he said. Faraday’s frown returned. “No,” she said. “I do not wish to. I am free of pain and
betrayal here. I can trust you—only you. “ “You will come back one day,” the man-beast said
gently, his liquid-brown eyes loving, “and then, if you wish, you can stay.” “No!” Faraday cried
as she saw the grove start to fade around her. “No! I do not want to go!”
Timozel also dreamed, but his dream was far more unsettling. He was walking down a
long ice tunnel, naked save for the grey trousers of his Axe-Wielders uniform. Where he was
Timozel did not know, but he knew that he was walking towards certain doom. Death lay at the
end of the ice tunnel. There were strange-shaped creatures leaping and cavorting on the other
side of the ice walls, their forms distorted by the ice, but Timozel could not see them very clearly, nor did he want to. He wanted to turn and run, but his feet would not obey him. A force greater
than his own will had enslaved him and was drawing him down the tunnel. Closer and closer
Timozel walked to the death that waited for him until finally he could see a massive wooden door
set into the ice wall at the end of the tunnel. His teeth began to chatter in fear and he felt his
bowels loosen. He halted before the door, and his hand, unaided, unasked for, rose of its own
volition and rapped sharply upon the wood. “Come!” a dreadful voice boomed from the other
side, and Timozel’s treacherous hand slid down towards the door latch. He fought it with every
muscle in his body, until he could feel himself sweating and trembling with the effort. Although
he managed to slow his hand he could not stop it completely, and slowly his fingers closed about
the metal latch. “Come!” the dreadful voice, impatient now, called again, and Timozel heard
heavy steps approach from the other side of the door. He gibbered in fear as the handle began to
twist open in his hand. “No!” he screamed, then everything started to fade about him as he
slipped into blessed unconsciousness.
25
THE GOODPEOPLE RENKIN
Faraday woke slowly, revelling in the warmth of the bed and the remaining comforting
vestiges of her dream. She dozed a while, unwilling to open her eyes, feeling Yr still deep in
sleep beside her, listening to the Goodpeople Renkin and their children move softly around the
house. Finally the delicious smell of fresh baked bread roused her completely and she stirred and
opened her eyes. Yr murmured sleepily in protest as Faraday sat up, hugging the warm comforter
to her breasts as she looked about the room.
The Goodman and his Goodwife lived in a typical one-roomed farmhouse. At one end
blazed a huge fire fed by the dried peat that country people dug from the marshes during the
summer. A large cauldron hung suspended over the flames, and kettles and pots simmered on a
grate before it. Two toddlers, twin boys, played cheerfully a safe distance from the flames and
hot pots, while the Goodman dozed against the warm stones of the fireplace. The plump
Goodwife bustled between the pots and a solid table, scarred by the knives of countless
generations.
The rest of the home was virtually bare of furniture, save for the bed itself, a number of
benches, a large storage cupboard and two large iron chests. Shelves along the walls held the
family‘s possessions. Wood, being rare and difficult to procure in Achar, was a precious item
and these folk had undoubtedly had to save for many years to buy an item of furniture made from
the small number of plantation trees grown in Achar. Cheeses, hams and ropes of dried onions
hung from the exposed rafters of the thatch roof, well out of the way of dogs and children. On
the wall a few paces from the fire a tightly swaddled baby hung suspended from a nail, lulled to
sleep by the constricting linen wraps around its chest.
The Goodwife noticed Faraday awake and, smiling and nodding, ladled out a mug of
broth from one of the pots.
―My Lady,‖ she beamed as she brought it over, ―you and your companions have slept
away most of the day.‖ She spoke with the soft country burr of southern Achar, more musical
and easier on the ear than the harsher accents of Skarabost.
Faraday accepted the mug gratefully, wrapping her hands around it and taking a small
sip. Jack and Timozel still lay asleep on the benches by the fire, Timozel tossing a little as if his
sleep were disturbed.
―My Lady, you were very lucky to find our Jack,‖ the Goodwife said as she noticed
Faraday‘s eyes turn to the two men. ―In this bad weather you would have perished had you found
no shelter.‖
Faraday turned her gaze back to the Goodwife. She was in her early thirties, plump but
clearly careworn by her hard life in this isolated farmstead. Stringy brown hair was pulled back
into a functional knot at the nape of her neck. She wore the brown worsted dress preferred by
most country folk, its sleeves rolled above her rough elbows, and covered with a rough,
black-weave apron. Her reddened and chapped hands twisted together above her protruding
stomach.
Faraday realised she had been staring and quickly smiled, trying to cover her bad
manners. ―We are all very grateful for your help, Goodwife Renkin,‖ she said, reaching out and
touching the woman‘s hand briefly. ―For the past few days we have had very little to drink and
no food at all. As you can see, our clothes were quite inadequate for the bitter winds and frosty
nights. My, er, maid and myself were close to death until Jack led us to your door. Timozel, my
escort, could barely support us himself because of his own exhaustion. Goodwife, I do not know
how we can adequately repay you for the kindness you have shown us.‖
―Oh,‖ the Goodwife beamed, ―‗tis nothing more than any Artor-fearing soul would do.‖
She paused, then found the courage to say what she wanted. ―Oh, my Lady, you are so
beautiful!‖ Faraday‘s brief touch had emboldened the country woman and she reached out an
admiring hand and smoothed back Faraday‘s chestnut hair from her forehead. The Goodwife had
never seen a noblewoman this close and she marvelled at the softness and whiteness of Faraday‘s
skin. Among those of her rank women had weather-lined faces by the time they were twenty,
courtesy of the long months spent either in the field or helping their menfolk herd the livestock
to pasture.
Faraday finished the broth and grimaced a little. ―Goodwife, we are all so dirty. May I
stretch my good fortune further and ask if perhaps we might have a wash? And if you have some
clean clothes while we brush out our dirty ones…my maid has no clothes at all. She,‖ Faraday
improvised quickly, ―was caught by the storm as she was washing in a stream and her own
clothes were blown away. If you could spare her one of your work dresses I will repay you well
for your trouble.‖ Faraday wore a thin gold chain strung with five pearls about her neck that
would more than adequately repay the Goodpeople Renkin for any food or clothes they might
give them.
The Goodwife was so thrilled to have such a noble and gracious guest that if Faraday had
asked for all their possessions the Goodwife would have been hard put to refuse her. Faraday
shook Yr out of her slumber and the Goodwife led them, Yr complaining under her breath about
having been so abruptly woken, to a small shed behind the house where there were barrels of
rainwater. The Goodwife gave them towels and blankets, a bar of rough yellow soap, two of her
work dresses and short woollen capes as well as boots for Yr, and left them to scrub themselves
as clean as they could with buckets of cold water. Faraday and Yr washed quickly but
thoroughly, shivering in the cold, then scrambled into the rough woollen dresses, their skin red
from the scrubbing they had given themselves and tinged blue in places from the cold. The
dresses hung loosely on both women, and Faraday‘s ankles stuck out below the hem of the dress
of the much shorter woman. Both smiled wryly at the sight of themselves, bunching the worsted
material and cinching it tight to their waists with woollen ties, but the dresses were warm and Yr
and Faraday decided to stay and wash their hair, taking it in turns to scrub and massage the scalp
of the other.
When they re-entered the farmhouse the Goodwife had woken Jack and Timozel who sat
bleary-eyed before the fire, sipping mugs of warm broth. Faraday noticed that Jack had resumed
his vacant, simple expression, and she marvelled at how easily he did it. Who could not trust a