Crowchanger (Changers of Chandris) (17 page)

It was true. Pietrig himself had his ear pierced when he was barely old enough, his father using his influence to get his son named early. Pietrig had then been chosen for the dig team in the first draw for which he was eligible, so Skarai might have been thought too hasty, but Kavan was years younger even than Pietrig had been.

“What about him?” The officer jerked his head at Sylas. “You can’t tell me he isn’t old enough for your earring. What are you Chesammos doing? Deliberately not piercing the ears of your boys to avoid them digging, eh? And you still keep some for yourselves and think Lord Garvan won’t notice.” He spat on the ground. “You people must think we are stupid. Bring him.”

The soldiers dragged Pietrig towards the horses, pulling his hands together to bind them.

“No.” Skarai stepped forward. “Take me. Leave my son, but take me.”

“Are you admitting responsibility, elder?”

Skarai hesitated a moment, then nodded. “Yes. Yes, I am. Spare my son.”

“Bind him as well. The whole family is rotten to the bone.”

Pietrig’s mother clung to him, crying. “You cannot take him. This must be another’s doing. My son would not steal from the lord holder.”

When they led the two men away, a stone whistled past the head of one of the soldiers. Then another. And another. The menfolk of the village had come with their slings, and were prepared to use them in defence of their people. Before Sylas registered what was happening, a fight had broken out. The Chesammos were at a disadvantage, as always, slings and fists against swords and daggers and pikes, but they fought with what they had. More than one soldier crumpled to his knees with a handful of ash flung in his eyes, and several riders lost control of their horses when their mounts suffered similar treatment.

The usually disciplined soldiers of Lord Garvan’s guard were unsure of how to respond to an enemy who used ash and stones as weapons, particularly since many of the assembled villagers were women, children, and the elderly. More men joined the fray and Sylas saw the gleam of sun on steel. Please the Lady, not a blade in Chesammos hands. He groaned aloud at the thought.

A soldier came at Sylas and he dropped, using the loose surface to slide into the man’s legs and avoid the sword strike that would have gutted him. He brought his knee up into the man’s groin and the soldier fell into the dust, howling and clutching himself. Blows were not permitted in Chesammos wrestling, but even so Sylas clasped both hands together and crashed his fists onto the back of the man’s neck. Not enough to kill—Lady help him, he was a healer—but enough to put the soldier out of action for a time. In the back of his mind he hoped Ayriene was not watching from on high, but he was in no doubt that he was fighting for his life.

He saw Skarai go down to a helmeted soldier’s sword and heard a woman’s scream. Despite everything, he knew Fienne’s voice. Omena’s wings, he could not let Fienne be hurt. He followed the sound, saw Skarai motionless on the ground with blood pumping from his chest. Even if Ayriene returned when the fight was done she would be too late. Skarai was losing too much blood, too quickly, even for Ayriene to save.

Pietrig had heard his sister scream too. The two men faced each other in the chaos.

“They will kill us all,” Pietrig gasped.

No. Not if they want their linandra dug. Garvan is too much the lord not to protect his own interests. The thoughts flashed through Sylas’s mind, but he could not articulate any of them before a movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention. A soldier with a pike thrust towards Pietrig’s gut. Sylas yelled and threw himself at the pike, pushing it up, and the point impaled itself in Pietrig’s shoulder rather than his stomach. The soldier stumbled and fell to his knees, losing his grasp on the weapon.

Sylas threw himself to the ground beside Pietrig; blood flowed steadily from his wound. Not as fast as his father was bleeding, but enough to be mortal, if left untreated for too long. Pietrig smiled weakly at Sylas.

“So, healer, something for you to practice your stitching on.”

Omena’s wings, but he needed more than stitching! He needed Ayriene. Sylas scanned the sky, looking desperately for the falcon, but if it had not been safe for her here before, now it was ten times worse.

“Save my family,” Pietrig said, his face paling as his body went into shock.

Through the chaos, he heard Fienne’s voice again, screaming for help. Sylas looked wildly around, and spotted her kneeling beside Kavan’s slight body. The lad appeared unharmed, but when he dashed to her, dropping to his knees at her side, she looked at him numbly.

“He’s dead. A stone from a sling hit the back of his head and he has no heartbeat. What have we come to that we are killing our own?”

“Come with me,” he said urgently, but she shook her head. “I won’t leave Mother, and she won’t leave Father.”

He pulled her to her feet. “What good does it do them if you are killed? This is carnage, Fienne. For the love of the Lady, let me help you. Let me put something right.”

She let him guide her to the outskirts of the village and into the building that housed his father’s kiln. Tapping on the door he called, “Aithne. It’s me. I have Fienne here. I’m going to open the door.” The last thing he needed was one of them thinking he was a soldier come to take them.

