The Last of the Runners

Racontour lay at the bottom of a valley, a tiny oasis in the deep forest. The whitewashed cottages huddled together for protection from the darkness of the trees, A few fields had been cleared on the sunny side of the valley, just enough to support the village if the season was fair. The animals, the sheep, goats and pigs were left to graze among the trees. Occasionally, they lost one to the wild inhabitants, but it was seen as a fair price for the grazing.

Kyrin dropped down into the valley on the evening of the third day. The circle of brown shadows had opened to allow him to go down into the village. At the edge of the village, he had found the sign, a round stone with five pebbles round it on the left hand side of the road. At least it was a meal and he could ask about Ash Couper. Perhaps he could stay with him.

The fifth cottage was pretty. A well kept rose climbed around the door, with the orange hips bright against the whitewashed wall. The brass knocker appeared too grand for the door, but it brought a short round woman to open it. She looked nervous, as if surprised to see him.

“Is it that time already?” she had said, recovering herself with a smile and showing him in. She cast a nervous look out into the street. “Good job I got that extra chop this morning, wasn’t it?”

Kyrin smiled. The smell coming from the kitchen was interesting, although it definitely included cabbage. Again it was nice to be out of the air for a while and to sit by a real fire, instead of having to create one. His hostess bustled back and forward, in the kitchen one minute, looking out the window the next as she brought in the cutlery. As he sat there, Kyrin tried to take in extra details of the fire – how did it feel as it warmed him or when the wind blew across the chimney – anything that could help him improve the fire weave.

“I won’t make you wait for my husband,” she said,” because I’m sure you’ll be wanting to get off to track down old Ash. He’s easier to find at night because he lights a fire.”

“How did you know I needed to find Ash?” asked Kyrin.

“Oh,” she said, a slight note of panic in her voice, “that’s easy. All you running boys want to find Ash.”

She served the food, a succulent pork chop with crispy crackling, roast potatoes and, as he had suspected, plenty of watery cabbage. Just as in Contefay, the joy of hot food to eat after days on cold rations was immense and Kyrin took no time to clean his plate, including the cabbage. The prospect of a meeting with Ash Couper was further encouragement. The woman did not sit down but hovered between the table and the window, nervously looking up and down the road before going back into the kitchen. Kyrin went to move his bags from under the window. As he did so, he saw the curtain in the house opposite twitch shut.

“Steam pudding,” the round woman announced, producing the same with a jug of custard. “You tuck in and I’ll just check with my neighbour as to where they last saw old Ash. Won’t be a moment.”

Kyrin did as he was invited and was on a second helping of the excellent pudding when his hostess returned.

“Southern side of the valley, she reckons, and very busy among the oaks. Don’t rush yourself, my dear, he won’t go far.”

Kyrin had made to get up.

“Have some more pudding. Boy like you needs feeding up. All skin and bone. Here let me serve you.”

Kyrin felt the hairs on the back of neck prickle. Something had changed in the tone of her voice. Although she still smiled, she suddenly seemed very keen to delay his departure. He had to leave, quickly, and without causing a scene. He knew it in his bones.

“I won’t need to eat for a week,” he said, stretching and pushing his chair away from the table. “The southern side of the valley, you say?”

“Well, that’s what she said,” the woman said quickly, standing between him and the door. “Though she said she’d ask and pop round if she heard anything different.”

The knocker clattered on the door.

“Oh, that’ll be her now.”

It had not been the knock of a neighbour. It had been heavy and threatening and the woman’s voice had been virtually a squeak. Kyrin went straight to his bags. He had no time to lose. He heard the woman open the door and despite her cheery tone, he heard a male voice speaking to her. He opened the window and looked out. He caught a glimpse of grey by the door and he made his decision.

Out went his bags and he jumped, rolling in the grass to stay low. He saw the grey figure go into the cottage and knew he had just a few seconds advantage. He slung his bags over his shoulder and jumped the hedge. Bent double, he ran as fast as he could back the way he had come, making for the cover of the trees. Get lost in the forest and then he could start looking for Ash Couper.

