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  ‘And take this; it’s little enough.’ Ganny tucked half a loaf into Risha’s basket. ‘You’re too thin,’ she said in a familiar complaint. ‘You must make yourself eat whether you feel like it or not.’

  Risha’s throat felt thick. If only Pelon had seen past the woman’s plain face to her kindness — but he had always preferred his own company. She missed him, suddenly, with an ache that sliced through her bones, and hurried away before she betrayed the depth of her grief.

  Her own cottage felt empty after the warmth of Ganny’s kitchen. Nudging the fire into life, Risha filled her kettle and forced herself to chew a wedge of bread and cheese. Ganny had been right: she hadn’t eaten properly since before Pelon died.

  The thought of him turned her to face the contents of the chest, spread across the floor. Lifting the cloak, she shook it out. There was something caught within its folds. She fumbled for the opening of the pocket, feeling the weight of the fabric and its warmth — it was large enough to have been her father’s but, even re-cut to fit her, it was unlikely to be of much use in the mountains. If she stayed. The idea crept insidiously into her head, the way lichen creeps over rocks.

  Risha’s fingers closed around something small and firm. It was a doll, such as a mother might make for her child. No chord chimed in her memory. She held it to her nose but there was only a sour mustiness. One side was coming unstitched … there was something inside. Probing with her finger, she hooked out an oval brooch. It was gold and the stones set into its face shone like sunlight on water. The image was of a ship, the jewels quartering her flag.

  Something moved in Risha’s mind that she couldn’t quite grasp. It was years since she’d wondered about her mother. When she was younger she’d held to a comforting image, solid as Ganny and soothing as Nonno. But this … she didn’t know what to make of it. Pelon had never once spoken of their past and it was too late now to ask. Turning the brooch in her fingers, she searched her memories, but nothing came. It looked valuable, and she wondered why Pelon hadn’t sold it.

  With a sigh, Risha slipped it back inside the doll and re-stitched the torn seam. After a moment’s hesitation she returned it to the chest and locked the lid. Not for a moment did she believe the precaution necessary, but Pelon had. As the light began to fade, Risha picked up her father’s manuscript and set herself to find out why.

  Next morning Risha woke late. She’d read half the night, but for all the words her father had spilled across paper, none shed any light on her dilemma. A seam tore as she tugged her dress over her head; as she reached for needle and thread she stubbed her toe on the hearth. By the time she left the house, her mood was sour as three-day-old milk. She was nearly at the goat shed when a sharp complaint reached her ears.

  ‘… not the way it looks to me! She’s always in and out your door.’

  ‘It’s not me she comes to see.’

  Risha slowed, colour creeping up her neck.

  ‘Nor you that sends her away! You can’t expect me to take you seriously when that out-comer is hanging round you every minute of the day.’

  ‘Carly,’ Emett’s voice was pleading. ‘You can’t believe I care for her. I’d be as happy as you to see her gone. It’s just …’

  Risha wheeled away. Carly had never made a secret of her hostility, but Emett’s words stung like salt in a scratch. Rolling her hurt into a dense, dark ball, she flung it at Nonno. Let the woman help with that!

  No sooner was it done than she felt ashamed of her action. Pelon had been right: Nonno was a child’s game. The enveloping warmth she recalled when she’d turned tearfully inward had been nothing more than her own need answering itself. And now, she was too old to believe it.

  Vision fogged by tears, Risha stamped across the meadow, stopping only when one boot sank into mud. She scowled at the dew-pond. An insect skimmed across its surface, tugging an arrow of ripples in its wake. She barely saw it. Instead, an image poured through her head, of a river with a patchwork of emerald fields running back from its banks and a road running straight as a falcon’s flight to a high wall of stone. Behind it buildings rose, their orange-roofed towers catching the sun’s light and reflecting it back, dappled, as if it was shimmering on water.

  Risha broke out of her trance, her skin clammy with sweat. If that had been Nonno’s answer, it helped not at all — or perhaps it did. Perhaps it was enough to be reminded that there was a world beyond Torfell and that, somehow, she must find the place her father had once occupied within it.

