Part 28 (2/2)

Rip collapsed against him; the tears didn't last long, though. He'd done his fair share of crying since being taken, in the dark where n.o.body could see. After a moment he felt the children crowding around, and Bram's other arm went around them too, as far as he could reach.

'I want you to kill them!' Rip said after a moment, wiping at his face with his palms. 'They're...they're evil!'

'That they are,' Bram said. He clanked his chains a little, ruefully. 'But I'm a bit tied up at the moment.' His smile turned to a frown. 'I still don't know why they've taken you, or me,' he went on. 'Even a baron can't do this sort of thing for long. Stealing childrenthere'll be rebellion if it gets out. Parents won't wait for the Prince's Magistrate to come down from Krondor. Those who've already lost children will be the first to riot.'

'They had kids before us,' Mandy said in a small voice. 'After a while they'd come and take them away and they didn't come back.'

Rip swallowed. 'I think...I think one of them is a magician,' he said.

Bram frowned. 'And the old man'

'The Baron? I don't know. Everyone does what he says, though.'

'The Baron,' Bram confirmed. 'Baron Bernarr of Land's End.'

'And...Bram, there are...things here.' Rip looked around at the shadows; he could feel them. 'Wrong things.'

Bram nodded, and his voice went hard and grim. 'So now we know what he's been doing with the silver we sweated to give him all these years, bought with the good bread we didn't eat and the cloth we didn't wear come winter; not paying men-at-arms to keep us safe, or to hold court and give justice, or patch the roads. Yes, I felt it too. Even the cut-throats who brought me here did. There's something bad here, something rotten.'

He looked up, almost bristling, bruised lips curling back from his teeth. A breeze they could all feel cuffed at their heads, stirred the dark air.

'What was that? Who calls?'

Impressions blurred and memories returned.

The children!

They were not where she had seen them last. She didn't understand the cycles she endured, pain, blackness, being in her body, being out. Forces tugged at her and sometimes she ached just to remain in oblivion. There were times she raged in frustration at her inability to interact with those around her, and she often felt confused by the sudden jumps from night to day and back, and the rapidly changing light outside the windows, sometimes the cold and foggy skies of winter common to this coast, other times the brilliant golden sun of summer. It confounded her senses as much as anything else, not knowing how long she had lingered in this state since the baby was born. She floated away from her body, looking for the children.

The girl, the one the others called Neesa, she was almost able to talk to Elaine, and Elaine hungered for some human contact. No matter how long it had been since the birth of her son, it felt as if she had not known the touch of a hand or the sound of a voice in a very long time. She sensed the children had moved to another room, and she hastened there. As she entered, she saw the black cloud, the spirit presence of some unnamed evil that had avoided her for so long. It hovered over the children.

Elaine swept toward the black cloud furiously, s.n.a.t.c.hing at one of its tendrils. It pulled back, retreating slightly, then it fled. Rather than waste her energy chasing it, Elaine hovered protectively over the children, pleased by their presence, delighted with the littlest one, the boy, and feeling a connection with the girl.

Then she realized something had changed. There was a new presence! It was...

Zakry! Elaine called. Elaine called.

They had brought Zakrychained him, beaten him. Her rage swirled about the man she loved, and they retreated before it, afraid, drawing back their looming presence like the fading of the stench of rotten meat.

Her anger was palpable, enough to ruffle their hair and stir the burlap sack on the floor beside him. Beaten! Chained!

Then she heard what the children called him. Bram. She lookedsomehow, like this, she could look deeper into a man than she'd been able to do before, see the links between things.

Not Zakry. Although the image of him; but he was younger, ten years younger, and different. Features softened a little, and hair a deeper yellow, not quite so fair. Eyes a darker blue. Shoulders broader and arms thicker.

