Waer Read online

‘Her head wound looks serious. There is a lot of blood. She is half-drowned. She roused herself and spoke to me, but I…’ I shook my head, uneasy. ‘I could not understand what she said. Kee vah.’

  ‘Perhaps she does not speak the Trading Tongue.’ Gwen, help me. The last remark was a soul-whisper to my mother, still out of earshot as she slid along the bank to join us. I could barely hear it.

  Mother must have been on her way home from the worship-house, to get here so swiftly. She arrived out of breath and paused for a moment to collect herself. Then she too knelt, ran a hand gently along the stranger’s back, checking for damage. Once she was assured there were no breaks there she nodded at my father and together they lifted the stranger.

  I heard a sniff and looked over at Kemp. He was holding tears back valiantly, but they stood in his eyes. His nose was swelling and his chin wrinkled. Our father shot him a disapproving glance. Ioan Sencha had no time for tears.

  I went to Kemp and wrapped my arms about him.

  ‘Well done,’ I said. ‘You were brave. You did exactly as I asked you to.’

  He was aware of Father’s gaze. He squared his shoulders, tried to fit an adult’s stance into a child’s body. ‘Who is she, Lowell?’ he asked. ‘How did she get here?’

  I had no answers for him.

  Lowell

  I sat with the stranger. By all rights she should have been dead; I could not fathom how she had not drowned in the river, with such a severe head-wound. I thanked Freybug for delivering her safe to us. I thanked our capricious lady of luck, Felen, for washing her onto the bank. I thanked the fearsome Hollow for turning a blind eye and sparing her from the grey earth.

  I prayed, most of all, she would wake and recover. We were responsible for her now. Her life had been put into our hands. It was our duty to ensure we treated it like the treasure it was.

  Mother checked the stranger for injuries. She was reluctant to disclose the information to me, but I pressed her until she did and regretted it almost instantly. Burns, long scars, brand marks. A sprained ankle. Places where the bones had broken and never fully reset. Some missing teeth. The fresh wound on her head, and older scars parting her hair. A dislocated shoulder.

  The day after we found her, she stirred again. Her eyes opened. Glazed, green, unseeing. I tried to speak to her. Faltered when it became clear she did not hear me. She convulsed, thrashed, called out without words, and I backed to the door. I had no knowledge of healing. I shouted for my mother, but by the time she arrived the stranger had slipped back into a deep sleep.

  For the next week, the stranger woke often. She lay like the dead, or shook like a ripple on water. Eating was an effort. Often, she vomited. My mother bound her head and tended to her other wounds, but there was no swift recovery, and it seemed the injuries were beyond our capabilities. In those days, I missed almost every Dawn Worship. Mother was troubled, of course, to have me miss the services, but I was secretly relieved. It always troubled me that in that place of reflection and healing I felt hemmed in, short of breath. Unsettled by the good folk.

  Each morning, I performed a humble imitation of the Dawn Worship rituals at home with the stranger – quietly, for fear my father would think it disrespectful. I lit a candle and set it upright in the water-bowl, the flame a bare inch from the shimmering surface. I burned a sprig of rosemary in the candle, and let the ashes fall into the water in homage to Freybug, born from a rosemary bush. Finally, I blew out the candle, sipped from the bowl and trickled some of the water over the stranger’s brow. It was a bitter brew, but all elements of life joined in the water. Drinking it was a giving of thanks. I did not force the stranger to drink; I did not know what faith she kept or whether, as I had heard was the case with people from Luthan, she had no faith at all. Nevertheless, she needed all the protection she could get.

  I saw something more than the ordeal of the river in the stranger’s eyes, but I could not explain that to my parents. With no cooperation from the woman, not even her name, it was impossible to tell what traumas she had suffered. My father dismissed her as simple. My mother was tempted to do the same, but I convinced her to consult the village healer. The healer said the head wound had addled the stranger’s brain, and believed we should petition the landlord to transport her from the Valley to an asylum of sorts.

  The thought horrified me. No madhouse could be more healing than our green Valley.

  ‘Moth Derry,’ I finally suggested. Mother looked over her shoulder at me, calm brown eyes thoughtful in her long, weathered face.

  My father, shining his shoes at the table, snorted.

