Darkburn Book 4: The Haunt of Ternss by Tayin Machrie - HTML preview

Chapter 22

 

 

Meya sat very upright at the front of her carriage, watching the vast stone structures creeping closer. She felt as if she travelled on the back of some enormous eagle; for as they rode, the Riders had assumed a defensive formation, spreading their ranks apart with impressive smoothness into two wide wings, one on either side of her.

To her left, she could see Yaret and Maeneb at the end of a curved line of archers, riding with bows in their hands. Another line of archers swept round to her right, like neat feather after feather set along the wing. Between them, Huldarion and his retinue formed the eagle’s head.

This symmetry, both beautiful and fearsome, had almost a ceremonial aspect. Yet the precaution seemed to be unnecessary. Not only was no enemy apparent, no sign of human life was visible at all.

“Ah, there’s smoke,” Janeya murmured softly, just behind her shoulder.

Meya reproved herself twice over: firstly, for not noticing the smoke, thin as it was; and secondly, for labelling the girl Janeya. She must learn to think of her as Jebil, a humble maid-servant, and currently a reclusive one, supposedly unwell.

In fact she seemed to be emerging from her grief-stricken torpor. And she was right about the smoke: for Meya saw a thin blue pall above the gathered stones. Elsewhere, two or three weak trails rose wispily from deep within those huge half-fallen monuments.

Although the stones still seemed to glow with fire, that blaze was waning slowly with the lifting of the sun. The surrounding landscape grew more ordinary, yet the structure became more extraordinary to Meya’s mind as she approached. Incredible; the vast gathering of stones looked as big as the main body of Kelvha Castle. Not so well made, naturally. Completely primitive. But she felt an indignant tremor on the castle’s behalf.

On they rode and still saw nobody. Two hundred yards short of the stones, Huldarion called a halt. Meya admired the way it took only a single motion of his hand raised in the air for the whole army to instantly respond. She hoped the Kelvhans riding behind her took due note of the Vonn’s impressive discipline.

He is a man well worth marrying, thought Meya, before she pondered the tenor of her own thoughts. Was that how she measured a man’s worth? Even Nerogun could do the same thing with a lifted hand, and she despised Nerogun and feared him.

But none of these Riders despised or feared Huldarion. That was the difference. The Vonn feared only to displease their chief, because of their respect for him. Now that she was away from the formalities imposed within the castle, such innate respect seemed all the more praiseworthy.

I am not sorry to be free of those constrictions, she realised, with a certain sense of guilt. But I do this for Kelvha as well as for myself. For the glory of the Kelvhan kingdom.

Yet what do I do, exactly? Apart from sit in my cushioned carriage with my bogus chamber-maid; and provide some nightly comfort to Huldarion, and no doubt cause for gossip and possibly resentment to the rest? Am I anything more than an encumbrance?

For a few seconds she contemplated leaving her carriage and riding on horseback with the others, to show that she could mingle with them on more equal terms. A few seconds’ contemplation of it was enough. She did not sit easily on unfamiliar steeds, and in any case did not enjoy long spells of riding, especially in skirts; and she would not resort to breeches. No, better to stay aloof.

All the same she wished that she could be of use. She watched while Huldarion selected a handful of senior men to accompany him – Uld, Solon, and Crade in preference to Thoronal, which was interesting – and then swiftly commanded a small troop of Riders under Parthenal to escort them right up to the tallest building. If it could be called a building, and not just an accident of ancient leaning stones.

Despite the smoke she could not envisage permanent inhabitants here. Vagrants, more probably; goatherds and the like. So she thought it superfluous for Huldarion to call out so formally to any listeners within the broken slab-like walls, requesting them to reveal themselves – which he did first in Standard, then in Kelvhan, and finally in that rather lovely melodic tongue which she now knew was Vonnish. She was shocked when in response a small group of people emerged from a gap between the stones.

