Tyrant’s Blood

But what did puzzle, and to some extent unnerve Greven, was the youngster’s ability with magic. The extent of that skill remained untapped, and if Greven had his way, that was how it would remain. But Piven was still a very young man, with all the foibles of youth. There had been occasions on which Piven had shown off, hoping to impress Greven with what he could do. And there were other times, when he was angry, that Greven feared for what havoc the child might wreak. He mostly contented himself with healing magics but Greven was worried that Piven was simply biding his time with his skills. More recently he had begun to catch his adopted son deep in thought, a darkness haunting the youngster’s face, giving it shadows that shouldn’t be there at his age. But Piven refused to discuss those haunted moments.

To be fair, as he matured he also refused to take credit for all the brightness that his skills did bring. Curing the leprosy had been an astonishing feat that Greven still struggled to comprehend. How had Piven done that? He had simply passed his hands once over the afflicted areas and the eruptions that had once so plagued Greven’s life had instantly begun to recede until only the lightest of scarring could attest to the fact that he had ever suffered the disease. And the scars continued to lighten. The tremor alone told the truth of what he had been…what he still was.

In the last few moons, though, the moments of shadow had increased. Not so noticeably that it had become an issue but sometimes he would catch Piven standing alone outside, as if caught in a trance. And when Greven would call out to Piven, and the boy would turn and look at him…there was something odd about it. It wasn’t frightening so much as unnerving; he couldn’t fathom what the boy was thinking. He sometimes wondered if Piven knew the truth when he looked at him like that.

The most recent of these events had occurred six days previous, when he had risen to give Piven the news that Bonny, their donkey, had gone lame. Piven always rose first, curiously enough, and had set the oats on to cook, stirring dutifully to release all their gluey starch. After Greven had told him about the donkey Piven had gone outside, saying he would milk Belle, their cow. Greven had let him go, thinking the boy was upset about Bonny, but not long after he’d walked up to the hearth and found Piven in one of his dark trances, his face pinched in a frown. Greven had said his name loudly but Piven had not reacted, or even given the impression he’d heard. But moments after that the boy had returned, beaming a smile that looked full of the warmth of a thousand suns. ‘You don’t have to destroy Bonny. I believe she will recover,’ Piven had said.

Right enough, the swelling around the beast’s leg had begun to dissipate when Greven went out to check. He’d shaken his head. He had thought he would be slitting the animal’s throat. Instead, he was giving it a fresh nosebag of feed. Now the leg had healed.

Yes, life with Piven was good.

However, as if Lo himself had decided to intervene, word had arrived from Master Junes at Minton Woodlet that there was a nice couple looking to speak to him—an older couple from Medhaven who seem to know you from your youth, Junes had added and for some reason Greven’s internal alarms had begun to sound. He didn’t know why but he found it worrying that these people were interested in his child. In Piven. Did they know? He felt anxious and fearful.

‘But it must not show!’ he admonished himself. And it wouldn’t. His grey-peppered hair was tied neatly back into a pigtail. He had clipped his beard this morning and he had on his best shirt. He looked tidy, clean, respectable…not at all like the once-wandering leper who had crept through the forest with a five-anni-old boy and a strange black raven for company.

He left the cottage. It was time to face them. If worst came to worst, he and Piven could go on the run again, but he needed to know what they were up against. He needed to know if Emperor Loethar had discovered his secret.

Piven disappeared into the shadows of the forest but once he knew he was no longer visible he turned and watched the cottage. He may be young in summers, he thought, but no one realised, perhaps least of all Greven, how much older in his mind he truly was. In fact, Piven was keenly aware of his own curious maturity and he deliberately tried to keep it hidden as best he could. Initially he had been embarrassed by his own perceptive ability but now he realised it wasn’t a gift. No, to him, the new knowledge, the increasing sense of purpose that was still tinged with confusion but nevertheless gnawed at him relentlessly, had a far darker feeling to it…and was part of the magic he had discovered within himself. His maturity had become his curse and now he hated where his thoughts ran.

As his self-consciousness had increased, he had become cagey about his awareness, hiding it by acting far more naive than he was, hoping his contrived innocence might appear acceptable for a youth of his age. But while he and Greven did lead a closeted existence, well removed from others, naturally their paths crossed regularly with the villagers of Minton Woodlet. During these times he interacted with his peers, and in their company he felt like a stranger. Not because he didn’t know them—some he knew well—but because the trivia that occupied their conversation or their play seemed so juvenile.

