Spellbinder E-Book

Ghillian Potts

• Herausgeber: Arachne Press
• Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
• Serie: the Naming of Brook Storyteller
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Seitenzahl: 289

Beschreibung

Brook, now called Spellbinder, is working as Remembrancer to her friend Graycat, now known as Young Overlord Lady Quicksilver, when Storytellers start disappearing. Spellbinder is captured and forced to summon the Elder Dragons, but when she cannot control them, she must break her Storyteller vow and forfeit her most precious possession – her name.

Leseprobe

SPELLBINDER

Book Two

of

The Naming of Brook Storyteller

by

Ghillian Potts

First published in UK 2017 by Arachne Press Limited

100 Grierson Road, London SE23 1NX

www.arachnepress.com

© Ghillian Potts

ISBNs

Print 978-1-909208-46-9

Mobi/Kindle 978-1-909208-48-3

ePub 978-1-909208-47-6

The moral rights of the author have been asserted.

All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form or binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

Except for short passages for review purposes no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission of Arachne Press.

Printed on wood-free paper in the UK by TJ International, Padstow.

SPELLBINDER

Also by Ghillian Potts

The Naming of Brook Storyteller

Book one: Brat

Book three: Wolftalker

The Old Woman From Friuli

CHAPTER ONE

One of the guards was singing softly as they rode along, a spring song of hope and happiness.

Farwalker turned in the saddle and called back, laughing, ‘Harvest is all but over and you sing of Spring! Where is Winter?’

The soldier grinned. ‘My Lord, we are the heralds of hope for the Joined Lands,’ he said. ‘We are bringing the Lady Graycat to her Proclamation! Spring is the season of hope, so I sing of Spring.’

Storyteller Spellbinder slowed her horse to let the man catch up to her.

‘You are right,’ she told him joyfully, blinking dazzled eyes. The sun slanting through the leaves had caught the silver sash over his black tunic and she was blinded for a moment.

The forest was suddenly very quiet. Spellbinder peered around, puzzled.

Then her horse screamed horribly, half reared and fell. Spellbinder flung herself off into the undergrowth, rolled over and scrambled to her feet, panting, bruised and terrified.

Both guards were down. An arrow stood quivering in the throat of the singer. Their riderless horses crashed away in panic flight.

Farwalker had swung his horse and was galloping back towards her, bent low and weaving to and fro across the path to avoid the hidden bowmen. He flung himself from Sushan’s back and boosted Spellbinder into the saddle.

‘Get back to Graycat at once!’ he snapped. ‘Warn the others. I can hold these off for a while.’

He had his great bow unslung and was stringing it before Spellbinder had properly grasped what was happening. Then she kicked Sushan and the little dun sprang forward along the forest path down which they had just come so cheerfully.

Clinging hard with her knees, for the stirrup leathers were much too long for her, Spellbinder risked a frantic glance over her shoulder. Farwalker was just stepping back into cover, having loosed at some unwary ambusher.

Then Spellbinder gave a gasp of horror and snatched at the reins to pull Sushan to a halt. Half a dozen men on forest ponies were attacking all at once. They must mean to rush Farwalker, getting to close quarters where a bow would be useless before he could pick off more than one or two.

Why risk it? Were they in such haste that they were willing to lose two, perhaps three men in order to kill him quickly? Or had he killed all their bowmen so that they had no alternative? Spellbinder didn’t know. She did know that she could not abandon him.

But what weapons had she? A throwing knife and a birding crossbow! It would be suicide to attack with no better weapons... but perhaps she had a better weapon.

She had Sushan.

Sushan means Defiance in the tongue of the tribes of the Desert Plain, so Farwalker had told her. Those tribes train their horses to fight in battle without reins or guidance, at a word of command. If Sushan had been so trained there was a chance, for Storyteller Spellbinder knew that word of command.

With shaking hands she reached forward to pull off the bridle.

The moment his head was free the little stallion seemed to change. He shook his head and arched his neck, his muscles tensing expectantly. Spellbinder nudged him toward the group already closing on Farwalker. Two were down but the others were frighteningly close.

She gripped as tightly as she could with her knees, lay forward on Sushan’s neck, twisted her hands in his mane and shouted, ‘Orakhan!’

It was like riding a whirlwind.