They appeared to be unarmed. And they appeared to all be women. Huldarion gave a signal at which the lines of archers immediately lowered their drawn bows. Meya had not even realised that the bows were drawn.

I need to pay closer attention, she thought, I need to learn to look; and she frowned as she studied the female delegation.

No, delegation was too grand a word. This was just a bunch of half a dozen women, gesticulating, their speech inaudible to her. Their clothes from this distance looked drab and their hair roughly dressed. And they were displeased; for they were evidently vehement, and their gestures were not friendly.

She saw Huldarion consult his counsellors. Then, turning to the women, he bowed, and retreated with his men back to the main army.

He rode straight up to her carriage, his face thoughtful.

“Are we moving on?” she asked. “Are they vagrants who have occupied the place?”

“I believe not,” said Huldarion. “But they refuse to talk to us, because we are men.”

“I don’t understand.”

“They’ll only talk to other women.”

“Why?”

Huldarion shook his head. “That I don’t know. But I’ve told them I will send a group of women out to speak with them, headed by my queen – that’s you, my dear.”

“Me? But what am I to say to them?” asked Meya, a little dismayed at the prospect of confronting those unkempt and argumentative women.

“To start with, I want to find out who they are, and who their leader is. They won’t answer any of my questions, but they might answer yours. They speak Standard, so that’s something.”

“Well!” This was her chance to be of use, Meya felt at once. She must not show hesitancy. But she was apprehensive. “Who will you send with me?”

“Tiburé, Delgeb and Hilbré: three of my most senior Riders. And also Yaret, the northern archer, because she is not of the Vonn. She may see something we cannot.”

Meya did not understand this, but did not dispute it. As she climbed down from the carriage Huldarion added, unexpectedly, “And perhaps also your maid behind you there; Jebil, is it not? Because to see another person who is clad neither as a soldier nor as a royal lady might be reassuring to them.”

“No, not Jebil,” she said instinctively.

“Why not?” he asked, with a slight frown which made her realise that he must put her unwillingness down to snobbery. He presumed that Meya did not think a servant worthy of the task.

“She is shy,” said Meya, and was put out to hear the girl correct her.

“Not really. I don’t mind,” said Jebil-Janeya from the shadows of the cart.

“Oh, very well, then.” Meya immediately heard the pettishness in her own tone. “Come with me, my girl,” she added graciously. Was that too patronising now?

But it was good that the girl was showing an interest in something beyond her overwhelming grief. Meya felt that grief had been overdone. After all, Janeya had scarcely known the man, who was only a low-born southerner at that.

And so, some minutes later, Meya found herself walking majestically over to the stone structure with Janeya-Jebil and the rest of her female retinue, while a dozen female archers led by Maeneb followed a little way behind. Meya felt very aware of all the eyes on her. Although she had never suffered from self-consciousness, or a lack of confidence, she wondered now if she could truly do what Huldarion required. Even though all he asked was that she talk to these women. Find out who there were. That should be easy enough, surely. And she was used to dealing with the servant class.

But these were not deferential castle servants who were waiting underneath the massive stones to meet her. More likely wanderers, as she had at first assumed.

There were six of them, to match her group of six. Meya noted that their clothes were coarse and grubby if not actually ragged; their surly faces were suspicious; and as she marched closer she became aware that they smelt. Chiefly of smoke, but still. With all this water around, surely they could wash themselves and their clothes more often?

Assuming all her accustomed hauteur, she announced, “I am the Lady Meya of Kelvha Castle, affianced to the King Huldarion with whom you have just spoken. I greet you in the name of the great kingdom of Kelvha and on behalf of the Riders of the Vonn.”

They did not look impressed. No bow, no smile, no outstretched hands. Meya did not feel inclined to stretch out hers. She drew herself up with dignity. “And you?” she said.

“Hmph,” said the foremost of them. “You are all women?” She walked up close to Meya’s group, and looked each of them carefully in the face. Her own face was deeply lined, yet by her upright stance she did not seem to be too old. The smell of smoke grew strong; it was as if these women had been rolling in burnt leaves. “You four dress like men,” she said with scorn.

