Waterborne Exile (40 page)

Brett’s mouth tightened, but he didn’t argue.

Alwenna stepped outside and hurried down to the valley floor, turning back for an instant. The door was already closed. She rode out of Scarrow’s Deep on the same stolen horse she had arrived on all those months ago. Behind her lay nothing but regret, and ahead of her nothing but danger. And in her saddlebag nestled the blade that had cut her family asunder. A chill wind carried distant voices to her but whether they cried out to her to turn back or to take a different road, she didn’t know, as she refused to listen. She had no choice now, never had except in one thing – in leaving her firstborn with the bitter woman in her cliffside home.

Weaver stumbled through a fogbound landscape. She was always there, just out of sight. He could hear her voice, her laughter, the catch of her breath as he moved deep inside her. But when he reached for her she was not there. Beside him the place where she’d lain on the narrow bed was cold and empty. His head was thumping and he had the leaden feeling of one who’d overslept. He sat up, rubbing his eyes. The ropes supporting the scantily stuffed mattress beneath him dug into his buttocks. He swung his feet off the bed, setting them on the stone floor. His clothes lay there where they’d been abandoned the night before. Of Alwenna, there was no sign.

He didn’t need to cross the room to the cradle to know it was empty. He was alone in there now. He picked up his travel-stained garments, shaking sand out of the leggings before he pulled them on and tied the drawstring waist. He pulled his shirt over his head, grimacing at the unwashed state of it. The floor of the cave was gritty beneath his feet as he picked up his boots and crossed over to the doorway.

Weaver pushed the curtain aside. The sun was still low in the sky but it must have been clear of the horizon a good hour or more already. The cool of the night was dissipating fast and already the air was warm against his face. Further down the slope children played, voices bright and sharp as they disputed the rules of their game. He envied their absorption. Thoughts and memories crowded in on him – things he’d believed lost beyond recall. Every moment of his life had been restored to him, as sharp and clear as the wine glasses Vasic used at Highkell. Had Alwenna done that? If so, it was a bittersweet parting gift.

He sat down on a boulder to work his feet into his boots. She’d gone; he knew it. He should have guessed it last night. That hadn’t been an eager reunion, but a desperate leave-taking. He laced his boots with deliberation, before picking his way down the hill to the place Marten’s wife had emerged from the day before. As he approached the doorway he heard the thin wail of a hungry baby but, again, he knew: Alwenna would not be there.

In a perfect world there would be grateful thanks here to my beta readers who were standing by ready to road test this manuscript. As it is, at a time where it seemed as if almost everything that could go wrong did go wrong, my thanks go to Phil Jourdan and Marc Gascoigne at Angry Robot Books, for their infinite patience.