Screaming defiance, Sushan burst from the narrow ride, seized the nearest pony by the crest and hurled steed and rider to the ground. Then he reared, pivoting on his hind legs, and battered the rider of the next pony with his fore-hooves.

Spellbinder lost sight of that man as he slid limply from his mount which fled into the bushes.

Still screaming, Sushan flung himself upon another pony. It bolted in terror, scraping its rider off against a low bough. The last man, with a shout of fear, set his pony at the stallion, drawing back his spear ready to throw.

For a moment he seemed to hesitate, as if searching for his target. But he was already dead with Farwalker’s arrow through his heart. He pitched sidelong to the ground. Sushan trampled him furiously, then turned upon the first man he had downed.

Spellbinder, sobbing now with fear of the thunderbolt she had unleashed, tugged frantically at his mane.

‘No, Sushan! No. Stop!’ she yelled.

To her astonished relief he obeyed, so suddenly that she nearly fell and had to fling both arms round his neck where she clung, shaking, until Farwalker’s hands and voice reached her. Then she let go and he lifted her down.

Three ponies, the one that had fallen beneath Sushan’s attack and the two whose riders had been shot by Farwalker in the first moments of their charge, were still in the clearing. The others had fled.

Six men had charged Farwalker. Three had fallen to his arrows, one groaned from the ground where his horse had fallen with him, one lay with a broken neck under the tree branch that had slain him and the last, bleeding from a great gouged wound in the head, half lay against a treetrunk, clearly dying.

Spellbinder stared around, numb with the suddenness of the violence. The trampled grass and ferns, the dreadfully limp bodies, the ugly stains smeared or splashed across the earth all revolted her, but in a strangely muffled way.

‘Brat! Brat!’ a voice insisted. Someone shook her.

‘Brat? That’s me,’ thought Spellbinder vaguely.

‘Brat! Where is Sushan’s bridle? Brat!!’

Spellbinder looked round vaguely.

‘This side,’ she pointed dully along the ride. ‘I threw it into the bushes on my right.’

Farwalker strode quickly back to find it. Sushan stamped his forefeet arrogantly and gave a triumphant neigh that made Brat startle and shudder. His hooves were rusty with blood and his legs were dappled with it. There was even a splash across his face.

Feeling sick, Spellbinder pulled a handful of grass and wiped the stallion’s face clean. Sushan bent his head to her docilely but when one of the loose ponies wandered towards them, he snorted threateningly, warning the beast off.

‘Stop that, horse!’ said Farwalker, returning with the bridle. ‘We’ll need them.’ He glanced at Spellbinder’s pale face and added, ‘Brat, can you catch one of those ponies? I must see if either of our guards still lives. Then I’ll see about these two.’

He nodded at the two ambushers who had survived. The one with the head wound was unlikely to need any help beyond a merciful dagger stroke but the other looked as if he might live.

Bridled, Sushan at once became calm and obedient. Farwalker mounted and cantered back to where the soldiers lay while Brat walked slowly towards the three ponies, now crowded together nervously. One was limping badly. That must be the one Sushan had thrown down; but the other two appeared sound.

It took her a long time to get close enough to catch a trailing rein, for the ponies were ready to bolt at the least alarm and Brat herself felt limp and drained. She moved heavily, stumbling over tussocks of grass and trails of ivy.

By the time she had hold of one of the ponies, Farwalker had returned and was inspecting the two ambushers. The soldiers, he said, had died at once. Probably they had not even been aware of the ambush. The man with the gouged head was dead, too.

Spellbinder did not answer. She was thinking of the man who had sung of Spring.

The last bandit was dragging himself slowly to his feet.

He had been amazingly lucky, Farwalker told Brat. He seemed to have no broken ones or internal injuries, just an assortment of cuts and bruises.

‘We’ll take this one with us. We may be able to find out who sent him,’ he added grimly. He caught the other unhurt pony, heaved the prisoner to its back, helped Spellbinder to mount and led the way back towards the main party. The lame pony followed, whickering anxiously.

‘Now,’ said Farwalker, grimly, ‘now, Brat, tell me why you disobeyed my order.’

Brat swallowed and glanced back at the prisoner. He seemed to be wholly occupied in hanging on to his pony’s mane and trying to suppress his groans. She turned back to Farwalker. It was hard to speak.

‘I was sure you would be killed. I tried to leave you, but I just couldn’t.’