  ‘What about her?’ Mother asked.

  ‘Moth and Dodge are usually in Herithes at this time of year. It is not so far from here, and the mountain trails from the south are still passable.’

  Mother went back to washing the dishes, but I could see she was thinking it over. I glanced at Father. He thought Moth Derry’s husband was a frivolous vagrant and that Moth was a fool for marrying him. But he was busy rubbing at a spot the polish had left on the table, probably hoping Mother did not see.

  ‘It will take days for a bird to reach them,’ Mother said. ‘Longer still for them to get here. I do not know if we can care for this young woman until then, Lowell.’

  ‘Let me care for her.’

  She lifted an eyebrow. ‘Do you think it appropriate?’ she asked, in a tone strongly suggesting it was not.

  My father’s expression suggested it even more strongly.

  I spoke before he could, struggling to keep my voice level. ‘She is injured and she needs help. Sending her out of the Valley, too weak for the journey, that would be inappropriate. She is not a lunatic, Mother. She is just hurt, and frightened.’ Mother folded her arms. Almost as tall as me. I had been blessed with her height, but not with her grace. Mother was all angles and worn hands, but her eyes were gentle.

  ‘And if Madam Derry recommends she be taken away?’ Father demanded, breaking the silence.

  ‘She is a healer of renown. I would defer to her expertise.’ ‘Hm.’ Mother leaned against the kitchen table. ‘Go outside and wash the bandages in the basket, then,’ she sighed. ‘The wound is healing, in an ugly sort of way. We need to keep it clean.’

  I called Kemp along with me, and we went outside to do as Mother asked. When I closed the door, I could hear Mother and Father beginning to argue on the other side.

  It was a sunny day; I thought it might be the last bright day of the season. I did not make Kemp handle the bandages, but it was good for him to be playing in the sunlight before the weather turned dark and bleak. The last week and a half had been tense and busy, and he had been craving company.

  ‘Lowell?’ he said as I soaked the cloths. ‘Is she from the Valley?’ There was no need to ask who he was talking about.

  ‘No, I think not.’

  ‘Then why is she a waer?’

  ‘Not all waer come from the Valley, Kemp.’

  He had a carved set of soldiers whittled by our father, but they stood unattended on the grass. His brown eyes were fixed on me. ‘I thought we were the only ones.’

  ‘No. There are waer in the southern desert, near where Dodge Derry comes from. But they are…different from us.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Much bigger, and more savage. They do not cook their kills, they take meat raw. And some others are not…born waer.’

  ‘How?’

  It was difficult to explain to him. I had only a basic grasp of the idea myself. ‘Waer blood is stronger than human blood. If the two are mixed, waer blood takes over, and so the human becomes waer.’ It had caused rumour and superstition outside the Valley, my mother had told me. Stories of maddened waer with rotting teeth biting humans. Turning them. Many from towns such as Herithes, to our south-west, believed just a single bite from a waer could do it. We avoided such places, but Mother had once told a story of newly turned waer coming to the Valley for help with Shifting. There had been none in my lifetime. Now I wondered briefl
y whether this was the stranger’s story. Had she intended to seek our aid in the Valley, and simply fallen into the river? Or had she been carried there by chance?

  ‘If Madam Derry comes,’ Kemp’s mind had skittered ahead, ‘will Mister Derry come too?’

  ‘I imagine so. I have never seen one without the other.’

  Kemp whooped and ran off; Dodge Derry was coming, and that meant stories. I finished washing the cloths and pegged them out to dry. Dodge would entrance Kemp with tales of the golden Kudhienn, who had once enslaved all of Oster. If we were lucky, he might even slip in the Watchers when our father was not listening. Father thought the Watcher stories inappropriate for children, but in my mind the gods were gods and the Watcher fables were mere stories, told to entertain. And instruct – they were about duty, and cooperation, and defending the innocent. About balance, which was so important to us. Of course when Dodge launched into the deeds of the Assassin, the Healer and the Dealer, the instruction tended to take second place to the entertainment, but I couldn’t see the harm in it.

  The washing completed, I went to our vegetable garden to gather food for lunch. Father had taken Kemp fishing early that morning and brought in several fat trout that I hoped we could coax the stranger into eating. She could sit and hold cutlery, but her hands shook too much to guide the implements, and sometimes the food would not reach her mouth at all. I stooped to pull some carrots and leeks, and as I straightened, I caught the smell of horse.