  2

  Barc the trader

  Summer had ripened across the meadows when a piper heralded the arrival of the traders who each year crossed Lindfell Pass. Risha watched the procession from her door. Marit led them, as usual, closely followed by the young piper. His was not the only new face, though towards the middle of the group she recognised Sulba and Teman. Relief washed through her when she saw Barc. As if he felt her eyes, he turned and threw her a jaunty salute. Risha felt her grief shift like a weight in her chest.

  Boys hurried to offer assistance as the mules were unloaded and the roasting pits lit. Come early or late, the traders’ visit marked the hinge of the year and provided a welcome excuse for celebration in Torfell.

  The day’s fat warmth had drained into evening when Risha made her way to the temporary campsite, the smell of fresh-cut grass hanging sharp and sweet in the air. She was late arriving and the dancing was already under way. Through the crowd she saw Ganny and Tok’s wife Metta, both flushed with laughter as they spun past with Marit and Teman. As she watched, the young piper relinquished his instrument and pulled Carly into his arms.

  Risha skirted the dancers, her nose twitching at the scent of roasting meat and spices and the sweet southern wine. A trader new to the group, his face half-hidden behind his beard, bared his teeth in a wolfish grin. ‘Here you go, sweetling. Have a toffee stick on me.’

  The heat of the flames had softened the toffee so that it was gooey on her tongue. As she licked the last sticky drop from her fingers, a voice caught her attention.

  ‘… be wanting something fine from their array. I hope you’ve plenty of coin to spend, Emett.’

  ‘Maybe the piper boy will have baubles to give her. She looks happy enough in his arms.’

  Risha rounded the tent in time to see Emett’s face twist. It wasn’t hard to grasp the game Carly’s brothers were playing. ‘As your mother looks happy in Marit’s,’ she said. ‘Everyone enjoys dancing.’

  Borik turned. ‘Why aren’t you dancing then, Risha?’

  ‘No one will have her,’ Dane sneered.

  Risha was accustomed to their barbs. ‘I’m in mourning.’

  ‘As good an excuse as any. Wouldn’t you say so, Emett?’

  Emett shifted uncomfortably. ‘I’m going to get some food,’ he muttered, stalking into the darkness.

  ‘What about it then, Risha? Shall I dance with you?’

  ‘I told you, I’m not dancing.’

  Borik grinned and grabbed for her. Risha lurched away, stumbling over a tent rope, and was only saved from a fall when an arm circled her waist.

  ‘The dancing is better where the music is,’ a voice drawled.

  At the intrusion the brothers melted quickly away, leaving Risha alone with the newcomer.

  ‘I was grieved to hear of your father’s death,’ Barc said gently, releasing her.

  Tongue-tied, she stared at him. The trader seemed to have aged five years since she’d seen him last summer, his face dark and lined as old leather. ‘Barc, can I ask you —’

  ‘Aye, but not here, perhaps. Come, let’s find something to eat.’

  Without waiting for an answer, he led her back to the fire.

  Risha was early up the mountain next morning, a gathering basket slung at her hip. The sound of the fair carried in snatches on the breeze but she had no weaving or carved stonework to barter at the stalls, and Barc would be too busy to talk until his day’s trading was done. Searching out rockberries took her more than
half the day, and she was hot and scratched by the time she returned home.

  Risha washed her face and arms and set the fruit to simmer. As she began to make pastry she thought about the wheat Marit said grew like grass on the plains.

  ‘Not down on the green admiring the wares?’

  Startled, Risha turned, her hands still mired in the bowl.

  ‘Fine linens and wools; necklets of gems and beaten brass, which Marit will happily call bronze. Perhaps a clasp for your hair or a new spindle for your loom?’ Barc grinned as he spun his easy patter.

  ‘You should save your talk for those with something to trade.’ She tipped the ball of pastry from the bowl and began to roll it out. ‘I’ve no need of trinkets. I was just thinking, though, about the flour Marit brought last year, from the plains beyond Polton.’ She turned her dough. ‘It makes a lighter pastry than this.’

  ‘And what would you know of the land beyond Polton?’