My son! The knowledge hit her, impossible to deny. The knowledge hit her, impossible to deny. My baby, Zakry's son! My baby, Zakry's son! Despair threatened to overwhelm her. Despair threatened to overwhelm her. How many years! How long have I lingered in this place between life and death? How many years! How long have I lingered in this place between life and death? Clarity arrived and she understood now; those darknesses, those times when she thought she had slept for minutes, those had been days, weeks even. The changing light had been the pa.s.sing of seasons. She had been trapped in this horrible state of not-living, not-dying, for years. Years when she had thought it but days! Rage rose up. Clarity arrived and she understood now; those darknesses, those times when she thought she had slept for minutes, those had been days, weeks even. The changing light had been the pa.s.sing of seasons. She had been trapped in this horrible state of not-living, not-dying, for years. Years when she had thought it but days! Rage rose up. Who has done this thing to me? Who has done this thing to me? She wailed a soundless cry of pain, and Neesa seemed to sense she was near. She looked right at where Elaine floated, and there was sadness in the girl's eyes. She inclined her head toward Bram, as if saying, See, this is what you came for. Elaine looked again at her son and a soft yearning began to replace the anger. She wanted to hold him in her arms, to comfort him, to tell him of her love. And she wanted to protect him, for now she understood the presence of the black tendrils of evil, the need for a child of hers, and she knew without doubt Bram's life was at risk. Someone must warn him. She wailed a soundless cry of pain, and Neesa seemed to sense she was near. She looked right at where Elaine floated, and there was sadness in the girl's eyes. She inclined her head toward Bram, as if saying, See, this is what you came for. Elaine looked again at her son and a soft yearning began to replace the anger. She wanted to hold him in her arms, to comfort him, to tell him of her love. And she wanted to protect him, for now she understood the presence of the black tendrils of evil, the need for a child of hers, and she knew without doubt Bram's life was at risk. Someone must warn him.

Tell him, boy! Tell him! Elaine shouted. Elaine shouted.

'Tell him, boy,' said Neesa, as if listening to another voice. 'Tell him!' she repeated softly.

'Bram...' Rip said.

'Mmm?' Bram said, his strong white teeth tearing at the bread.

It was stolen from a guard's table while the man went to use the privy, and it was tough and black, made from mixed barley and rye and full of husks. That didn't disturb either Rip or the young man; it was much like what they ate every day.

'Sorry,' Bram said when his mouth was free; he took a long drink of water and a bite of smoked pork. 'Right hungry. Haven't had much to eat today, except hard knocks.'

'Bram, the old manthe Baronsaid something really strange.' Rip frowned, remembering. He couldn't stop remembering. It played over and over again in his head. 'And the oily man. He said you were the Baron's son, and the Baron said not to say that, because you'd killed his lady.'

'Me the Baron's son!' Bram laughed. 'Baron Bram of the Barn! My lord of the Muck-heap!' Then his face changed. 'What did he say about a lady?'

'That you'd killed her, and that was why he wanted the bag over your head.'

Kay cut in. 'It is like the Wicked King and the Good Prince!' he said. 'The evil stepmother wants to kill the Prince, and the King hates him ' cause his mother died having him, so she puts him out in the woods, but the woodcutter finds him and fights the wolves and takes him home to raise him as his own!'

'That's just a story, youngster,' Bram said uneasily. 'Right now, we're in the part before the happy ending.'

Rip looked at him. Bram doesn't think we will have a happy ending, Bram doesn't think we will have a happy ending, he thought. he thought. But we will! Bram's a hero! But we will! Bram's a hero!

'What are they doing?' Flora asked curiously, pointing.

Lorrie goggled at her, and then at the field beside the road. The strong sweet scent of the cut hay drifted over to the two girls in the dog-cart, and the scythes flashed as the mowers moved down the flower-starred field. Birds burst up out of the gra.s.s before them and circled above, diving at the buzzing insects that the blades disturbed. The mowers were singing as they workedthat made it go easier, as she well knew, with memories of days at hatchet and churn and spinning wheel and hoe and rakeuntil one of them called a halt. He unslung a little wooden barrel he wore around his neck on a cloth sling, pulled the bung with his teeth and tilted it back until a stream arched into his upturned mouth; cider, probably.

She could see the worn s.h.i.+rt sticking to his back with sweat; he looked up as he pa.s.sed the little barrel on and waved at her with a grin. He'd be the farmer, the Lord of the Harvest. She knew she was right when he gave the signal to start work again a moment later.

There were six working with scythes, five men and a woman: swinging a scythe took strong arms and back, much more than harvesting grain with a sickle. Women and girls and youths followed them, raking and turning the cut hay and pus.h.i.+ng it into a long roll on the ground, a tad. They'd be back, of course, to keep turning it until it cured, and then to pitch it onto a cart and bring it home to go under cover and feed stock through the next year.

'Why, they're cutting the hay,' Lorrie said, conscious of the long silence of her astonishment. 'First cutting, but a bit late. Haven't you ever seen hay cut before?'

Flora shook her head, and Lorrie almost lost control of the reins as she gaped.

They were going along at a slow trot: Aunt Cleora's carriage-horse was a big glossy gelding, far finer than poor old Horace, but not noticeably faster. Leather slings gave the dog-cart an odd greasy sway too, not like the forthright jouncing and jolting of a farm-cart, but she had to admit it was easy on her leg, which pained her little more than it would have done while she lay on a featherbed in her friend's house.

'Never seen hay cut?' she cried.

'Well, you've never seen the Prince's men parading through the streets of Krondor,' Flora said.

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