  I peered down the hill, hastily wiping my hands on my tunic. Horses meant wealth or worldliness in the Valley. The waer scent made most horses nervous; to find a young one with a gentle breeding line and train it was expensive. As this one, a fine-boned grey, stepped up the hill, I recognised the straight back and simple black cloak of Lord Alwyn. Our liege, technically a nobleman of Herithes, did not affect the extravagant clothes of his peers. Nor did he look at us, as they did on their infrequent journeys through the Valley, as if we were sheep-ticks. Alwyn treated us with courtesy and respect. More importantly, as Father always said, he taxed us fairly, and was there with his coat off and his sleeves rolled up if there was a storm or a landslip.

  I set the vegetables down and went to the fence to meet him.

  ‘My lord.’

  ‘Young Master Sencha.’ I doubted he remembered my first name, but he knew my family. ‘We are having fine weather today.’

  ‘Yes, my lord. Are you having a pleasant ride?’

  ‘Indeed. Thank you.’ He seemed less direct than usual, his eyes roaming the garden.

  ‘Can I offer you some vegetables, my lord? Our garden is doing well this year.’ He had no need of vegetables from us, of course, but it was a mark of respect.

  ‘Thank you, no.’ And it was a equally polite of him to refuse. We were not starving, but we had more need of the food than he did. Alwyn hesitated, then swung himself off his horse. Holding the reins in a slender hand, he approached me. ‘I hear you had something of an adventure down by the river, Master Sencha. Your father reported it to my steward four days ago, as was proper.’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  ‘And you now have a…visitor staying with you.’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’ I frowned. I had never seen him so anxious before. Lord Alwyn exuded calm most days, even when we battled the elements or stood in the face of a crop failure; even when he was furious, like the day the old blacksmith went on trial for beating his wife and children. I had watched Alwyn’s pleasant face closely that day, as the blacksmith’s wife described how she had been abused. His expression did not change, but his eyes were black with rage.

  ‘I have received a concerning missive, Master Sencha. From a keep in the mountains. You know of Caerwyn.’

  The military stronghold to the north-west of the Valley. A few years ago there had been some issues between the soldiers and the traders trying to use the mountain-pass. For a while, there had been talk of Caerwyn using the Valley as a training-ground for the new recruits. Alwyn had petitioned Herithes, and after some months our worries had been assuaged. We had heard little from Caerwyn since. Until now.

  ‘I do, my lord, but not intimately.’

  ‘I received the message from that location this morning.’ He pulled a letter from his coat, but did not unfold it. He paused, uncertain, weighing his words. ‘It is the first contact I have had from Caerwyn. The tone, Master Sencha, was discourteous.’

  Threatening. I did not know why the word sprang to my mind, but once it was there, I could not dismiss it.

  ‘The lord of Caerwyn is a man named Leldh,’ Alwyn said. ‘He is searching for a young woman, a criminal it seems, who evaded his forces a week and a half since. She was last seen jumping into the river.’

  My lungs contracted and turned to lead. Alwyn studied my features. The letter wavered in his hand for a moment, and then he pressed it into my grasp.

  ‘I would not send a flea-bearing rat to the hands of a man who writes such a letter as this, much less an injured young woman. I suggest some accident befalls this letter. A fire. A good soaking in a bucket of water.’ He cleared his throat. ‘And perhaps you should keep any news about your visitor discreet.’

  I took the letter and stepped back.

  ‘Yes, my lord. I understand.’ My voice sounded oddly flat, even to myself. ‘Was…did they name her? Understand, we do not even know our visitor’s name.’

  ‘No name was given. Perhaps it is a good thing. The less you know, Master Sencha, the less you can tell.’ He stood motionless, as if trying to decide whether he had done the right thing. Then he gave me an uncomfortable nod and returned to his horse. I grasped the letter tight enough to crumple it.

  ‘Freybug bless you, Master Sencha. And may Hollow stay far from your door.’ Alwyn pulled himself into the saddle and clicked his tongue, steering the horse away and riding him hard down the hill.