‘With the result,’ said Farwalker, still grimly, ‘that Graycat may well now be dead or taken prisoner. This attack on us could have been a diversion.’

‘What? Then why aren’t we going faster?’ cried Spellbinder, horror struck. Life returned to her expression and she gathered up her reins ready to urge the pony on. ‘If we hurry we may be in time. Why didn’t you leave me and take Sushan at once? You wasted time on dying men!’

Her voice rose as she spoke until she was shouting at Farwalker. Shock and terror suddenly spilled over and Brat burst into tears.

Farwalker let her cry. When her tempest subsided at last, he said quietly, ‘Spellbinder, you did, I believe, save my life. You acted with great courage and presence of mind. For my life, Storyteller, I thank you. For your disobedience, think what would have happened had you and Sushan failed. I meant Sushan’s speed to save your life and carry a warning to Graycat. Instead, you risked being killed or taken prisoner, leaving Gray with no warning of danger.’

‘Then why aren’t we hurrying?’

‘Our prisoner says there are no more ambushers. Graycat is not in danger now.’

Spellbinder stared at him in amazed indignation. ‘You lied to me! You let me think – you pretended she was – that I’d endangered her...’

‘Storyteller! You may be the Young Overlord’s Remembrancer and Court Storyteller, you may be the youngest Storyteller ever to be raised to the degree of Master, you may be the last descendant of the Star Folk and Graycat’s Witness, but you must still learn to obey orders when needful! And you needed to weep out the shock. I tricked you into it, I agree. But don’t forget, until Graycat is proclaimed Young Overlord at the Star Stones, her life is still at risk. There are plenty of landholders who were carried away by the Overlord’s declaring her the Heir, by the fulfilment of the Prophecy and all the excitement at the Great Gathering, who may now be having second thoughts.’

Spellbinder nodded. ‘I know. Once she is proclaimed, she’s safe. No one would harm her then.’

‘Well, none of our people,’ agreed Farwalker. ‘There’s no saying what might happen if there was another Westfolder invasion.’

Spellbinder shivered. ‘But the last one was years and years ago! We’re at peace with them.’

‘For now.’ Farwalker looked grim.

At the next turn of the path there was a flash of black and silver, a shout and several scouts from Graycat’s escort appeared. They stared in shocked amazement at the blood-spattered Sushan. Their leader actually stammered as he asked what had happened.

‘An ambush.’ Farwalker was curt. ‘Take this man to Lady Graycat Quicksilver for questioning.’ He looked round at the scouts and added, ‘I am sorry. Your two comrades lie slain. But their killers are all dead save for my prisoner.’

There was a mutter of acknowledgment from the men. The prisoner’s pony was led off at a brisk canter and the rest of the guard closed around Spellbinder and Farwalker to follow more slowly.

CHAPTER TWO

When they found Graycat, half a mile back along the trail, she was already questioning the prisoner. He was answering her questions as fast as she could put them, very anxious to convince her of his truthfulness.

He seemed more afraid of the Lady Graycat Quicksilver, the Young Overlord, than he was of Farwalker who had killed several of his friends, or of Sushan who had very nearly trampled him. But Graycat’s reputation was not one of kindliness; her life as an outlaw had seen to that.

She looked up as Brat and Farwalker reined in beside her.

‘He says he does not know who hired him. Their orders were to seize Brat!’

They stared at her, bewildered. ‘Me? Why me?’ asked Spellbinder. ‘I thought they were trying to kill Farwalker...’

They all turned to the prisoner. He shook his head violently. ‘That’s all I know!’ he protested.

‘Describe the man who gave you your orders,’ commanded Gray. The other two dismounted and listened attentively to the rather halting description. Their prisoner was no hand at portrayal but one thing was clear: whoever he was, the man had been relaying orders for someone else.

The prisoner remembered him hesitating over some query from the leader of the ambushers, as if unsure of how far he might go.

‘He had a trick of running his thumb nail along his lower lip, when he was puzzled. And there was a scar, nothing much, just a little white mark, below his mouth.’

He could recall nothing more to the purpose. The man had been medium tall, with an ordinary sort of face, mid-brown skin, brown eyes, dark brown hair. The description would have fitted Farwalker, or almost any of the escort.

‘How much were you to be paid?’ asked Graycat.

The answer stunned them all. It was a sum as great as a Lord’s ransom.

