Tom Lloyd

The Twilight herald

PROLOGUE: PART ONE

A lined face, pale against the deep shadow of the archway, looked out into the street. The ground before him was empty of people, but movement was everywhere as the deluge that was worsening by the minute turned the packed earth to spattering mud. The old man had a heavy woollen scarf wrapped over his head and tied tight under his chin so the now-sodden material framed his face. Anxiety filled Ins eyes as he saw only the plummeting rain churning the ground, running in rivers off the rooftops and overflowing the gutters in the middle of the street. The black feather tattoos that marked the right side of his face looked crumpled; over the decades the once-crisp lines had faded. The tumult of the rain slashing down filled the air as the old monk trembled in the darkness. He felt it crowding him, driving him back into the shadows.

'Where are you, Mayel?' His voice was nothing more than a shiver¬ing whisper, yet almost as he spoke a figure turned the corner and headed towards him, arms held uselessly over his head against the storm.

Mayel made straight for the archway, head hunched low, and splashed into the dark recesses of the monument that sheltered the old man. He shook himself violently, like a dog, scattering water like a fountain. 'Abbot Doren,' he said urgently, 'I found him. He's waiting for us at an inn, just a few streets east of here.' There was a flicker of triumph in his eyes that saddened the abbot. Mayel was young enough to think this was a grand adventure; that a murderer was pursuing them seemed not to have filtered through into the novice's mind.

'I have warned you,' the old man said, 'this is not a game: even a hint of my name could mean our deaths.'

'But there's no one out here!' he protested, eyes wide in dismay. The abbot could see Mayel had not been expecting another scolding;

the youth deserved praise, he knew that, but their safety was not something they could take any chances with. Their mission was too vital for that.

'Still you must be careful; you can never be sure who is around. But you've done well. Let's find ourselves somewhere warm and get a hot meal and a bed for the night. We'll find a more permanent place in the morning.'

'I think my cousin will be able to help with that,' Mayel said, trying to sound cheerful again, despite the storm. 'He rents rooms to work¬men, so I'm sure he'd give me a good price – and watch out for us.' He started shivering, his saturated clothes clammy against his skin. Glancing nervously out from under the archway he saw the sky was an angry grey. It felt more like autumn than an early summer's evening, as though their pursuer swept away the joy and warmth of the season as he closed on them.

'We'll need a house, somewhere with a cellar,' said the abbot. 'I have work to do; I'll need complete privacy. It can't wait any longer.'

'I don't understand.' Mayel stared at the old man, wondering what could possibly be so important when they were fleeing for their lives.

'If Prior Corci does find out where we are, I need to be ready for him – and I need your help, not just to carry the books, but to protect me from the rest of this city.'

'Do we really need all these books with us?' There was understand¬able irritation in Mayel's voice: he had been lugging around the six thick volumes for two weeks now.

'You know what they are, boy. Our order's texts are sacred. That traitor may have made me flee the monastery, but he will never force me to give up the traditions that he himself has tried to destroy. The books must not leave the presence of the abbot – that is one of the very first lessons we learn.'

'Of course I know that,' Mayel said, 'but are you still abbot if you

flee the island?'

The old man shuddered and Mayel continued hurriedly, 'I mean, surely the sacred texts are there for the community, to look to for guidance. Should they not stay on the island?'

'This current situation is more complex than that,' snapped the old man. 'You are a novice; don't presume you are in possession of all the facts. Now, enough of your chatter. Show me to this inn where your cousin is.'

Mayel opened his mouth to argue, then remembered who he was talking to and clamped it shut again. He pointed down the street, and Abbot Doren pushed past and begin to make his splashing way through the puddles. His bag, which held his few possessions – two

MORE books and a strange, pearl-inlaid box that Mayel had never seen until the night they fled – held tight to his chest. The abbot hunched over low, his eyes on the ground, trying to protect the bag from the rain.

'You don't fool me, old man,' Mayel muttered. The wail of the Weather drowned his words, but if the abbot had turned round, he Would have seen a coldly calculating look that had no place on the face of a novice. 'There's something in that box that Jackdaw wants. He killed Brother Edin for more than madness. The prior wouldn't be following us for just a few dirty old books, so why won't you tell me what's in that box? It's got to be worth something if Jackdaw wants It so badly – enough to buy my way into my cousin's gang. If we do survive this, you'll be carrying these bloody books back to the island yourself, old man.'

He scowled at the abbot's back, then hurried to catch him up, at the last moment swinging his own bag around to his chest to shelter It somewhat.

from upper reaches of the monument where the abbot had been sheltering a soft voice spoke over the sound of the rain. 'He has the Skull with him, I can feel it.'

'We must sacrifice that for the greater prize. The old man is not as frail as he seems, nor as unprotected. Be content that he has done as

we wanted. Now the next act of our play can begin.'

'But I could kill him now.' The speaker's deeply-set eyes, hooded by thick brows, glittered avariciously. He ignored the rain soaking

his thick black hair and running down over the tattooed feathers on his cheek andl neck as he glared down the street, but the abbot had

arleady turned (he corner.

His god would not let you,' said his companion. 'Renouncing any God as you have is not done lightly, and Vellern would stop you from

harming one who is first among his worshippers. Perhaps the Lord of the Birds would take the opportunity to extract a measure of revenge

too ' the second man wore a green minstrel's hat and tunic and hugged a flute close under his left arm He looked only a little damp,

as though the rain were reluctant to touch him. His soft brown hair was not wet enough to have darkened and his cheeks, as smooth as a young man's, despite the air of age about him, remained dry. A slight smile, both knowing and scornful, curled the edges of his mouth.

'We have others who could,' growled the dark-haired man. Once known as Prior Corci, now he was Jackdaw, reviled as a traitor and murderer. His new master had called him that the first time they met, no more than six months past, in one of the monastery's dank, unused cellars. He had thought it a joke, but steadily he'd found the name had spread, even amongst Brothers who knew nothing of his intended treachery. Prior Corci was being steadily erased from history, as every week that passed, another man had forgotten about him. Jackdaw knew there was no going back, no escape from the choices he'd made, and only the thought of what else Azaer's power could achieve stopped him sinking into glum desperation at the loss of his former life.

Now Jackdaw blinked the rain from his eyes and squinted through the gloom at the empty street. 'The old man might be strong with the Skull, but an arrow would go right through that withered neck, whether or not he was holding magic. The Hounds would be glad to tear him apart.'