2
A Messenger Hastens

The man was sitting in a straight-backed chair he had made himself. His hand rested loosely around the half-empty mug on the rickety side table, also of his own design.

‘I have a secret,’ he said quietly, as he regarded the apparition which floated in front of him.

‘Tell me,’ it whispered, like a sigh on the wind.

‘It’s a terrible secret, Yargo.’ The man paused; his impossibly blue eyes held hers intently. ‘But I need to share it with you.’

He dropped his gaze to stare at the earthen floor. The translucent creature, faintly tinged with green, hovered in silence. She knew when to stay quiet with the man and moments passed whilst her robes billowed around her. They were forever moving and it was hard to tell where they began and her long, silky hair ended.

In almost four summers, she had neither discovered the reason for him being here nor found out anything about his past. It was clear he was educated and his manner suggested courtly training, but he was more closed about his early life than any of the dusty books in this cottage.

He had intrigued Yargo from the moment she had been given the task of watching over him and had drifted gently into his life. She had become much more than an observer, however, which was a clear breach of the rules laid down by the Custodian, Lys, who had sent her to stay close to this mysterious fellow. Yargo, a young and popular member of the Host, had beseeched Lys to find a task for her when her disgraced husband, a god, had fallen seriously foul of his King. Yargo was determined to make up for her husband’s shame and so Lys had contrived a special role for her in watching over this precious man.

Yargo had fallen in love with him from the second he had turned those clear, sad eyes upon her. It would come to nothing, of course; she was a spiritual creature only in his world, unable to enjoy physical contact. But the fascination she felt for him was as physical as it was mental.

He was strangely tall—too tall, it seemed to Yargo, for most men of this world—and he possessed the broadest of shoulders. His frame had filled out with the manual work he imposed on himself daily. He told her that the physical exertion calmed his mind and prepared it for the equally rigorous study he carried out each day.

Yargo had learned from Lys that the old master sentient, Merkhud, had harnessed this man’s massive power to wrench his spirit free from its body and deposit it into his own frail form, at the same moment throwing his own spirit into the younger man’s body in order to undergo execution by crucifixion and stoning in his stead. It was Merkhud’s choice to take the younger man’s punishment; to save him from death.

Yargo had been given scant additional information. She knew that the spirit of the man in front of her had travelled awkwardly in Merkhud’s body between Tal and the Heartwood, where Arabella the priestess watched over the joining of his spirit with his own broken shell of a body. When spirit and flesh were reunited, Darmud Coril, god of the forest, called down the powers of the Host and together they channelled life back into this man. It was a mighty healing and he was made whole.

It had taken two summers just to get him to talk again. During that time Yargo had watched his damaged emotions mend more slowly than his body. She knew nothing of why his suffering had occurred but instinctively understood that here was a man who had lost everything. He had no reason to live but live he did within a cocoon of silence. It was how he wanted it.

She travelled with him on his long walks, floating swiftly and mostly invisibly alongside while his glorious falcon flew high above. The day he first spoke to her was the happiest she could recall. His voice, scratchy from lack of use, was nonetheless of a gentle pitch and she easily became absorbed in listening to his quiet conversation.

Yargo loved to provoke his smile and thrilled herself if she could cause him to tilt back his head with an infectious and all too rare laugh. He was, quite simply, the most beautiful man she had ever known and she longed with every inch of her insubstantial body to touch him.

She knew she would give her soul to smooth that straight long hair he usually kept neatly tied, or to feel the roughness of the dark beard he trimmed so closely. Beyond this, and far more powerful, was the intense curiosity he stirred in her about the dark past he kept so deeply buried. That intoxicating mysteriousness, combined with a long-held notion that his life may have taken this course because of a woman, constantly fired Yargo’s imagination.

As she mused on this, he spoke in his soft manner again. ‘I need you to be a messenger, dear Yargo.’

He swallowed another mouthful of the sweet berry wine which he kept chilled in the nearby stream.

‘I am listening, Tor.’

Her dreamy tone was soothing and did not betray her anticipation of the secret she had chased all these summers.

‘You must hear my story and then you must go and find some people for me. It may take you a long time. I need you to watch over them and when you sense the sign, as you will, bring them back to Tallinor. You must warn them.’

She drifted across the room. ‘And what must I warn them about?’

‘I’ll come to that,’ he said, running his fingers through his hair.

She noticed he looked tired; too much study perhaps. Or did he look nervous? She could not tell. She floated after him as he moved with his unique economy of motion to the window. His lean frame was silhouetted against the lowering sun and in the silence whilst he gathered his thoughts, she wondered at the beauty of that body which had been delivered to the Heartwood dead and broken.

Yargo had been summoned by Lys when Torkyn Gynt’s life was restored. She recalled exactly what Lys had said to her when she was chosen as his Companion.

‘It will take a long time for his body to recover. It will take even longer for his emotional state to heal. He will demand to be alone but I want you to become his friend. This man is the most precious thing we have in our care. He alone will deliver Orlac. Take it slowly. Between you and the falcon, encourage his conversation, laughter, memories. Together you will heal his mind.’

And it had taken four years.

Tor had ignored her at first. Yargo knew he spoke across a link with the falcon, Cloot. He needed no other company, yet she had persevered. Darmud Coril and the Heartwood had mended the broken body beautifully. Arabella the priestess, Tor’s second-bonded Paladin, had watched over him for many weeks whilst the powerful magics of the Heartwood restored his health.

And when he had finally awoken, the Heartwood and its creatures had rejoiced. As soon as he was strong enough to walk, he had left its sanctuary with no direction in mind. Yargo, following, knew the forest guided him; but Tor seemed not to care. He simply walked, with Cloot ever nearby. Then one day, at the edge of a small copse where a tiny stream ran by, he chose his spot and painstakingly built this humble dwelling. He hunted and foraged for his own food and even made his own wine. They had not seen another person these past four summers, save visits from Arabella.