The raven arrived, swooping to land on a branch just above his head to interrupt his thoughts.

‘Hello, Vyk,’ he said softly. ‘Your timing is perfect as always.’

The great black bird stared at him from above and Piven read query in the look even though his companion’s expression never changed. He explained about Greven’s urgency to get him out of the cottage. ‘He says he’s got an appointment but Greven doesn’t have appointments.’ He loaded the last word with irony. ‘He’s up to something. He was nervous this morning, very anxious to get me gone.’ He glanced at the bird and continued as though it had spoken to him. ‘No, I don’t know why but I can sense that it’s connected to me; something he’s frightened about. But he can’t have guessed.’

Piven sighed. ‘It’s hard to imagine that I spent the first five anni as a halfwit. Now I wish I wasn’t so aware of life around me. Why can’t I be like other boys my age and fret about whether a girl likes me, or why I can’t kick the pigskin around as skilfully as John Daw, or jump a horse over the nine-mile gate as fearlessly as Doon Fowler? Instead, I’m having thoughts about the politics of our land, or I’m considering the undercurrent in a conversation between Greven and the widow, Evelyn; or I’m constantly ten steps ahead in every discussion I share with Greven, trying to prepare the way so he doesn’t discover that I understand so much more than he thinks…and that I know so much more than he does.’

Piven broke a small twig from a branch in frustration. ‘Why is this happening, Vyk? I’m fifteen, not fifty. I want to be like the boys I know. Instead, I’m terrified by my own dreams. I’m dreaming regularly about a woman. I don’t recognise her but I know she’s special. She’s so real in my mind that I often try and reach out to touch her but she’s just a vision, nothing more. And yet,’ he glanced up at the bird, who appeared to be paying close attention, ‘there are moments when I think she’s aware of me.’ He shook his head. ‘I know that sounds ridiculous. She’s a dream. But she’s so different from my other dreams—the ones that scare me, the ones that are dark and filled with anger. They urge me to allow my true self to come through, but I’m too scared to find out who I am.’

Ravan flapped down and sat on the boy’s shoulder. Piven smiled. ‘You are a comfort to me, Vyk. You always have been. I know you go back to Loethar whenever you’re not here. I like that you listen—I couldn’t let anyone else hear these thoughts. Look,’ he said, pointing. ‘There goes Greven. Why would he be so dressed up? His meetings are usually with farmers and he only wears that jacket and shirt if he’s attending a wedding or a funeral. And I know he’s going to neither.’

Piven watched in silence as Greven disappeared down the incline. Then he continued. ‘Whoever he’s meeting, I know it’s not good news for us. I know it’s going to affect me and this is not a good time.’ He banged the tree. ‘Not a good time at all! Something’s happening to me. Do you know I soured the milk yesterday? Greven made me cross because he didn’t like my mending a squirrel with a broken leg, and my bad humour curdled the entire pail I’d just milked from Belle. I’m sure he knew it too because he hasn’t said too much about Bonny’s lameness that is now miraculously cured.

‘I thought curing her would make me feel happy; I try to use my skills wisely but for all the good they can do, I’m paying a price. I’m sure of it. My heart is filling with hate, Vyk; I feel increasingly angry at my situation and yet just a few months ago I couldn’t have been happier. And nothing’s changed. I’m leading the same life, which I love, and yet I feel such rage. I can control it—my anger—but when I exercise that control, quelling the power inside, quietening my fury, something bad happens, like the soured milk. And it’s going to get worse. I sense it. I’m frightened by it. I just want everything to remain the same but I think Greven’s meeting today will change everything.’ He knew he was rambling; words were tumbling out of his mouth furiously, crowding together and turning into a tirade.

The bird shifted on his shoulder, making a clacking sound near his ear. It sounded like a question.

‘I don’t know. That’s just it, I don’t know, but this darkness, this growing up so fast and this new awareness about myself is driving me towards something, or someone, and I’m not sure I can control my urge any longer. Besides, Greven thinks he’s got me fooled. I admire his cunning and I especially admire his courage because this life of his must require a will of iron, but he underestimates me. And soon I won’t be able to shield him from the truth any longer.’

