these thoughts. Look,’ he said, pointing. ‘There goes Greven. Why would he be so dressed up? His meetings are usually with farmers and he only wears that jacket and shirt if he’s attending a wedding or a funeral. And I know he’s going to neither.’
Piven watched in silence as Greven disappeared down the incline. Then he continued. ‘Whoever he’s meeting, I know it’s not good news for us. I know it’s going to affect me and this is not a good time.’ He banged the tree. ‘Not a good time at all! Something’s happening to me. Do you know I soured the milk yesterday? Greven made me cross because he didn’t like my mending a squirrel with a broken leg, and my bad humour curdled the entire pail I’d just milked from Belle. I’m sure he knew it too because he hasn’t said too much about Bonny’s lameness that is now miraculously cured.
‘I thought curing her would make me feel happy; I try to use my skills wisely but for all the good they can do, I’m paying a price. I’m sure of it. My heart is filling with hate, Vyk; I feel increasingly angry at my situation and yet just a few months ago I couldn’t have been happier. And nothing’s changed. I’m leading the same life, which I love, and yet I feel such rage. I can control it—my anger—but when I exercise that control, quelling the power inside, quietening my fury, something bad happens, like the soured milk. And it’s going to get worse. I sense it. I’m frightened by it. I just want everything to remain the same but I think Greven’s meeting today will change everything.’ He knew he was rambling; words were tumbling out of his mouth furiously, crowding together and turning into a tirade.
The bird shifted on his shoulder, making a clacking sound near his ear. It sounded like a question.
‘I don’t know. That’s just it, I don’t know, but this darkness, this growing up so fast and this new awareness about myself is driving me towards something, or someone, and I’m not sure I can control my urge any longer. Besides, Greven thinks he’s got me fooled. I admire his cunning and I especially admire his courage because this life of his must require a will of iron, but he underestimates me. And soon I won’t be able to shield him from the truth any longer.’
He shrugged and the raven leapt to another branch. ‘It’s the magic, Vyk, it’s not me. Promise me we’ll always be friends, no matter what. I sense you understand me, even if you can’t tell me as much. Don’t desert me, even if I disappoint you—or frighten you. The magic controls me now and I need to understand it more. Someone somewhere must know what it wants.’
Piven turned sadly and trudged deeper into the forest in search of the fungi he knew they would never use.
Oblivious to Piven’s pain, Greven strode into Minton Woodlet, a village with one inn but with a second being built, testimony to the growing importance of the village’s hardy golasses vines. It seemed the barbarians enjoyed the dense, dark wines of the south that drew their flavours from the salty air of the sea nearby and the earthiness of the forest that they flanked. Greven was sure that even within a few anni, Minton Woodlet would be a flourishing southern town with a burgeoning population, swelled by the transient workers who streamed into the region at grape-picking time. His and Piven’s days were numbered here.
‘Hello, Jon,’ an attractive woman said, slowing her walk as she approached him.
He liked Evelyn but not as much or in the same way that she liked him. He could almost regret the tumble they had taken together in his bed when Piven had once again been out hunting down the precious saramac fungus. That had been when the outward signs of his leprosy had begun to disappear and he had been feeling particularly joyous about Piven’s astonishing healing skills. Piven could work miracles; the boy made him look like a charlatan with his silly herbals. But now those skills frightened him. Piven had been a lot sunnier then and Greven knew that the boy’s present disposition was not simply the result of becoming a moody youth; it was more than that. It was a feeling of darkness.
‘Jon, you old devil, you look more handsome with each passing moon,’ Evelyn said. ‘Your skin looks mighty good.’
Even from the early days with Piven the side of his face most affected by the lesions had dried up, looking more like a skin complaint than anything more serious. He’d stuck to that story, explaining it was a result of accidental poisoning from some of his less predictable plants, and people had accepted it, especially as the sores no longer looked like traditional leprosy.
‘Yes, it seems the poison has finally worked its way out of my body,’ he smiled.
‘Indeed. You look very good, very smart.’
‘Thank you. I’m seeing some people who knew me from my childhood at Medhaven,’ he said, hoping to move on quickly.
But Evelyn clearly wanted to linger. ‘Oh, that would be the couple staying at the Grape and Whistle?’
Greven felt a prick of fear sting him but he kept his voice even. ‘Probably,’ he replied absently and then in an effort to distance himself from the visitors added: ‘I hope I recognise them. I haven’t seen them in many anni.’
‘I’ve just been speaking with them. Clovis and Reuth, right?’
Greven feigned a smile. ‘That’s right,’ he said, as if he’d heard their names for the first time in a very long time.
‘Nice people.’ She frowned, and he could almost see her reaching for the opportunity to prolong this meeting. ‘How do you kno—?’
‘Forgive me, Evelyn, but I mustn’t be late. And I’ve promised to call in on old Bern; his gout’s playing up.’ Greven began to move forward. ‘I really must find a better remedy than the one we’re using now.’ He smiled in genuine apology. ‘Sorry to rush off.’
She returned his smile, although hers was tinged with sadness, as if she knew he needed to escape her. He would have to confront this matter again, he realised. He needed to be forthright but gentle, rather than relying on this cowardly avoidance. But not today.
He lifted a hand in farewell and turned his back on Evelyn to complete his journey into Minton Woodlet. It was a busy morning. He’d forgotten it was market day but that suited him; more people around meant it would be easier to talk to the strangers without drawing attention.
The Grape and Whistle loomed. Greven felt a mad desire to turn and run, to run as far away from this place as possible. He had an ominous sense of doom closing in. It was getting harder to fight the illness he’d suffered since birth, of course. He thought of it as a disease and rather than fighting his urges he’d given in to them, little by little. By exposing himself to his desires, he had taught himself how to stay on top of the driving need. The forest helped, and the forced removal from society that the telltale leprosy had required was the best remedy of all, but still he tempted fate, deliberately remaining close to the eye of the storm, in the hope that as the years passed he would master full control.
And he had. By the time he found the courage to follow the raven to the fringe of the forest that day, he was confident of his immunity to his weakness. And had demonstrated it. But he wondered now if Piven’s wild and powerful magic might somehow seek out the truth. He didn’t understand it—it didn’t make sense—but he found himself unable to spend great lengths of timearound the boy. He particularly hated his testiness around his child but lately he was having to dig deeper and deeper to wrestle his urge to walk out of the forest that hid him so well. Perhaps he should tell the boy. Piven might be able to help him.
Greven shook his head. It was a glorious Blossomtide day, and this meeting had nothing to do with that old fear. Still, he needed to summon his courage to force himself across the threshold of the inn.
Minton Woodlet was not a direct route to anywhere in particular but it did serve as a logical stopping point for anyone heading to or from the island of Medhaven. As he cast a glance around the main front room of the inn, he saw only strangers—all travellers, he assumed—aside from the familiar faces of the people who worked