Prologue - The Demons' Due
Frost glittered on the ground as it melted under the low sun that cold clear morning in the city of Kyrrhaven, and faint white cloud was burning out of a blue sky. Summer so far North was a short and paltry thing and the glare of the low sun had not awoken the city yet. Ravens and red kites circled high overhead but their hoarse cries were far and broken when they fell to earth. A lone young servant girl, shawl bound tight against the cold, rolled an empty barrel down through a maze of high-fenced alleys to the crossroads.
There was a well girt by low dry stones at the crossroads there. Sister Hadley had awoken in a cold sweat and complained of her “summer cholera” again. She needed cold clean water to drink. Gudrun had heard her staying up late last night laughing with the men and shouting her slurred words while Gudrun was trying to sleep. Sister Hadley had become quite the burden of late.
Turning down the last alley to the crossroads she saw that there was a ragged boy at the well. He was dressing with his back to a fence, pulling a ragged grey sleeve over a long white arm that shone in the sun. Long splashes in the dust showed he had been washing there with the bucket stood beside him. Ice was forming in the rivulets of water around the dark stains his ablutions had left.
Gudrun gasped and ducked, halting the barrel with a hand. She wanted to run. She needed that bucket.
The boy raised his head and straightened his robes. His pale grey eyes fell hard onto Gudrun.
Her lips parted. She was wordless but felt like stammering. His face shone in the cold light. They were alone. She was afraid.
The boy lowered his eyes first, glancing at the bucket.
“You may take it.” He said softly, in a low strange voice. “I am finished here.”
Gudrun breathed again and stood up straight slowly.
The boy blinked. His eyes flashed up at Gudrun and then fell back onto the bucket. There they remained.
“You scared me.” Gudrun chided gently. She looked him up and down. A grey monk's robe that had been white; how could a boy so handsome wear such rags? “Weren’t you raised with manners?”
The boy’s eyes flashed but he was very intent on the bucket. “Forgive me. I will draw the water for you.”
Gudrun smiled slowly. She was very tired. “Yes. You really should.”
The boy stooped and picked up the bucket while Gudrun watched. He was lanky, with short sandy hair. His long white knuckled hands grasped the twined rope and he stood tall again, lowering the bucket carefully back into the well. She could hear him counting under his breath as he let the bucket fall but the numbers were strange.
Gudrun nudged the barrel with her foot so it rolled towards him. She had recovered her courage.
“You are no monk, boy.” Gudrun surprised herself. “You are highborn. Are you from Blackheath?”
The boy started a little at that. He was hoisting the bucket back up the well now, taking care not to spill any. It irked her.
“Look at me.” Gudrun said firmly. “Answer me.”
The boy turned his head, hearing water sloshing in the well. His gaze fell on her again. This time Gudrun could meet his eye. She saw his fear.
“I see you, boy. Where are you from?”
“The High Fell in the East.” The boy spoke. “Past Blackheath.”
So far? He must be a runaway. Gudrun watched as he hoisted the bucket out of the well and set it on the ground. The boy knelt and set the barrel on end, pouring the water in slowly.
“Where are your people?” Gudrun asked.
The boy’s face collapsed and the bucket jerked, gouting water over the dust around him.
“Sorry!” Gudrun gasped, stepping towards him. “Oh you poor thing…”
“They are with Vitras.” The boy grated out. He was blinking away tears.
Gudrun crouched down next to him, offering her hand. He didn’t move. “What do you know of Vitras?”
The boy breathed deep, still and cold as Gudrun reached for him. She took his cold white hand in hers and squeezed. He shuddered. His eyes were closed, his face streaming with tears.
“Vitras… Vitras is Keeper of the Dead.” His voice shook. “Those he judges just… We will see again in his halls. If we keep the path of justice.”
“My father…” Gudrun breathed, eyes moist. The boy’s grey eyes opened, suddenly soft. Now it was his hand around hers.
“Yes.” The boy said, his strange voice breaking. “He rests with Vitras too. We must be strong.”
“If he only knew-” Gudrun blurted out, then stopped. There were voices carrying down the streets around the well. The strange boy squeezed her hand again and let go.
They stood, blinking away their tears. Gudrun bit her lip and straightened her kirtle. The boy wiped his face on his sleeve.
“I would see you again.” The boy murmured, his eyes darting around the crossroads.
“And I you,” Gudrun breathed. “Tell me… What is your name?”
“I am Kari.”