Terrified eyes looked back at him from the darkness. The women’s clothes were black with soot, but they were safe, thank the Lady.

“Are you all right? Can you breathe?” The flue would to give enough air for two, but with three, it would get stuffy quickly.

She nodded shakily. “Have you seen Father? Kael?”

He hadn’t, and he had to get back to Pietrig. Surprisingly, he was worried for Craie. It made no sense. The man had made his life a misery, but it seemed blood made a difference after all.

“I’ll look for them. Stay quiet. I’ll come back when the soldiers have gone.”

Sylas crept along the side of the kiln. The fighting was dying down. Now there were shouted orders and sobs of women and children instead of screams of men and horses. He stepped away from cover only to find himself slammed against the ash brick wall. Craie stood there, blood-smeared, his fists on his hips. He grabbed Sylas’s shoulders, bringing his face so close that Sylas could feel his breath.

“I might have known you’d skulk here till the fighting stopped. You don’t think this has anything to do with you any more, is that it? I don’t suppose I can thrash you now you’ve taken up with a healer, but I can do this. Let her heal you if she will.” He drew back his fist and punched Sylas full in the face. Sylas felt his nose crunch, tasted blood in his mouth, trickling down the back of his throat. Craie spat, all his venom behind the gesture. “I meant what I said last time. You are no fit man, and no son of mine.”

Craie stalked away, back towards the well, where the soldiers were calming panicked horses, mounting up, and preparing to leave. If the worst he came out of this with was another broken nose and a face full of his father’s spittle, that was probably better than he deserved. He had to get to Pietrig. Sylas scanned the sky for a circling falcon, hoping desperately that Ayriene could get back in time, but there was no sign of her—just blue sky and a few wispy clouds.

Someone had put Kavan next to his father’s body, and covered them both with a blanket. There would be a funeral pyre that night, and not just for Skarai and Kavan. He could hear sobs from other clusters of people. Other families had lost loved ones in this skirmish. Then he heard Pietrig’s mother’s voice, thick with tears.

“You have killed his father and his brother. His sister is nowhere to be found. Do not take another child from me.”

Pietrig had been dragged to his knees, and was being held between two soldiers. His tunic was soaked with blood, and he was unable to stand by himself.

“He should hang at the gates of Lucranne, by rights, but he’d not live to get there,” said the officer. “I’d hang him here, if there were any bloody trees to hang him from. Seems to me this is doing him a mercy.”

The officer drew his sword. Pietrig’s mother screamed and made to run to his side, but other villagers held her back. Sylas felt like he was in the middle of a nightmare. The air around him seemed to thicken and he struggled to breathe. His feet felt rooted to the spot, the horror of what the soldier was about to do leaving him frozen. Then he heard his voice screaming, “No!” and he was sprinting towards where the man stood over the helpless Pietrig. Hands grabbed for him, tried to hold him back, but he shook them off, running as if possessed for his friend. He barely registered the flash of the blade in the morning sunlight as it slashed through Pietrig’s throat.

A red torrent. Pietrig falling to the ground, his blood spilling into the ash.

Sylas cried out again, the sound torn from him in an agonised scream. From the corner of one eye he saw a pike descending. Then all he knew was a blinding pain in his head, the ground spinning beneath his feet, an overwhelming nausea in the pit of his stomach, and an enveloping blackness.

Chapter 17

S
ylas came round with a thundering headache, an inability to breathe through his nose, and the vague realization that he had expected never to wake up at all. Voices haunted the air around him, but like the shadow of a dream, when he grasped at the words they seemed to drift away. He tried to open his eyes, but the command didn’t reach his eyelids, so he concentrated on trying to understand what the voices were saying. He knew they were familiar to him, and let them swirl around him until they resolved into three: Mistress Ayriene, his mother, and Aithne. A hand rested on his forehead.

“I think he’s waking up.”

The hand was replaced with a damp cloth, cold with well water. He managed to open his eyes a crack.

“Can you hear me, Sylas?” Mistress Ayriene’s face leaned over him, her eyes red-rimmed.

“Thank the Lady; he’s awake.” That was his mother. No surprise that
her
eyes were red.

He looked back to Mistress Ayriene. Were her tears for him? A hand clasped his; he couldn’t tell whose. He tried to speak, but the words caught in a throat dry as desert floor. Cool water passed his lips, acrid with the taste of sulphur.

“Take it easy. Don’t rush.”

Sylas remembered the pike swinging towards him and raised his hand to where it had struck.

“All healed,” said Mistress Ayriene. “It took a lot of aiea, and others needed me, so I haven’t seen to your nose yet. I assume you want me to make you pretty again. Although, if you’d rather leave it like that, let me know. I’m getting a bit bored with fixing your nose.”

He snorted. Damn. Bad idea. His nose throbbed.

