The Last of the Runners

The Rector’s mood had not improved as he rode. For all his efforts, the machine seemed determined to meander along the road at its own pace. No amount of lever pulling could make it go faster or straighter. The Rector had wrapped his riding cloak tighter round his body to keep out the wind and let the beast carry him towards Tournemittes.

To make matters worse, he had found the Magister and his Watchers, comfortably settled round their campfire, singing and drinking beer. The news that the runner had got past them at the gorge had made him scream insults at the Magister for a quarter of an hour before getting back on this accursed beast and struggling on towards Tournemittes.

Everyone he had ever trusted had let him down. Kyrl had abandoned their friendship to run to the Weavers, then returned to take the girl they both had loved. Loved? Yes, he had loved her although the memory of that irrational feeling now upset him. But Souci, too, had betrayed him, feigning friendship when it suited her before running off with Kyrl.

Even the Magister could not do the job he had been set. How difficult was it to catch a boy, especially when he had a dozen Watchers to help and the boy had to cross a narrow bridge? How could he have failed and why?

“Because we chased an old bloke who was talking gibberish?” they had said, carefully not mentioning that they had also beaten the life out of him. The waste of time and effort would have upset the Rector even more than the fact that their act of violence was a breach of the lore. That superstition was not worth a second’s thought to him.

“Lore of the runner,” he muttered as he rode, not noticing the two figures on the road ahead of him, not seeing them dodge into the bracken, nor realising that they were watching him ride past, just ten yards away. He was so busy muttering against the whole world, he did not see how close he was to his desired prize.

The Magister, too, was muttering, chewing on the ends of his moustache and trying to walk fast. He yelled at the watchers, taking out on them the tongue lashing he had received from the Rector. Get to Tournemittes as quickly as possible, that was what had to be done. Get there and then do everything – absolutely everything - to stop the runner reaching the Lists and get him back to Villblanche. The Magister had dared to suggest that they had no authority within the town of Tournemittes, but the Rector had no time for such political niceties. Catching that boy and putting an end to the runners was all that mattered to him. Catching that boy and avenging himself on those who had betrayed and deserted him all those years ago. The Magister had found it harder than usual to follow all of the Rector’s muttering about the runners, just understanding that the boy had to be caught. Of that, there was no question. As he sweated along the road, he hoped that the Sub-Magister had made good use of his time in Tournemittes to prepare to catch this boy. Had his great brain devised some brilliant solution to the problem?

The simple answer was no. The Sub-Magister had been back to the Lists on several more occasions, each time by a different route, although he was certain that he had started at the same place. He had written down every distinguishing feature around the entrance from the main road to the maze of narrow lanes, from the number of paving stones across the road to the colour of first houses. Then, he had noted down the number and direction of each turn but no journey was ever the same. Once he had passed the second blue house on the left, it was as if the road, the houses, or both, had minds of the own. If he had to turn left once, now he had to turn right. If the last time, two pink painted houses were on the right-hand side of the road they were now straight in front of him with the road swinging to the left.

Stranger still were the Lists themselves. The Sub-Magister had been round and round the building. He had found many black door latches. However, every latch he lifted opened a door at the bottom of a flight of stairs that took you up to one of the twelve openings in the stands that looked down on the actual Lists. He could find no door that would take him into the arena itself. No local he asked had any more knowledge of how to enter the lists. Even if they pointed out a latch that the Sub-Magister thought he had missed, the door always opened onto a flight of stairs going up. It was, he concluded, as if the Lists were deciding for themselves who must watch the Tourney and who could take part.

It was not a conclusion he enjoyed making, for it was devoid of logic, being wrapped up in fantasy. Was it possible, he mused, that if Kyrin lifted the same latch he would find a passage that led him down into the arena, while he would be sent into the stands? Or were there different doors only runners or the contestants in the Tourney would find? Such far-fetched ideas would not impress the Magister when he arrived.

The Sub-Magister made his way back to the main gate. The pink houses had disappeared from the lane this time and the lane dog-legged past a green and blue cottage. This town was trying to confuse him, its houses changing colour, turning and shifting the roads to a different pattern each time. The Sub-Magister was puzzled by the town, which in turn, ensured it puzzled him. If only he could understand what it was about, if he could see what was going on, maybe it would all stop moving.

In the Observatory Tower, the Proctor paced around. Red-eyed, he was dazzled by the complexity of the weave that only he, of all those in the city could see. The boy, the Magister, the Master Weaver and the Rector – how their threads crisscrossed the frame with dazzling virtuosity. The pattern behind them was of extreme beauty, but the threads seemed to be tangling and bunching up into one ball of many colours that had no form or order.

Who could make sense of this weave?

Must the threads be cut and the pattern restarted?

Kyrl the Master Weaver moved through the trees with the practised stride of a woodsman. He had not let Lila and Kyrin out of his sight for a moment and was now tracking their progress towards Tournemittes from the safety of the forest. He had seen how they worked together as they travelled. Lila seemed to be doing very little for Kyrin. Maybe her disobedience had not gone against the lore of the runner, no more than he had. Maybe there would be no problem when he reached the Lists. He loped along, wondering, puzzling over the dazzling patterns in the weave. The threads entwined to make a whole: the greys of the Rector and the Magister; the pale, almost white, grey of the Proctor on the edge of the pattern, watching from a distance; then the dark vibrant brown of Lila’s thread alongside Kyrin’s gold, a thread that stretched back to the point where Kyrl’s light brown and the Rector’s grey thread were close to the soft yellow of Kyrin’s mother.