  Risha shrugged. She knew little of any place beyond the mountains, other than what she’d gleaned from the tales of the traders — and yet she did know. The whole of Elgard had sprung to life in her mind as she read her father’s history. She knew that beyond Lindfell Pass the road branched west to Polton and the rolling hills of Elswood, east through more difficult terrain that stretched as far as FrattonWater, home of one of the five ancient houses. She knew that the Great Plains were quartered by two rivers, and that where Great Caledon Forest had once encroached there was now a sea of fertile farmland. She’d read of battles and duchies, of great leaders and poor ones. Her father had written clearly and well, his history of Elgard flowing from the pages so that she felt she’d lived amongst it. Too late she regretted her scolding over candles wasted and chores not done — for her newly acquired knowledge of Elgard came to an abrupt and unfinished end, curiosity crackling within her as she wondered what had happened in the decades past his telling. The land would not much have changed, she thought, but the story of the houses — the fall of the old and the rise of the new — she had a hundred questions over that.

  Pretenders.

  The word fell sharp into her mind. Risha jumped.

  ‘Have I lost you to a dream?’ Barc asked.

  Risha blinked and let her eyes fall to the pie dish waiting on the table. ‘I was thinking of my father,’ she said. ‘The kettle is at the back of the stove — you might slide it on to boil.’

  Barc crossed the kitchen obediently. ‘Something smells good.’

  ‘Rockberries. They’re Ganny’s favourite. I’m making her a pie.’

  He straddled a chair, his arms resting along its back. ‘She told me of Pelon’s illness.’

  ‘She’ll have told you as well that Bram plans to turn me from the holding.’

  Barc made a noise in his throat. ‘Pelon bought this holding.’

  ‘According to Bram it was leased, not bought, and in Torfell Bram’s word is final.’ She trimmed the edges of the pastry and set it aside, then turned to make a pot of tea. Barc’s eyes, when she glanced at him, were dark and steady. ‘Barc, who sent the packages you carried to my father?’

  A muscle shifted in his jaw. ‘I wish I could tell you.’ He paused. ‘I’m a go-between, Risha. Whatever was sent passed through other hands before mine.’

  ‘But you must know—’

  ‘My business lies in not knowing and not asking. Your father understood that.’

  ‘My father is dead,’ Risha answered, ‘and he seems to have given little thought to what would become of me in such a circumstance, if he ever thought of me at all.’

  ‘Hush, now!’ Barc reached across the table to wrap his tanned fingers around her wrist. ‘Pelon’s death cannot change how much he cared for you. Each year when we sat to talk, no subject could be broached till he had first listed every small achievement you’d made and each new detail of your growing,’ he said gently. ‘He loved you, Risha.’

  ‘He never said.’

  ‘Even so.’

  Under Barc’s steady gaze, she sank back in her seat. She had known that Pelon loved her. Sometimes it seemed he forgot she was there, but that was not the same thing. ‘I know so little about him.’

  ‘He was a good man.’

  Risha considered. She had no reason not to trust Barc, other than the feeling that he was not the simple trader he pretended to be. She caught her lip between her teeth. ‘Barc, I have a favour to ask of you.’ She drew a breath, the words scurrying behind it. ‘I want you to take me with you when you leave Torfell.’

  ‘Ganny said —’

  ‘Ganny would have me, but it’s impossible: Emett won’t have it, for one thing. And, aside from that, I’ve made my decision. With or without your help I’m leaving Torfell.’ It was the first time she had said it aloud and the sound of the words pleased her.

  Barc’s chair scraped against the flagstones. ‘Risha … Where would you go?’

  ‘To Elion. My father had a friend there.’

  Barc studied his hands as if weighing something between them. ‘It could serve,’ he muttered at last. ‘Have you spoken of this to anyone else?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Leave it like that. I’ll talk to Marit.’

  Her heart had begun to pound with excitement. ‘Barc, tell me—’ The sharp smell of burning caused Risha to break away with a cry. ‘My berries!’

  The fruit had boiled nearly dry and begun to catch. When she turned back to Barc, he was waiting by the door.

  ‘I hope Ganny’s pie is not spoiled,’ he said pleasantly. ‘If it is, I’ll make it up to her. I have a sack of flour I’ve not yet sold.’

