Scrivener’s Tale. Fiona McIntosh
is there. What’s more, I have no desire to give Cyricus warning that we know of his presence. Right now he believes himself unknown — and to most he is. But I know him. I feel him. I smell him. I taste him and his hungry interest on a bitter wind. One day I may hear his cries for mercy or touch the dead body he chooses to inhabit, but right now surprise is my only defence … and you and I the only people who stand in his way.’
‘Has our world faced a demon before?’
‘Not to my knowledge, although Myrren’s curse on Wyl Thirsk could be viewed that way. But, while I might be old, this demon is as ancient as the Razors, maybe older. He comes from the east, I believe.’
Cassien pulled on the ill-fitting pants and shirt, posing for Fynch, who made a face of amused resignation. ‘That will have to do for the moment.’ As Cassien continued dressing and tidied his hair, Fynch finished what he could of the story.
‘Cyricus was astonished, excited by the power of the Wild when he discovered it, and sought to use it. The magic within the Wild repelled him, bouncing his acolyte, the sycophantic Aphra, out of our plane to another, trapping her and weakening Cyricus. This is very ancient history, mind you,’ Fynch warned, ‘long before my time. Cyricus did nothing until the scent of the magic of Myrren reached him centuries later, stirring him from whichever depths of thought he lived in.’
‘And being cautious now he simply watched?’
‘Exactly,’ Fynch said. ‘Ready?’ Cassien nodded. ‘Then it’s time to call on the tailor,’ Fynch said, looking up as they departed Wife Wiggins’s barn.
‘How do you know all of this information about Cyricus?’
‘I told you I’m old. I’ve mentioned I’ve travelled — and not just in this plane. On this you must trust me. I’ve had a talent since childhood for gathering, memorising and being able to collate vast amounts of what might appear to be unrelated pieces of information. And the beasts of the world are far more attuned to the natural order of things, especially if they are disrupted in any way. They know he is coming.’
Fynch guided Cassien to a small lane that dipped down and led to the centre of the town. ‘We don’t have to go all the way in. Just a few doors down is Master Zeek.’
‘You said he needs a host,’ Cassien wondered aloud.
‘He will inhabit a mortal to gain power before he begins to lay waste to the forests and the Wild as well as its creatures.’
Fynch had his hand on the door-knob of a shop doorway.
‘This is the tailor. We must stop our discussion now. I know you have more questions but there are only two points that matter in all that I’ve said.’ He raised a finger. ‘Your role to protect the new queen with your life.’ He raised a second finger. ‘And to find a way to slay Cyricus when he presents himself … and he will.’
The door was opened and Cassien had to bite back the flood of new thoughts because a smiling, rotund man emerged from behind a small curtain.
‘Master Fynch, welcome back. And this must be your nephew.’
The small shop smelled of endless rows of fabric, slightly oily and earthy and pleasing to Cassien. It was quiet too, which he appreciated after the bustle of the small lanes they’d walked to get here. Bolts of linens were piled high behind the smiling tailor in towers of colours of all hue; others lay on the ground in smaller heaps and others still, the finest cloths, were in glass cabinets.
Cassien watched Fynch smile warmly at the man. ‘Tailor Zeek, this is him, yes. Do you think we made a good fit between us?’
Zeek’s waxed moustache twitched as he appraised Cassien with a knowledgeable look, his head cocked to one side. ‘Indeed, Master Fynch. I doubt few, if any, adjustments may be required to what I made up on your instructions. Shall we try?’
Fynch turned to Cassien. ‘Would you care to try on some new clothes?’
‘They’ll scratch at first,’ Zeek warned, ‘but this particular yarn from the senleng plant softens like no other. You’ll barely know you’re wearing the garments in a moon or two.’
Cassien looked between the pair of them, realising that Fynch had had these clothes made for this moment, had obviously decided some time ago to steal Cassien away from beneath Loup’s nose and Josse’s rules and the Brotherhood’s care, and had planned their escape. ‘I’ll be glad to try them on,’ he replied, and stepped into the back of the shop.
‘I shall hang them here,’ Zeek said, placing a shirt, vest, trews and cloak on a hook nearby. ‘Take your time, young man.’ He disappeared to the front of the shop and Cassien could hear the men talking in low voices.
He regarded the clothes. The trousers were dark … the colour of scorched wood. The shirt was a lighter hue, but not by much, while the cloak was soft wool, black as the forest night and whisper-light. Each item was cut and sewn together beautifully. He’d never handled such fine garments before and could barely believe they were for him. Guiltily he climbed into them, amazed by their nearly perfect fit.
He came out from the back area and Zeek cast an appraising eye up and down, getting Cassien to turn this way and that.
‘Those trousers are not snug enough around the waist.’
‘Yes, I think you might have worked a little harder in the last few moons, Cassien, than I calculated,’ Fynch admitted, regarding him.
‘They fit like a dream,’ Cassien replied, unsure of what they were both unhappy with. He turned to stare at himself in the tall mirror on one side of the shop and blinked. He’d not seen himself from the chin down in a long time.
Fynch sidled up. ‘Recognise yourself?’
Cassien looked with surprise at the man staring back at him from the mirror. He was familiar with the face but the frame that these new dark clothes hung from was surely too tall, too hardened beneath the linens. He could see muscles outlined on a chest he’d never realised was that broad. He’d arrived in the forest as a youngster and he’d left it as a man. His hair was darker than he ever remembered it, even despite its dampness.
‘Now,’ Zeek continued, ‘as per your instructions, Master Fynch, I had these made in a town in the far north. Only recently delivered — I was worried, I’ll admit,’ he said, reaching behind his counter and straightening, holding an odd contraption of leather straps.
‘This is for you, Cassien,’ Fynch said. ‘I’m sure you’ll work out its use.’
Cassien studied what now lay in his hands, knowing instantly what it was. Fynch had obviously commissioned a special holster, not just a belt for a sword, but with straps that wrapped diagonally across his body and over his back so that he could also carry two concealed daggers on his back. Except he’d not brought any weapons. Loup had taken them.
Even so, he was thrilled to tie on the holster and marvelled at how its colour matched the shirt so as to blend in and almost disappear.
Zeek came up behind him and placed the hooded cloak around his shoulders, tying it at his throat. ‘This covers everything, but you should find it light enough that if you need to draw your weapons it can be flicked aside.’
‘I can see you are happy,’ Fynch said to him.
‘I am privileged,’ he remarked, unsure of what to say. ‘Thanks to you both.’
‘Well, there’s more, Cassien,’ Fynch continued. ‘All of that leatherwork is useless without its weapons. I presume you have my parcel, Master Zeek?’
‘Oh yes, indeed. I have kept these hidden and am very glad to finally pass them to their owner. They are fearsome. I hope you never have to use them, sir,’ he said to Cassien. He disappeared once again behind the shop.
Zeek returned, this time carrying a box. ‘Impossibly beautiful craftsmanship, Master Fynch, as only Orkyld knows.’
Fynch