyone in Penraven knew of the beloved Piven. But within days of their first clasping hands Piven had shocked him by talking. At first it had been halting and of course childish. He had, after all, only been five. Now he was a gangly youth of fifteen anni.
Greven had hoped the boy would forget his past but Piven