‘Impossible! You must be mistaken!’ Farwalker said. ‘Or lying.’

‘No, Lord, I saw some of the gold,’ protested the prisoner. ‘Our leader made him pay half in advance. We were to get the rest when the youngster was handed over.’

‘Why so much money? How could I be so valuable?’ Brat stared at the man disbelievingly.

‘Ah, well, little lady, it wasn’t so much your value as the hazard. Danger money it was. Our leader, he said we’d never get near you if you were travelling with the Archer – Lord Farwalker, I should say – not to mention Lady Graycat (if the Young Overlord will pardon the name); so he says, ‘I’ll need to pay my men extra for the extra risk,’ he says. He was right, too, wasn’t he? And now look what’s happened! None of us left to spend it!’

‘None of you earned it!’ Graycat pointed out, drily; and motioned him away.

Spellbinder suddenly giggled rather hysterically, tried to stop, choked and began coughing. Farwalker, absent-mindedly thumping her on the back, said, ‘What now, Gray? Do we go on, or turn back to the City?’

‘Why did the man, whoever he is, want Brat?’ said Graycat, frowning. ‘Unless we know that, we can make no sensible decision.’

They both looked at Spellbinder. ‘I don’t know!’ she protested.

‘What is there about Brat that could make someone want to capture her?’ asked Farwalker, thoughtfully. ‘She is your Remembrancer, Gray, and your Court Storyteller. Some jealous Storyteller?’

‘No! No Storyteller would,’ Spellbinder said firmly. ‘They wouldn’t have so much money, either.’

‘Hmmm. Well, you are also Gray’s Witness. Suppose someone wishes to discredit the Young Overlord before she is proclaimed at the Star Stones. The Witness vanishes and at least part of her claim vanishes too.’

‘Or my Witness vanishes only to return saying that her original witness was false!’ suggested Graycat. ‘At the ceremony, for greatest effect.’

‘I wouldn’t! I never would do such a thing!’ protested Brat in horror.

‘There are ways to force a reluctant person to bear false witness,’ said Graycat. ‘But no, there would not be time for such methods, thank the Stars.’

Brat shuddered. Then she remembered something that she had almost thought of earlier. ‘Wait a moment!’ she exclaimed. ‘Graycat! Farwalker! Who knew we were coming by the forest path?’

There was a startled pause. Graycat gave Brat a long, respectful stare.

‘The Overlord knew, of course,’ she said slowly. ‘Captain Bearslayer knew and, I suppose, might have told the Overlord’s escort. Farwalker?’

Farwalker nodded. ‘And whoever they may have talked to. Lord Buckler knew, though I’d as soon suspect the statue of Skywatcher, and I told Bowyer Heartwood. I’d suspect myself sooner than the Bowyer. Did you tell anyone, Brat?’

Spellbinder shook her head. ‘I didn’t even know that there was a short cut until we turned off the Great Road,’ she said. ‘That’s why I wondered. Do you suppose this ambush was laid just in case we came this way? And that there is another one waiting somewhere along the Great Road?’

Everyone turned to stare at the prisoner.

‘I don’t know!’ he protested in alarm when the question was put to him. ‘As the Sky sees me! I swear I don’t know!’ Casting round frantically for some way to convince them, he added, ‘All our men were here, so if anyone hired some other band, how would I know about it?’

‘How were you to recognise us?’ snapped Farwalker.

‘By the escort’s colours,’ gasped the prisoner. ‘Black and silver, the Overlord’s colours, he said to look for, and then to seize the – the young lady and run for it.’

‘So if there is another ambush along the Great Road, the Overlord himself may be attacked or even killed, unless those ambushers are better shots than these were.’ Farwalker spoke slowly and evenly, ignoring the exclamations of horror from their escort.

No man, woman or child of the Joined Lands would dream of harming their Overlord Strongmind. The guards were deeply shocked and even the prisoner protested.

‘Who knows the forest?’ Graycat demanded urgently. ‘Is there a way through to the Great Road that will be quicker than going back the way we came?’

One of the scouts stepped forward. ‘I can guide you, Lady. But it will be very tricky going. These big horses may not get through.’

‘We’ll take the ponies, then. How many were there?’ she asked the prisoner.

