Chapter Twenty - A Council of Farmers

‘Nonsense!'

Hector slammed his hand down on the table, and the farmers fell quiet.

‘Now, I’ve been saying it for years. South Realm’s not as safe as it used to be. Strangers on the roads, coming and going at odd hours. Folk in Overwood have got some stories to tell.’

There was a chorus of nods from the assembled farm folk. Everyone knew that times were changing, and that strangers never brought anything good. This, at least, they could agree upon.

‘But Black Hand? Here?’ Hector went on, shaking his head. ‘Not been Brothers in the South Realm for fifteen summers. Nought but a story to scare the children.’

A few more nods, a little murmur of agreement rippling through the crowd inside the barn. Someone had cleared a space in the middle of the floor and dragged a wide table in from the dining hall. Every man and woman who lived on the farm was clustered around it, sitting, standing, leaning, whispering and staring and fidgeting nervously. Of the children, only Ren was there, pressed against a back wall beside his grandparents. Maybe because he’d been there when they’d found the mill. Maybe because everyone was too busy arguing to notice him.

‘You was there, Hector, same as us.’ Dann piped up. ‘You saw what was left.’

‘I saw ash and a whole lot of smoke.’ Hector scowled, his wrinkled face creasing. ‘No sign of Brothers.’

‘What about the tracks? You ever seen that many men on that road, all at once?’ Dann replied, bristling. ‘One mill would be one thing. But Eric’s farm… Ten hands there, at least. That takes some doing.’

Another murmur through the crowd, and Ren frowned. No one wanted to believe in danger. Not when it was so close. He doubted danger would care whether they believed in it or not, though, if it came to that. He’d been left behind, when the men had ridden out to investigate the second column of smoke, but he’d known what they’d find. When they rode back into the farm, the sun had been low again over the fields, and their faces had been dark with soot and worry. Next farm over. Eric’s place. No bodies, this time. Whether there’d been too many to carry, or not enough of them left, Ren hadn’t dared to ask.

‘Merchants. Travellers. Could be bloody bandits for all I care.’ Hector snorted at him. ‘Like I say, lot of strange things on the roads lately. Don’t mean we’ve got those madmen sniffing at our fields.’

Ren scowled. Hector had liked talking about Brothers well enough, when he was trying to scare the children. The room stirred, full of whispers. He looked up at his grandfather, but Derin was stood quite still beside him, leaning wearily on the barn wall, watching the other farmers bicker, moustache twitching. His cough had been worse, since they rode out towards the smoke, but it seemed a little better today. His grandmother was beside him, squeezing his hand worriedly, filmy grey hair tied tight as a saddle-knot.

‘What about the mask?’ Brin said suddenly, standing up. The farm folk fell quiet, staring at him.

‘What mask?’ someone asked.

‘Derin?’

Brin looked at Ren’s grandfather, in his place by the back wall. The rest of the crowd looked, too. Ren waited. His grandmother looked nervously at her husband, putting a hand on his arm. Derin hesitated, then walked slowly over to the table, drawing something dark from his shirt and setting it down on the wood. The mask they’d found at the mill, black and scored with ash, flaking around empty, leering eyes. It looked out of place, in the soft light of the farmyard, with warm sun filtering through the rafters. Ren frowned at it, ice gnawing at his gut. For a moment, no one stirred. Then everyone began to talk at once.

‘Makers be good!’

‘Brothers, here?’

‘Man from up Overwood way came through a month back.’ one of the other farmers was saying. ‘Said there was talk of Brothers on their way south. Three boys taken in Fairlop not two months past.’

‘I heard the same.’

‘Ulwe save us.’

‘Peace, peace!’ Brin boomed, holding up his broad arms, and the barn settled into hushed whispers. The farm folk were staring, wide-eyed, at the scorched mask on the table. Even Hector, who’d reluctantly sat back in his seat, eyeing it darkly.

‘Fought in the rebellion, didn’t he, that friend of yours?’ he said quietly, looking at Ren’s grandfather, who had settled back into place with his family. ‘For the King? Makers know that Dekar has strange friends.’

‘What are you getting at?’

