The Last of the Runners

Tournemittes was a strange town. Whether you called it a valley or a crater did not matter for Tournemittes was still at the bottom. At the heart of this walled town stood the Lists, a circular enclosure with tiers of seats around a sandy arena. The narrow streets twisted and turned like no other place the Sub-Magister had ever visited. There was no main street that led to the heart of the town and the Lists. You had to take your chance in the labyrinth of streets. After spending an hour trying to find his way to the Lists only to find himself back at the main gate, the Sub-Magister decided that guarding the approach to the town was the surest way forward. So he split the Watchers into two groups and had them watch the two town gates. When he had mastered the route to the Lists, he would decide what could be done there.

The local inhabitants were far from welcoming. This far from Villblanche, they saw little reason to be polite to the Watchers or cooperate with their searches. They did not benefit from the steam technologies that dominated life in the great city. However, they had to pay a heavy tax if they wished to burn coal, as so much was demanded by Villblanche’s engines. Left with the effort of collecting and burning wood, any chance to get at representative of Villblanche was taken quickly and with relish. The Sub-Magister was quickly obliged to have his Watchers just watch the gates into the town as their ham-fisted attempts to stop anyone who looked like an thirteen year old boy had come close to provoking a riot.

“Watching will be enough,” he had said, “as the boy is not due for another three days.”

The Sub-Magister had, of course, omitted to mention that he had changed the date of Kyrin’s departure. He was actually likely to arrive in the next twenty four hours. No point in getting the Watchers excited. The less alert they were the better it would be. His headache had become a perpetual companion and he did not want their stupidity to add to his pain.

With the locals pacified, the Sub-Magister turned his attention to the curious matter of how to reach the Lists. You could see the wooden enclosure at the centre of the town as you descended into the valley, but there did not seem to be an obvious route to it once you got through the main gate.

Logic is the only thing here, thought the Sub-Magister, and he took a notebook and pencil and began to explore.

Inside the gate, the road turned to the left. The Sub-Magister followed it for a short distance, then took the first turning on the right, reckoning that would take him towards the centre. However, that road arced round and brought him out ten yards to the right of the gate on a part of the main road he had not seen going that way.

He walked back past the gate and tried the second turning on the right. This one did not curve round but went straight to a fork in the road. First, he chose the left hand fork which went left, turned right then left again and brought him back onto the road from the main gate just twenty yards further on. He went back to the second turning on the right, walked to the fork and this time took the right hand fork. Right, left, left, left, left and left again and he was back out on the main street ten yards further from where he had come out the time before.

He stopped and looked up and down the road. Nobody seemed frustrated or annoyed. They were all going back and forward perfectly normally. It was natural to think that a road near the gate would lead to the centre, perhaps too natural. The Sub-Magister walked further on, watching for where the locals turned off. However, maybe they knew he was an outsider, perhaps they knew what he was trying to find, but the gave him no clues, turning up side streets in ones or twos, giving no hint as to which would give him a direct route to the Lists.

At last, the Sub-Magister chose another turning to the right. This road seemed to run more naturally, going straight and the road that came off it to either side also ran straight. There was no curving to confuse the walker and throw him back onto the main street inside the wall. At the end, it turned to the right, then left, then right, right again, left and left again. Then it went straight on for a while before retracing the pattern in reverse – left, left, right, right, left right – to bring him out into the narrow lane that ran around the Lists.

The wooden walls were higher than most houses and it made the lane very dark. His first circuit of the Lists revealed no doors in the panelled exterior. He was not even sure he had made a complete circuit, for he could find with certainty the lane he had just come out. Then he noticed a black metal latch in one of the planks. He tried it and a door opened.

The Sub-Magister stepped inside and found he was at the foot of a flight of stairs, leading up through the dark to a light opening. He went up and came out among the tiers of seating that looked down onto the Lists. Made of polished pine, the arena appeared golden, surrounding the sandy Lists with its painted poles and central dais. It was an impressive sight, thought the Sub- Magister, but it would be a difficult place to guard. Looking around, there were a dozen openings in the tiered seating, each of which, no doubt, had a staircase and an almost invisible door, marked by the latches that appeared to be set at random in the wood. If there were other doors for the competitors, then they were hidden even better. The Sub-Magister had seen no sign of any door on his first circuit and only now that he had found one latch was he able - in two circuits of the lane – to spot the other eleven. However, two further circuits did not reveal any additional entrances to the Sub-Magister, who was forced to conclude, sadly, that he was intended to be a mere spectator of events that happened in the Lists.