But what was to happen to his thread? Kyrl could only see the gold, the dark brown, the yellow and one of the greys stretching ahead from the one point they crossed and bunched, before moving onward into the pattern of the weave. His light brown thread and one of the greys stopped in a bunch of green and blue threads that wrapped themselves round the two threads and took them from the warp and weft of the weave.

“Three ways to the lists, you said.”

Kyrin and Lila were marching towards Tournemittes. All that slowed them was the need to stay far enough away from the Rector on his meandering nag. When he dipped at last off the horizon on the final descent to the town, they were able to pick up their pace. The Magister and the Watchers did not seem to have got any closer. From what Lila could see, they only seemed to move quickly when the Rector was visible. As soon as he dropped over a rise, they would start to dawdle again, marching quicker when he came back into sight. However, their periods of dawdling had allowed the Rector to get further ahead and more out of sight and thus allowed the Magister and the Watchers to dawdle more.

“Come on,” said Kyrin, “You said you would tell me three ways to get into the Lists.”

“It will sound like riddles, little master,” Lila said, her voice coming from deep inside the hood of her cloak that she had pulled up to protect her face against the wind.

“Riddles?” said Kyrin, “Everything in this world is in riddles!”

“It is the way of the weave, little master, that writes in forms that imagination best deciphers. It lets those whose minds are best attuned to the weave an advantage over those who plod through the world and seek to make everyone else do the same. They seek to crush imagination, to erase it from the surface of the world. They do not like our riddles. They think they are idle amusements which are not worth considering. They do not see that they can be keys to guide them through the mazes of the weave.”

“And if you tell me in riddles,” said Kyrin “how have you broken the lore, for if I do not solve the riddle, I have been given no help.”

“That will be for the Masters to decide,” said Lila, “Now listen well.”

“Doors will open in roads that go nowhere.”

“The road that turns and turns goes straightest.”

“To those who will do, not watch, entrance shall be given.”

Kyrin scratched his head, turning the words over in his mind as he committed them to memory.

“Did you leave notes for me before I started my run?” he asked.

“What notes?” Lila seemed surprised.

“They were stuck in the doorframe: one a warning for Mrs Bruntler, others telling me not to delay. There was a map too. Look.”

He pulled the battered sheet from his pocket and passed it to Lila. She looked at it briefly and passed it back.

“Did you ever see who left the notes?”

“Never. Most times they appeared in the door frame while I was out. One appeared in my school book.”

“Well, I did not leave you the map or any note,” said Lila, “But I am glad to have seen it. Maybe I am not the only one who sails close to breaking the lore of the runner.”

“Why is that?”

“It is a Master’s map you have been given. It is something we keep very secret as it shows all the places that runners can seek help and which the Masters need to check to learn how the runner is progressing. To give it to a runner placed all these people in danger.”

“Who would do such a thing?” said Kyrin, holding the map out to Lila once more. “Here, you take it. I will not be responsible for hurting these people.”

“Keep it,” Lila said quietly, “For like the one who gave it, I believe you will succeed.”

“You know who it was?” Kyrin had stopped walking. “Tell me!”

“It will be for him to reveal himself when the time is right,” said Lila “and the sooner we get to Tournemittes, the sooner that can happen.”

Kyrin ran to catch up with her and within a few minutes was able to look down on Tournemittes. As if to greet him, the sun pierced the grey clouds that lowered over the town and picked out the golden Lists at its centre. The Rector’s mechanical horse seemed to have found some guiding magnets in the cobbles on the final approach and sped up. Lila and Kyrin were able to walk faster too and hurried toward the town. Suddenly Lila stopped and then ran into the trees. Kyrin saw her talking to another cloaked figure. Then she ran back to him.

“There are Watchers at the gates and they also patrol inside the wall and the lane around the Lists. This Sub-Magister commands them.”

“Are there many of them?”

“Eight in addition to the Sub-Magister,” said Lila, “They observe only at the gate. The townsfolk objected to them stopping people so there may still be a chance. And there are few of them. You will need to be quick and alert. Get past the ones at the gates, then trust to your imagination to get you through to the Lists. Mount the dais and you are safe.”

“What about you?”

“I have shown you the way here,” said Lila, “I have told you how to enter the Lists. I will be nearby, but you must make the final part of the journey by yourself. Here, take this.”

She handed him his clasp knife.

“Why? It was my pledge.”

“Our journey is over. We have shown respect for the lore. It may be of more use to you as a knife than to me as a pledge token. Keep it to hand. Now, onwards.”

“You will join me in the Lists?” asked Kyrin, “You will be my Master?”

“I hope so,” said Lila. “Do not worry. I am sure that you will get into the Lists to complete your run. Come now; let’s get down to the town. We must stay ahead of the Magister and the rest of the Watchers.”

They hurried down into the valley, almost running towards the town, whose walls loomed up as they descended the steep slope. With that final burst of energy, they were just a hundred yards behind the Rector at the main gate.

They saw two Watchers jump to their feet and rush to take his horse. They quickened their pace as much as they dared. As the Rector dismounted, they heard him start to shout and saw the two watchers lead him and his horse through the gate.

“Quick,” said Lila, “Through the gate while they’re not watching.”

They made a run for the gate.

“No, no, NO!” yelled the Rector, “You don’t need to follow me. Stay here and do your job. The boy must be caught!”

He drove the two Watchers back out of the gate and then hurried into the town. Lila pushed Kyrin into the shadow of a handcart stopped in the gateway and then contrived to collide with one of the grumbling Watchers.

“Look where you’re going, you great oaf!” she shouted, “Taking up all the road! Can’t you see I’m in a hurry?”

“You look where you’re going!” retorted the Watcher, “We’ve important work to do.”