‘That maybe he picked up that mask himself.’ the old farmer continued. ‘That maybe it weren’t strangers who started the fire. Those Brother types have strange rituals.’

‘You rotten fool-’ Derin growled, bristling, but Tamla lay a hand on his shoulder, and he settled back into place, scowling.

‘Then who set the fires at Eric’s place? Brin asked bluntly, frowning.

‘Didn’t look like he’d be setting fires any time soon, when we found him.’ Dann added, looking at the mask darkly. He hesitated, catching himself, and gave Derin an apologetic look. ‘Meaning no offense.’

Derin inclined his head, then went back to scowling.

‘Nothing for it.’ Brin said after a moment, looking around the room. ‘Need to call the Watch.’

‘King’s Men?’ one of the women snorted. ‘Barely a dozen of them this side of the Swiftwater.’

‘I’d take two of the King’s own over some rabble from Overwood.’ someone shot back.

‘The way I hear it the King’s more likely to help the Brothers than us.’

More nods, more cursing. Someone in the corner was praying.

‘Won’t be enough.’

Everyone looked at Derin. Ren’s grandfather was standing quietly near by the wall, looking over at the mask.

‘We got lucky, last time. After the rebellion.’ he said quietly. ‘Only place this close to the Swiftwater they didn’t come for. How many of its boys did Overwood lose? Half?’

The farmers just stared. Derin shook his head, still looking at the mask.

‘Call on Overwood. Call the King’s Men. Call whoever you want. It’ll be a week before we see any men from Overwood. Longer for the King’s.’ he straightened, looking around at the farm folk gravely. ‘If Brothers come calling, it’ll take more than pitchforks to keep our homes from burning. They travel in packs. Big ones.’

‘What are you saying?’ Brin asked quietly, and the farm folk waited. Derin was a quiet man. A private man. But he’d been around almost longer than anyone, and people listened to him. Somewhere outside, a dog was barking.

‘When there’s Brothers abroad, there’s only one call always gets answered.’ Derin told them. ‘Greycloaks.’

The barn erupted.

‘Greycloaks?’

‘Cursed Ones!’

‘Are you mad?’

Shouting, cursing, fists shaken at the air. Ren had heard the stories. The old ones, anyway. Protectors. Keepers of the Towers. But farmers had no need for mysterious men to protect them from old wives' tales. Cursed Ones were spent. Ill omens. He’d only ever seen one Greycloak, himself, though he wasn’t all that sure the name suited the old man. He knew well enough how little the farmfolk liked him, though.

‘They’ll burn the farm down themselves!’

‘You’ll bring down the plague on us!’

Hector banged his hand down on the table, and the room fell quiet. He looked at Derin, scowling.

‘You’ve been listening to too many old stories for your own good. Greycloaks ain’t been nothing but tricksters and thieves since afore we were born.’ he sneered. ‘You may trust them, but the rest of us ain’t so willing. You heard the stories. Brought the Black Breath down on us, them and Talor both. And that sickness took more than just the boys.’

‘Swallowing the King’s lines like a trout.’ Derin replied, scowling. ‘You’ll get your wish when Brother’s take the rest of us.’

‘Ain’t no Cursed Ones on the roads in these parts.’ someone piped up from the back of the room. ‘That Last House of theirs is in the mountains, hundred leagues from here!’

‘There are others.’ Derin told them, raising his voice over the din. ‘Those who still keep to the road. Who will come.’

‘Oh, I see.’ Hector sneered, lowering his voice. ‘That old man of yours? He’ll save us, will he?’

‘You’ve never trusted him.’ Ren’s grandfather scowled.

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‘And you do?’ Hector shot back. ‘After what he did to your girl?’

Silence. Ren blinked. Derin didn’t move.

‘Boy’s got a death mark because of him.’ Hector went on. ‘Like as not he’s why the Brother’s came this far south to begin with!’

Whispers of agreement rippled through the farm folk. It was an ill omen. Bad luck. Death follows death. Everyone knew it. Ren could feel the eyes of the room on him, prickling at his skin. His grandmother folded his hand in hers silently. Derin was standing very still, staring back at the old farmer. Hector didn’t flinch. The air prickled, and no one spoke.