“Stop that boy!”

He heard the shout and straightened up. No point hiding and it was easier to run that way. Then a second grey figure appeared on the road in front of him, so Kyrin cut across the street and down between two cottages. He heard the heavy feet pounding after him and sprinted down the alley. Behind the cottages were a mass of allotment strips, where the villagers grew vegetables to help eke out their simple meals. Rows of large cabbages crisscrossed the strips. Bean poles waiting to be cleared stood guard, the dry bean stalks rustling in the wind. Kyrin zigzagged through the allotments, hurdling the cabbages, changing direction behind the bean pole screens, hiding behind a water butt to catch his breath, and laughing – if he had had breath to do so - at the galumphing efforts of his pursuers.

He waited until he saw the two Watchers come together at the far corner, then he made a run for it. Keeping low behind a couple of rows of bean poles, then he was sprinting between the cabbages and out into the trees. He heard them shouting, but Kyrin did not stop until he reached the top of the valley and could look down on the village. He slung his bags off and slumped down against an oak tree.

His heart was racing and his lungs were burning. How had he run so fast after such a meal? He was angry. Why had she taken him in, only to go and call a Watcher? If she didn’t want to help the runners why did she set the signs to invite them in? He didn’t understand. The world was very complicated. At least the food had been good.

Now he had to find the staff hewer. If the woman was to be believed, he was on the southern side of the valley. However, how much faith could he put in anything she said. It was just as likely to be full of Watchers as to be hiding the mysterious Ash Couper, particularly now.

Kyrin shivered. The sweat that had soaked into his shirt was cold now. He had to move, get his body temperature up again or he would struggle to be warm that night. He stood up. His legs felt heavy after the chase, but he began to walk. Weaving his way between the trees, the chill soon went and he began his search in earnest.

The cart bumped and hissed along the road and the cage rattled horribly over each rut. The Sub-Magister sat in the back of the cart next to the cage, while the Magister’s wide behind left the driver very cramped on the front seat as he struggled with the controls on the rutted road. The steam carts were fine on the smooth roads of the city, but struggled once they were out in the country and away from the guidance magnets. The cold edge to the wind could not touch the Sub-Magister. His heart was already frozen by the despair he felt. He hardly dared to think about what had happened with sympathy, for fear the pain would return behind his eyes. Mrs Bruntler had been right. He had not quite thrown off the Magister’s weave. Indeed he wondered whether he had managed to throw it off at all.

The Rector’s announcement that the runners had been ended had made the old woman say she had sent Kyrin on to Racontour, for she had not seen the slight shake of the head that Gan had been able to give Kyrin’s mother. She did not think it would cause any harm. The Magister had sent a group of Watchers there, just in case. The Sub-Magister had told them what signs to look for so that they could find the safe house, make an arrest if the runner had passed through or lay a trap if he had not yet arrived.

The Sub-Magister had found the next piece of evidence for himself. After much frantic reading, he had discovered that the Tourney of Tales was held at the solstice near Tournemittes. Runners had the chance to show their abilities to the assembled Weavers and they would then be accepted as novices. Allocated a Master, a date would be set for them take their place in the Tourney itself when they could prove themselves and become a Master Weaver. Three entries to the Tourney were allowed and if a novice could become a Master at his first attempt, he would be acclaimed as the Weaver King. This, the manuscript had said, had not happened for over two hundred years, as there had always been more than one runner.

He had given the information to the Rector, who had ordered the Magister to take all the Watchers to Tournemittes and wait. The Sub-Magister was to go as well and report directly to the Rector on any developments. The Rector had also spent some time questioning the Sub-Magister about Kyrin; how long had the Sub-Magister known him, when had his family come to the village, what did he know about Kyrin’s father and other details that seemed to have nothing to do with the situation. The Sub-Magister answered truthfully, though it pained him to think that he might be betraying his friend, for the words of the prophecy rang in his brain. He was excited and terrified in equal measure: excited that it was his friend who could be the Weaver King; terrified for the dangers that Kyrin had to face. Could he get past the thirty Watchers to reach his goal? What would happen to him if he was caught?

