Chapter 4 #2
Tools denied to the gwyddien. Poor methods, anyway. Able to repel a fairy or a wraith, only for it to slink away, hide itself in shadow, skulk back, and take its revenge.
He had his own tools—gifts of the Grey Lady—which he prepared before he left his rooms. A small net of woven toadstool lamellae, for fouling the wind-formed wings of pixies.
A vial of powdered bonemeal to ward against the dead.
Lesser spirits of earth, fire, and air, trapped in faceted linarite, anatase and quartz, ready to be freed if he should need spellcraft.
And, of course, his ghostwood blade, slung as always through the loop on his hip.
He did not intend to do violence, only to investigate.
Yet he might need to defend himself from Afanan’s interference, or from the fiend and its followers.
Many fiends fed on the souls of the young.
Why, he did not know, though he theorised.
A young soul was more malleable, not yet fully formed.
More susceptible to enchantment and illusion.
To being changed to suit dark purposes. Perhaps fiends found them more delectable, the way kings and lords enjoyed the tenderness of veal and ortolan.
Thoughts that stirred the coals of his anger, which always burned deep within him.
A fire that had smouldered from his earliest memory, buried—as he had been—but never extinguished.
He took a breath and forced it down again.
It was the one part of him he thought, perhaps, the Grey Lady could not see.
To face it directly and feel its heat might draw her eye.
She would not appreciate her tool keeping secrets from her, Llewyn knew.
He did not need anger to serve her—only submission to her purpose.
At any rate, the presence and power of the fiend would be evidenced by the sudden deaths of children. Knowledge of how many such deaths had occurred here, at what frequency, and for how long, would let him gauge the spirit’s power.
Afanan’s troupers were sleeping off their hangovers on the benches and floor of the common room.
The sorceress herself was nowhere to be seen—either still in her rooms, or already at work.
Llewyn asked the maid wiping down the bar for directions to the alderman: a question he had to repeat thrice before she at last noted his presence and answered.
* * *
The alderman’s house stood on the far side of the village common, on the edge of the forested hills.
Like all the houses of Nyth Fran, it was small and squat, built of packed earth.
A goat grazed in front of the house, and a murder of crows—their number growing—pecked for morsels among the thatched roofing.
A fell omen. The crows were part of the enchantment, Llewyn was certain. Now they gathered as though to defend the house.
The alderman answered at Llewyn’s knock. A healthy man with fat on his cheeks and muscle on his bones. He blinked, his gaze uncertain, as though peering through fog.
‘Ah … Hello there,’ the alderman said. ‘So many strangers in so few days. What brings you to Nyth Fran, and my doorstep?’
‘The Count of Glascoed has sent me to survey these lands,’ Llewyn said, affecting the mildly annoyed attitude of a nobleman’s courtier sent on an errand far afield.
‘They are his by right, but he has no record of births and deaths, nor harvests. I was bidden to collect this information and return to him. You are the alderman here, correct?’
If this alderman and his predecessors had been dutiful, the village records would evidence an unusual quantity of miscarriages and the deaths of children. If not …
An unlikely possibility. One Llewyn preferred not to contemplate. It conjured hard memories and harsh feelings of his own shortened boyhood. Of a pale, rough hand leading him away from his home, into the forest, to be buried and transformed.
Either way, he needed to know.
‘Master …?’ Llewyn said.
The alderman cleared his throat. ‘Trefor.’
‘Master Trefor,’ Llewyn went on, ‘may I see your records?’
‘Of course, of course.’ The alderman ushered Llewyn into the cramped house, a single room divided into smaller spaces by curtains hung from the ceiling.
The largest space held the hearth, a pair of wooden chairs, a table, and shelves bearing foodstuffs, a few simple herbs, and dishware of wood and pewter.
Save a single cup, which the alderman retrieved, passing over several others. ‘Please, sit. Have some goat’s milk to … ah … quench your thirst.’
The cup was cast iron. Raw. Dug from the earth, not retrieved from a relic of the First Folk or crafted by a spell. Trefor filled it from a pitcher on the table, then slid it towards Llewyn. ‘Here we are.’
Bloody-damned iron cups. A fool superstition held that any liquid poured into an iron vessel would turn poison for the fae. The kind of stupid half-comprehension of magic one encountered far too often.
The iron itself hurt badly enough.
Llewyn smiled through his frustration and took the cup, ignoring the itch he felt through his lambskin gloves.
A single, quick sip. His lip burned as if he had kissed hot coals.
Difficult to keep the pain from his face, but his teachers had made him master many, many difficult things.
He swallowed and nodded to the alderman.
‘My compliments to your goat.’
Trefor’s smile tightened. ‘Pardon me, I’ll only be a moment fetching the records.’
Llewyn twisted his ring, winced at the pain of it, and of the lingering heat on his lips, while Trefor stepped behind one of the curtains.
‘Here we are.’ Trefor returned with a thick, leather-bound book. He placed it on the table in front of Llewyn. ‘You’ve only had the one sip of milk.’
Llewyn gave him a withering stare, then began flipping through the pages.
He paused to make mental note of an oddity, subtly turning his ring with the brush of his forefinger.
He made a point of browsing the entire book, moving his lips as though he were, indeed, a surveyor committing lists and numbers to memory. When he felt he’d put on enough of a show, he shut the book and thanked the alderman.
‘Of course, Master … I’m afraid I did not get your name.’
‘Lyn son Phylip,’ Llewyn said.
‘Master Lyn, do give my regards to the—’
‘Papa!’ A young girl of eight or nine years sprang through the door, a storm of swirling skirts and hair like wind-blown thatch. ‘There’s tumblers at the common house! Joc says so, and he’s going with Wynn to see! Can I go? Please, Papa?’
‘Siwan, dear, you’ve nearly knocked over my guest!’
The girl spun around and bobbed a hasty curtsy. ‘Sorry, master. Now, Papa, please.’
She beamed up at him. His hard face softened into a doting smile. ‘Of course, darling,’ he said.
She leaped into the air, shrieking her thanks, as the alderman glanced at Llewyn.
He felt awkward witnessing this moment between father and child.
Like witnessing an echo of the childhood he should have had, but had been denied.
Yet anything could become useful information, even if the alderman was only putting on a performance of kindness.
‘Off you go, and be back before dark,’ the alderman said, tying a paisley scarf to contain the sandy brush of her hair. Siwan squealed and darted from the house.
‘A charming girl,’ Llewyn said. ‘Thank you for your cooperation, Master Trefor. Good day.’
‘Master Lyn?’
Llewyn paused in the doorway.
‘If you don’t mind … I’m simply curious. What is that you wear on your hip?’
Llewyn met the alderman’s steady, curious stare.
The ghostwood sword held enchantments of its own.
One would mask its true nature from mortal eyes.
It should appear to the alderman as a cudgel, or a sheathed sword, or a dagger.
But if he knew that gwyddien carried such a weapon, bearing such an enchantment, this might be another test.
‘A tool of my office,’ Llewyn said simply. ‘Not all I deal with are as cooperative as you, Master Trefor.’
The alderman bobbed his head, and Llewyn left. Fresh fear sprouted in his chest.
Who are these people, that they should know so much?