“We are soldiers,” answered Delgeb. “As well as women.”

“Hmph. And are you mothers?”

“I am,” said Meya, surprised by the question.

“I too,” said Tiburé.

“And I,” said Delgeb.

“I am not,” said Yaret.

“Nor I,” said Janeya. Jebil.

“I was once,” said Hilbré, “but she died.” At the sound of those words spoken in the Rider’s low, calm voice, a new world opened up for Meya: a new conception of the quiet Hilbré – to whom she had previously spoken all of three polite sentences – and a sharp new vision of the terror of living with a daughter’s death. Horrific. Unimaginable. It made her unable to think properly for a moment.

“You had a girl?” the smoky woman said. “And you mothers, are your children girls also, or boys?”

“I have two daughters, and no son,” said Tiburé.

“I have one child, a most beloved daughter,” Meya added. The words felt thick in her throat. How was Aliya now? Was she still safe? Was she happy?

Meanwhile Delgeb said, “I also have one child, a son.” This too was news to Meya. It appeared that it was bad news to the woman, who frowned with disapproval.

“A boy? How old?”

“He is thirteen,” said Delgeb.

“You may not enter. Go back to your people.” The woman was addressing only Delgeb, who bowed and with a glance at Meya turned and walked away. “The rest of you can come with me.”

“May we know your name?” asked Tiburé. Meya was annoyed: she should have been the one to ask that.

“I am Ombue. Come.” She turned, and with the other brown-clad, smoky-smelling women, led them through the gap between the towering stones.

The entrance was long, effectively a tunnel gripped by walls of rock; longer and taller than the entrance through the walls of Kelvha castle. Splinters of sky were visible high overhead, and Meya was conscious of the massive weight of granite that surrounded her. For some reason it again made her think of Aliya, so that the image of her daughter pulled at her heart.

But she must pay attention. So she concentrated on the scene that was revealed as they emerged from between the stones; stones, which, it now became clear, might once have been some kind of vast monument but now acted chiefly as a protective wall for the village held within. For beyond the massive entrance-stones was no well-built city, but rather a collection of small, crude, round structures – low, and with tiny windows – the likes of which she had not seen before. She imagined that the ruined roundhouses they had passed might once have had a similar shape; but these rough houses were not built of stone.

“Turf-houses,” murmured Yaret. “How interesting. I see they use long reeds for reinforcement. Well, I suppose there is no wood round here for them to build with.”

“They appear to have wood enough to burn,” said Meya, somewhat grumpily, for the smoke was sticking in her throat. Dark plumes of it wafted from the centre of most of the circular, gently sloping roofs. They too appeared to be made of slabs of turf.

“That’s peat smoke,” said Yaret.

Meya did not answer; for a surprising number of women were emerging from the primitive turf houses to stare. None were armed, unless a bucket counted as a weapon; most held babies. Many children too ran out, to hide behind their mothers, or gaze boldly at the newcomers with grey-smeared, frowning faces.

“Young boys and girls, and women of all ages,” commented Tiburé. “But no men.”

“So it would appear,” said Meya stiffly. She hoped that Tiburé was not going to try and take over the role of negotiator. But Tiburé stood aside for her as Ombue led them to an open space between the houses. Here was set a single line of long stone benches, enough to seat forty or fifty people, and curved so as to form almost a full circle.

“Ah,” said Yaret, in a tone of recognition.

“What?” said Meya. But Yaret merely shook her head.

“Sit,” said Ombue. They sat in a curving line on one of the benches. The smoky women sat down opposite. Hard, deep-etched faces stared at them. Ombue remained standing in the centre of the circle, and Meya wished that she had remained standing too. She felt at a disadvantage. But she could not stand up now.

“Be assured that we mean you no harm,” she said with all the authority she could muster whilst seated on the uncomfortable stone bench. “All we ask of you is information. If you can give us that, we will leave you and move on. Who are you, and who is your leader?”