He hugged his knees, trying to stay warm and he hummed to himself. Out of the restricted space of the cells, the tune had stopped hurting him. In fact, it had become a sort of comfort, a reminder of a time when life was simple, when a Gan he hardly remembered and a Kyrin it seemed he scarcely knew had run through the fields laughing. The tune also seemed to irritate the Magister and anything that did that in these grey times was pleasing to the Sub-Magister.

You would have thought that finding a hewer of staffs in a forest would be easy, but Kyrin was forced to compare it to the needle in the haystack. It did not help that he had been forced back on himself three times by the appearance of the Watchers. They were obviously hunting for him, but he could not tell if it was the same pair each time or if there were others. Also, Kyrin had not noticed any of the brown shadows that had been following him since Contefay.

So he had gone up and down the valley, finding ways past the Watchers and looking for any clues that would point him towards Ash Couper. Having searched the northern side of the valley and found nothing, Kyrin dropped down to the valley floor. It took him quite a time to find a ford over the river that bubbled down the valley and through Racontour. The grey pre-dawn light was beginning to show as he started to climb into the woods on the southern slopes. Kyrin was tired, yet he knew he could not sleep, at least not until he found Ash Couper.

The woods on the southern slopes were darker than their northern brothers. In a desperate struggle for sunlight, the trunks and branches had twisted and intertwined. The brambles and ivy too had climbed high, creating a thorny web that stopped Kyrin time and again, turning him back more effectively than any Watcher. It was very dark; every colour was the darkest shade it could be and into this dark green, blue, black, brown world, little slivers of the orange dawn cut through, dancing flames in the gloom.

One sliver touched a rock, maybe fifty paces from where Kyrin was disentangling himself from the brambles. As it played on the surface, picking out the mosses that tried to hide the stone from prying eyes, Kyrin saw that the rock seemed to be one side of a cleft in the valley wall. He dragged himself free of the brambles, ignoring how they scratched and snagged his clothes. As he got closer, he saw that he was right. The rock he had seen arched twelve feet into the sky, and was so covered in dark green moss and blue lichens that you would have taken it for a rotting tree trunk. It was leaning against more rock, similarly covered in moss and lichen, but creating a triangular opening into the valley side. Kyrin decided to investigate what lay behind the opening. If nothing else, it might give him a safe place to rest or leave his bags while he searched for the hewer.

One step across the threshold and the silence surprised him. He stepped back and could hear the wind sighing in the trees and the birds beginning their day. One step forward and there was nothing. Even his breathing made no noise, nor his feet on the gravel floor. Another step and the silence deepened, like a heavy blanket being draped over his head.

“What do you seek?”

A voice in the silence. Kyrin could see nothing, the dark in the cleft as deep as the silence.

“What do you seek?”

The voice again. Kyrin sensed it this time, not coming from outside but inside his head. How could he answer? He spoke, but heard nothing, the words swallowed up in the silence.

“What do you seek?”

A third question. What to answer? It asked what, not who. How to answer? He could not speak words for no sound could be heard. What is it I want? Kyrin thought desperately. I want to tell you. I must tell you. How do I?

“The tool of my trade.”

The thought rang loudly round his head, echoing as if in a huge cavern, and Kyrin’s heart sang with the echo.

“Well answered,” said the voice. “The answer of a true Weaver. Step forward and I will help you.”

Kyrin stepped forward, cautiously, a step at a time. His feet began to crunch on the gravel once more; He could hear his breathing and sense the thumping of his heart. The darkness thinned and a grey light filtered down into the cave from a cleft high in the ceiling. There, on a simple stool, surrounded by stacks of wooden staves, sat Ash Couper.

His face could have been hacked from the same rock that guarded the entrance. His nose curved like a beak and every line was etched very deep on his face. His hair was thin and white and flowed wildly back from his high forehead. He turned to look at Kyrin and two green eyes flashed in the dark shadows of his face.

“It has been a long wait, little master,” he said, “but you are most welcome. Most welcome indeed. Come and sit. You can rest here.”