Silvermay Read online

  For Moya

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  1 Sketches from a Distant Cave

  2 Strangers on the Road

  3 Smiler

  4 On Top of the World

  5 The Wyrdborn

  6 A Hawk Among the Trees

  7 Deer Hunting

  8 Along the Forest Paths

  9 Ravine

  10 The Secrets of Dead Men

  11 Out of the Mist

  12 A Sleeping Squirrel

  13 The Diggings

  14 A Tale Told in Coloured Stones

  15 Take One Life to Save a Thousand

  16 The Story of Haylan Redwing

  17 Treachery and Monsters

  18 Killers Without Eyes

  19 The Promise of a Kiss

  20 Ledaris

  21 Guests of a Wyrdborn

  22 The Talisman

  23 Tools of the Trade

  24 Miston Dessar

  25 On the Road to the Sea

  26 A Needle and a Pot of Ink

  27 Figures in the Fog

  Book One: Tamlyn

  Book Two: Lucien

  About the Author

  Praise

  Copyright

  PROLOGUE

  Should I tell you of the first time I saw him, when he was still just a figure on the road like so many others who passed through Haywode, stopping only for a bowl of broth at the inn? In quiet moments since, I’ve wondered whether I sensed my fate even then, but, as quickly as the idea forms, I push it away with a sour laugh. I don’t believe in fate, a destiny made up by cruel gods so girls like me can be their living toys. What I cannot dismiss so lightly, what I never want to forget, is the thrill that danced across my skin when he threw back his hood and looked at me.

  Or should I tell you, instead, that I’ve held a blanket over a baby’s face to smother it, and to this day I’m not entirely sure I was wrong to do it?

  Does my confession shock you? It should, because no baby deserves to die. Does it? Does it! Answer now, before you hear any more, because I have a story to tell and the dilemma that wrenched my stomach as I grasped that blanket might soon become yours.

  What do you think of me: a girl who speaks so frankly of murder? Do you wonder what lies in my heart? Would it do any good to beg you not to judge my heart so quickly?

  Others inhabit this story, some of them men and women I’ve never met and so I can only guess at their words and what lay in their hearts as they spoke. I know enough, though, to tell you this: if an ambitious servant hadn’t betrayed his master, then I would never have laid eyes on the man my heart won’t surrender and that day in Haywode would have passed like any other.

  1

  Sketches from a Distant Cave

  In Vonne

  Two men faced one another across a wide table. The room was spacious and the window on the eastern side framed a view of the Great Rivermouth that half the city envied, though none was foolish enough to say so out loud. Visitors might expect this room to be furnished with a grandeur to match such a view, but they would be disappointed. The cold stone of the floor was bare and no tapestries or paintings adorned the walls; there was none of the fine sculpture that decorated King Chatiny’s palace three streets away, and the chairs were rough wooden affairs that didn’t invite sitting in them for long. Apart from the chairs, the only furniture to speak of was the enormous table, which boasted a map of Athlane carved into its surface. Right now, the map was obscured by scrolls of heavy paper, each tied with a dusty ribbon that showed they had travelled a long way, like the man who’d brought them.

  ‘Your name is Gabbet,’ said the taller of the two men. His hair had begun to grey, but he had been a handsome man years ago and his features had aged well. His eyes were the colour of a steel blade and every bit as sharp.

  ‘Yes, my lord, that is so,’ answered the second with a ready bow.

  ‘You’re a determined man, Gabbet. I tell my chamberlain to send you away and you refuse. I ignore you for two days and you sleep outside my gate.’

  ‘Only because I wish to serve you, Lord Coyle.’

  This brought a snort of derision from Coyle Strongbow. As far as he was concerned, one man served another for only two reasons: because he feared punishment or because he expected some reward. Coyle favoured the first of these, because it brought him total command over most creatures, human and beast alike. He understood the power of fear, especially the dread he could so easily conjure in the hearts of commonfolk like this fellow Gabbet. But he also knew its limitations. The frightened didn’t think, they simply obeyed. That’s why he occasionally used other ways to get what he wanted. Men who saw reward for themselves thought up all kinds of ambitious schemes, and Coyle had done well for himself by exploiting the greed of such scoundrels. And for all his toadying, this Gabbet was certainly a scoundrel.