He made his way back to the main gate – not without difficulty as it took three attempts to find a lane that led him back there. Observers on the gates and patrols on the street that ran round inside the wall – that was what he would institute and recommend to the Magister when he arrived, with perhaps a patrol in the dark lane around the Lists. Even trying his best to do his job, the Sub-Magister had to concede that he had left openings for the runner, although to his relief, it had not increased his headaches. Tournemittes seemed to favour the runners, with its narrow, switchback roads and dark lanes and not even a hundred Watchers could combat that. The next few days promised to be interesting and the Sub-Magister had no idea which side would emerge victorious.

They had walked seriously through the darkest part of the night. Such walking left little opportunity for conversation. Too many trees and roots for small talk as they needed all their concentration to stay on their feet. Kyrin noticed how easily Lila moved between the trees, with the practised step of someone for whom the forests were home. It was the same loping stride that Ash had used, although she was less bent forward, and it did not try to force a passage through any undergrowth, so it snagged at her less and let her pass.

At length, she put her hand on his shoulder and they sat down to rest. There was the slightest greying of the eastern sky to hint at morning. Kyrin could feel the hammer blow of sleep trying to push him to the ground, but he did not know whether their agreement allowed for sleeping or who would keep lookout. He knew Ash had done that each time they stopped, but could he ask a Master to do the same. Besides, he wanted to find out more about this Master.

“Sleep now,” said Lila.

Kyrin went to protest but Lila just smiled and he lay back on his bags and slept, instantly, deeply and peacefully. Lila smiled, to herself this time, to see how she had used her Weaver’s skill. Of course, she would argue that he needed to sleep. Tomorrow would be a busy day and he needed to recharge more than he needed to find out about her. Her story could wait until he had made it safely to the dais at the centre of the Lists. Then, however, he would have more on his mind and she would be spared.

Why would he want to hear her story anyway? What would interest him in the miserable tale she would tell? Would the Weaver King want to know how lonely it was to be different from your peers? Not to share the same interests or aspirations as the other girls in the village school; to try to be another person, taking delight in pure academic success as a route out of the village only to find that it threatened to become a dead end just as stifling as the brick kilns. Would Kyrin want to know how she just walked out of the village not knowing where to go or why she was leaving?

Lila had not known of the Story Weavers. No one in her village became a runner. No one did anything but make bricks or raise children. Digging the wet clay or feeding the big kilns, that was the limit of the drama in her village. So when she had knocked on the door of the eighth house on the right hand side of the road in Contefay, she had had no idea how her life would change.

The old woman had seemed puzzled, but still welcoming, perhaps more than Lila had expected. She had planned on walking through the village when a sudden squall had driven her to seek shelter in the nearest cottage. Fed and warm for the first time in a week, she had found a staff, leaning beside the dresser and, fascinated by its polished surface, she had picked it up.

How the sun had shone on the hot sand and beautiful, multi-coloured parrots had flocked from the trees to greet her! Turning from the dazzle of flashing feathers, she had turned to look out to sea and found mermaids frolicking in the waves and singing their welcome to her.

Lila had sunk to her knees, tears rolling down her cheeks, ecstatic to have found an answer to so many questions in her life in one moment of revelation. To realise why she had felt so alienated from the dull life that surrounded her, to understand what power was pent up within her and how her heart sang in its freedom.

The old woman had let her sleep and hurried to find the shadows in the trees, to tell them of the extraordinary person who lay sleeping in her small back bedroom. Nothing in the lore prohibited it, for female Weavers existed, though none had ever joined the run before and sought to become a Master. Therefore, they had told the old woman to send on her to Racontour and the staff hewer. If she was to be a Weaver, she needed to find a staff. This was a surer test. If no staff responded to her touch, if she did not choose a staff, there would be no cause for concern.

Ash Couper had been most welcoming. His was a simple task and he had no concerns for ancient lore or tradition. He had been delighted when she had selected a beech staff that had hummed delightedly in her hands from the eighteenth pile of staves and filled the cave with golden light. He had spoken to her of the Tourney of Tales and how the Masters would appoint one of their number to train the novice and then how the novice would have the chance to demonstrate her skill in the Tourney Lists.