“You are lucky the healer stayed nearby,” his mother said. “The pike broke your skull. I was afraid we would lose you.” Her voice shook, and the pressure on his hand increased. His mother’s hand, then. “What were you thinking, going for the soldier like that?”

Despite her words, he thought she sounded proud.

“I thought I might lose you,” said Ayriene, and her voice also trembled. “Lucky he decided to crack your head and not spit you. Damn you, Sylas, if you’d died I’d never have forgiven myself.”

“Not your fault,” he whispered. He had been lucky. She had come too late to help others: Skarai, Kavan, Pietrig.

“Pietrig!” He tried to sit up, but couldn’t. Pietrig was dead; he had to be. Even if Mistress Ayriene had been there when it happened, she could not heal a cut throat fast enough to stop a man bleeding to death.

“I’m sorry,” said his mother. “We all saw you try to save him. His family is grateful to you.”

“Fienne?” For the Lady’s own sake, let Fienne be safe.

“She is as well as can be expected. I’ve had a quick look at her. She’s unharmed from the fighting, of course—you got her away in time—and from what else I found I think I can help her with her other problem.”

Thank the Lady; Ayriene could cure her. She could find a husband, have a family of her own in time. But Pietrig… The pain of his loss stabbed through his chest and he closed his eyes. Then a sudden thought had him trying to sit up once more.

“The necklace. It’s in the well. I tied it to a peg inside, so the soldiers wouldn’t find it.”

“Then it can stay there, for now. Ilend has been casting greedy glances my way. I can tell him you took it with you.”

Ayriene pushed him gently back.

“Drink this. While you are sleeping I’ll fix your nose so you will breathe more easily when you wake.”

“Mother, did you ever know anyone called Cowin?”

Ayriene and his mother exchanged glances. It was that look. The one women gave each other when a man asked something they didn’t want to answer.

“Whatever put that into your head? Drink, Sylas. You need sleep to recover fully, even with my healing.”

He downed the draught, working out in his head what combination of ingredients she had given him as he drank. It was a potent mix and he drifted quickly towards sleep, aware of the women leaving his bedside, speaking in hushed tones at the doorway.

“It would be best if you left sooner rather than later, healer,” his mother said. “His father has got it into his head that it was Sylas told Lord Garvan about the linandra. Not everyone believes him, but enough do that it could get difficult.”

“I find it hard to believe anyone would think that, but I will heed your warning. We will leave as soon as Sylas is fit to travel.”

A door creaked and he wondered who was leaving, which of them would watch him while he slept. His mother, he thought. Ayriene will see to any others injured in the fight, then maybe she can put Fienne’s mind a little more at ease, despite her grieving for a father and two brothers. He heard more words, softer still, and his sleep-befuddled mind fought to understand them.

“Thank you for taking care of my son, Ayriene.”

“If I had known he was yours, I might have taken him on sooner. Can I tell Jesely? He still mourns for you.”

“No. I am no longer who I was and it must stay that way. I must be Zynoa, Craie’s wife, and be content that my son, at least, is a changer. Besides, if it got back to Donmar that I lived…” Her words faded away, and he slipped into a deep and peaceful sleep.

Sylas stood vigil with Pietrig’s family later as the funeral pyre for those killed in the attack crackled and spat into the night sky. One of the little ones swore he saw a kye rising, but with so many bodies on the pyre it was impossible to tell whose soul had risen to join them. Sylas saw nothing, but clung to the hope that his friend could join the bird spirits, closer to the Lady than his earthly form. He would not have seen anything, anyway, through the tears that stung his eyes.

Smoke, he told himself. Just woodsmoke.

A few hours later he had recovered himself enough to tell his shocked mother and mistress, “I’m staying.”

Ayriene and Zynoa stared at him, then at each other. Neither spoke. They both had authority over him, in their own ways. He wondered if each was deferring to the other. As the silence continued he said it again, more forcefully this time. “I’m staying. My father thinks I’m a coward, so I’m going to volunteer for Ilend’s rebellion. I’m going to fight with the men.”

The women exchanged another look, and this time it was clear enough. They thought the blow to his head had shaken his wits loose.

“I mean it. You saw what they did to Pietrig. To Skarai. They can’t treat us like that. We have to stand up to them.”

Them. The Irenthi. Casian’s face swam before his eyes and he dismissed it angrily. Casian wasn’t like them.

“And you think you can make a difference?” Ayriene spoke softly, sadly.

“I think I can show them I’m not the coward they all take me for,” he said. “They expect me to run away. Well, I won’t. Not this time. This time I owe it to Pietrig to fight. I want to find the bastards that killed him.”

“You stood to fight and the healer had to save you,” his mother said. “If she’d not been here we’d have lost you—likely some of the others she healed, too. More pointless deaths.”