“Important work?” replied Lila, raising her voice to draw others into the argument. “Blocking the road so ordinary townsfolk can’t go about their business!”

“That’s right,” chimed in the owner of the handcart, “You’ve been holding everyone up for two days now!”

“Look,” said the Watcher, trying to defend himself, “We have an important job to do. The future of the city depends on it.”

“The city’s nothing here,” said Lila, signalling to Kyrin behind her back.

“That’s right,” said the handcart man, not noticing Kyrin crawl out from under his cart, “Villblanche doesn’t matter to us out here in Tournemittes. They’d happily forget we existed if they saw a profit in it. What’s Villblanche’s future to us?”

“Villblanche only cares for itself,” said a second man.

“We’re here on the Rector’s orders,” protested the Watcher.

“And what authority does the Rector have here, you tell me that?” The handcart man was warming to his task. “Rector of Villblanche, he is, not Tournemittes.”

“Fancy titles mean nothing in this town,” said his friend. “What’s a Rector? Eh? Or a Magister? And who are you lot supposed to be watching?”

Lila left the Watchers arguing with the handcart man and his friend and went in search of Kyrin. Just inside the gate, the Rector was speaking to a group in the grey robes of the city The Watchers she recognised, but she had not seen the slight figure wearing dark glasses before. She guessed this was the Sub-Magister. He was a strange mix, halfway between a boy and a man. Just behind the Watchers, she saw Kyrin. He was hiding in a doorway, not knowing what to do. He had to move, get off this main road and start finding his way to the Lists. What should she do?

Kyrin was in a panic. He had got through the gate, only to find the Rector talking to a group of Watchers blocking the way. Not knowing which way to go, he had dived into a doorway to keep out of sight. He saw Lila come through the gate and hoped she would do something that would help. The Watchers seemed to be blocking the only route away from the gate. Looking round he could see no other route out of the little square except the road away to the left, No one seemed to be moving. How was he to get past the Watchers?

It started to snow. Large flakes were falling in the square and everyone was looking up.

Kyrin looked at Lila, who stood still by the gate, her beech staff clearly in her hand. He stared. She smiled back.

She was making it snow!

Everyone including the Watchers was looking up at the sky and marvelling at the snow. Kyrin knew he had to move. He crept out of the doorway and made his way round the walls towards the road to the left. People were still marvelling at the snow and then, someone shouted that it was not snowing outside the gate.

The Rector looked round.

Kyrin froze but the Rector’s glance went past and did not fix on him. He was looking for whoever was making it snow. In a second, he would see Lila, standing by the gate and laughing.

Kyrin ran.

Head down, he ran for the road to the left. He heard the Rector shout and sensed the Watchers moving out of his way. Then he crashed into a grey robed figure and knocked the person to the ground, landing on top of him.

He looked up from the grey robes and found himself looking into Gan’s eyes.

Gan’s glasses had been knocked from his nose and hung at an odd angle across his forehead. As their eyes met, Gan smiled at Kyrin. Then his face crumpled with pain and he gasped out one word.

“Run!”

Kyrin sprang up and was away into the crowded street.

Gan had never felt such pain. The beatings, the cold, the dark, the hunger, they all flooded back into his mind. But they were not just memories, he actually felt them. At the back of his mind, he could hear a quiet voice mocking him.

“Did you think I was so stupid as to let you betray me?”

Gan writhed on the floor, trying to fight it off, trying to hold out for as long as possible as the Magister’s weave tried to crush his windpipe. At last, it was too much for him.

“Stop that boy!” he shouted, struggling to his feet and straightening his glasses. The Rector swung round and the Watchers that had started to head for Lila stopped and started to run in the direction the Sub-Magister was pointing.

Kyrin had a thirty yard head start.

“What happened?” snapped the Rector.

“The boy, Rector,” stuttered the Sub-Magister. “He appeared out of a doorway. I tried to stop him but he knocked me down and ran off!”

A great thunderclap made them flinch. Kyrin’s lead had been extended by five yards by a fork of lightning that had struck the street between him and the Watchers.

“Seize that damn Weaver!” yelled the Rector. Four of the Watchers chasing Kyrin stopped and turned back.

“Not you, you fools!” screamed the Rector. They hurried back after Kyrin, have given him another ten yards. “Anyone, stop that Weaver!”

Lila laughed, and had another bolt of lightning strike the ground close to the Rector. Then she turned on her heel and ran off up the road after Kyrin.

The Magister and the final dozen Watchers chose to come through the gate at that second. Weary and footsore, they were looking forward to a sit down and a pint of beer.

“You three!” yelled the Rector, pointing at the first three Watchers to come through the gate. “Catch that damn Weaver and drag her back to me. The rest of you, follow me.”

Of course, they did not dare complain or protest. Three weary Watchers chased off after Lila, who, when she saw she was being pursued, whooped with delight and created a torrential rain storm across the road to slow them down.

The Rector marched now at the head of the band of Watchers, the Magister and the Sub-Magister beside him. They went through the two yards of rain Lila had left, to the amusement of the townsfolk, who had started to cheer her on. They marched to the lane the Sub-Magister knew would take them to the Lists, brushing aside the few people who tried to get in their way.

“You are sure of this route?” asked the Rector.

“As sure as I can be of any in this town” the Sub-Magister replied, checking the number of paving stones at the entrance and keeping an eye on the Magister. There was no change in his demeanour to suggest he had anything directly to do with what had happened at the gate. Mrs Bruntler had been right to wonder whether any part of the Magister’s weave was still working. The man himself had no idea what had been going on in the town.

When they got past the second blue house, they came to a green one, then another blue. It was the same on the other side of the road; green and blue houses, tall buildings that seemed to lean over the road until they touched, closing in on the Rector and his party. The colour sequence was maintained whichever way the road turned as they made their way to the Lists.