‘Do what you want.’ Derin said at last. ‘But I’ll not let me and mine burn with you.’

Then he turned on his heel and walked out of the barn. Ren took one last look at the mask, hesitating. Then he his grandmother followed him into the sunlit yard, and two dozen eyes watched them go, whispering.

‘Fools!’ Derin cursed once they were away into the empty houses. He doubled over suddenly, coughing into his hand, and snatched a handkerchief from his pocket, wiping at it.

‘They’re just scared.’ Tamla told him.

‘They should be.’ Derin replied breathlessly, scowling. ‘But they’ll be far more scared with knives at their throats.’ He cursed again. ‘Hector should know better, the old goat. Greycloaks are the only ones still hunting those godless freaks. Makers knows the King won’t.’

‘What are we going to do?’ Ren asked.

‘Nothing we can do. Farm’ll be ash before they’ll listen.’

‘Hector… He was talking about my mother.’ Ren said quietly, lowering his eyes. ‘He said the old man-’

‘Don’t listen to him.’ his grandfather told him, taking him by the chin and meeting his eye. ‘He’s a superstitious fool, that’s all. Men are always afraid of what they don’t understand, and that old miser understands very little.’

‘Derin.’ his grandmother said quietly, putting a hand on her husband’s shoulder. ‘What are we going to do?’

‘I don’t know.’ Derin replied, looking at the dirt.

‘Should we leave?’

‘I don’t know.’ he replied, still looking away. Leave? Ren’s hand found its way to the nightglass pendant at his neck, cool, smooth stone against his fingers. He thought of what the fortuneteller had said, whispered over silver flames. Maybe the farmers were right. Maybe it was his fault. His death mark.

Then his grandfather’s hand wrapped around his, closing his fingers tight around the little teardrop of black stone.

‘Keep that close, boy.’ he told him quietly, smiling reassuringly. Then he straightened, dabbing at his moustache with the handkerchief. When his hand came away again, the fabric was stained red at the corner. ‘I need to think.’

With that he turned on his heel, disappearing off into the low buildings, and Ren watched him go, a cold knot twisting like a blade in his gut. His grandmother was at his side, watching with him, worry-lines deep as riverbeds working their way across her brow.

‘He’s sick.’

She looked at him as he spoke, hesitating for a moment. Then her frown vanished, and she was smiling again.

‘You don’t need to worry about your grandfather.’ she told him, giving his hand a squeeze. ‘He’s tougher than he looks.’

Ren stared back at her. ‘Was it the same… with my mother?’

His grandmother blinked. Then she let go of his hand, looking away. Ren frowned, reaching out a hand.

‘I’m sorry, I just…’

She held up a hand, stopping him short, but still she didn’t look at him.

‘She… She was my world, you know. My whole world. I would have done anything to keep her. Healthy as an old root, always. Didn’t get so much as a sniffle, when the Breath came through.’ she paused, swallowing. ‘When we lost her… It was so quick… I felt like my heart was breaking into a thousand pieces. Thought I’d never be whole again.’ she hesitated, then took his outstretched hand, looking at him with tears in her eyes. ‘But then you came along. Just like that. And, little by little, my heart got put back together again. I wish you could have met her. She would… She would be very proud of you.’

Ren looked back at her, swallowing the cold lump in his throat, and tried to smile. His grandmother sniffed, dabbing at her eyes with her sleeve.

‘Now, you mustn’t worry about your grandfather.’ she told him. ‘He’s just tired. Let him rest, he’ll be alright, in the morning.’

Ren nodded, looking away. Tired. Sick. It wasn’t those words that scared him. His grandfather had been different, these past few days. There was a haunted look to his eyes, a sharpness to his words, a quickness to his anger. He was afraid. They were in danger, Ren knew it. Maybe the first true danger he had ever known. A good night’s sleep wouldn’t change that. He let go of his grandmother’s hand.

‘I need to be alone.’

‘Ren, wait… I-’

But he was already gone.

*

'Stop frowning, Trin.’ Helen rolled her eyes. ‘Your face’ll stick.’

'Leave him be.' Dina told her. ‘He's just worried.’