“What if it were Casian?” Ayriene’s thoughts had gone in the same direction as his own. He could see his mother mouthing the name. She knew there was someone he cared for at the Aerie. It had probably never occurred to her that it could be an Irenthi, far less Lord Garvan’s son. “What if the rebellion brings you face to face with Casian, each of you with a sword in his hand. Could you kill him?”

“What are the chances of that happening?” He could feel himself becoming defensive. Ayriene had targeted his weakest point, as he might have known she would.

“Probably slim,” she acknowledged, and he thought he had made his point. Then she added darkly, “His honour guard would kill you before you got close.” His gaze snapped to hers. He wasn’t stupid; why was she treating him like a child? “Be reasonable. You have trained to save lives. The Irenthi’s soldiers have trained to take them. Could you kill someone, even an Irenthi, in cold blood? Could you take up a sword or a spear and take a life?”

“If it came to it, I could,” he mumbled. “Mistress, they killed my best friend in front of me—in front of his mother and his brothers and sisters. They thought no more of doing it than they would of crushing an insect. We are nothing to them. Less than nothing.”

“You cannot fight,” Zynoa broke in. “You have to listen to the healer, son. Would you repay the work the Aerie and Mistress Ayriene have put in to train you like this? Would you rather throw Mistress Ayriene’s efforts back in her face than be thought a coward? I have had many people tell me how you tried to save Pietrig, risking your own life. No one who saw that believes you craven, whatever your father might say. The more Craie says on the matter, the more he proves himself a fool.” Zynoa’s tone softened. “You are no killer. Killing destroys what the Lady created. It destroys a man’s soul piece by piece. It eats him from the inside, like esteia’s poison.”

“What do you know of killing?” he said bitterly and again, that strange exchange of glances caught his attention.

“More than I should,” his mother said. “But I paid for what I did with the things that meant most to me. I replaced them with you and your brother and sister. I have lost your brother. Do not make me lose you, too. Do not make the mistakes I made.”

They left him deep in thought, trying to make sense of what she had said. His thoughts and feelings were jumbled, like one of the streams Ayriene had once had to coax him to cross. They tumbled over each other, and when he thought he could see the way of them, the flow crashed over a rock and was broken.

He slept uneasily, and when he woke, his way seemed clearer. He packed his bags, methodically checking the healer pack as Ayriene had taught him. She had used many of her preparations, and he made notes to himself of what needed to be replaced.

His mother’s words bothered him. When had she ever killed? How was her life here in Namopaia a punishment? And Cowin and Donmar—what was their part in this? He might not be able to fight, but he would have answers.

Sylas and Ayriene took their time travelling to Adamantara. Sylas grew stronger each day, but Ayriene didn’t want to push him. She was confident of her healing. His skull had fully healed, and although he still tired easily, she expected no long-term effects. So with no deadlines to meet, and Sylas subdued by the loss of friends and the manner of their passing, they made an easy pace.

Adamantara shook Sylas out of his low spirits. He brightened when the desert land became scrub and then rough pasture, with seeds and leaves and bark and roots to identify, store, label, and add to his pack, but not before a drawing of the plant found its way into his book. Ayriene considered sending the sketches to the Aerie for safe-keeping. The bundle of parchment was heavy to carry, and the scribes could start copying the new text for Ayriene’s herbal. It also represented several months’ work, and she was acutely aware that it could have been lost in the attack on Namopaia.

The town itself was a bustling port, at the mouth of the island’s only true river. Sylas was a little overwhelmed at first, both by the number of people and by the sight of the sea. The sea never failed to raise Ayriene’s spirits. She loved the smell of the salt, the swoops and cries of the gulls—a form rarely taken by changers—and the slap, slap of the waves on the quay. It took some persuasion to get Sylas down to the shore, but once there he sat for hours, watching the waves rise and fall, mesmerized by a body of water the size of which he could never before have imagined, and even now only barely comprehended.

Ayriene pronounced herself delighted at the quality of goods shipped in from the mainland, and busied herself finding a wagoner prepared to transport them to the Aerie. She took care of that while Sylas explored. She was not sure where he roamed, in truth. The lad was still reserved after the events in Namopaia. Ayriene had seen sword wounds before—had healed her share—and had seen men killed and injured by violence. But for a Chesammos to witness such things was all but unheard of. She knew he worried that the violence would spread. From what she heard, that was inevitable.

Gossip in Adamantara was that Chesammos had come to the town to buy weapons—not the hunting slings that they habitually carried, but bladed weapons. And not belt knives, or knives that would skin and gut the animals the slings killed, but ones designed for use against men. Word had got back to the king, she was told. All merchants were now forbidden to sell a Chesammos a blade longer than the length of a man’s hand from heel to fingertip, and the lord holders had introduced searches in their capital cities. Any Chesammos found with a blade longer than those permitted was liable to be executed. An Irmos buying a blade on behalf of a Chesammos would suffer the same fate.