Alys Clare - The Way Between the Worlds

It did; of course it did, and he knew it. Had he been a healer, he was sure that he, too, would have been so preoccupied with caring for his patient that there would have been little room in his mind for anything else. But he was no healer.

He had forced himself to remain in the room at the end of the infirmary, his presence doing no good to anyone, for as long as he could stand it. He had even returned after the priest had made his brief visit. Hrype had sent a silent, fervent prayer of thanks to whichever of his guardian spirits had warned him that Father Clement was on his way. He was deeply thankful that the priest had not set eyes on him, for the business at Crowland had been far more serious than Hrype had revealed, and there was little doubt that, had Father Clement seen him, he would have recognized him. Hrype did not even want to think about what would probably have happened next. .

He had sat in his corner of the room for some time, watching as Edild tended her patient and Lassair slept. He had sent out feelers to each woman and had understood that while the woman he carried always in his heart was simply exhausted, Lassair was deeply distressed, almost to the point of despair. He wondered why. Her sister, of course, lay before her, very sick, but Hrype knew by then that Elfritha was not going to die. If that were Lassair’s sole concern, soon it would not distress her so deeply. There was, he felt, something more.

His thoughts had returned, over and over again, to the question of who had tried to kill Elfritha. From what Lassair had told him, it did indeed appear that the poison had been administered by the same hand that was responsible for the two deaths. But who was he, and why had these three people been his victims?

Restless, frustrated, impatient with himself and everyone else, eventually Hrype had got up, moved lightly across the little room and out through the open door. He had used the outer door that led to the cloister several times by now, and he knew it opened without a sound. Soon he had been out in the dark night, loping across the cloister, down the maze of passages that twined through the abbey and over the patch of rough ground inside the rear wall. He had climbed this effortlessly, then hurried over the damp grass to the hazel hedge, stopping at a point where a small stream flowed close by.

Now, deep in the shelter of the hazel bushes, he was lighting a fire. He controlled the leaping flames, keeping the fire small. It was not for heat that he had lit it; merely to give a little light and, crucially, to provide one of the four elements. Water was provided by the stream running beside the hedge; earth was beneath him, and air above.

When the fire was burning to his satisfaction, he sat down again, crossed his long legs and untied the thongs of a soft leather bag that hung from his belt. Opening it, he spread out a square of linen on the ground in front of him and then closed the bag, holding it in both hands.

For a long time, he sat motionless. His eyes were closed, and he was murmuring a long, involved incantation. He needed the help of his guardian spirits, and it took a huge effort to summon them. Some were his ancestors, fierce men and women whose roots were in the cold north lands and in whom had run a rich seam of magic and sorcery. Some of the guardians were animals; his own spirit animal was a great brown bear, whose protection and help were invaluable when he chose to bestow them.

When at last Hrype was ready, he loosened his tight hold on the leather bag and opened it, drawing out its cords so that it was wide open. Then, with a swift, neat movement, he turned the bag upside down, and his jade rune stones tumbled down on to the linen square.

He sat staring down at the stones. They were beautiful, the translucent green incised with the familiar rune marks, which had been filled in with gold. The gentle firelight caught the precious metal, sparkling off the runes and making them glitter and shine. Hrype looked from rune to rune, forming different combinations, seeing different versions of the same message. He frowned, shook his head to clear it and then looked again at the runes.

He did not understand what the runes were telling him. It was just not possible; he was as sure of that as he was that the moon would soon set and the sun come up. But the runes never lied. Their message might be obscure — in fact, it usually was — but they were incapable of an untruth.

Slowly, Hrype gathered up the stones, muttering a prayer of thanks and a blessing on each one as he put it back in the leather bag. Then he folded up the linen square and put it on top of the stones. Thoughtfully, he reattached the bag to his belt.

He stood up and trod out the small remnants of his fire, cutting a turf from beneath the hedge and neatly tucking it into the black space where the fire had been. After a few moments’ work, nobody would have guessed what had happened there that night.

He set off back up the field towards the abbey, his agile mind trying all sorts of possibilities as he attempted to make sense of what the runes had told him. It was not until he was jumping down off the abbey wall that the solution hit him. He smiled briefly, wondering why on earth he hadn’t thought of it before.

He was now desperate to get back to the room in the infirmary. He needed to speak urgently to Lassair; or even to Edild, he reflected. Nevertheless, he maintained his caution and stood for some time in the cloister, using all his senses to make sure nobody was about. Dawn would come soon, and the nuns would be going to their church for the office. But he thought he had enough time.

He opened the door into the infirmary just a crack, sliding through and closing it again. Then he tiptoed into the little room where Elfritha lay. Edild was beside her, spongeing the girl’s face. She looked up and met his eyes.

‘She is better,’ he said. He knew it.

‘Yes,’ Edild whispered. ‘Yes, I believe she is. She has now taken half a cup of water, and there is no indication that she will bring it up again.’ She smiled, tentatively at first, then, as if she could not control her joy, her whole face lit up.

His heart leapt at the sight of her. He swiftly crossed the room and knelt beside her, taking her in his arms. Their kiss was brief, but he knew — and he hoped she did too — that soon there would be time for a full expression of their love. It had been such a long time since they had been alone. .

He broke the embrace, holding her by her shoulders, his eyes on hers. Then the urgency returned. He looked round the room and, as the realization dawned, said disbelievingly, ‘Where’s Lassair?’

It might be that she had simply crept out to find the latrines, but he knew even before Edild spoke that it was not.

‘She’s gone,’ Edild said.

He bit back a curse. He waited until he knew his voice would be calm, then said, ‘Where?’

‘She had a power dream,’ Edild replied.

It was enough; she did not need to elaborate, especially not to him, of all people. You did not ignore a power dream. The spirits sent them for a reason, and if you did not act upon them, the spirits would decide you were not worthy and never send you another.

‘Where did it summon her to?’

She told him. He nodded; he knew of the wooden circle, although he had never seen it. He wondered what the spirits wanted with Lassair. He was not at all surprised that she had received the call, for in the years that he had watched her mature, he had come to realize that she had a rare gift.

He made himself stop speculating. It was not his place to ask questions. What went on between the spirits and the mortals with whom they chose to communicate was private, and anyone else who tried to intervene — even someone far more experienced in sorcery than the recipient of the dreams — did so at their peril.