The memory of Ash Couper’s enthusiasm and excitement when she chose the beech staff brought a fresh tear to her eye. No one else would have that joyful encounter with the hewer of staffs. Who would select staffs for the Weavers now and help the runners make their choice? Tears remained in her eyes, for this journey back through her life had reached her Master, and the freshness of her breaking with him stung even more.

Master Kyrl had stood up for her in the Lists when no other Master would contemplate taking her as a novice. She had made the journey, seen pictures when she touched the Weaver’s staff, found a staff that responded to her from the stacks in the hewer’s cave. She had earned the right to be trained and when all the others had shied away, Kyrl had knelt before her and taken her hands in his, claiming her as his novice. She had been with him for seven years and he had shown her there was more to the Weaver’s art than was traditionally shown to women. Vital as they were to the community, the nurturing, caring weaves had not appealed to Lila. Whilst she had been a Master in her own right for six years, she missed Kyrl’s guidance. Now she had to guide another, but how she longed to ask him how to do it. She hoped he would understand why she had to disobey him.

The grey dawn had come up as much as it was going to that morning. The clouds were low and wind was keen. It seemed to be blowing directly down the road they had to take, but it could not be allowed to slow them. They would have a lead over the Watchers, thanks to their march through the trees and they had to maintain it.

Lila woke Kyrin gently, helping him to his feet and with his bags.

“The last stretch,” she said, “We’ll be in Tournemittes tonight.”

“Will I be in time?” asked Kyrin.

“Yes,” she said, “You need to have made your way into the Lists by tomorrow.”

“Then let’s get started,” he said, “We take the road now?”

“Indeed, little Master, you have chosen well.”

They set off, surprised at first by how fast they could move now they were out of the trees. The brisk pace did what it could to counter the chilling effect of the wind but after the first couple of miles, it began to grip and slow them. Lila moved ahead of Kyrin, sheltering him from the icy blast. It helped to keep him going. They had walked about a mile like this and then Kyrin moved to the front. He might have only sheltered two thirds of Lila, but he doggedly took his turn head to wind. She was amazed. He had not been asked; he had just taken on the task, a natural politeness, and he sought no more help from her than would come from common courtesy. Thus they walked through the morning, turn and turn about, sharing the miles they had to face the chilling wind.

Lila turned at the top of a rise, struck by a fresh gust from which the slope had shielded them. She stared back down the road, then pushed Kyrin off the road and down into the bracken as quickly as she could.

“What is it?” asked Kyrin, struggling out of the brown fronds.

“Keep down,” she whispered, peering out at the road. “A rider. On a mechanical beast. And in grey. That’s not good at the best of times. They always ask questions, as if Villblanche is the only authority here.”

“They question the Masters?”

“They question who they like. Besides, we’re itinerant story tellers at best in their eyes. Most of the Watchers and officers of Villblanche sees us as beggars and thieves, a plague that must be wiped out.”

“That’s not fair!”

“Maybe not,” said Lila, ” but we do nothing in their eyes that adds to the prosperity of the city. We do not toil. We do not make bricks. We just wander free with our wild imaginings. That’s why they hate us.”

“But...” Kyrin began to protest but Lila silenced him with a wave of her hand. They crouched lower in the bracken.

The rider was almost level with them. He seemed to be struggling to control the machine, for the horse was meandering along the road, resisting most attempts to keep it going straight. The rider was muttering to himself, cursing the horse perhaps or else in some deep argument with no one in particular. He did not look in their direction; then he had passed them and was winding his way down the sloping road.

“The Rector,” whispered Lila in answer to Kyrin’s silent question. “The Rector heading for Tournemittes? That’s not a good sign.”

Lila had stood up and begun pacing up and down as she tried to work the situation out in her head, leaving Kyrin in the labyrinth of confusion in which he felt he had been lost for much of his journey. He was always talked of in an unreal manner, as if he did not exist, as if he was just part of a puzzle that everyone else had to solve.

“That’s really not a good sign,” she said, continuing her pacing, “For if the Rector’s on his way to Tournemittes, the Watchers will be there in force. Which means they weren’t all involved with Ash. So we will have Watchers ahead of us, as well as behind.”

The pacing increased in speed, the to and fro movement becoming shorter as her brain whirred sorting through the possibilities.

