The Goodwife smiled and bobbed. “And perhaps some more of the claw-leaf mint, nVLady, for your tea in the mornings?” She patted Faraday’s hand again, then walked off.
Faraday watched as the Goodwife wandered away, her boots clumping to this side and that, yet never leaving a mark where they trod.
“Come on, Faraday,” she muttered to herself as the Goodwife disappeared behind a thick stand of bracken, “already .it grows towards dusk and you’ve still Meera, Borsth and Jemile to plant out.” She clicked to the donkeys behind her, and strode up the long wide valley.
Faraday was more than happy with her progress. From Arcen she and the Goodwife had planted in a swathe directly north then, as they reached the lower slopes of the Bracken Ranges, they’d gradually swung north-west. I’ll plant all the
way through to Fernbrake Lake, Faraday thought, and give these Icarii cities I keep hearing about some shaded walks for the hot summer afternoons. Over the past week or two an increasing number of Icarii flew overhead, sometimes waving, sometimes dropping down for a chat, and Faraday could hardly wait to see what they had recovered further to the west.
And from there to Fernbrake Lake and the Mother. Faraday took a deep breath of excited anticipation. She would be there in time for Yuletide and there, she hoped, would be some of the Avar to greet her.
She grinned. What would the Avar make of the Goodwife, and what would she of them? Faraday did not know how the Avar and Icarii would celebrate Yuletide this far from the Earth Tree Grove, but she was sure that whatever they did it would be both beautiful and moving.
She turned back. Her view of the plains was cut off by the low hills behind her, but she could see a faint sheen of green beyond their rise. Minstrelsea, now planted in a great arc across the plains of Tarantaise and Arcness, sung gently to itself. Tomorrow when she rose, Faraday knew that today’s seedlings would be full grown and full of song and joy, and soon Minstrelsea would spread deep into the Bracken Ranges.
Whistling cheerfully, the Goodwife wandered along the gully. She had recovered her spirits since that sneaky attack in the market hall of Arcen. That had been a nasty surprise, and the Goodwife was sure she’d prevented a murder. Evil-faced man, and with an even more evil touch about him. Artor, the Goodwife thought, for I smelled the same evil when they came to take my gran away.
She sighed. She had not told Faraday about the man, for she did not want to worry the girl, but the Goodwife had been immensely relieved when they finally left Arcen. No more crowded market places to trap her Lady, only the open air and the music of the trees behind them.
The Goodwife browsed for some minutes longer, walking deeper and deeper into the gully. There! The claw-foot mint she had been sure she would see. These hills were full of good herbs, and wasn’t it lovely that she should be free to wander and examine them at her leisure? She straightened and peered ahead, then her eyes gleamed. Ah! The willow-waisted endura that would be sure to ease Faraday when …
A rock hit her on the back of the head with well-aimed retribution, and the Goodwife collapsed unmoving to the ground. The eight Brothers sprang from their hiding places and leaped down the sides of the gully in ungainly bounds, restraining their cheers and contenting themselves with punching silent fists into the air.
They had got the Fiend!
The Goodwife was only stunned, but she did not have time to rise before all eight reached her, the two largest sitting down firmly on her back.
“Omph!” she cried as another pushed her face into the din. Faraday!
“What do we do now?” one of the Brothers asked as the excitement of the capture faded.
The others thought hard. “Wait,” one eventually said. “Wait, until the Brother-Leader calls us.”
Faraday did not notice Gilbert until she turned to pick the last seedling from the cart. He stood at the other side, his face red and sweaty, his eyes ablaze with fanaticism.
He hissed, and Faraday involuntarily took a step back.
“Gilbert?” She could hardly believe it. She hadn’t seen him since…when? Before Borneheld died, she was sure of it. What was he doing here? “Gilbert?”
“Witch!”
“Gilbert!” Faraday’s voice was strained now, her eyes flickered over the seedling still in the cart. She could feel her distress even from this distance.
“What do you do, Faraday?” Gilbert asked, and Faraday recoiled at the loathing in his voice. And there was something else . . .