Kyrin had never run so fast. Not even in Racontour had he moved at such a speed. He had heard Gan’s shout, had heard the Watchers begin to follow and been deafened by the thunderbolt that had struck and slowed the Watchers more. He had run straight, not thinking for a moment of where he was trying to get, just concentrating on getting away. He could not continue that way for long, and, as a bend in the road inside the walls shielded him for an instant from the Watchers, he dodged into a side street.

Bent double for a moment, he tried to catch his breath, his lungs screaming against his ribs. Then he looked up. It was a short cul-de-sac about six cottages deep. He made his way to the end, hoping there was a turning out of sight, but there was nothing except blue and green painted cottages. He saw the Watchers dash past the end of the road. They would see now that he wasn’t ahead of them and start to check the side roads. They’d find him and there was no escape. He looked round again and saw nothing different. Green and blue houses shutting him in.

“There he is!”

A shout from the end of the road and it was blocked by four Watchers. All his efforts, all the help he had received and it ends because he chose to run into a dead end.

A bolt slid back and a door creaked back slowly on its hinges. Kyrin noticed it to the left, right out of the corner of his eye as he stared at the oncoming Watchers. They were rolling up their sleeves, preparing for the struggle as they dragged him back to the Rector.

It creaked more and opened wider. Kyrin did not want to startle the Watchers. They seemed relaxed and were not hurrying towards him. There was no way out after all.

When they were just twenty yards away, Kyrin dived for the door, rolling on the floor as he crossed the threshold. He heard the Watchers shout, the door slam and he was in darkness.

“Quick,” said a voice, “No time to lose!”

A hand grabbed his shoulder, pulled him to his feet and propelled him through the house. He could hear the Watchers hammering at the door behind him. Before he knew what was happening, he was out into a little yard and was being pushed over a wall.

“Straight through the house opposite,” said the man who had rescued him. “Straight through. Knock – it’s only polite but don’t wait. Left when you come to the street and keep turning left. Quick now, I have to stop those idiots breaking my door down. I’ll never get a carpenter at Solstice.”

With that, he went back into the house and shut the door. Kyrin did as he had been told, running to the door of the other house and knocking. He lifted the latch and the door opened. He stepped into a kitchen and went straight into the next room. An old couple were snoozing by the fire, so Kyrin stepped quietly past them to the door, which he opened and then closed behind him as quietly as possible. Out in the street, he turned left as he had been told and when he got to the end of the street he turned left again. It was difficult to be certain where he was for every house was painted either green or blue. After a second left turn, Kyrin began to doubt the advice he had been given, but there was no other way to turn and he did not recognise the road after the fourth turn which he had expected to do.

One riddle had been solved, for a door had opened in road that led nowhere. Was he now in the second – a road that turned and turned? He went on to the fifth turning, also to the left, counting the steps as he went. When he turned, he started counting again until he reached the next turning. More step, about the width of a house, and it was more again to the next turning, also about the width of a house. So that was it - the road was a form of spiral getting bigger with each turn. How such a road could exist in a town was beyond Kyrin, but he walked on with the riddle’s assurance that it would prove the straightest route to the Lists, however many times it turned.

Lila was still laughing and dodging the Watchers. She knew the lanes of Tournemittes well and knew how some would shift to confuse the unwary. She led the Watchers in and out, weaving little bits of weather to add to the confusion. When she felt she had tormented them enough, she left them trapped in a lane with a blizzard at each end, and slipped off towards the Lists.

Kyrl stood at the gate of the town and surveyed the scene. He had let Lila and Kyrin enter on their own. He had not wanted to draw attention to what was going on by arriving too soon after them. Two Master Weavers passing through the gate would alert the Watchers and they needed to be kept as sleepy as possible. Alert, they could get nasty when faced with things they didn’t understand.

It was still snowing just inside the gate and Kyrl could see it raining a short distance up the road. Lila had not lost her touch. No one could create weather weaves as precise and real as she could. No doubt the Watchers were very alert now, but she would keep some of them busy and that would help Kyrin. It was time to make his way to the Lists. He had to be there to greet him.

Ten years he had waited for this moment, when he could at last be reunited with his son, and thanks to that, with his wife. He had had no choice. Once the colour of Kyrin’s thread had been perceived in the weave, he had been forced to leave the two of them to manage. The true Weaver King could not be brought up a Weaver. He had to discover his ability for himself and prove himself against the odds. So he and Souci had agreed to live apart, a decision they made with a heavy heart, for they had been together every hour of every day since they had pledged their love. It must have been hard for the boy’s mother to try to thwart the development of his imagination, knowing who he was and what the weave suggested he would become. And would she be able to let him back into her life, after all she had to endure? Had any embers of their love remained glowing? Could the “boy’s mother” become once more for Kyrl his beloved Souci? It was one of the risks they had accepted for the benefit of the Weaver King, the loss of their love, as had whether Kyrin would accept what they had done – a father’s absence and a mother’s harshness.

The lanes did not attempt to confuse a Master Weaver of such renown, though they had decked themselves out in green and blue in celebration. Kyrl found himself quickly in the shadows of the lane around the Lists. He could hear the Rector’s voice echoing around along the lane as he ordered the Watchers into position. It was a long time since he had heard that voice. What would happen when they met face to face? Kyrl lifted the latch in the panel and opened the door. A dark corridor led down into the heart of the building. He went along it and out into the Lists, which seemed so bright after the corridor. It still caused that twinge in the pit of his stomach, that sense of apprehension at what would happen when you stepped up to the coloured pole that marked your station in the Lists. How would Kyrin feel when he made his way down the corridor? Which one would he use to come into the Lists? Kyrl had always used this one. It came out by the blue pole to the right of the dais and Kyrl went to sit down a short way back from the entrance. He could watch what happened from there.