‘He-He’s always worried.’ Seril added, smiling nervously.

Ren looked up. Trin was blushing, round cheeks the colour of strawberries. Seril laughed his nervous laugh, and Tomon chuckled. No one was allowed to stray from the farm, that day, and the yard had become a hive of activity, so instead they were sitting at the eastern edge of the buildings, looking up at the low hill and its woody crest. The trees were shifting in the breeze, and the gravestones at the shaded edge of the wood gleamed cold in the afternoon sun. The others were talking, mostly ignoring Ren, as usual, but that suited him just fine.

‘You heard what they were saying.’ Trin said worriedly, fidgeting with his shirt. ‘Black Hand. Here!’

‘Hector says there’s about as much chance of Brothers in the South Realm as one of his pigs growing wings.’ Helen replied, scowling.

‘Hector liked his stories well enough when they were just for scaring us.’ Trin told her indignantly, folding his arms. ‘Not now he’s got spooked himself.’

‘Ren.’ Seril said suddenly. ‘Y-you were there. What d’you think?’

Ren blinked, surprised. They were all looking at him. He opened his mouth, and the smell of smoke filled his throat. A mask on fire. He closed it again, hesitating.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Doesn’t matter anyway.’ Helen cut in, saving him for the moment. She was the taller of the two girls, and a little older than the rest of them, halfway a woman by any of their guesses. ‘Bird’ll be halfway to Overwood, by now. Watch’ll be here soon.’

’Not s-soon enough.’ Seril squeaked, eyes twitching.

Ren looked off towards the trees, and the graves stared back, gleaming from the shadows of the twisting branches. He could just make out the fresh dirt where they had buried what was left of Ted and his wife. He frowned, looking back at his feet.

‘I’m sure it’ll be fine.’ Dina was saying. She sat back on the grass, brushing her hair away from her face. She was smaller than Helen, and prettier, if that mattered. Ren looked up, and she caught his eye, flashing him a reassuring smile. ‘What would Brothers want with us, anyway.’

‘Not you!’ Trin told her. ‘You heard the stories. It’s us they’re after.’

‘Need boys.’ Seril agreed. ‘For their b-blood magic.’

‘Blood magic?’ Tomon said slowly, frowning.

‘So your blood is better than ours?’ Dina asked indignantly.

‘Yes… No… I mean.’ Seril stammered. ‘That’s just who they take. E-everyone knows it.’

Dina rolled her eyes, and Helen frowned.

‘Burned Eric’s place, too.’ she added. ‘Maybe they’ve got what they wanted. Gone back to wherever they came from.’

Maybe. The other children shifted, looking at their feet, and no one replied. No one really believed that, no matter how much they wanted to.

‘At least they didn’t call the Greycloaks. No better than Brothers, themselves.’ Trin said darkly. ‘Bet this is all his doing anyway. Shows up out of nowhere after years. Not a few weeks later and we’ve got Brothers to worry about.’

The other children shifted uncomfortably. Ren looked up at his friend.

‘What?’

‘I’m sorry, Ren, but it’s true.’ Trin told him, frowning. ‘Nothing good ever comes of that lot. Tricksters, all of them, and him too. Not to be trusted, that’s what my ma always says.’

‘He’s on-only one of them. Never seen any others round here.’ Seril told him.

‘Don’t matter.’ Trin replied, scowling now. ‘One is enough. You know when he started comi…’

He trailed off, avoiding Ren’s eye. Ren didn’t know what to say to that. In truth, he’d never really thought of the old man as a Greycloak, despite what everyone said. Not till today, anyway. But it was hardly the only thing that was changing, and the world was a much darker place than it had been before old man’s last visit. Why shouldn’t it be his fault? He’d never trusted the old man, either. With his tricky words and knowing eyes. Why should he defend him now?

‘Hector…’ he said slowly. His hand was at his chest, fingers brushing the dark stone that hung beneath his shirt. ‘Said it was his fault my mother died. Said he gave me my death mark.’