  ‘Barc—’

  ‘Come to the stalls tomorrow. My thanks for the tea.’

  On legs that felt numb, Risha followed him to the doorstep and stood staring after him. It was not until she turned back inside that a figure moved high on the hillside, rising up from behind a boulder and striding quickly away.

  Risha called on Ganny early, as soon as the morning’s milking was done. The woman greeted her with a smile. ‘You’re surely not taking all that to the fair?’ she asked, eyeing the bundle of blankets and kitchenware Risha set on the table.

  ‘No, they’re for you. Ganny, I’m grateful for your offer, but I’m not moving in.’ Risha hurried on as the woman’s mouth opened. ‘It would only bring you problems.’

  ‘Has Emett said something?’

  Risha shook her head. ‘I’m going to find my father’s family.’

  Ganny’s expression lightened. ‘You found something in Pelon’s papers?’

  ‘He had a friend who’ll be able to tell me more. Meredus of Elion.’ She spoke the name like a talisman, but Ganny was unimpressed.

  ‘I hope you’ve a more specific address than that! The world isn’t like Torfell, Risha. There are bandits on the roads and the towns are scarcely safer for a young girl alone. How will you live?’ She flapped an arm. ‘Do you even know where Elion is?’

  ‘It lies west of Caledon on the river El, and Meredus is a scholar at the university.’ Or so Risha supposed. ‘Barc’s going to help me,’ she added, hoping to divert Ganny from further questions.

  The older woman set her hands on her hips. ‘Barc should know better than putting such foolishness into a young girl’s head!’

  ‘It was my idea, not his. If you wish to blame anyone, blame Pelon for dying.’

  Ganny looked scandalised.

  ‘Or blame Bram.’

  The woman’s lips compressed to a thin line.

  Risha pressed on. ‘I do have a favour to ask, though. My goats: would you keep them? And some of my father’s things — I don’t want to leave them for Tok.’

  ‘Of course. But … Risha, wait a few years. When you’re older—’

  ‘I can’t.’ Barc’s tacit agreement had simplified her course, but even without it, Risha knew her decision was made. If Meredus was no longer at the university, there would surely be someone who could tell her how to find him; perhaps even someone — the thoug
ht curled invitingly through her mind — who remembered Pelonius. As for the journey: here, her imagination failed. The possibilities were so broad that they scared her more than a little. As much for her own comfort as for Ganny’s, Risha wrapped her arms around the older woman. ‘Barc will bring you news of me next year,’ she offered.

  ‘He’ll find I want words with him sooner than that. I hate to think what Pelon would say.’

  Risha didn’t say what she was thinking: that if only Pelon had said more when he was alive, she might be faced with less uncertainty now. Instead, bidding Ganny goodbye, she walked on to the fair.

  Barc was busy haggling when Risha reached his stall.

  ‘A pleasure to see you, Risha,’ he called, exchanging a package of spice for a square of patterned felting. ‘Can I tempt you with a trinket: a clasp for your hair or a necklet of green stones to set off your pretty eyes?’

  Two women turned and Risha blushed. ‘No. I came to see if—’

  ‘Or Marit has ribbons you might prefer. He’s had more luck than me this visit. I’ll bring ribbons myself next year, and by then they’ll doubtless have fallen from favour. A trader’s life is a hard one.’ He sighed dramatically and the woman he’d just served made a scornful sound.

  Barc tipped his head down the row of stalls and, following his gaze, Risha found Marit’s eyes on her. Casting Barc a sideways glance, she walked slowly towards the head trader.

  ‘Good morning, Risha. I’ve not seen you at the stalls before now,’ Marit began.

  ‘I’ve … had much on my mind.’

  Marit was a big man, solid and strong, his face half hidden by a beard that sat like matted woolwork on his chest. ‘Aye, that I can imagine. Hard enough to lose a father without having your home taken from you as well,’ he boomed.

  The women lingering over the stall melted quickly away. Risha hoped it was guilt that made them veer from Marit’s loud voice.

  His next words were quiet. ‘The road is no place for children, Risha.’