“You have tried every door?” said the Rector, opening a third door that led up into the stands.

“Every one that I could find,” replied the Sub-Magister. “I have been around the building three or four times and followed every door in. They all led up into the stands.”

“And you have worked back from every opening in the stands?”

“Indeed, Rector, and they all lead to doors I had found on the outside.”

The Rector stomped up the stairs into the stands. He was uncomfortable in this world where reality and fantasy started to mix. The grey certainties of Villblanche were his territory, where a door led just to the next room and imagination was not necessary. Once in the stands, he went down to the front and peered into the sandy arena. What was this place with its green and blue painted poles and central dais? What was its function for the benefit of the state? He would recommend to the Council that it was torn down. It was a waste of space that could be put to more profitable use.

A flash of brown in one of the tunnels that opened onto the arena caught his eye. It remained at the edge of the shadow at the tunnel’s mouth but it was clearly a cloak.

“Sub-Magister,” the Rector said quietly, “If none of the doors on the outside lead into the arena, how did he get there?”

The Sub-Magister followed the Rector’s pointing finger and saw the cloaked figure. He shrugged his shoulders.

“I can only deduce he had the right to enter the Lists as a participant. It is the only explanation.”

“He has the right?” The Rector was furious. “I am the Rector of Villblanche. I have the right to go where I please!”

“With respect,” said the Sub-Magister, “This is Tournemittes, not Villblanche and according to the lore...”

“The lore? What do I care for the lore? They all bow to me! The Council declared that our laws extend to the very walls of that lawless pit Villombre. Our law is supreme – not this ancient fable!”

The Sub-Magister bowed his head. The Rector had seemed very on edge from the time he arrived, his mind fixed on just one thing – catching the runner.

“That may be the case, Rector,” he said quietly. “However, the tradition holds that only those who are to participate in a Tourney may enter the Lists. Neither of us are here to do that, hence we find ourselves in the stands as spectators.”

The Rector glared at him and turned back to the arena. The brown cloaked figure was still there, just visible, a symbol of the world he could not enter. They were always there to frustrate him. There had to be a way to defeat them.

“How far down is it from here?” he asked.

The Sub-Magister gazed down into the arena.

“Ten feet, I guess.”

The Magister wheezed noisily up the stairs to join them.

“I’ve been round the whole building,” he squeaked breathlessly. “He’s right about the doors.”

“Then go and get some rope,” snapped the Rector.

“Rope?” The Magister stared blankly at the Rector as he tried to understand what he had been asked.

“And quickly,” The Rector’s tone was dismissive and did not brook argument, so the Magister dragged himself back towards the stairs. “If we can’t find a door, we need another way into that arena.”

The Rector sat down in the first row of seats, his eye still fixed on the tunnel and the corner of brown cloak at the edge of the shadows. If it was to be the end of the city, he would have a perfect seat. Not that he intended to be a passive observer. He would do all he could to defeat this backward looking superstition. This ancient lore must bend to him – or break.

Lila reached the dark lane round the Lists. She looked to the left and saw a brown cloaked Master slip past a Watcher and lift the latch of one of the doors. To the right, another Master walked up to the wooden wall and disappeared inside. Lila adjusted her cloak, swept back her hair and stepped towards the Lists. She heard the Watcher call out to her to stop, but she ignored him. She put out her hand and touched the wooden wall as she had those years ago. Just as she had on that first day, she longed to take part in the Tourney of Tales and when she lifted the latch that came under her hand, the door opened onto a dark corridor that led down into the Lists. As she walked along the plain panelled corridor, she could sense the excitement in the wood, the tension of its long wait, a wait that was coming to an end at last.

Kyrin reached the end of the spiralling lane. The Lists towered over the houses and threw all the roads into deep shadow. It was easy to hide in such shadows and Kyrin took his time to allow his eyes to adjust to the gloom. The Watchers were patrolling round the building but there were large gaps between each one, more than enough time to cross the road and find a door. At least he hoped so. The Magister stomped back into the lane and right past Kyrin, coils of rope across his shoulder. What was that for, Kyrin wondered. The Magister did not seem impressed at having to carry it, whatever it was for, grumbling all the way to the door guarded by one of the Watchers.

The time had come. There was no reason to delay. He had come all this way and all that was left was to enter the Lists and mount the dais. What was he waiting for? He went to step into the lane.

A Watcher went past, followed by a figure in a brown cloak. Kyrin flattened himself against the wall. The Watcher carried on. Kyrin had not been seen. The brown cloaked figure had crossed the lane and disappeared inside. Kyrin had not seen where he had gone in. He darted across the lane. Up close to the building, he could not see any doors. A moment’s panic, and then, as he tried to flatten himself against the wooden wall to hide from the Watchers, his sleeve caught on something. A nail? He looked as he freed his sleeve. A door latch!

“Oi, you there!”

It was one of the Watchers.

He had been seen!

Two Watchers were running towards him. He only had to get inside and reach the dais and he would be safe; that was what Lila had said. Inside, he could take part in the Tourney of Tales and he so wanted to do that. He fumbled with the latch and the door opened.

The two Watchers were heading for him at speed. In he went, slamming the door behind him. There must be something he could do to delay them. Hearing their shouts, he pulled the clasp knife from his pocket and tried to wedge the latch shut. It seemed to work for the Watchers were cursing as they struggled with the door.