They all looked away, at that. Seril wrung his hands, and Trin frowned, gnawing at his lip. The wind whispered over the tops of the trees. Ren realised he’d never really thought about why the old man had started to visit. Trin was right. Greycloaks weren’t welcome in the South Realm. Or anywhere, really. Not anymore. Why did he keep coming back? Why was his grandfather so keen to invite him, now? He’d seen the way Derin looked at him. Him and his grandmother, both. Like they were afraid of what he’d take.

‘Best ask Hector.’ Dina said finally. ‘You know how he is.’

The sun was getting low, and the grass around them was tinged with amber. Ren got slowly to his feet.

‘It’s cold.’ he told them. ‘I’m going back inside.’

No one met his eye. No one save Trin, who stared back at his friend for a long moment, hesitating, ruddy cheeks twisting into knots. Then he too looked down at his feet, and Ren went away back into the eerie quiet of the farm buildings, alone.

*

He wandered for a while, not really caring where he was going. The fields may have been empty, but the farm was full. Full of movement. Full of sound. Men and women hurried between the buildings, hiding what little they had to hide. Hay bales into the barn. Wagons and ploughs and all manner of other tools stacked wherever there was space for them. Animals herded away. Dogs barking at their shadows, chickens clucking in their coops, pigs snorting shrilly, horses nickering at the deepening dark. Everything had its place, tucked away from sight. The farm folk were next, disappearing into their houses, locking doors and barring shutters. The dining hall was quiet, empty, its cooking fires dark. The silence that fell over the farm, then, as the light faded into night, was not one Ren knew. There was no laughter, no soft words over quick-kindled fires. No children playing by the light of the torches. There was fear in it, for the first time he remembered. The farm was not used to such things. The South Realm was not used to such things. Neither was Ren. The grim unreadiness of soft hands in the shade of coming violence.

He walked, and he listened, and he watched as night fell over the farm. There was a cold weight in his gut, pressing him into the dirt, and his head was half-full of smoke. He thought of the fortuneteller, staring back at him over silver flames. He thought of Ted and Werla, smiling, burnt to ash. He thought of his grandparents, soft as spring grass; but even they were different now. The farm was changing, faster than winter could follow, and his home was coming apart around him. The friendly windows, filled with firelight and laughter, were dark. The silence whispered with the wind, tugging at nothing, and Ren listened, cold to the bone.

He thought about looking for Hector. But what would he say? What could he ask him? Nothing that would change anything. The old man’s face winked back at him from the eaves of the farmhouses, eyes gold as coins, no longer smiling. The silence was thick as water, heavy, waiting. Maybe they were right. Maybe it was his death mark. The fortuneteller’s words rang in his empty ears, echoing like shivers. He should have told them. They could have…

‘Ren?’ a voice was calling. His grandmother was coming towards him between the buildings, wringing her hands, eyes searching in the gloom. Ren froze, staring at her.

‘Ren?’

Before he knew what he was doing, he had jerked himself out of the path, slipping into the dark of the nearest doorway, closing it behind him.

‘What doing?’

He flinched. Faia was staring up at him in the dark, round eyes gleaming. There was a single candle flickering behind her, and the shadows shifted and whispered over the stable doors as their reluctant occupants snickered at gloom. Outside, his grandmother’s unknowing footsteps passed the doorway, then faded away again, none the wiser.

‘I… uh…’ Ren stammered.

‘Hiding.’ Faia said knowingly, nodding.

Ren sighed. ‘Yes.’

‘Me too.’ she told him seriously. She lifted one of her grubby little hands, running it along the nearest horse’s brow, and it snorted happily, nuzzling her shoulder. The firelight flickered, and the scarred cuts on her pale arms gleamed white. Ren frowned. Not cuts. Burns. He wondered how he’d never noticed before.

‘What happened to you, Faia?’ he asked quietly, watching her. ‘Before you came here?’

She turned her big, dark eyes to look up at him, shaking her head.

‘Faia.’ she told him.

‘No… I mean…’ Ren shook his head, frowning. ‘Where are your family? Where did you come from?’

The little girl stared back at him, unblinking.

‘Faia.’ she said again. Then she turned and went away down the row of stables, stopping at each in turn. Ren stared after her for a moment, frowning. Then he slipped the stable door open and went out into the empty farmyard, bound for nowhere in particular. For anywhere but home.