“We know who you are,” said Ombue darkly, “you Kelvhan despots and enslavers of the northern lands. We know you and we do not want you here. We may answer your questions if we choose and only if we choose. Then you must go.”

“We are neither despots nor enslavers,” answered Meya, ready to launch into a defence of Kelvha and even a eulogy of its long and civilised existence: but Ombue, dismissing her reply with a wave of her hand, was already continuing in a voice made harsh, not just, it seemed, by smoke, but also by resentment.

“Maybe you women are not despots, but undoubtedly your men are. All those soldiers. And three of you dress as your menfolk do – so do you regard yourselves as men?” Ombue sounded hostile.

“We do not,” said Tiburé, “but sometimes we ride and fight as men do.”

“Hmph. Our men ride and fight as well, against your men. Or should I call them men, for are they not children? On both sides. They are all children together, unruly, wilful, hateful, cruel.”

“Who are your men?” asked Meya, “and where are they? I do not see them here.”

“Of course not. We do not allow them here. If there were no men in the world at all it would be a better place. The men are far away across the plains and in the woods and by the sea, doing the only thing they care about: which is fighting. Their armies march across the lands like ants, overrunning and destroying anyone in their path.” Despite her expressions of contempt, Meya thought that Ombue spoke with a fierce pride.

“Are they called stonemen?” asked Tiburé abruptly. Ombue drew back and frowned more deeply. Meya, leaning forward, put the question a different way.

“Do your men wear stones around their brows? Set into their heads?” She touched either side of her own brow to demonstrate.

“You know them, then,” said Ombue.

“We call them stonemen,” Meya said. “Do none live here?”

“We would not let them if they wanted. But they do not want. We left them many years ago, but they still come back two or three times a year, to snatch and rut and curse. They slap our faces and they steal our children, and they leave again. We’re glad to see them go.”

“They steal your children?” repeated Meya.

“Who are their children also. They take only the boys.”

“At what age?” asked Yaret.

“When they are seven.”

“Where do they take them to?” asked Meya.

Ombue snorted. “You think they tell us? They give us nothing except curses. You ask who is our leader? The men would be, if we allowed them. We do not.”

“And have things always been this way here?” That was Hilbré’s quiet voice.

“Farsu remembers when things were different, when we lived and worked together, men and women. Nobody else here remembers that time well.” Ombue turned towards one of the other smoky women, who stood up stiffly. Bent and hunched, she looked at least eighty.

“I am sixty-two,” she said, alarming Meya, “and those days are still sharp in my mind.” Her voice creaked.

“What changed?” asked Meya.

The woman looked over at her from eyes so deep-set in the creased face that they appeared no more than small black pits.

“The men changed. They used not to have stones set in their skulls. They bound their heads in leather circlets set with gems. Copies of the old stones that they worshipped. Children’s trinkets.” Her voice creaked like an antique door. “How those men loved their stones and incantations. They did no good that I could see, but at least back then they hurt nobody either. That all changed.”

“How? Why?”

“How?” Farsu threw a hand up loosely at her face. “As I just told you. They said they would become true men of stone but instead they became eaters of clay, angry and stupid. They no longer spoke to us except to curse and to command. When we protested they beat us. So we ran away here, to this place worshipped by our ancestors, these stone ingathers built so long ago. The men dare not slaughter us here, because they still hold the ancient stones in awe. So the old stones protect us. But we dare not move away from this place either.”

Meya was taken aback at the fierceness with which these words were uttered.

“And then, fifteen years ago or maybe more, our children changed,” said Ombue, her voice changing somehow at the same time, “and that was worse.”

“Your children changed? What do you mean?” asked Meya.

“They grew up,” said Farsu grimly. “And the faster they grew, the sooner they were taken by the men, and the sooner the men came back for more. And to make more children. We do not invite the men but they are stronger. You think we want all those infants, growing up too fast?” Again she swept her arm round loosely, as if to signify the whole settlement.