Kyrin turned and looked at the strange dark corridor. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he could make out the panelled walls, but it felt damp and cold. The desire to be safe at home flooded back into his mind. Was this a final test? This corridor was not a place anyone would want to stay for long if it brought back these doubts. Kyrin started towards the grey light at the other end.

There was a thud.

Kyrin whipped round towards the door.

Another thud; the Watchers were trying to batter the door down.

What should he do?

There was a splintering crash as the door gave way. Kyrin found himself staring at the underside of a staircase. He could hear the shouts of frustration on the other side and boots going up the stairs. More shouts could be heard coming from the stands.

“He’s in the building!”

“He went through this door, but when we kicked it in, we found this staircase!”

“Keep your eyes peeled. He’ll be here any second.”

So, they knew he was there. If they climbed down, they could get to the other end of the corridor first and he’d be trapped, with no door to go back. He did not want to be trapped in that place. He ran to the end and looked out. The sandy arena was empty, just the painted poles and the raised dais. The wooden platform was just yards away.

He put his head down and ran.

Shouting came from all sides and Kyrin felt deafened. The stand rang to the shouts of the Watchers and the Rector, demanding that he stop. From inside each tunnel leading into the Lists, a Master Weaver urged him on to the dais.

Ten steps, and he jumped. How long he seemed to hang in the air, the shouts echoing around the Lists! He landed with a thump on the dais, heart racing.

There was silence.

He had made it!

He stood up. Staff in hand, he felt taller and more... what? He was different, he knew, from the second his feet touched the dais. Yet how had he changed?

“Boy!” The Rector spoke first, his harsh voice echoing round the Lists. Kyrin turned to face him. The first row of the stands was ringed with grey. He was not afraid

“You should return to Villblanche.”

“I don’t need to listen to you,” said Kyrin, “My run is complete. I am free.”

“You should reconsider, boy,” said the Rector. “This stupid defiance will make it worse for you.”

“You have no authority over me now,” said Kyrin, “I am to be a Weaver.”

“Your mother may regret that decision.”

“You harm her and it will be you who regret it!”

“How dare you threaten me?!” The Rector was furious.

“And you are allowed to threaten me?” Kyrin had no idea where these words of defiance were coming from, but come they did and it felt most natural. “You threaten me with harm to my mother if I do not do what you want. I merely warned you not to harm her.”

“She is in prison, boy,” said the Rector, trying to stay calm and persuasive, “And she will remain there until her son returns to Villblanche. What boy will let his mother languish in a prison cell when he could free her with a simple act of obedience?”

Kyrin laughed.

“Obedience? To whom? I think you’d find my mother would be more angry if I returned. Surely I owe her my first obedience, not you?”

The Rector was angry. He made one more effort to stay calm. The boy’s confidence was deeply annoying.

“I offer you one last chance to leave that dais and the barbarian past and return with me to Villblanche and the future.”

“What future?” asked Kyrin, “The dull grey lessons in the Training School and dull grey toil after that? No thank you.”

“I wasted enough time arguing with the brat,” muttered the Rector, “Seize him!”

Ropes were dropped down from the stands and four Watchers slid down them into the Lists, quickly followed by another four. As soon as they touched the ground, they ran to seal the tunnel entrances where the Master Weavers stood. Kyrl, however was out of his tunnel before any Watcher had taken a step. Cloak flung back, he strode toward the blue pole. More Watchers were coming down the ropes. Lila had also been alert to the danger and ran out of her tunnel to the green pole.

“You have no right to be here,” Kyrl’s voice rang around the Lists. “Only those who are to take part in a Tourney may enter the Lists. Leave now!”

“I am the Rector of Villblanche. These men act on my authority. They may enter wherever I please.”

Kyrl looked up at the grey clad man in the stands. He could see his jowls reddening as he struggled to maintain his dignity as the control of the situation slipped away. The Rector was a shadow of his old school friend – a grey shell with hardly any life left in it. Kyrl smiled sadly.

“Gyll, old friend,” he said, “You never were very good at geography, were you? You are not in Villblanche. Your authority does not extend here.”

“What prevents me?” The Rector’s reply was clipped and tight lipped as he tried to ignore Kyrl’s mockery.

“Ancient custom, Gyll,” said Kyrl. “You know that it does, whatever ideas you exalted position may have given you. The Lists belong to the Weavers. Tournemittes is a Weaver town.”

“Villblanche...” began the Rector.

“Counts for nothing here,” cut in Kyrl. “No decision taken without the consent of the people of Tournemittes has any real effect. Just because you and your Council have said Villblanche’s law extends to the gates of Villombre doesn’t make it so, whatever you think”

“The boy must return with me,” said the Rector.

“He has made his choice freely, in front of all these witnesses,” said Kyrl, gesturing to both the tunnels with their trapped Master Weavers and the stands. “You have heard it from his own mouth. He has travelled here and chooses to remain. You may not touch him.”

“Do you think I fear your superstitions?” the Rector snarled. “Do you believe I fear to do what is right for Villblanche?”

“No, Gyll, I don’t think you fear anything anymore, which is why I fear for you.”

“Fear for me? What game is this?”

“I fear you will not be wise, Gyll, and without wisdom, you cannot prosper and nor can Villblanche.”

“What do you know of prosperity, wandering Weaver?” The Rector’s voice was full of scorn. “You, who reckon your wealth in roots and acorns, how dare you lecture me on wisdom.”

“How dare I?” replied Kyrl sadly. “Because I care, Gyll. Because I care, despite all your harsh words, despite all the hurt you feel, and I know I caused some of it, I still care for my old friend.”

“Friend?!” The Rector almost spat out the word. “Do you have any understanding of the word?”