  ‘They tell me you used to work in my household,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, my lord, last year. I was clerk of the kitchen and household stores.’

  ‘But you’re not my clerk now. You have a new post.’

  ‘As scribe for Arnou Dessar at the diggings in Nan Tocha.’

  ‘I’ve heard of those diggings up in the mountains. Scratching around in the past for no particular purpose.’

  ‘I thought the same myself at first, Lord Coyle.’ Gabbet couldn’t stop himself from bowing as he agreed. ‘But it’s because I went there straight from your service that I made my discovery. No one else in the kingdom can possibly know what I know and that’s why I’ve come to see you.’

  Gabbet knew he was in the presence of a dangerous man. The Wyrdborn weren’t known for their patience. He must be careful not to be evasive; but he also knew that a cleverly told story was the key to enticing the curious.

  ‘If you’re employed at the diggings, what are you doing here?’ Coyle asked, feigning uninterest.

  ‘Master Dessar is old and finds travelling difficult. He sent me to make his report to King Chatiny and the other scholars about the excavations.’

  ‘And Dessar has made an unusual discovery among the ancient buildings, is that it?’

  ‘Yes, my lord. One that has greater meaning for you than anyone else.’

  This was the delicate moment for Gabbet. He was admitting disloyalty to both his master and King Chatiny. Coyle could denounce him to the king and he would see the inside of a dungeon before sundown and a gibbet at dawn, most likely. He was counting on the greed of the man in front of him to avoid such a fate.

  ‘All right, Gabbet, you’ve toyed with me enough,’ said Coyle. ‘Show me what you’ve found and I’ll decide what value it has for me.’ He swept his hand towards the scrolls cluttering the table.

  Gabbet’s mouth was suddenly dry. Just as well his next step needed his hands more than his tongue. He carefully chose the scroll he wanted from among the rest and loosened the ribbon. The sheet of paper unravelled quickly and he was just as quick to ensure the blank side remained facing upwards. Smoothing it a few times with his hand so that it lay flat, he took hold of one edge, ready to turn it over. Had the delay been enough to moisten his mouth?

  ‘My lord,’ he began tentatively, until he heard his own words clearly and set aside his fear. ‘We have uncovered a chamber within the diggings. The walls and ceiling, every inch, are decorated with pictures made by the finest craftsmen using coloured stone. Mosaics, they are called; an ancient art we don’t use much today. The largest of these pictures shows a woman holding her child, a male child, a very special child as you will see when I open these other scrolls. This first one is Master Dessar’s sketch of that woman, which he has sent to the king.’

  Gabbet flicked the sheet over with a flourish. He had stared at this drawing a hundred times and had no need to see it again. Co
yle’s face was the one that interested him, and in those first moments after he’d revealed the portrait he knew his gamble had paid off. Suspicion instantly gave way to astonishment. Coyle took a step closer then bent over the table, completely absorbed in what he was seeing.

  After more than a minute studying the sketch, he looked up at Gabbet. ‘I see why you’ve come to me. The resemblance is remarkable.’

  ‘Yes, my lord, and let me assure you, when you stand before the mosaic itself, it looks even more like her.’

  ‘You remembered her from your time in my service?’ said Coyle.

  ‘Last year. She ate at the servant’s table until you …’ He stopped, wondering how he should proceed. The wrong word here might count as an insult.

  ‘Until she ate at mine instead,’ Coyle finished for him, without rancour. ‘You have my interest, Gabbet. Now I want the meaning.’

  ‘It lies in these other sketches, my lord.’

  Quickly he untied them and spread them out in the order he knew by heart. Coyle’s large table served well as support for the tableau he needed to create. Gabbet was concentrating on smoothing out the stubborn curls and didn’t see Coyle’s reaction to the sketches until he began to move eagerly from one to the next and the next. The Wyrdborn’s eyes widened as he went.

