The Bone Doll’s Twin. Lynn Flewelling
sometimes, cooking their kills on sticks over a fire when the hunting was good, eating the bread and cheese Cook sent along when it wasn’t. Tobin didn’t care either way, so long as it meant being outdoors. He’d never had so much fun.
Tharin and Koni taught Tobin how to keep his bearings in the trees using the sun’s position over his shoulder. They came across a nest of wood snakes in a rock pile, still sluggish from their winter sleep and Koni explained how to tell if they were vipers or not by the shape of their heads. Tharin showed him the tracks and spoor of the creatures that shared this forest. There were mostly signs of rabbits and fox and stag. As they walked along a game trail one day, however, Tharin suddenly bent down next to patch of soft earth.
‘See that?’ he said, pointing out a print broader than his hand. It looked something like a hound’s, but rounder. ‘That’s a catamount. This is why you play in the courtyard, my lad. A big she cat with cubs to feed would consider you a good day’s catch.’
Seeing Tobin’s look of alarm, he chuckled and ruffled the boy’s hair. ‘You’re not likely to see one in daylight, and as summer comes they’ll move back up into the mountains. But you don’t ever want to be out here alone at night.’
Tobin took in all these lessons eagerly, and made a few observations of his own: the inviting gap beneath a fallen tree, a sheltered circle of rocks, a shadowy hole beneath a boulder – all fine hiding spots, big enough for the troublesome doll. For the first time, he wondered what it would be like to walk here alone and explore these hidden places by himself.
His father hunted with them now and then, but he was too quiet for Tobin to feel comfortable around him. Most days he stayed shut up in his room, just as Tobin’s mother had.
Tobin would steal to his father’s door and press his ear to it, aching for things to be the way they had been. Before.
Nari found him there one afternoon and knelt down, putting her arms around him. ‘Don’t fret,’ she whispered, stroking his cheek. ‘Men do their grieving alone. He’ll soon be right again.’
But as wildflowers burst out to carpet the new grass in the meadow, Rhius remained a shadow in the house.
By the end of Lithion the roads were dry enough to drive the cart to market. On market day, Cook and Nari took Tobin with them into Alestun, thinking it would be treat for him to ride Gosi beside the cart. He shook his head, trying to tell Nari that he didn’t want to go, but she clucked her tongue at him, insisting he’d enjoy the ride.
There were a few new lambs and kids in the meadows around the town, and the fields of young oats and barley looked like soft woollen blankets thrown on the ground. Wild crocus grew thickly at the edges of the road and they stopped to gather handfuls of these for the shrine.
Alestun held no charm for Tobin now. He ignored the other children and never allowed himself to look at any dolls. He added his flowers to the fragrant piles around the pillar of Dalna and waited stoically for the adults to finish their business.
They arrived home that evening to find Rhius and the others in the courtyard, packing their horses to leave. Tobin slid off Gosi’s back and ran to his father.
Rhius. took him by the shoulders. ‘I’m needed at court. I’ll come back as soon as I can.’
‘So will I, little prince,’ Tharin promised, looking sadder than his father did to be leaving.
I need you here! Tobin wanted to cry out. But words still would not come, and he had to turn away so they wouldn’t see his tears. By nightfall they were gone, leaving him lonelier than ever.
Iya and Arkoniel spent the late winter months just outside Ilear, guesting with a wizard named Virishan. This woman had no vision except her own, which drove her to seek out and shelter god-touched children among the poor. She had fifteen young students, many of them already severely crippled or battered by the ignorant folk they’d been born to. Most of them would never amount to much as wizards, but what humble powers they’d retained were cherished and coaxed forth under Virishan’s patient tutelage. Iya and Arkoniel gave what help they could in return for shelter, and Iya left Virishan one of her pebbles when they departed.
When the weather cleared they made their way to Sylara, where Iya had arranged passage south. They reached it just before sundown and encountered an unusual number of people on the road, all streaming into the little port.
‘What’s going on?’ Arkoniel asked a farmer. ‘Is it a fair?’
The man eyed their silver amulets with distrust. ‘No, a bonfire stoked with your kind.’
‘The Harriers are there?’ asked Iya.
The man spat over his shoulder. ‘Yes, Mistress, and they’ve brought a gang of traitors who dared speak against the King’s rule. You’d do best to steer clear of Sylara today.’
Iya reined her horse to the side of the road and Arkoniel followed. ‘Perhaps we should take his advice,’ he muttered, looking nervously around at the crowd. We’re strangers here, with no one to vouch for us.’
He was right, of course, but Iya shook her head. ‘The Lightbearer has put an opportunity in our path. I want to see what they do, while we’re still unknown to them. And that’s something we should make certain of, too. Take off your amulet.’
Leaving the road, she led him to a small oak grove on a nearby hill. Here, protected by a circle of stones and sigils, they left their amulets and every other accoutrement that marked them as wizards except the leather bag.
Trusting that their plain travelling garb would excite no suspicion, they rode on to Sylara.
Even without his amulet, Arkoniel couldn’t help glancing around nervously as they entered the town. Could these Harriers recognize a wizard merely by his powers? Some of the rumours they’d picked up invested the white clad wizards with powers beyond the normal range. If so, they’d chosen an odd place to show them off. Sylara was nothing but a rambling, dirty harbour town.
The waterfront was already crowded with spectators. Arkoniel could hear jeers and catcalls echoing across the water as they made their way down the muddy street to the shore.
The crowd was too thick to get through, so Iya paid a taverner to watch from a squalid little upper room that overlooked the waterfront. A broad platform had been set up here, built between two stone jetties. Soldiers wearing dark grey tabards with the outline of a flying hawk stitched in red across the breast stood two deep on the landward side. Arkoniel counted forty in all.
Behind them stood a long gibbet and a knot of wizards by two large wooden frames. These last looked like upended bedframes, but larger.
‘White robes,’ Iya muttered, looking at the wizards.
‘Niryn’s fashion. He had on a white robe the night Tobin was born.’
Six people already dangled from the horizontal pole of the gibbet. The four men hung limp at the end of their halters; one still wore the robes of a priest of Illior. The remaining two, a woman and a boy, were so small that their weight was not enough to snap their necks. Bound hand and foot, they bucked and twisted wildly.
Fighting for life, or death? Arkoniel wondered, horrified. They reminded him perversely of a butterfly he’d watched emerge from its winter chrysalis – suspended beneath a branch by a bit of silk, it had twitched and jiggled inside the shiny brown casing. These two looked like that, but their struggle would not end in wings and colour.
At last some soldiers grabbed their legs and hauled them down to snap their necks. A few cheers went up among the crowd, but most of the onlookers had fallen silent.
Arkoniel clutched the window frame, already nauseous, but there was worse to follow.
The wizards had remained motionless near the wooden frames