He shrugged and the raven leapt to another branch. ‘It’s the magic, Vyk, it’s not me. Promise me we’ll always be friends, no matter what. I sense you understand me, even if you can’t tell me as much. Don’t desert me, even if I disappoint you—or frighten you. The magic controls me now and I need to understand it more. Someone somewhere must know what it wants.’

Piven turned sadly and trudged deeper into the forest in search of the fungi he knew they would never use.

4

Oblivious to Piven’s pain, Greven strode into Minton Woodlet, a village with one inn but with a second being built, testimony to the growing importance of the village’s hardy golasses vines. It seemed the barbarians enjoyed the dense, dark wines of the south that drew their flavours from the salty air of the sea nearby and the earthiness of the forest that they flanked. Greven was sure that even within a few anni, Minton Woodlet would be a flourishing southern town with a burgeoning population, swelled by the transient workers who streamed into the region at grape-picking time. His and Piven’s days were numbered here.

‘Hello, Jon,’ an attractive woman said, slowing her walk as she approached him.

He liked Evelyn but not as much or in the same way that she liked him. He could almost regret the tumble they had taken together in his bed when Piven had once again been out hunting down the precious saramac fungus. That had been when the outward signs of his leprosy had begun to disappear and he had been feeling particularly joyous about Piven’s astonishing healing skills. Piven could work miracles; the boy made him look like a charlatan with his silly herbals. But now those skills frightened him. Piven had been a lot sunnier then and Greven knew that the boy’s present disposition was not simply the result of becoming a moody youth; it was more than that. It was a feeling of darkness.

‘Jon, you old devil, you look more handsome with each passing moon,’ Evelyn said. ‘Your skin looks mighty good.’

Even from the early days with Piven the side of his face most affected by the lesions had dried up, looking more like a skin complaint than anything more serious. He’d stuck to that story, explaining it was a result of accidental poisoning from some of his less predictable plants, and people had accepted it, especially as the sores no longer looked like traditional leprosy.

‘Yes, it seems the poison has finally worked its way out of my body,’ he smiled.

‘Indeed. You look very good, very smart.’

‘Thank you. I’m seeing some people who knew me from my childhood at Medhaven,’ he said, hoping to move on quickly.

But Evelyn clearly wanted to linger. ‘Oh, that would be the couple staying at the Grape and Whistle?’

Greven felt a prick of fear sting him but he kept his voice even. ‘Probably,’ he replied absently and then in an effort to distance himself from the visitors added: ‘I hope I recognise them. I haven’t seen them in many anni.’

‘I’ve just been speaking with them. Clovis and Reuth, right?’

Greven feigned a smile. ‘That’s right,’ he said, as if he’d heard their names for the first time in a very long time.

‘Nice people.’ She frowned, and he could almost see her reaching for the opportunity to prolong this meeting. ‘How do you kno—?’

‘Forgive me, Evelyn, but I mustn’t be late. And I’ve promised to call in on old Bern; his gout’s playing up.’ Greven began to move forward. ‘I really must find a better remedy than the one we’re using now.’ He smiled in genuine apology. ‘Sorry to rush off.’

She returned his smile, although hers was tinged with sadness, as if she knew he needed to escape her. He would have to confront this matter again, he realised. He needed to be forthright but gentle, rather than relying on this cowardly avoidance. But not today.

He lifted a hand in farewell and turned his back on Evelyn to complete his journey into Minton Woodlet. It was a busy morning. He’d forgotten it was market day but that suited him; more people around meant it would be easier to talk to the strangers without drawing attention.

The Grape and Whistle loomed. Greven felt a mad desire to turn and run, to run as far away from this place as possible. He had an ominous sense of doom closing in. It was getting harder to fight the illness he’d suffered since birth, of course. He thought of it as a disease and rather than fighting his urges he’d given in to them, little by little. By exposing himself to his desires, he had taught himself how to stay on top of the driving need. The forest helped, and the forced removal from society that the telltale leprosy had required was the best remedy of all, but still he tempted fate, deliberately remaining close to the eye of the storm, in the hope that as the years passed he would master full control.