Meya was a little puzzled by this. There were certainly a lot of children; and all children grew up. Perhaps these resentful mothers, knowing their children would be taken from them, did not wish to see them leave their infancy.

Hilbré shifted on her stone seat before speaking, her voice soft and distant. “Do you not love your babes?”

“Some women do,” said Farsu harshly. “But I say, how can you love a child that is made by force, and why would you love a child that will be stolen from you? And that one will learn to curse and spit at you moreover?”

“Can you not teach them differently?” asked Hilbré, very gently.

“It will all be untaught. Why bother?”

“But the girls…”

“What can we teach them except that this is what their life will be?” Farsu was bitter. Meya tried to feel compassion for her, and found that she did not.

“Sit down,” said Ombue to the older woman curtly; so perhaps she did not care for Farsu either. Then she went on, “Yes, of course we love our children. Farsu has forgotten, now that she has no children left to love. But as she says, what is the point? This is all they have and all that they will be.”

“There are many hundreds of you here,” observed Yaret. “Perhaps a thousand, maybe?”

“Hmph! I don’t know.”

“But there are, perhaps, other stonewomen who live elsewhere?”

Farsu interjected. “The men say they have more women, over east. The ones who did not escape like us. According to the men, they live in thrall, within the forest.”

“The Darkburn forest?”

“How should I know what it’s called? They’re slaves,” said Farsu with contempt. “Their own fault, because they did not choose to leave, like us. We had the sense to bring the old stones to protect us.”

“You did not bring these stones we see,” said Meya sternly.

“Of course not,” said Ombue, irritated, with a frown at Farsu. “But this place gives us protection.”

“Have you never left here since?”

“Why should we?”

Meya was about to explain why, when Janeya – no, Jebil – spoke unexpectedly.

“May we please see inside your houses? Or one of them at least?”

“Why?” demanded Ombue.

“Because I have never seen houses like them,” answered Jebil.

Meya glared over at her, willing the girl to keep her mouth shut. Yet at the same time the sound of the clear voice – that high-born accent – wrenched a little at her heart. She had heard it so often previously with joy vibrating in its note. And why should Jebil not speak? These female Riders all knew who she was.

She is a secret we have hidden from the men, she thought, if with the best of motives; but Jebil makes a chasm between us men and women none the less. Between myself and Huldarion. At least he hides no corresponding secrets of his own.

Ombue was staring at Jebil in suspicion. Then she snorted. “Hmph! Have you no houses, that you are so anxious to see ours?”

She spoke disparagingly, but Jebil answered with sad mildness. “I have no home,” she said. “My home is lost.”

“And we Riders of the Vonn, we are in exile, and live in tents for the most part,” added Tiburé.

“My home is a pile of ash,” said Yaret quietly.

Meya wondered what to say. My home is a fine castle bedecked with tapestries and cushioned settles and wardrobes full of silken robes: my home has many rooms and everything I could desire. She stayed silent.

“Hmph,” said Ombue. “If you really wish, you may see inside my house.”

“Thank you,” said Jebil, as the woman motioned to them to stand up.

Meya was glad to see how the others waited for her to rise first. She already felt as stiff as the stooping Farsu, even from so short a spell perched on that cold seat. They walked past a crowd of watching women and children, who scattered at their approach, to one of the bigger houses – which was not saying much, for none of them was large. This one sat squatly in the shadow of a giant stone. Its turf sides were unevenly cut and its roof sagged. A hovel, Meya thought.

She made herself ask, “Why are your houses round?”

“They are built after the manner of our ancestors,” said Ombue. “Before we left the men, we used to live with them in stone houses, but we have not the tools to break up stones. So when we came here we remembered the old tales and made our houses the old way, out of earth and turf.”

“My own people used to build similar shaped roundhouses,” observed Yaret. “The turves must give good harbour from the weather, although the great stones should shelter you from winds in any case. I expect the winter winds across this land are cruel.”