‘Ten, Lady,’ said the prisoner. He was recovering his poise and stood up straight, ignoring his injuries. ‘Counting my poor Marker, there.’ He indicated the lame pony, now placidly cropping the thin grass. ‘I could try to call the others, by your Ladyship’s leave.’

Graycat nodded and he whistled, a shaky trill that did not sound as if it could carry far. Brat’s pony and Marker at once pricked up their ears and stepped towards him. He whistled again, louder, and a distant whinny answered him, then another.

They waited, the prisoner whistling at intervals, and while they waited Gray rapidly sorted out which members of their escort were lightest and could ride best. She paid no heed to the captain’s urging that she should stay behind, save to remark that since she was as light as any of them and probably the best rider, she was certainly going.

Brat reluctantly gave up her pony. She was not a good rider and would undoubtedly hold back the rescue.

Farwalker asked one of the men to rub down Sushan, saying cheerfully that the little stallion, being not much larger than the ponies and very sure-footed, could probably carry him wherever they could go.

Eventually five more ponies turned up; the last two must have gone beyond earshot. With Sushan and the two ponies that Brat and the prisoner had ridden, eight riders could be mounted to try to intercept the Overlord’s party on the Great Road.

Graycat gave a few last directions to the escort captain, then rode over to Spellbinder, sitting rather forlornly on a fallen log.

‘See if you can get any more information out of the prisoner,’ she said softly, leaning down to her. ‘He’ll talk to you more easily than to me.’

Spellbinder managed a grin. ‘I don’t frighten him, you mean?’

‘That too,’ agreed Gray, ‘but Storytellers are good listeners. You’ll see; he’ll talk if you listen. Now, fare you well, Brat.’

‘Luck ride with you. Take care, Gray,’ said Brat. She waved as Graycat, Farwalker and their tiny escort rode away between the trees, then scrambled up on Gray’s horse.

The prisoner was hoisted onto one of the spare horses and they set off again, headed once more for the Star Stones.

CHAPTER THREE

At the scene of the ambush they stopped to pick up the bodies of the two guards. Their horses had wandered back, so the bodies were tied to their own steeds. The dead outlaws were looted and left to the forest scavengers.

For a while Spellbinder worried about Graycat’s party. Then, deciding that this did no good, she turned her thoughts to the problem of who wanted her captured and why.

Was Farwalker right in thinking that the plan was to discredit Gray by silencing her Witness? Why not just kill her instead of going to the trouble of kidnapping her? No, killing a Witness would, if anything, prove her truthfulness. They, whoever they were, would not want a martyred Spellbinder whose grave would show that she must be silenced at all costs. If she had simply vanished, no doubt there would soon have been people ready to believe that she had fled for fear of being found out.

‘I daresay I’d have been killed later, all the same,’ said Brat to herself. For a moment she allowed herself a short fantasy in which everyone mourned her untimely death: Farwalker, Graycat, the Overlord himself, The Storyteller (her great-uncle Silkentongue), her friends in the City, Medley, Trader Gather, and Streetskimmer Strongtower, Carter Stark, and Bowyer Heartwood, Farwalker’s closest friend, all of them in a long procession at her sad funeral.

Then she gave herself a mental shake and said to the prisoner, riding beside her, ‘What was your leader like? Was he a cautious man?’

The man stared at her. ‘Why do you want to know?’ he asked, puzzled.

‘I’m a Storyteller. I am trying to make sense of your story,’ replied Spellbinder, pleased with her neat phrasing.

The prisoner sucked in his breath as his horse jolted him painfully, and said sourly, ‘What use is that?’

Spellbinder sighed. ‘If I know what sort of person your leader was, I might be able to understand better why he was chosen to abduct me. And that might help to explain why I was to be abducted at all. After all, it is of some interest to me!’

‘You mean none of you know?’ The prisoner was incredulous.

‘Lord Farwalker has a theory; we don’t know anything for certain. Would your leader have undertaken to seize Lady Graycat Quicksilver if he’d been paid enough?’

‘The Young Overlord? Skies above! No! What man of the Joined Lands would touch her! With the Prophecy fulfilled!’ He shook his head firmly.

‘But I am the Witness of the Prophecy,’ pointed out Spellbinder. ‘Touch me and you injure her.’

The prisoner’s mouth opened in amazement. His horse stumbled and the soldier leading it, who had been listening a little too attentively to their conversation, hastily jerked up its head. The prisoner did not seem to notice. He was staring at Spellbinder as if she had sprouted a second head.