  ‘These are fair copies?’ he asked.

  ‘Not of the entire chamber. Just the most important scenes.’

  ‘Incredible,’ breathed Coyle. ‘Magnificent. I would never dare dream of such a prize.’

  Gabbet allowed himself the same excitement. ‘That’s why I brought them to you first, Lord Coyle. I must deliver them to the king without any more delay, but I knew the story they tell belongs to you more than to King Chatiny.’

  ‘What does your master make of these?’ Coyle said, using both hands to point down at the table.

  ‘He is not sure. That’s why he’s sent the sketches to other scholars here in Vonne, to see what they think of them. He’s also given me a long list of books I’m to take back with me to help him.’

  Coyle studied the sketches more slowly, moving methodically from one to another. ‘What do these words mean?’ he asked, pointing at one.

  ‘They are the only words in the entire mosaic, my lord. The script is ancient and unknown to Master Dessar. He’s hoping his brother scholars might be able to make sense of them.’

  Coyle had seen enough. ‘You did well to think of me, Gabbet. Take this.’

  He unhooked a small sack from his belt and held it out for his visitor, who grasped it a little too eagerly.

  ‘Your eyes say you want to open it immediately,’ Coyle laughed unkindly. ‘I’ll save you the trouble. Ten gold coins. To earn more, you will continue your mission to the king then return to Nan Tocha and learn all that you can. When you have more news worthy of my gold, come to my gate again.’

  This was just what Gabbet had hoped to hear. He began to roll up the drawings ready to deliver them to the king.

  ‘Wait,’ said Coyle. ‘I’d like to study them a little longer. Have you eaten, Gabbet?’

  ‘Not since yesterday, my lord.’

  ‘Then leave the drawings here while you fill your belly in my kitchen. I’m sure you remember the way.’

  Gabbet did, so he was surprised when Coyle left the room with him. But they walked together only as far as the chamberlain’s room, which Coyle entered without knocking, leaving Gabbet suddenly alone in the corridor. If he’d dared put his ear to the door, he would have heard Coyle order: ‘Find a man named Queasel. He’ll be half drunk in a tavern called The Wayfarers Inn. Be quick. I have an urgent job for him. I’ll expect him at the stables in an hour.’

  While Coyle Strongbow was visiting his chamberlain, the drawings remained untended on the wide table. Not for long, though. The echo of receding footsteps had barely ceased when his wife entered the room through a side door, which she had silently pushed ajar as Gabbet was making his first bow to Coyle. She went straight to the table and smoothed out the curling scrolls, exposing their secrets.

  The first drawing made her gasp. Like the cold-eyed Coyle before her, she inspected the rest with mounting wonder and when she reached the last, stood considering the story they told. The words in that unknown language troubled her. One of King Chatiny’s advisers owed her a favour. She would call in the debt to learn what they said and anything else he could tell her about the diggings in Nan Tocha. Yet one thing was already clear: her husband saw himself in these drawings, even if the only face to be seen belonged to the pretty serving girl who’d caught his eye last year. Like all Wyrdborn, he longed to stand above the rest of his kind and at the same time despaired that it could never be, for each Wyrdborn is the enemy of all others. These sketches promised something different. The infernal balance that kept the Wyrdborn in check could be broken after all.

  She must act quickly yet with Coyle forever suspicious, she couldn’t do much alone. Who would be her ally? There was only one who came to mind.

  With the hem of her gown skimming purposefully across the bare floor, she left the room, making for her bedchamber. When a maid appeared in the corridor, coming towards her, she called, ‘Is my son in his room?’

  ‘Yes, my lady. He’s still sleeping off the effects of last night’s … of last night’s banquet.’

  The silly girl had been going to say, ‘last night’s wine’, which was certainly true. If she had, though, she’d have suffered terribly for the insult, as only a Wyrdborn can make one of the commonfolk suffer.