And he had. By the time he found the courage to follow the raven to the fringe of the forest that day, he was confident of his immunity to his weakness. And had demonstrated it. But he wondered now if Piven’s wild and powerful magic might somehow seek out the truth. He didn’t understand it—it didn’t make sense—but he found himself unable to spend great lengths of timearound the boy. He particularly hated his testiness around his child but lately he was having to dig deeper and deeper to wrestle his urge to walk out of the forest that hid him so well. Perhaps he should tell the boy. Piven might be able to help him.

Greven shook his head. It was a glorious Blossomtide day, and this meeting had nothing to do with that old fear. Still, he needed to summon his courage to force himself across the threshold of the inn.

Minton Woodlet was not a direct route to anywhere in particular but it did serve as a logical stopping point for anyone heading to or from the island of Medhaven. As he cast a glance around the main front room of the inn, he saw only strangers—all travellers, he assumed—aside from the familiar faces of the people who worked at the inn.

‘Ho, Jon,’ someone said and Greven looked over to the counter where the innkeeper was drying and lining up cleaned mugs for the day’s service.

‘Hello, Derrin.’

‘They’re out the back, in the courtyard. Warming their bones, they said.’ Derrin smiled. ‘They said they haven’t seen you for donkey’s anni. Family?’

Greven shook his head. He wanted to say as little as possible about these people he feared. ‘People I knew when I was very young.’

Innkeeper Derrin nodded. ‘Plenty to chew the cud over then,’ he said. ‘Shall I send you out a pot of dinch? They’re taking their time over a morning meal.’

Greven nodded. ‘A strong one.’ He moved to the back of the chamber and through a doorway into the back of the property where a picturesque walled courtyard opened up. A small, circular fountain in the middle was the focal point. Around it skipped two children, the boy older than the girl, who was presumably his sister. And sitting at the back wall, talking quietly, was a couple in their middle age. They both stood as Greven walked towards them, and Greven was taken aback to see that they appeared as nervous as he felt.

‘I’m Lark.’ He pasted an expression of puzzlement on his face. ‘You asked to see me?’

‘Clovis and Reuth Barrow,’ the man replied. ‘These are our children.’ He held out his hand.

Greven prided himself on being a good judge of character. The face of the man standing before him struck him as sensitive. Despite his broad chest and height, Clovis Barrow didn’t seem to be in any way threatening. In fact, it was the dark-eyed woman in whom Greven sensed real strength. He shook both of their hands.

‘Welcome to Minton Woodlet, though what interest it could possibly hold for you I don’t know.’ He forced a gentle smile. ‘This is a very sleepy hamlet.’

His amiable tone broke through the initial tension. ‘Will you join us?’ Reuth said. ‘We’ve just finished breaking a late fast but—’

‘Dinch is on the way,’ Greven said reassuringly. Curiously, they sounded more unsure about him than he felt about them. Why would they be so hesitant?

‘Please,’ Clovis said, gesturing to a third chair at the small table.

‘Forgive our mess,’ Reuth added, trying to clear away the debris of four meals.

Greven sat, watching his hosts fuss. They were both roughly the same age—the woman slightly older, perhaps—and now that he looked at them more closely he would put them at approaching fifty anni, older than he’d first thought. The woman was silvering at the hairline while the man’s hair and beard were streaked with grey throughout—and yet their children were young. Second marriage, Greven guessed. But what had this family to do with him? He waited, preferring to let them do the talking.

‘I know you must be wondering why we asked to see you,’ Clovis began.

‘I am,’ Greven replied.

‘Please don’t fear us, Mr Lark,’ Reuth assured, looking at her husband and nodding encouragingly.

‘I don’t,’ Greven lied.

‘We’re not here to cause trouble,’ Clovis continued.

‘Thank you,’ Greven said, determined to give little of himself away.

Reuth looked up as the door into the courtyard banged. ‘I think your dinch is here, Mr Lark.’

‘Call me Jon,’ Greven said, ‘since apparently we’re all old friends.’

The man and wife nodded, glancing nervously at each other. They were frightened, Greven realised. That made him feel more assured than he’d felt since the moment he’d first received word of being asked after. And Piven was safe in the woods, where no one would find him.

The pot of dinch was served. ‘Can I get you anything else?’ the girl asked his hosts.

