Alys Clare - Blood of the South

If I had to make a judgement, I’d probably say that, although Hrype is the more scary-looking, it is undoubtedly Gurdyman who is the more dangerous. Both men are powerful magicians; capable, I’m sure, of feats far beyond anything I have yet experienced, but Gurdyman has the advantage of being many years older, and thus more deeply steeped in his art.

Hrype, anyway, is my lovely aunt Edild’s lover, although I’m one of the few people in on the secret. I wouldn’t say that fact makes him treat me with any special consideration, but I think he’d probably stop short of doing me harm.

His icy expression seemed to have softened very slightly. Capitalizing on this, I hurried forward, grasped his hand in mine and demanded news of my aunt, my village and the rest of my family.

‘Everyone is well,’ Hrype said impatiently, dropping my hand after the briefest of squeezes. ‘Nobody knows I’m here, so don’t expect any fond messages. And,’ he added with the hint of a smile, ‘don’t go imagining I’ll be taking any back.’

‘Of course not,’ I muttered meekly.

There was an awkward pause, during which I reflected that my presence really wasn’t welcome at this secret night-time meeting. Hrype glanced at Gurdyman, who gave a faint grimace and murmured, ‘Well, she’ll have to know, eventually.’

There was a brief, tense pause. Then Hrype sighed, turned to me and said, ‘There is news, Lassair, although not of your family at Aelf Fen.’ I opened my mouth to speak. ‘And, before you ask, it does not concern either of your sisters living elsewhere.’ That was a relief: I’m not that fond of my eldest sibling, Goda – although I wouldn’t wish her ill – but Elfritha, the one who’s a nun at Chatteris, I adore.

‘Who does it concern?’ I whispered.

Hrype said softly, ‘Skuli.’

Skuli.

For an instant, the crypt seemed to grow even colder, and I felt a shudder run through me. I had every reason to fear the very name, since only a few months ago Skuli had been all set to kill me. He was my distant kinsman: my grandfather and Skuli’s father were cousins.

The events of the spring still gave me bad dreams. They had also left me with an ache in my heart, for I had discovered a grandfather who I never suspected I had. Nobody but Hrype and Gurdyman knew about him; I had no idea how to reveal to my beloved father that his mother – my late and much-loved Granny Cordeilla – had had a brief and passionate liaison with a huge, bearded Norseman, and my father was the result. I was not at all sure how my father would receive the news that the mild, hard-working fisherman whom Cordeilla married, and with whom she conceived all her other children, had been temporarily usurped in her bed. Nor, indeed, how he’d feel on finding out his siblings were actually only half-siblings; neither are facts a daughter is usually called upon to explain to her father.

So there was news of Skuli. Well, Hrype could keep it to himself. I didn’t want to know. Skuli had sailed off towards the sunrise in his slim and elegant craft, and he had been heading for Miklagard. With brutal ruthlessness, he had done everything in his power to take a precious family heirloom with him, but, although he didn’t even stop short at murder, ultimately he’d failed.

That heirloom – the mystical, compelling shining stone – was now in my possession; put into my nervous hands by my grandfather.

I still missed him. I’d thought that the passage of time would ease the hurt. So far, it hadn’t.

With a shudder, I brought myself out of my reverie. I looked at Hrype, then at Gurdyman. My mouth felt dry, but I swallowed a couple of times, and then said, ‘I don’t know why, but I think this has to do with the shining stone.’

And, not really to my surprise, Hrype nodded.

‘Gurdyman and I believe that it is not in your best interests to postpone any further,’ he said.

I had an awful feeling that I knew only too well what he meant.

‘Er – you mean it’s time I began to – to get to know it?’ My voice wasn’t quite steady.

Hrype looked at me and there was compassion in his eyes. ‘The stone has come into your hands for a reason, Lassair,’ he said softly. ‘You know that.’ I nodded. ‘You will also know, I’m sure, that the intention was not simply for you to creep up to your attic room and unwrap the stone once in a while to gaze at it.’ How does he know I do that? I wondered wildly. Sometimes, my curiosity overcame my fear of the magical object that was currently in my possession …

‘We will be beside you, supporting you as best we can,’ Gurdyman said quietly. ‘It is an object of great power, and it is right that you are in awe of it, child.’

In awe was an understatement.

I looked at Hrype, then back at Gurdyman. They appeared to be waiting for something.

‘You don’t mean – surely you don’t want to begin now ?’ I squeaked.

Gurdyman smiled encouragingly. ‘No time like the present.’

By the time I returned to the crypt, my heart hammering from the combined effects of just having raced up to my little attic room and my increasing apprehension, Gurdyman had made his preparations. A piece of clean white linen had been spread over one end of the workbench, and smooth beeswax candles had been lit at the four corners. The seriousness of the moment struck home: beeswax candles are fearfully costly, and Gurdyman had just lit four . Somewhere close by, incense was burning; sniffing, I detected the strong, heady smell of frankincense; another very expensive commodity. In addition, I smelt cumin, dill and garlic.

All four substances are used for protection.

Gurdyman and Hrype stood like guardians, either side of the white expanse of linen. Hrype beckoned, and I stepped forward.

When it had first been put into my hands, the shining stone had been wrapped in a coarse length of old sacking. But, feeling that such a covering was unworthy of the stone, I had fashioned a bag out of a piece of soft dark brown leather, decorating it with a pattern of tiny glass beads sewn into a spiral. I had stitched a narrow hem in the top of the bag, through which I threaded a drawstring. I had collected fluffy pieces of sheep’s wool from the hedgerows, and, once I had washed and dried them and combed out the burrs and the tangles, the resulting soft nest made a good protective lining to the leather bag.

Now, approaching the workbench, I loosened the drawstring and opened the bag. I drew the stone out of its wrappings. I can just hold it in one hand, and I usually find that it is my right hand that reaches for it.

‘Put it on the cloth,’ Hrype intoned.

I obeyed. The stone, a perfect sphere, made as if to roll to one side. Then it seemed to change its mind.

The three of us, Gurdyman, Hrype and I, stared down at the shining stone.

At first glance, it appears to be solid, unrelieved black, with a brilliant sheen that repels the attempts of an onlooker to peer into it. But there is more to it. It’s as if the stone has light inside it; light that seems to flow, as if in some strange way the centre is liquid. You see a flash of gold, then a brief ribbon of deep green, there and gone in an instant. I recalled what Gurdyman told me of the stone’s origin. He told me – and I still find it hard to believe – that once it had been solid rock within the heart of a volcano, heated to such a ferocious temperature that it turned molten and then, when it encountered water and cooled, turned once more into a solid, but of a very different kind. Its nature is for ever changed from what it was , Gurdyman said. Through the medium of fire and water, rock is turned into glass.

I had been sure when he told me, and I remain sure, that he had been describing some sort of alchemy, of a kind I could not even begin to imagine.