  Vonne was the largest town in the kingdom, big enough for strangers to pass through its gates and wander along its streets without the local townsfolk taking the slightest notice. A week after Gabbet visited Coyle Strongbow a different man stood before him. His news wasn’t greeted as he’d hoped.

  ‘You didn’t ask?’

  The words were roared so savagely that the messenger took a step back and began to tremble like a child.

  ‘My lord, there was no reason,’ he said, defending himself. He was no coward, but the reputation of the man who’d shouted at him was known through every inch of Athlane. ‘We didn’t know the woman had given birth, my lord, not until the midwife told us.’

  He hadn’t wanted this job. He would have preferred to ride straight for the coast with Queasel and the rest of his rogues. He was one of them, after all, a mercenary, and not ashamed of the things he did for pay. There wasn’t much in this world that frightened him, but a Wyrdborn like Coyle Strongbow was enough to weaken any man’s heart. Next time he’d tell Queasel to deliver his own reports.

  ‘You found the place where she was living, at least,’ Coyle growled.

  ‘Yes, my lord. It took only a few days of asking after her. She’d been living with an uncle not far from here. More recently, she was taken to a village further up the Great River, but when we found the house she’d gone from there, too. She’s heading west, according to the old crone who sheltered her.’

  ‘A midwife, you say?’

  ‘Yes, and she was none too happy that the young woman had left so soon. The birth was hard on her.’

  The Wyrdborn snorted harshly through his nostrils, like a bad-tempered horse, and moved to the window.

  The rain had cleared and sunlight was breaking through, leaving patches of the most vivid blue. The messenger’s height allowed him a view of the river below and the verdant pastures stretching as far as the eye could see. It was surely one of the most spectacular views to be seen from any window in the kingdom, yet he shivered in the colourless cold around him.

  With Coyle’s back to him, the messenger couldn’t gauge his mood. Best to hurry on with his report before the rage returned, he decided.

  ‘The woman has a man with her — the child’s father most likely, though none of the residents in the village could tell us much about him.’

  The figure at the window turned and the messenger was relieved to see no more than a grim distaste in his features. He’d known many Wyrdborn over the years a
nd they were a sour lot. When they laughed, it was at misery and misfortune and never their own.

  ‘What is Queasel going to do?’ Coyle said.

  It was handy when a name matched its bearer so well, the messenger thought, but he didn’t dare smile. ‘He’s called in more hands and they’re riding at speed towards the western coast as we speak. It will be my pleasure to go after them once you dismiss me, my lord.’

  ‘But there are any number of routes she could take. How can you be sure you won’t miss her?’

  ‘Many roads, yes, my lord, but only a handful of ports along that part of the coast. We’ll watch them all until the woman shows herself. She’ll be all the easier to find now that she has a baby in her arms.’

  Coyle saw the sense in this and showed as much with a nod. ‘You’re to join the others, did you say?’

  ‘At the gallop, my lord.’

  ‘Then you will ride one of my own horses for greater speed. But there’s a task I have for you first,’ said the Wyrdborn. ‘Return to the midwife, ask the question you neglected on your first visit and bring the answer back to me. I must know if it was a boy. After that you can join your friends.’

  Friends! thought the messenger as he departed. There was no friendship among a quarrelsome rabble like Queasel’s. Not that any of them cared as long as each got his share of the purse. The Wyrdborn was eager to know about this child. If it were a boy, the messenger might earn a bonus when he delivered the good news; an extra sack of gold perhaps, which Queasel and the others need never know about.

  He was counting these coins in his mind as he left the room and so didn’t see the figure approaching in a swish of gown and flowing hair until it was almost too late. At the last moment, he managed a quick bow, and just as well because she was eyeing him suspiciously as they passed. Wyrdborn women were as dangerous as the men. He’d heard of one who’d fused a man’s spine when he forgot his manners. This one, though, seemed in a hurry to reach the room he had just escaped. He slowed his pace, then dallied longer by pretending to tighten a buckle on his boots.