“Not just in winter,” Ombue agreed, nodding.

“What sort of food can you grow here?” asked Yaret, in a tone of genuine interest.

“We have fish aplenty,” the woman said, “and we grow cresses, roots, and foggy-barley.”

“What’s that? I’m not familiar with foggy-barley.”

Meya was already impatient with this line of questioning. And Ombue did not answer. But on entering the low doorway of the house, she bent down just inside it and picked a few stalks from a basket on the floor. Each stalk held a cluster of fat, tight flowers.

“Ah. Similar to spearweed,” said Yaret, again with that note of recognition, although neither the plant nor name meant anything to Meya. “And your clothes? They are not wool.”

Ombue looked at her sharply.

“I am a weaver,” Yaret said pleasantly.

“Hah! River-flax.”

“I see. A useful resource.” Once Ombue had moved away, Yaret pulled a face. “No wonder they’re so bad-tempered,” she murmured to Meya, as they entered the darkness of the turf house. “River-flax is the scratchiest thing around. Fine for sacks but not for clothing.”

Meya had no interest in what those drab brown clothes were made of. “They might wash them more,” she muttered in reply. “They stink.”

“They’ll always smell of smoke, in this place,” answered Yaret.

Perhaps that was true. Meya, as she stood within the hut’s shadowy interior, was dispirited. A shabby hovel. What was to be learnt here? Nothing. A floor of strewn and broken reeds, a jumble of rough pots against the wall, a central fireplace that was pouring out as much earthy smoke into the living space as up the chimney – if that hole in the roof was worthy of such a grand title. It was depressing.

There was a girl in there, squatting down to scrape at roots. Meya found herself envisaging Aliya in a gloomy, ruined hovel, surrounded by the stink of smoke. But there was no reason to imagine that, she told herself. Aliya was safe and comfortable; the farmhouse was no hovel. She was letting her fancy fly away too far.

“I have two daughters living with me,” Ombue said. “The older one is out digging with her children, but this is my younger one, Habue.” The sullen-looking teenager picked herself up slowly, roots in hand, her shoulders drooping.

“Good day to you,” said Jebil to her. Habue stood there lumpenly and stared at them. No curtsey. Meya reflected that the girl had probably never been taught how to curtsey – or anything else.

“Do you have a school?” she asked Ombue.

“A school! What for?” Ombue was sceptical; incredulous.

“So that your children may learn to read and write, and calculate their numbers. Or merely learn to sew and cook and clean.” There certainly wasn’t much evidence of that last activity, Meya thought disapprovingly.

“Why would they need to read and write? The men don’t learn that,” said Ombue with another snort.

“All the more reason for you to,” Meya said, but with the sense that it was a lost cause.

Yaret walked over to the girl who still clutched at her bunch of roots with one hand, her knife in the other.

“I see you are a helpful girl. How old are you, Habue?” she asked her quietly.

The girl stared with widened eyes. “Seven,” she said. Meya looked at her with sharp suspicion. Was she being insolent? She was the same size as Yaret.

“Do you mean seven years?” said Yaret, her voice still gentle. Far too gentle in Meya’s opinion. “Or do you mean seven of something else?”

“What’s something else?” the girl replied, her voice high as if she was upset. “I’m seven years. Winter, summer, that’s one. Winter, summer, that’s another. That makes two.”

“And how many more winters and summers to make seven?” asked Meya severely.

The girl gawped at her with her mouth open and did not respond. Meya thought that even Aliya would be able to work out the answer. Oh, her wonderful, bright Aliya; her demanding, exhausting little girl; but how beloved.

Meanwhile Tiburé stood with pursed lips. “How many stonemen are there?” she enquired of Ombue.

“I don’t know that.”

“If you understood numbers, then you might know,” said Meya. Clearly these woman had no understanding at all. Why, she could see that many of the boys around the place must be at least twelve. So the stonemen did not take them all away at the age of seven. Maybe Ombue was lying about that.

