K Parker - Pattern

'Oh. Well, that's easily solved. You can ask me, and I'll tell you.'

'Truthfully?'

'On my word of honour.'

'That sounds impressive.'

'I mean it. I can explain stuff you don't know, and the other way around. Like,' Elja went on, 'this thing with the mountain. What did you call it?'

'A volcano,' Poldarn replied. 'At least, I'm pretty sure that's what it is. But really, I hardly know anything at all about them, except that they exist and that's what they're called.'

'That's more than any of us do. And you knew about the flash flood, which is why Rook went to Lyatsbridge.'

Poldarn shook his head. 'I just figured that out for myself,' he said. 'And it's far more likely that I was wrong and there's no problem at all, and the Lyatsbridge people will wonder what the hell we're making such a fuss about. At least, that's what I'm hoping.'

That thought soured the conversation somewhat, and neither of them said anything for a while. Elja's next words didn't improve matters, as far as he was concerned.

'You knew Egil when you were young,' she said.

Statement, not question; but clearly inviting comment. 'So he tells me,' Poldarn replied, 'and when I saw him I thought maybe I recognised him. But that's really as far as it goes.'

'That's strange,' she said. 'Because he's really afraid of you, for some reason. He's trying really hard not to think about it, and I don't think Dad or Barn have seen it in his mind yet. But I'm closer to him than they are, I can see things they can't.'

'So,' Poldarn said uncomfortably. 'Can you see what it is he's so frightened of?'

'No. That's buried so deep, you'd never be able to get it out without his help. It's odd, though. All the years I've known him, all my life, and I never thought he had anything in his mind I didn't know about.'

'The word "privacy" doesn't mean a lot around here, does it?'

'The word what?'

At first Poldarn thought Elja was making a joke; then he realised he'd used a word from another language. These people (his people) didn't have a word for it.

'Sorry,' he said. 'Don't worry about it-just me getting things muddled up.'

She shrugged, as if to say that he could keep his rotten old secrets for all she cared. 'You know,' she said, 'I don't think I've ever talked this much in my whole life.'

Poldarn grinned. 'You're a quick study,' he said. 'Do you like it?'

'What?'

'Talking.'

Elja considered for a moment. 'Actually, it's good fun,' she said. 'Like a game. I'm not sure I'd want to have to do it all the time, but it's interesting. Helps pass the time on a long walk.'

'Can't say I'd ever seen it in that light,' Poldarn confessed. 'But they all reckon I'll be back to normal before too long. Not sure how I feel about that. I mean, it must be very convenient to be able to see inside people's heads, but I can't say I'm happy about everyone being able to see inside mine. Especially,' he added, 'since I can't. How do you think it works? I mean, do you think you'll be able to see all the memories I've lost?'

'I don't know. Can't see why not.'

'Then I don't like the idea at all. You'd all know more about me than I do. And some of the stuff might not be very pleasant.'

'I can't believe that,' she said. 'And besides, it stands to reason that if you get back the trick of seeing inside heads, you'll be able to see into your own, and then you'll know all about yourself.'

'Yes,' Poldarn said. 'That's what I'm worried about.'

Elja looked at him as if he was talking in a foreign language again. 'Don't be silly,' she said.

'I'm not. Come on, think about it. What if it turns out that really I'm the most evil man that ever lived?'

'That's even sillier. Of course you're not. I can tell you that, and I've only known you for a couple of hours.'

'But you can't be sure. I might be lying.'

'I'm sure, really. I'd know if you were the most evil person ever. It'd be in your face.'

Poldarn shook his head. 'All you can see is what I'm thinking. Now, suppose I'd done all manner of dreadful things but I'd managed to make myself believe that I haven't done anything wrong.'

'Well, then,' she replied, 'in that case it wouldn't matter if we could all see inside your head, would it?'

'There's no point arguing with you, is there?'

'No, not really.'

By the time they got back to the house, Poldarn was distinctly worried. Since he'd woken up beside the river in his nest of blood-soaked mud, he'd had the problem of confronting a wide range of problems and perils, mostly unprepared, on the fly, and so far he'd managed to cope, in the sense that he was still alive and on his feet when a great many of the people he'd so far encountered weren't. Much more of this sort of thing and he'd start thinking of himself as resilient, resourceful or at least monstrously lucky. But the prospect of falling in love-for the first time, to all intents and purposes-was an emergency he simply wasn't prepared for; and the talents he'd so far excavated in himself, basically consisting of an ability to get a sword out of a scabbard and into an enemy faster than most people could do it, weren't going to be much use to him in this particular arena. So far, he reckoned, he'd managed to stay free and upright by virtue of that very isolation that his loss of memory had afflicted him with. Under all circumstances he'd been on his own, both imprisoned and protected by the wall of his enforced solitude. Without loyalties, attachments or encumbrances he'd been able to walk away from each threatening situation he'd found himself in-so long as he could get clear with his bones unbroken and the clothes he stood up in, he'd had all the options and choices in the world. Even here, where he had a real name and family and an inheritance, he'd been an outsider, an offcomer, unable to read or to be read; and if things went badly, he could always leave.

Falling in love would wreck all that. Love would arrest him, like a criminal nailed to the courthouse door by his ears, or a prisoner whose legs were smashed to make sure he couldn't escape. He'd have no choice but to participate, belong, get involved. He'd be stuck here, for ever.

Oh, there were worse places; the Bohec and Mahec valleys, for example. If Poldarn were still the boy called Ciartan who'd never left the farm or gone abroad, he couldn't have wished for anything more than love and stability. But he wasn't. He was someone out of a fairy story, the peasant's son who gets mistaken for the prince and just manages to pass himself off as royalty for a week or a month or a year until inevitably he gets found out (but then it turns out he really is the prince after all, and that's all right); and the point at which the reckless young fraud comes unstuck is always when he makes the mistake of falling for the princess, getting involved, the point where he sinks into the mud above the knee and finds he can't move any more.

Damn, Poldarn thought. But there's not a lot you can do about it when it happens, when you've already put your weight on a hidden patch of quicksand. No use looking where you're going after you've got yourself stuck.

The farmyard was black with ash.

Rook hadn't come back yet, and Colsceg decided it would be sensible to get home, just in case something had happened or was happening. Of course, his horses were waiting for him, saddled and bridled and groomed, all his belongings stowed in the saddlebags, with an additional packhorse, heavily loaded with something or other in two coarse wool sacks. Elja didn't say goodbye as she crossed the yard to the mounting block and got on her horse, she didn't even look at Poldarn. Almost certainly there was no significance in the omission, but it didn't stop him thinking about it all afternoon, as he bashed a piece of inoffensive iron into a pair of very undistinguished pot-hooks.