What do I do? She thought frantically. Should she tell Gilbert exactly what she did? How could he not know! Suddenly Azhure’s warning about Gilbert and Moryson sprang into her mind. Faraday had dismissed Azhure’s concern then, but now she could feel nothing but danger from the man.
And where was the Goodwife? Her eyes quickly swept the surrounding hills.
“The Fiend has been disposed of,” Gilbert said, and Faraday’s eyes flashed back to his.
“Fiend?” she whispered. Disposed oft “Now it’s just you and me.” Gilbert moved around the cart and Faraday breathed in relief; he had not noticed the seedling. “It’s time you died, Faraday.”
It was the way he said the words, rather than the words themselves, that completely shocked her.
“No.” She tried to smile, backing away anothef step. “Gilbert, you must be tired and hungry. That’s all. Why don’t you stay and eat with us?” What had he done with the Goodwife?
Gilbert edged forward. “Evil, Faraday. That’s what you are. Time to die. Artor says it’s time that you died.”
“Gilbert . . .” She backed away yet another step, her hands clenching her skirts.
Gilbert paused and smiled strangely. “Why did you give up Artor, Faraday? Once you were as pious a girl as He could have wished. A suitable handmaiden to the god. Why did you deny Him?”
“I found other gods, Gilbert,” she said. “More beautiful and more compassionate than Artor.” She took a deep breath and fought to keep calm. “Let me tell you about the Mother.” She reached down for her Mother’s power.
And found nothing.
Gilbert burst into a wild cackle of laughter. “Fool! Don’t you know walk with Artor’s power now? Your pitiful Mother is nothing compared to Him!”
Now she realised what it was that was different about Gilbert. He wore an aura of power about him that Faraday had seen in others. Axis, StarDrifter, Azhure, Raum, even the Good-wife on occasion. But they wore the power of the stars or of the earth itself, and what now shone from Gilbert’s eyes was none of that. It was foreign. Evil. It had cut her off from the Mother.
“Artor’s power!” he hissed, and stepped forward, his hands extended.
“Can your Artor be all-powerful, Gilbert, if so much of western Tencendor now supports forest instead of dusty furrows?”
Gilbert blinked but didn’t hesitate. “Already Artor readies His plough, witch, and soon the trees will lie torn and broken behind His wrath!” His eyes flared, and in their depths Faraday thought she could see red bulls tossing their crazed horns.
She screamed, turned to run, and caught her foot in a rabbit burrow. As she hit the ground she heard Gilbert’s boot crunch by her ear, and felt his hand grab the back of her dress.
“Bitch!” he grunted, and she felt his other hand fasten around her hair. “Time to die.”
He hauled her to her knees, breathless with excitement and with the fear he could see in her eyes, and reached for her neck. This time he would succeed, this time he would not fail! And felt, instead, hands creep about his own neck. “No!” he wailed, indignant rather than frightened. “This is my time!”
“Right!” Moryson said, and his hands tightened so that Gilbert’s cheeks purpled and his eyes bulged obscenely. “Your time to die, you senseless idiot! This has gone far enough!”
Gilbert’s hands released Faraday to scrabble uselessly at the fingers gripping his own throat, and she scurried back from the struggling men.
Moryson! The old man was even more crazed than Gilbert. His thin brown hair stood on end and his blue eyes blazed with what Faraday assumed to be dementia. His lips were pulled back into a snarl, and his teeth gleamed with thin-roped saliva. He looked as dangerous as a rabid dog.
As Gilbert wheezed and his eyes rolled frantically, Faraday felt the barrier that had prevented her contacting her power crumble. She stumbled to her feet and drew on as much of the Mother’s power as she thought she could handle, letting it sear through her body.
Now Moryson and Gilbert were rolling about on the ground, locked together, and in the tumbling bodies Faraday could not see for a minute which was Gilbert and which was Moryson – and if she saved Moryson, would he then turn on her? There was a sudden wet crack and a whimper, and the struggling ceased. Moryson, old, decrepit and utterly, utterly deranged, scrambled panting to his feet. Gilbert lay dead, his cheek resting beside the last seedling Faraday had planted so that the shadow of its leaves traced peacefully over his cheek.