“Well Kari, finish drawing up the water.” Gudrun could tell they were being watched now. “And carry the barrel for me.”
Kari nodded, eyes on the bucket again.
“Follow me. In good time I will tell my mistress,” Gudrun said, “There may be something to be done.”
There was a well girt by low dry stones at the crossroads there. Sister Hadley had awoken in a cold sweat and complained of her “summer cholera” again. She needed cold clean water to drink. Gudrun had heard her staying up late last night laughing with the men and shouting her slurred words while Gudrun was trying to sleep. Sister Hadley had become quite the burden of late.
Turning down the last alley to the crossroads she saw that there was a ragged boy at the well. He was dressing with his back to a fence, pulling a ragged grey sleeve over a long white arm that shone in the sun. Long splashes in the dust showed he had been washing there with the bucket stood beside him. Ice was forming in the rivulets of water around the dark stains his ablutions had left.
Gudrun gasped and ducked, halting the barrel with a hand. She wanted to run. She needed that bucket.
The boy raised his head and straightened his robes. His pale grey eyes fell hard onto Gudrun.
Her lips parted. She was wordless but felt like stammering. His face shone in the cold light. They were alone. She was afraid.
The boy lowered his eyes first, glancing at the bucket.
“You may take it.” He said softly, in a low strange voice. “I am finished here.”
Gudrun breathed again and stood up straight slowly.
The boy blinked. His eyes flashed up at Gudrun and then fell back onto the bucket. There they remained.
“You scared me.” Gudrun chided gently. She looked him up and down. A grey monk's robe that had been white; how could a boy so handsome wear such rags? “Weren’t you raised with manners?”
The boy’s eyes flashed but he was very intent on the bucket. “Forgive me. I will draw the water for you.”
Gudrun smiled slowly. She was very tired. “Yes. You really should.”
The boy stooped and picked up the bucket while Gudrun watched. He was lanky, with short sandy hair. His long white knuckled hands grasped the twined rope and he stood tall again, lowering the bucket carefully back into the well. She could hear him counting under his breath as he let the bucket fall but the numbers were strange.
Gudrun nudged the barrel with her foot so it rolled towards him. She had recovered her courage.
“You are no monk, boy.” Gudrun surprised herself. “You are highborn. Are you from Blackheath?”
The boy started a little at that. He was hoisting the bucket back up the well now, taking care not to spill any. It irked her.
“Look at me.” Gudrun said firmly. “Answer me.”
The boy turned his head, hearing water sloshing in the well. His gaze fell on her again. This time Gudrun could meet his eye. She saw his fear.
“I see you, boy. Where are you from?”
“The High Fell in the East.” The boy spoke. “Past Blackheath.”
So far? He must be a runaway. Gudrun watched as he hoisted the bucket out of the well and set it on the ground. The boy knelt and set the barrel on end, pouring the water in slowly.
“Where are your people?” Gudrun asked.
The boy’s face collapsed and the bucket jerked, gouting water over the dust around him.
“Sorry!” Gudrun gasped, stepping towards him. “Oh you poor thing…”
“They are with Vitras.” The boy grated out. He was blinking away tears.
Gudrun crouched down next to him, offering her hand. He didn’t move. “What do you know of Vitras?”
The boy breathed deep, still and cold as Gudrun reached for him. She took his cold white hand in hers and squeezed. He shuddered. His eyes were closed, his face streaming with tears.
“Vitras… Vitras is Keeper of the Dead.” His voice shook. “Those he judges just… We will see again in his halls. If we keep the path of justice.”
“My father…” Gudrun breathed, eyes moist. The boy’s grey eyes opened, suddenly soft. Now it was his hand around hers.
“Yes.” The boy said, his strange voice breaking. “He rests with Vitras too. We must be strong.”
“If he only knew-” Gudrun blurted out, then stopped. There were voices carrying down the streets around the well. The strange boy squeezed her hand again and let go.
They stood, blinking away their tears. Gudrun bit her lip and straightened her kirtle. The boy wiped his face on his sleeve.
“I would see you again.” The boy murmured, his eyes darting around the crossroads.
“And I you,” Gudrun breathed. “Tell me… What is your name?”
“I am Kari.”
“Well Kari, finish drawing up the water.” Gudrun could tell they were being watched now. “And carry the barrel for me.”
Kari nodded, eyes on the bucket again.
“Follow me. In good time I will tell my mistress,” Gudrun said, “There may be something to be done.”