“More than you think, Gyll, though you will not see it. Now, let this boy go on his way.”

“He must return with me or his mother will suffer,” said the Rector. “I will see to it. He must come whether he will of not.”

“Do not make an enemy of the boy, Gyll,” Kyrl was still calm, “For city and country need him.”

“The city does not need him,” shouted the Rector. “The city will train him to be useful. At the moment he is worthless and beyond contempt. He will let his mother lie in a prison cell with his stubbornness. What kind of a boy is that? Not one to be proud of, surely?”

“He is a boy to be proud of, Gyll,” said Kyrl. “We knew it the day he was born. When Souci first held him, we guessed it and when we perceived the colour of his thread in the weave, we knew no sacrifice would be too great to bring him to this day.”

“You call imprisonment a sacrifice?” The language was getting away from the Rector. There was nothing concrete in Kyrl’s speech that he could comprehend. Guessing, perceiving and sacrifice bordered on fantasy and was to be despised. “You make it sound as if it is honourable. And you, abandoning you wife and boy for such a time, was that an honourable sacrifice too?”

“Souci is smiling in her cell, Gyll, because she knows he is here,” said Kyrl, “She is happy because her disgrace gave him time to make his journey. And I have not been able to watch my boy grow up, or speak to him before today. Now I may, and seek both to know him more and to have his forgiveness for our long separation.”

Almost all the Watchers had dropped into the Lists while the Rector and Kyrl had been speaking. Every tunnel was guarded. There was no way out. Kyrin stood on the dais terrified and amazed. His father stood between him and the Watchers; the father who had not been talked of; the father he had wondered if he had ever existed; the father he had hated when other boys had called him names. There he was, a proud Master Weaver, strong and indomitable.

“So, Gyll,” Kyrl said. “Will you be wise and let this boy follow his own chosen path? Will you respect our ancient lore and let him go in peace.”

The Rector’s heart was boiling. His own name was being bandied around as if it was public property and here was Kyrl again. Wonderful Kyrl, logical Kyrl, trying to make it alright again, trying to settle the dispute as he always had when they were young. He could feel it happening; however hard he had fought it, he had always given in. It was going to be the same today. He didn’t want it to happen.

“Enough of this,” wheezed the Magister, “Get out of the way!”

Nobody had seen the Magister make his way inelegantly down the rope or make his way across the Lists. Kyrl did not see the blow that struck him in the midriff and bent him double, opening his stomach to the air. He had not seen the glint of steel in the Magister’s hand, but Lila saw it dripping red as he stepped back. Her staff whirled through the air and struck the knife from his stubby fingers. The fat man squealed and went to grab the knife. Another sharp blow from the beech staff sent him sprawling and she was holding up the knife, its blade now clogged with bloodstained sand.

“Murder” she cried “A knife wielded in the Lists! Woe to him that iron bore!”

Kyrl had staggered two or three paces and collapsed into Kyrin’s arms. The boy struggled under the weight and did what he could to make his father comfortable, propping up his head as they lay on the dais. Kyrl’s tunic was stained with blood and the colour was fading from his face. There was nothing Kyrin could do to staunch the flow and his hands were soon covered in blood.

The Lists were ringed with people, the Masters having broken through the Watchers in the initial moments of shock. Lila stood between Kyrl and Kyrin and the Magister, her staff raised in her hands as a weapon. The Magister was on his knees, breathless and covered in sand. The Rector stood at the front of the stands, staring white-faced at the scene below him.

Kyrl’s eyelids flickered and his eyes opened. He looked into Kyrin’s tear-stained face and smiled.

“Hello, Kyrin,” he said, but the effort of speaking brought blood to his lips.

“Father,” Kyrin said softly, through the tears.

Kyrl coughed and more blood came. He struggled to speak.

“Don’t cry now, my boy. This is a day of joy. You have completed your run. You have arrived. The future is bright.”

“But, father...”

“Boy!” The Rector’s voice echoed across the Lists. He was determined to regain control of the situation.

Kyrin looked up, his vision blurred by his tears.

“You must leave him and return with us. You have no choice.”

“Father,” whispered Kyrin, “what do I do?”

“Sing me a story of dragons,” breathed Kyrl, not even able to whisper. “I know you can do it.”

“I don’t want you to go.”

“No time now, to say all I wanted, my boy. So sing me a story of dragons and let us part friends.”

“What is your answer, boy?” The Rector was making one final effort. “Will you come or do I have the Magister drag you from here by the ear like the disobedient boy you are?”

Lila moved two steps closer to the Magister and raised her staff above her head. The Magister did not look like he would move of his own accord, but Lila did not trust him.

“You order this murderer to move,” she said, “and I will strike him dead.”

The Rector ignored her and played his last card.

“You may be losing your father, boy, but what is he compared to the woman who has cared for you and brought you up. Think of your mother and all she did while this man was wandering in the woods. Come back with us and ease her suffering.”

Kyrin’s tears dropped onto his father’s face. He could not see the bright future. He did not see it as a day of joy. Kyrl’s breathing was very faint and his tunic was now drenched with blood that pumped between Kyrin’s fingers. He opened his eyes again and smiled at Kyrin.

“When you see your mother, tell her I loved her always,” he breathed. “I loved you too, my boy, my Kyrin. Every day I stayed away brought you a day closer to this moment. It has always been in the weave, all of this, you just have to look. Now sing for me and answers will come. Make me proud. Sing me a story of dragons.”

Cradling his father as best he could, Kyrin took hold of his staff. The slipknot on the bindings worked to expose the beautiful golden wood, a beauty the blood from Kyrin’s hands could not diminish.

“Come on boy,” rasped the Rector, “Do I get an answer?”