  My lungs slowly regained their function. I unfolded the letter to read the contents.

  The words sickened me.

  I went to the stranger’s room and knocked. It was a futile thing to do; she did not respond. I pushed the door open slowly, giving her time to cast me out if she wanted, and stepped into the room when I heard no protest.

  She was asleep. I did not know whether to be relieved or disappointed. I desperately wanted to confront her with the contents of the letter, but I questioned my right to do so. If she was the escaped prisoner – and there was no reasonable doubt in my mind as to that – I was still unconvinced that she was a criminal. The vitriolic letter made it clear this man Leldh had no love for waer. It was possible she had been wrongly accused of some crime, or sentenced harshly for a misdemeanour. Regardless, we could hold her accountable for nothing until she could speak for herself. Even then, if she was truly a criminal, it would be better to send her south to Herithes than north to Caerwyn. The Valley was not owned by any one of the cities to the north or the south of the mountains, but for serious matters we deferred to Herithes. They, also, had little love for the waer people, but no conflict arose so long as we kept ourselves to ourselves.

  The words of the letter jumbled and turned in my head. Half-breed dog. I had never heard such a phrase. Vile criminal. Not to be given sanctuary or sanction. Swift and just retribution. My stomach turned. The man had no jurisdiction over our Valley, but his words filled me with dread. We were a peaceful settlement. For generations, my family had worked the land of the same hill, and we had never seen a war.

  I kept a respectful distance from the sleeping woman, but my eyes drew back to her. Her face was narrow and pinched, her pallor shocking. It made her look small beneath the swathes of bandages and poultices. Her fair hair, what I could see of it, was cropped short. It was uneven, growing in ragged patches, and standing on her head like tufts of dry grass. She smelled of sweat, salt, blood, and the thick poultices Mother had applied to her head.

  If she was a…my eyes strayed back to the words of the letter. Vile criminal. If that was the case, she would be able to do no d
amage in such a state. She was no threat to us. So long as we kept her presence quiet, we could wait until Moth and Dodge Derry arrived.

  ‘Kee vah.’

  I startled. She stared, unseeing, at the ceiling. Kee vah. Kee vah. Was it a name? A place? Some phrase in a foreign language? I shivered. It was something important, to weigh on her mind so.

  Vile criminal.

  I left the room and took the letter to my mother.

  The smell of flour, salt and woundwort washed over me as my mother and I greeted Moth Derry at the door. She smelled as she had smelled for as long as I could remember, of baking, herbs and strong, sweet tea. Of comfort and security. Moth Derry was one of life’s constants. She had been there to deliver Kemp when he was born. She had cared for me during my first difficult months of Shifting.

  As usual, I could not prevent myself from staring at her. Her fairness was such a strong contrast to the dark hair and eyes of a Valley inhabitant that it always turned me about. She was a neat woman, bright spectacles perched on a sweet face. She wore colourful dresses and spoke with the gentlest voice I had ever heard. Beneath her mildness, though, was steel. Her grey eyes were sharp, and she could command a room with a few clipped words. As a child, I had been fascinated by her; I had followed her into the forest to gather herbs, and sat in the kitchen for hours while she cooked and talked with my mother. The last time she had stayed in our house, she and I were the same height. Now I stooped to greet her.

  ‘Madam Derry,’ Mother greeted. ‘Freybug bless you. Did you travel well?’

  ‘Our journey was well enough. We were fortunate to miss the worst of the weather, though the pass was difficult. We just managed to get through, and we had to leave the horses behind.’

  ‘Aye. It was close. Luckily, we took up with the chiprepeople on the trail, and they took in our horses. It’s thanks to them we got here so fast.’ Dodge Derry stepped into view, smiling and filling the air with the reminder of desert sand and ale-soaked taverns. He was lanky and dark, with bright black eyes and a smile that split his beard. Dodge came from the bardic city of Tadhg in Oster’s far south. Further south even than Luthan, which was as far as any Valley waer had ever travelled, so far as we knew. Moth and Dodge Derry were constant sources of fascination to me. They were not waer and could not have a soul-bond; were not able to whisper soul to soul as waer couples did. But they were as close and loving as any waer couple I had seen. I wondered how that worked, when they were unable to know one another’s thoughts.