Mike Shevdon - The Eighth Court

Using one hand to unclench the other, she massaged her fingers where they cramped and twitched. She couldn’t decide whether these attacks were getting better or worse. They were less frequent now, sure, but they were stronger too. She’d thought she was getting better, but maybe they were just getting more extreme. Breathing slowly, she forced herself to relax. She could hear her own heartbeat slowing as she made herself believe it would all be OK.

The calm of the house helped. The ground floor of this wing was deserted: a procession of rooms with dust-covered furniture and closed curtains leaving shadowed interiors. She let herself listen to the peace and the emptiness. As the light faded from the windows down the west side of the house, she welcomed its solitude, the sense of things long past, covered over and forgotten.

If she hadn’t been so still and quiet, she would probably never have seen him. The merest suggestion of a shadow crossed the hallway. If you looked directly, there was nothing to see and your eye was constantly drawn away to dusty paintings or the long-silent grandfather clock. It was only when she looked away that her impression of someone moving down the corridor returned. As quietly as she could, she crept after.

She had an idea who it was she was following. His sheer size gave him away, though how anyone that big could move so quietly always amazed her. She was never quite sure how much of that was glamour and how much was just Tate. There was something about the way he walked, as if every step were tested, each pace a measured distance.

She was deliberately looking away while following, trying to keep the sense of him in sight without actually looking at him. Her own glamour was drawn about her, damping her own clumsy footfalls and diverting attention away. They came to the steps down to the Way-nodes and she sensed his presence moving down into the basement room. She hesitated at the head of the steps. If he caught her following him he would be cross, she knew, but her curiosity burned to know why he cloaked himself so, within the bounds of the house. He was up to something, she was sure. How long before she was safe to descend? If she descended too soon then he might still be there and she would have to admit she’d been following him, but if she left it too long his trail would be cold and she would not be able to follow.

Curiosity overruled caution, and she went carefully downwards, trailing her fingers down the cold wall, alert to any sound from within. When she reached the basement room she pushed the door open slowly where it had been left slightly ajar, readying her excuses — I thought I heard a noise . No one would ever believe that.

The room looked empty. Even so, she spent a moment standing in the doorway, letting her senses absorb the atmosphere until she was sure he’d gone. The stones were arrayed on the floor. Mostly when the Warders went out they left someone watching the Way-node, but now it was empty. Why didn’t Tate want anyone to know where he was going? A sudden pang of jealousy pricked her. Was he going to meet some woman? Is that why he was being so furtive?

She stepped forwards onto the Way-node, suddenly decided, and felt for the Way. It rose beneath her and she was swept away. Sensing the recent passage, the trail through the watery depths was like expanding ripples. She followed in his wake, letting herself glide along after him, barely hesitating as she arced around node after node, only conscious of the trail she followed. She was almost lulled by it, and started when the trail suddenly ended and she found herself in a wooded clearing in the misty darkness. There was a moment of panic as she realised he might be waiting for her, armed with questions as to what she thought she was doing, but there was no one. There wasn’t the slightest sign of Tate or anyone else.

Moving off the Way-node, more from habit that any intent, she surveyed the clearing. A tree had fallen across one side of it, half-covered in dark moss. The smell of leaf mould and damp earth surrounded her, while the evening breeze hissed through the high branches above her.

She walked around the clearing slowly until she noticed the path leading out into the wood. He’d been here before then? Maybe there was someone he was meeting. She scrambled up the low bank and wove her way through the trees, her eyes on the ground as she followed the vague outline of a path through the darkening woods. The last remnants of fading daylight filtered down through the leaves and her eyes adjusted until she could see the outlines of trees. Even so, she was slapped in the face by wet leaves more times that she could count. Long strands of bramble snagged in her sweater and her trainers sank into the muddy ground until water seeped into her shoes and made her footsteps squelch.

Listening carefully, there was no sight or sound of Tate, but then she hadn’t expected any. If she followed the path, though, that would take her to him and she would see what he was up to. She turned back, looking for the path she had followed, trailing behind her, and seeing none. She shook her head. Of course it was there. She was simply seeing it from a different angle.

Walking back along the path she had just followed, she came to the broad trunk of a tree. Had she passed it on the left, or the right? She searched the ground for the signs of her passing, finding only rotting brown leaves, and moss between the stripped-bare shrubs and clumps of undergrowth.

Returning to the place she’d reached, she tried again, but she wasn’t sure how far she’d gone. Now that she looked, there seemed to be many paths, though none looked especially used or recently travelled. Nor could she find the path she’d walked. She hugged herself against the night-time chill, wishing that she’d brought warmer clothes. The wood suddenly seemed huge and random, with vague pathways going off in all directions only to end in impassable banks of shrubs or muddy hollows where her trainers sank into the leaves with sucking sounds. Childhood stories echoed in her head and she started at noises in the bushes and imagined large creatures shadowing her movements just beyond her field of view.

She stopped. This was ridiculous. She frowned at her shoes and in a moment they were dry. Likewise, the damp left her clothes, leaving her drier if not especially warmer. She calmed herself down and turned slowly around in a circle, looking for things she recognised. There was a gnarled tree trunk that she was sure she’d passed before. She made her way to that and surveyed her position again. There was nothing she recognised. She had no idea which direction she’d come from or where she was. Somewhere among the wretched trees was a clearing with a trunk laid half across it, and if she could find that, she could at least get home.

Walking in ever-widening circles, she looked for something she’d recognise. The trouble was, the paths she followed weren’t circular and they kept leading her in directions she didn’t want to go. Within a few minutes she’d lost sight of the gnarled trunk and she couldn’t find that again either. Right, she thought, a wood can only be so big, so if she kept walking in one direction she would reach the edge of it, and then she could find civilisation and go home. It might take her longer, but at least she wouldn’t be scratched to death, cold and standing in a wet wood.

She picked a direction where the trees appeared to be lighter and set off. She tramped through the brush, her clothes picking up the damp as fast as she could dry them again. She missed her footing jumping over a small stream and ended up half-kneeling in the stream bed. Her temper got worse and the wood went on and on. Was there no end to the trees? After what seemed like half the night, she staggered into a clearing. Her hopes lifted as she thought she recognised something, and then sank when it was the same gnarled trunk she’d left hours ago. There was even the bit of root that she’d scraped the mud off her trainers with, the mud still damp and fresh. All this time she’d been walking in a huge circle. She could have cried. She was tired, frustrated and fed up with sodding trees. Her hands and face were covered in scratches, her knees were bruised and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d had anything to eat or drink.