‘A babe like you, The Witness? But... you said you’re a Storyteller... You are that Storyteller, then! Spellbinder!’

Brat nodded. She saw the man’s face change; he had thought of something, now that he was thinking for himself, not just answering questions.

‘That man, the one who paid us,’ he said slowly, ‘there was something about his voice... Not an accent, more a sort of lilt; and he had a funny turn of phrase, too.’

He frowned and Spellbinder held her breath in suspense until suddenly, ‘I know! He talked a bit like a Westfolderman! You know how they call the Sky Folk the Starfarers? He said that once as well!’

‘So do some of our people, too,’ said Spellbinder, cautiously.

‘Not with a lilt, they don’t!’ The prisoner was suddenly eager to persuade her. ‘He was from Westfold, I’m sure of it.’

Spellbinder stood up in the stirrups and shouted to the captain to halt. Captain Sureshield suddenly found himself, to his shocked surprise, taking orders from a young Storyteller. She rapped them out so briskly that he even caught himself saluting her as if she were in command of the whole party. True, it made good sense to send some of the men back to the City to warn the authorities there that Westfold might be behind this attempt on Spellbinder. And he had to agree that it made even better sense that he should be the one to lead them.

Spellbinder counted heads rapidly.

‘Take the best horses,’ she told the captain, ‘and three men; that will leave me with nine. Three of them can manage the spare horses, while I take the remaining six and the prisoner and go on to the Star Stones as fast as possible to tell the landholders there.’

She thought for a moment. ‘Who will you go to in the City?’

‘The over-captain in charge of the Keep, to start with,’ said Sureshield. ‘He’ll know who else to warn. We don’t want to start a general panic.’

Spellbinder agreed, remembering the riot that Farwalker had started when Graycat had been imprisoned. She had been caught up in it and it had been terrifying.

She looked round at the guards and said firmly, ‘Captain Sureshield is right. No one must speak of this until we are certain. It may be that this fellow is mistaken. If he is wrong, we don’t want false rumours started. You are none of you to talk!’

The captain and his escort turned back. Spellbinder told off the best horse handlers to bring along the two horses carrying the dead soldiers and the four spare horses at a sober pace. The prisoner she ordered freed to hold his own reins.

‘He will slow us down too much,’ she said impatiently when one of the guards protested, ‘and he will give his word not to try to escape.’

She looked at the prisoner as she spoke and caught his expression of blank astonishment, changing to determination. He hesitated a moment, then said in a completely different voice and manner, ‘I am called Birdcall; but I once was known as Speedhand, before I left Lord Buckler’s service.’

He paused and swallowed hard, then went on, steadily, ‘I, Speedhand, swear upon my oath as a warrior, that I will not attempt to escape now or later.’ His hearers exchanged respectful glances. Some of them nodded.

Spellbinder, seeing that the guards were ready to accept his promise, leaned over and slashed the bindings on his wrists.

‘Now ride!’ she said urgently.

They rode.

As they went, Spellbinder, when she could spare a moment from concentrating on staying on her horse, puzzled over the prisoner. Even before he had given his name he had seemed a different person from the cowed creature gabbling out answers to Graycat’s questions.

Spellbinder’s trained memory gave her the answer. Yes, she had once heard of Speedhand. He had been a swordsman so skilled that the men he fought swore they could scarcely see his blade move. He might even have become the Swordsman; but he had vanished after killing his best friend in a practice bout. By accident, so some said. Others claimed that there had been a quarrel.

What was such a man doing laying ambushes in the forest?

Suddenly another idea struck her. She drew her horse level with Speedhand’s, and leaned to his ear. ‘Was the leader of your men called Birdcall?’ she said softly and grinned at his look of alarm.

After a moment he grinned back, looking suddenly much younger, and nodded. Brat put a finger to her lips and nodded in return. She would keep his secret, she decided, unless it seemed likely to endanger Gray or the Overlord. It was possible that a grateful Speedhand would be of more help still. Of course he had been the leader! And the leader would know more than his followers.

At length they burst through the last narrows of the forest path and on to the Great Road. Spellbinder wriggled her shoulders with relief. She seemed to have been ducking branches and dodging rabbit holes for days rather than hours.