“Sing me a story of Dragons,” began Kyrin, his voice cracking, “Dragons both green and both blue.”

The Rector caught his breath. That song! What was this boy trying to do? Had his father told him how it had upset him when he was younger? Was Kyrl mocking him even now? Stomach churning, he forced himself to listen to the boy’s singing. He could not be seen to weaken.

Kyrin had begun to repeat the little verse and his voice sounded stronger, more confident, though sadder than any note the Rector had heard. With the exception of Lila, who still stood menacingly over the Magister, each Master had knelt down, head bowed, facing the dais, and, as Kyrin’s melody wound its way around the Lists, the Watchers too went to their knees.

“What is this nonsense?” the Rector’s scornful tone broke in as Kyrin began the fifth repeat and sensed the movement in the air. “Why are we listening to this childish rhyme?”

One or two of the Watchers got up a little awkwardly.

“Will you seize the boy and let us get home!”

Kyrin did not stop singing, but he laid his father down on the dais. He had felt the life go from him, calmly and with dignity. There was no sense of sadness at that moment for he knew he had done what his father had wanted and, with the beating of the dragon’s wings already filling the air, Kyrin knew his father was beyond pain.

“Will no one do what I ask?” yelled the Rector, “Seize that boy, Sub-Magister! Stop that dreadful noise!”

The Rector had turned on the Sub-Magister, who stood transfixed in the stands, the pain behind his eyes as intense as it had ever been. It felt as if his head would split.

For just a second, Lila looked up and the Magister struck. Somehow he managed to spring from his knees, strike her in the face and knock her to the ground, and, leaving her winded, rushed towards the dais.

Kyrin was on his feet, the golden oak staff in his hand and he changed his singing. The words were the same, but the sadness was gone. Within one repeat of the verse, the notes had gone from a cold blue to a fiery red. He raised his staff and the Magister stopped, cowed by the authority and the anger in Kyrin’s singing.

“Sing me a story of Dragons,

Dragons both green and both blue,

Sing me a story of Dragons

Dragons will always be true.”

Kyrin sang for the beaten Ash. He sang for his father and he sang for the shameful treatment of his mother. The beat of the dragon’s wings increased.

Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, whoosh.

It brought a wind into the Lists that spiralled around and whipped up the sand. The Magister could not see to move forward or backward, but the sand did not obscure the Rector’s vision. Was it deliberate on Kyrin’s part or was it the weave of an untutored Master that allowed the Rector to witness all? Was it any comfort to him to discover, late though it was, as he covered his ears and crouched behind the seats in the stands, that he had been right to fear the song after all.

The dragon swirled down onto the dais, bowing its great green and blue head to Kyrin. The Weavers were motionless, kneeling in the sand, Lila too, though there was blood coming from her nose. The Watchers had fled to the tunnels. Only the Magister stood in the Lists in front of the dais, not knowing which way to go. He stared up at the dragon, which, after its bow to Kyrin, was swaying to the fierce rhythm of the singing.

“Sing me a story of Dragons,

Dragons both green and both blue,

Sing me a story of Dragons

Dragons will always be true.”

The rhythm increased, faster and faster, angrier and angrier and the dragon roared and roared, shaking the whole of the Lists. It turned its eyes, now a fierce red onto the Magister. The fat man stood there and could not move.

The singing stopped.

Kyrin raised his staff high. All was still, balanced in an instant of calm.

The Magister jumped towards him, hands outstretched. In a flash, Kyrin banged his staff down onto the dais.

Fire gushed from the dragon’s mouth and the Magister dropped to the floor.

There was silence.

Once more the dragon bowed to Kyrin. Kyrin returned the bow. Finally the great beast gently picked up Kyrl’s body and leapt up into the air. It circled the Lists twice and then flew away towards the eastern horizon.

As the beating of the dragon’s wings faded away, the Rector stood. Unsteady on his feet, his knuckles were white as he gripped the back of the seat he had hidden behind.

“I saw none of this,” said the Rector, “I was not here. It never happened.”

White-faced he turned away and left the stands. The Sub-Magister made to follow him out.

“Gan,” called Kyrin, “You do not have to go.”

The Sub-Magister stopped and turned.

“We may still meet in the house of Mr Bruntler.”

The Sub-Magister smiled sadly and shook his head.

“I will look for you in Villombre,” called Kyrin, “I always will. It could be as it was between us. I would have it so. Wouldn’t you?”

The Sub-Magister shook his head once more walked slowly out, his fingers massaging his forehead just above his left eyebrow.

The Watchers began to drift out, although four had the courage to come across and collect the Magister’s body. There was not a mark on him, beyond the red welt on his hand where Lila’s staff had struck the knife from his grip. The dragon’s breath had not scorched him, but there was no life in his body. The Watchers managed to lift him with a groan and carry him down the nearest tunnel and out into the street.

The Lists were silent.

Kyrin sat down on the front of the dais. He had never felt so tired. His staff dropped back against his shoulder. He looked at his hands. They were sticky with Kyrl’s blood, his father’s blood. Kyrin felt tears come again and wet his cheeks. To have known his father for such a short time, and now only the blood on his hand remained which would dry and had to be washed off. What would he tell his mother? More importantly, when would he tell his mother? She was in prison in Villblanche and he did not know when he would be able to go there again. Had he done the right thing? Should he have gone back so she could be free?

He looked up. The Weavers had gathered round him, a circle of brown cloaks. Lila came and knelt before him. All the Weavers went down on their knees, bowing their heads. Lila took his hands in hers. She smiled, though there were tears in her eyes too and her nose was still bleeding.

“Well,” said Kyrin, “What now?”