“Watchers already in Tournemittes. They’ll be at the gate. That’s easy enough. Once inside, what then? Difficult to guard the Lists, because it is so difficult to find the route to them. So they’ll be on the outer road - easy enough to dodge for a runner will find ways that others can’t. Where else? They’ll put Watchers round the Lists, but there aren’t enough to guard every opening. Besides they won’t find the entrance doors for participants. They will only find the entrances for the crowd, which all lead up into the stands. It’s difficult to get into the arena from there, so the dais should be unguarded, unless...”

She had stopped moving and was staring at Kyrin.

“Unless?” he said wearily.

“Unless they choose not to respect the lore.”

“What does that mean?” The mystery of this respect for the lore was beginning to annoy Kyrin, because he did not understand what it was or the implications of not respecting it.

“They could climb down into the arena and block your way to the dais.”

She said it with such simplicity that Kyrin felt stupid for not having realised that for himself. There must have been something on his face that told Lila he needed more of an explanation.

“According to the lore,” she continued, “the tradition of the runner that goes back hundreds of years, a runner, who enters the Lists at Tournemittes and reaches the dais at the centre, cannot be touched. He can only go back if he chooses. The Lists are designed to make that happen. Only runners or Tourney participants will find the doors that lead into the arena. Everyone else is sent into the stands, where they can speak to those on the dais.”

“Why would they want to speak to them?” asked Kyrin.

“To persuade them to return to Villblanche.”

“And do they go?”

“Sometimes,” said Lila sadly. “Sometimes they can come up with arguments the runner finds too strong.”

“Arguments?” Kyrin could think of nothing that would entice him back to Villblanche.

“Well, more than arguments,” said Lila, “More like threats. Threats to others. Blackmail. If you don’t come back, something nasty will happen to someone you care for. That sort of thing.”

“Really?” Kyrin could not believe that the runners were so dear to Villblanche that they would make such threats. It seemed improbable.

“Oh, yes,” she said, “And they will do it to you, Kyrin. They will try to persuade you to give up your run and return with them. They will try very, very hard because if you abandon your run, they win, for the prophecy will not be fulfilled.”

“I won’t go back,” said Kyrin, “I don’t want to.”

“Are you sure about that?” asked Lila. “Is there nothing that could weaken your resolve?”

“Nothing.” Kyrin spoke firmly, the image of the dying Ash Couper in his mind. Nothing his killers could say would make him wish to return to Villblanche.

“They have arrested your mother, Kyrin.”

She spoke quietly, trying to gauge the effect of her words. She saw the muscles round his mouth twitch and go taut.

“When?”

The word forced its way between his lips.

“When you were in Contefay. Maybe just after. Then they took the old woman while you were headed for Racontour.”

“And then they beat Ash and left him for dead.”

“Yes,” said Lila. “You see how determined they are to stop you. You must be prepared for them to try everything, even to make threats against your mother. You have to be strong.”

“Do they know how often my mother beat me for day-dreaming? Or for saying anything that went against the grey will of the Council of Elders? She did everything she could to make me hate the runners and the Story Weavers. The freedom of their lifestyle was against everything she believed in. Maybe now that she has lost her freedom, she’ll understand the meaning of the word.”

“You feel nothing for her?” asked Lila, hardly daring to believe what she was hearing, “Your own mother?”

“Did she feel anything for me?” Kyrin replied, “Did she care what I wanted? I don’t want to see her hurt, but there is nothing they can say that will make me want to go back to her. I’m sorry.”

“Then she has prepared you perfectly,” said Lila, a huge smile of relief spreading across her face. “Master Kyrl said you would not appreciate what she was doing, but it was perfect. The one weapon, the ultimate persuader in most cases, the mother of the runner – for who would not want to protect their mother – and she has rendered it impotent!”

“So I should thank her for every one of those beatings she gave me?” asked Kyrin wryly.

“I suppose you should,” said Lila, “If it has truly made you proof against that form of persuasion.”

“If they do hurt her,” said Kyrin quietly, “I will pay them back, just as I will for Ash Couper. I promise you that. But for the moment, enough. We should move on. I need to get to Tournemittes.”

He picked up his bags once more, shouldered his staff and made his way back onto the road. His step was even more determined as he made his way down the slope. The Rector’s steam horse was still meandering along a distance ahead. Just as they left the ridge, Lila glanced back. Maybe half an hour behind them was a group of walkers. They were clad in grey. The Magister and the rest of the Watchers! So, the chase was on.