Tyrant’s Blood. Fiona McIntosh

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.’

      Greven nodded unhappily, shocked and helplessly touched by the tale of this pair.

      ‘We have reason to hold a grudge against the tyrant.’

      ‘But what does my son have to do with your mission?’ Greven asked carefully.

      ‘If he is your son, then he has nothing to do with us,’ Clovis said. ‘If he is Piven, as we believe he is, then he is integral to the struggle.’

      ‘The struggle? What are you talking about?’

      Clovis lowered his voice still further. ‘To reinstate the true king onto his throne.’

      Greven looked back at the intense expressions on the couple’s faces. They were earnest. ‘Piven?’

      ‘No, Leo,’ Clovis said. ‘We all believe he lives.’

      ‘We?’

      ‘The Vested,’ Reuth answered. ‘Those of us who survived took a marking.’ She turned, pulling back her ear and Greven saw a crescent moon marked in ink on her skin. ‘Master Lark, I should admit to you that my curious and contrary skill is to sense when something bad might occur. It is a strong power when it speaks to me but it speaks rarely. For instance, I knew they were coming for me, even though we had hidden my talent all my life. I also knew my husband would die, no matter what we did to protect him. I sensed that the royal family would suffer—I didn’t see the deaths but I sensed there would be only misery for the Valisars who might survive. And, Master Lark, when you first walked into this courtyard I sensed a terrible foreboding. I don’t know if it is for you, or your son, or whether it is the stars aligning to bring grief to your life but something very bad is going to happen. It is not far away. You should be warned.’

      Greven stood. ‘Stay away from me,’ he demanded, pointing his finger at the two of them. ‘Stay away from Petor.’

      Clovis looked past Greven. ‘You’re alarming our children, Master Lark, and risking drawing attention to yourself.’

      ‘You are strangers in this hamlet. I am not. My son and I have lived here for—’

      ‘Ten anni,’ Reuth finished for him, calmly. ‘Yes, we know. And that’s the exact amount of time that Clovis has been searching for the Valisar child. You forget that we were involved in the struggle for the Valisar survival at the outset. We have never given up our fight to return the rightful king to his throne.’

      Greven leapt onto what he thought could be his final diversion. ‘Except you are ignoring one very important fact.’

      ‘And that is?’ Reuth asked.

      ‘You are very clear that the child known as Piven is an invalid.’

      Clovis and Reuth nodded. ‘He never spoke a word, and was very much lost in his mind,’ Clovis said.

      ‘Well, for your information, Petor is extremely able. He talks as any normal child of fifteen might talk,’ Greven insisted, leaning forward on the table to impress his point. ‘He is lively and animated.’

      Reuth frowned, glancing at her husband.

      ‘Check with the townsfolk if you don’t believe me,’ Greven baited. ‘The child you seek is not my Petor. It’s just an unfortunate coincidence that both boys are the same age.’ He could almost see the disappointment emanating from them like a dark cloud.

      Clovis sighed. ‘Still, I would like to see him.’

      ‘I forbid it. You will not frighten my child.’

      ‘Master Lark, how can two people like us with our young family be in any way intimidating?’ Reuth asked.

      ‘Well, you’ve done your utmost to intimidate me and I refuse you access to my son, do you hear? Go away and leave us in peace.’

      ‘I cannot,’ Clovis said. His voice sounded grave enough to chill Greven. ‘I gave my word to people who were risking their lives every hour of those terrible days of the overthrow to keep Piven alive. I promised I would find him. I think I have.’

      ‘Go away,’ Greven said helplessly. He turned his back on them, calling over his shoulder, ‘And stay away.’

      He threw two trents onto the counter before Innkeeper Derrian Junes and didn’t pause to exchange pleasantries. He was gone in seconds, striding out of the Grape and Whistle and hurrying as fast as his long legs could carry him towards the forest, where the trees swallowed him up and, he hoped, could hide him.

       5

      Piven waited for Greven. He had filled the small sack near to brimming with fungi that would need to dry out on the hut’s windowsill, and it was now duly laid out as Greven liked. Life with Greven had been tranquil, mostly serene. Each day was similar to the previous. And he liked it that way. He liked its order, its sameness…its predictability. He didn’t call Greven ‘Father’; couldn’t call him by that name, much as he knew Greven would like him to, because he remembered King Brennus too clearly. He belonged to the royal family of Valisars—that could and would never change for him. He never wondered about his blood parents, refused to accept that somewhere in the Set a woman who had birthed him might still live or a man who had sired him might roam.

      The raven had lingered, staying close as he busied himself finding the elusive fungi. He wondered if the bird—who he felt sure knew things—had sensed his change occurring. He knew Vyk could hear him; imagined the bird was capable of replying somehow, but that it had chosen not to communicate with him since he’d begun to talk. One day it would—of this he was sure. And so he talked, over his shoulder, never tiring of hearing his own voice, which had been silent for so long.

      ‘…and should be back soon if you’re wondering,’ he said, laying out the fungi beneath the warmth of the sun. ‘You’ll be surprised when you see him. His face, body, arms are now all clear of the sores. The leprosy will have left him by the rise of the next full moon. It’s my greatest achievement yet,’ he murmured, not meaning to boast but needing to say it aloud, to affirm his new talent.

      ‘I told you about the dreams,’ he continued. ‘Strange ones. People are hunting me. I don’t know them but they want to use me and I don’t know how or why.’ Piven turned. ‘Are you faithful to Loethar, or faithful to me? Until I know, I can’t fully trust you with my secrets. One day you must choose, you know that, don’t you?’ He dragged back the flop of hair that had covered part of his face as he turned to look at the bird. ‘You will need to choose,’ he said softly.

      ‘Who are you talking to?’ Piven turned to see Greven approaching up the small incline that led to their hut. The man smiled. ‘Ah, Vyk. Long life to you. Good to see you back.’ Then he gave a feigned sound of disgust. ‘Piven, I’m as bad as you, talking to the bird. Well done, my boy, that’s a very good haul,’ he congratulated, spying the neat row of fungi lined up. ‘Excellent, excellent. Now, child, I want to talk to you about something.’

      ‘Oh?’

      ‘We need to move on,’ Greven continued conversationally. ‘I’m bored with this place, aren’t you? Perhaps we could look at Gormand, or Cremond, get lost in and around Lo’s Teeth or the Dragonsback Mountains. That would be quite an exciting trip. What do you say?’ Piven’s expression turned to one of puzzlement. ‘Why?’

      Greven looked surprised. ‘Why not,