“The men don’t tell us,” said Ombue sullenly. “And we have no interest in them. Are you finished here? It’s just a house. I don’t know what you want. I’ve answered all your questions. Now you can leave.”

“I have one more question,” stated Tiburé. “Do you wish to be rid of your hated menfolk?”

“Well, of course we do! If we could.”

“Then would you help us to defeat them?”

Ombue looked at her with something of a sneer. “We wouldn’t help you if you paid us. We don’t care what you do. Fight them or not, it’s all the same to us. Just go away. Leave us alone.”

Tiburé nodded and walked out of the house.

Meya followed her out into the brightness. Whatever Huldarion had hoped for, it was certainly not this. As she gazed up at the huge stones – which seemed to hit the eye with their grained weight, to fill the consciousness – Jebil spoke again.

“These stones. The old woman called them ingathers.”

“So?” said Ombue.

“What does that mean?”

An idle question. Meya already knew the answer: clearly, it meant an area where people gathered.

But Ombue said, “They pull things in.”

“What things?”

“The spirits,” answered Ombue.

“The stones gather spirits here?” asked Yaret, her face oddly serious. “They collect the spirits somehow?”

“Not here. They collect them further up the roads. The stones lead them on towards the sea.”

“They channel them?” said Yaret.

“Exactly what sort of spirits do you mean?” asked Meya, hearing her scepticism loud in her own voice.

“Don’t mock the stones,” said Ombue, her face tightening.

Yaret said quickly, “No, no, we don’t mock. I know the spirits that you speak of – or some of them, at least. Those smaller stones your menfolk wear around their heads: they repel the spirits of the earth. So do these great stones attract them?”

Ombue stared at her for a few seconds in silence, before muttering, “They’re not just of the earth.”

“The sky also,” said Hilbré in her low musical voice. “We felt wing-beats pass overhead, as we rode here. Yet there were no birds that we could see; and it was not the wind.”

Ombue nodded, briefly.

Meya frowned. She had felt no wingbeats inside her carriage, although it was true that her driver had been muttering something about flying creatures. She had taken little notice. He was always muttering about something. Now she was ready to ask more, but Ombue had already begun to march back towards the gap through which they had entered the village.

“You will go now,” she said determinedly, “and tell your menfolk to move on. Tell them it’s pointless for them to attack us. The old stones will protect us as they have always done.”

“I am sure they have no wish to attack you,” Meya said.

“One more thing, please, Ombue,” said Yaret. “Farsu said that your menfolk had become eaters of clay. What did she mean?”

“Just that. Now, go.”

“We thank you for your hospitality,” said Jebil, quite unnecessarily. The woman merely snorted.

Meya dipped her head regally and began to lead away her little deputation through the tunnel. Only Yaret lingered to speak a last time to Ombue.

“Things that have changed, can change again,” Meya heard her say. “Everything changes all the time, and not always for the worse.”

“Hmph! Usually for the worse,” said Ombue.

“That is partly up to you,” said Yaret. She bowed and followed Meya.

What a waste of time, thought Meya as she emerged from the wall of stones. The waiting line of female archers at once advanced to enfold her little group like a protective cloak. When they began to trudge back towards the army, she could see Huldarion there, watching. What could she tell him? What had she discovered?

A town of stonewomen whose knowledge of their menfolk was exactly zero – their interest in the stonemen even less. A degraded tribe in muddy huts, with no redeeming features: a swarming, over-breeding rabble whose superstitions prevented them from bettering themselves. They had no idea of civilised hospitality. The children were filthy. The adults were sulky, illiterate and ignorant. Why, the stonewomen could not even count.

And all the time, despite herself, her mind kept straying from this place to another: to her own child, to Aliya.

Aliya is safe, Meya assured herself for the tenth time, she is safe, she is happy with her piglet and the ducks: she is well cared for on the farm, she is comfortable, no doubt she is indulged.

Yet she found she could not push her anxious thoughts away.