Everyone glanced up at the sun, which stood well past its noon height, and then looked at the road. The surface was almost unmarked after the night’s rain and it was clear that the Overlord had not yet passed.

They could see for perhaps a mile in either direction before the road curved. There was no sign of the Overlord’s escort, and since the rain had laid the dust, there would be none until his party reached this stretch of road.

Spellbinder hesitated. Should she send one of her men back with a message for the Overlord? He must be warned as soon as possible of the likelihood of Westfolder plots.

Aloud, she said, ‘Whose horse is least weary? Mine, I think. Here, take him, Westling. Don’t kill him, but get to the Overlord as fast as you reasonably can and tell him what our friend here suspects. If the Young Overlord has not yet reached him, tell him the whole story. But don’t go blurting it out in front of everyone!’

She grinned at Westling, who was a friend as well as a guard, and he smiled back and saluted her. ‘I’ll leave my spear behind,’ he said, ‘just in case someone thinks I’m one of the attackers.’

CHAPTER FOUR

At the Star Stones the landholders were gathering, together with a great crowd of people who had made the journey to see the Young Overlord proclaimed.

Some, of course, had come to make money. Spellbinder’s party had to drag their horses between sellers of ale and hot or cold food on the edges of the crowd, then dodge past makeshift shelters and tents pitched higgledy-piggledy all around the Grove of the Star Stones.

The sun was still high enough above the treetops to bathe the Glade of the Star Stones in light. They stopped in awe to gaze at the huge dazzling white Stones in their double ring in the exact centre of the Glade, which in turn lay in the centre of the Grove.

No one spoke. The first sight of the Star Stones silences everyone. Even on a cloudy day they seem to throw back the light and in the sunlight they were blinding.

Spellbinder had to look away, eyes watering, after a few seconds. Beside her, Speedhand murmured a prayer. Then one of the Sky priests was at her elbow, telling her in a shocked voice that they must remove the horses at once.

‘This is the Glade! Have you no respect?’

‘Your pardon, I beseech you!’ Spellbinder shook off the Stones’ enchantment and bowed respectfully. ‘I have an urgent errand to...’ she paused, remembering that most of the lords and guards who knew her by sight would be with the Overlord. She might be turned away as an imposter! She glanced quickly at the group of landholders nearby and saw a familiar skinny little person, telling someone what he should do.

She smiled with relief. ‘To the Lady Jewel,’ she finished.

Lady Jewel, as usual, knew exactly what to do. Her black eyes sparkling with satisfaction, she introduced Spellbinder to the three other members of the Overlord’s private council who had arrived before her, cut the over-captain of the Western Marches out of an argument with the lord of the Seaward Hills and assembled them all in relative privacy at the edge of the Glade.

Spellbinder’s escort, now reduced to five, formed a thin barrier between them and the rest of the landholders while Spellbinder told her story.

When she had finished, Councillor Deepskill, a slender woman nearly as tall as Graycat and not unlike her to look at, said neutrally, ‘You believe this prisoner of yours?’

Spellbinder did not bother to look at Speedhand.

‘Yes,’ she said flatly.

‘Why?’

Spellbinder had been wondering that herself.

Lady Jewel peered at her. ‘Let the child alone, Deepskill,’ she said. ‘She is a Storyteller. Who better to recognise truthtelling?’

‘Granted.’ Deepskill smiled at Spellbinder, suddenly charming. ‘But how much can an outlaw really know?’

Suddenly Speedhand was on his knees before them.

‘Ladies, Lords,’ he began, ‘I am not an outlaw proclaimed. I joined the outlaws when it was that or die. I do not deny that I have robbed with them and killed with them. I was the leader of the band that attacked the Lord Farwalker and Storyteller Spellbinder today and I must bear the guilt for the death of two of their guards. I lay my life in your hands. But I beseech you to believe that I know enough of the man who conveyed our instructions to us to be certain in my own mind that he was indeed a Westfolderman.’

Brat had carefully avoided all mention of the position that Speedhand had held among the outlaws. She was taken aback and slightly annoyed at this about-face; but she could hardly say so.

Over-captain Ironfist, a mild-looking middle-aged man with the build of a heavy-weight wrestler, said slowly, ‘I have had hints and warnings of some unrest in Westfold. I thought that it was to do with their new Overlord’s persecution of the Storytellers. You have heard of this?’ he added, to Spellbinder.