Yargo could tell that Tor carried great grief within his heart. She had wished so many times that she could unlock it and somehow help him. Perhaps now was that time. Staring out of the window as the sun began to sink behind the trees, he began to talk. His normally soft, smooth voice sounded brittle.

‘It is painful for me to remember what has gone before.’

She said nothing.

Shaking his head, he rallied himself. He returned to his chair and settled back with long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. Refilling his cup, Tor began the story. It was the first time he had allowed himself to recall the chain of events leading up to his death, and the only reason he would permit himself to speak of the past now was because of the powerful shift he felt from the Heartwood.

Another Paladin had succumbed.

Recalling his earlier years would be painful; he knew this and it helped immeasurably that he was, for the second time in his life, getting resoundingly drunk as he began his tale. He spoke for hours; sometimes haltingly, at other moments with words spilling over one another. Yargo kept her peace, incredulous at his story.

His quietly spoken words rang in her ears and the scene of his execution played in her mind. Tor told her that at the end he had felt nothing. From behind the eyes of Merkhud, he had been forced to watch his own body spill its lifeblood, knowing that the spirit of Merkhud had died within it.

‘After all his deceits and manipulations, he gave his life for me,’ he said sadly.

She wanted to weep when he admitted it was also his final betrayal of his beloved Alyssa. He had betrayed her the first time by agreeing to leave for Tal as the Royal Physic’s apprentice. The second time he had betrayed her loyalty by leaving her in the forest, and her love and trust by telling her that the son she had birthed had died. He had not said a word to her about the second child.

‘But this was the worst betrayal of all, Yargo. She watched me die. She watched my head split like ripe fruit from the stone of the executioner whilst I hung from the cross. She poured her love towards me and wept tears of despair. And later, stumbling around in Merkhud’s body, I stood close to her and had my chance to give her a sign…anything…but I didn’t. I just allowed myself to betray her once again.’

‘You must not blame yourself.’ The words rang hollow as she spoke them but Yargo was fearful that all the years of effort to get him well again might be wasted if he allowed this maudlin mood to overwhelm him. She switched tack. ‘Perhaps you should tell me what you wish of me?’

He did not hesitate. ‘You must find them. Find Sorrel and with her my son and daughter. Bring them back to me, Yargo.’

‘How do you know it is time?’ she asked.

‘There was a shift in the Land’s force this morning. Did you not feel it?’

‘I heard the Heartwood creaking,’ she replied.

‘Well, I felt the Heartwood groan with despair. It means another of the Paladin has died. I felt Orlac’s glee. I wonder whether my children felt it too. We are all connected to the Heartwood—perhaps, wherever they are, they also reacted.’

Yargo did not understand his words, but she knew what he asked of her. She floated until she hovered next to him. ‘And so I must go?’

‘Yes. Track them down. Lys can travel the portals, she will give you passage. Search. Find my children. Look for the Stones of Ordolt: they will call to you. I gave Sorrel these three orbs before she fled with the children.’ He shrugged. ‘I still don’t know what their significance is, but my father gave them to me, told me they were important.’

‘And what do I tell these people should I find them?’

‘When you find them,’ he would allow her no room for failure, ‘tell Sorrel that I require her and my children to return to Tallinor. You must go now.’

‘Perhaps I should consult Lys first.’

‘I already have. She has given her permission for you to do this for me.’

Yargo floated silently in shimmering fluorescence. She was upset and Tor knew it, but he needed her help now. Time worked against them.

Her voice was sad when she finally spoke. ‘I shall leave you then.’

‘I am indebted to you, Yargo,’ he said and watched his Companion’s brightness dull until she was no longer with him.

Tor absentmindedly drummed his fingers on the books as he thought about their contents. When he was packing the cart which carried Tor’s corpse to the Heartwood, Merkhud had taken great care to include his own most precious books. Since his return to life and settling into his hermit’s existence, Tor had devoured their contents.

All except these two.

Merkhud had not known about these books. Alyssa had discovered them beneath the old catacombs of Caremboche and carried them with her to the Heartwood when she escaped the clutches of Chief Inquisitor Goth.

When Tor and Alyssa were captured by the King’s Guard and a triumphant Goth, it was Kythay the donkey who had rescued Alyssa’s precious books, casually strolling away from the scene with them strapped into the basket on his back.

Tor had no idea how the books had come into his possession but he had found them by his side when he awoke from the ministrations of the Heartwood which returned him to health. Whilst Merkhud’s tomes were devoted to the wielding of strange magics, which certainly fascinated and occasionally inspired him, Alyssa’s books—the Writings of Nanak—were infinitely more disturbing. He had not opened them since his awakening from death. They reminded him too powerfully of Alyssa and it was hard living with the guilt of being alive when she thought him dead. Tor wanted to put the Trinity out of his mind for ever. His old disquiet over Lys had returned. He knew she was leading them all somewhere and even though he relied on her help and guidance, he hated the manipulation. The books were part of the complex plot, he was sure of it.

Read the wretched books, Cloot said from his nearby perch. He had been hunting again and was cleaning his fierce beak of some poor animal’s entrails, an occupation that never failed to make his friend wince.

Tor touched the pale thin scar which streaked across his own forehead, a legacy of the stones and a constant reminder of his grief. It reinforced all that they had come through to get this far. He had nowhere else to go but forward. As he opened the first book, a faint scent of lavender and violets wafted briefly into his senses, lingering just long enough for him to smell Alyssa. She was the last person to have fingered these pages. He tried desperately to catch the fragrance again but it was lost for ever.

He stared at the first page for an hour or more, seeing nothing but her face. Finally, he began to read.