They both shook their heads and she smiled sweetly and left. Greven poured from the pot, more for something to do than from a desire to drink. When the couple remained silent, he spoke up boldly.

‘Master Clovis, Reuth, I don’t know either of you but I’ve had to pretend I do in order not to confuse the folk I live alongside each day. Now whether you’re from Medhaven or as far flung as Percheron I could not care, but I require an explanation for why you are here, masquerading as old friends.’ He sighed. ‘I don’t care for secrets,’ he lied.

Reuth nodded. ‘Tell him everything, Clovis.’

Clovis cleared his throat and Greven gave the man his full attention, surprised to see the couple give a surreptitious glance around.

‘We are alone,’ he assured. ‘Whatever you have to say will not be overheard.’

‘I was at Brighthelm soon after the invasion of Penraven—so was my wife. We had been rounded up and taken with other Vested to learn our fate. Some of us they wanted, others they killed. There was no way of knowing which we’d be. It was a terrible time,’ Clovis said and Reuth placed a hand on his arm. ‘Anyway,’ he continued. ‘That’s all history. We were saved by a man called Freath—one of the close aides to the Valisars. We never fully appreciated his perilous position and how he endangered his life daily to keep us safe and to protect the Valisar sons.’

‘Forgive me. While tragic though it all was, I have to wonder at this point why I’m here…what your story has to do with me,’ Greven said, as politely but firmly as he could.

Reuth smiled. ‘Clovis is always one to tell a story.’

Clovis cleared his throat. ‘I shall finish it quickly then,’ he said but without any offence in his voice. ‘While Reuth was fortunate to be given an escape route by Freath, I was kept behind and became privy to some of Freath’s plans. I know not only did the heir, Leonel, escape the palace but I also know that the other adopted son who was simple of mind, also somehow got away. He was lost, in fact, for want of a better word. Freath was inconsolable and as I did not have the stomach for his intrigues and what they required, I agreed to leave the relative safety of the palace to find Piven. I found Reuth first but I have never stopped looking for the boy.’

‘This is all fascinating, I’ll admit,’ Greven said, eyeing the couple, masking his despair with an ingenuous smile and a soft shake of the head. It seemed his fears had finally come home to roost this bright Blossomtide day. ‘But I fail to see how—’

‘The boy you live with is the son of the Valisar royals, isn’t he?’ Reuth pressed, leaning forward.

Greven didn’t know how to answer. He froze, searching for the right response that did not incriminate him or Piven.

Clovis sighed. ‘Master Lark, you should know that as a Master Diviner, my inherent skills have assisted in finding you. But, more importantly, my wife has visions. It was her magic that, after years of me searching, led me to you.’

Greven regarded them both, his face deliberately devoid of expression but his insides churning with anxiety.

‘You have nothing to fear from us, Master Lark,’ Clovis repeated. ‘As I explained, it has been my mission for the last decade to find the boy.’

‘Why?’

‘Do you admit that the child you call Petor is Piven, the invalid adopted son of the Valisars?’

‘Absolutely not,’ Greven replied, his throat threatening to close on the lie. He filled his lungs with indignation and continued, ‘This is an outrageous claim and I’ll ask you not to levy such accusations publicly.’

Clovis shook his head. ‘I only want to protect him. I would do nothing that might bring him harm. I know you wish only the same, which is why you are covering Piven’s true identity.’

‘Master Barrow—’

‘May we meet him?’ Reuth asked, cutting across Greven’s outrage.

‘Pardon?’

‘May we meet the boy? Although I only know of the child, Clovis has seen him at close range. He will know him.’

‘I have no intention of permitting you to scrutinise my son,’ Greven snapped. ‘How dare you,’ he muttered. ‘How dare you walk into my life like this and make such claims.’

Clovis shook his head with sorrow. ‘Master Lark, I witnessed many people lose their lives brutally on the order of the barbarian tyrant. Reuth watched her beloved former husband led away to be slaughtered in a dingy courtyard; she could hear his death cries alongside those of the others who posed as Vested. My first wife and my precious infant daughter were hacked to death by the barbarian warrior who calls himself general. Our magnanimous emperor who now masquerades as a just and good ruler stole his crown in a sea of blood, Master Lark. I’m sure you know that.’