The Last of the Runners
Chapter 19

Eyes red from watching, the Proctor paced the Observatory Tower. He had hardly slept since that gleam had leapt from the forest to lighten the grey sky, nor had he come down to his apartments from the Tower. Grey white stubble grizzled his ashen chin and dark shadows underscored his tired eyes, eyes forever fixed on the eye piece of his view replaceer, searching the distance for a sight of hid foe. For the briefest moments in the last days, his lids had become too heavy and had closed, throwing the Proctor headlong from the world of light into the whirling chaos of the world of dreams, from which he would wake spluttering like a drowning man.

The eastern sky was becoming pink, suffused with the dawn light which strove to cut away the greyness of the night. Suddenly, a golden gleam burst into the sky, cutting through the pink with the purity of its emotion. What a light! What feeling lay behind it! It stood like a gigantic standing stone in the middle of the forest and it was terribly beautiful.

Once more, he screwed his eyes to the eye piece and swapped lenses with fevered fingers. Then, he saw it, flying to the light out of the fiery eastern sky. It was a bird. Surely it was a bird, a large bird - giant bird even. It was not, could not be, what he thought he saw glittering in the rays of the rising sun and the gleam that rose from the earth. But what bird had such a tail? What bird’s plumage glittered in the light in such a way? If the flying creature did not frighten him, what it collected from the ground and bore away terrified him. He could deny having seen a dragon, but its sombre load was harder to discount. Things were happening in the forest that were beyond his control. Yet if they had acted against the ancient lore, if they had used such means in pursuit of their goal, they risked shaking the foundations of the city itself.

Down the stair hurried the Proctor. Seizing his pen, he wrote: Do nothing that is violence against the ancient lore. Better to let the boy pass for it is said

“Woe to him that iron bore

In Tale Tourney Lists

For from man’s blood thus

Sayeth the ancient lore

Comes never any good”.

The servant had ceased to be surprised by the urgent hammering on the bell and the dishevelled appearance of his master.

“Get this to the Rector.”

“But...”

“Send it after him, you fool.”

The Proctor returned to the Tower. Alone he had to rule, for the Rector had left for Tournemittes. The dawn had come up but the gleam was gone. Did that mean that there was still hope that normality would remain, that day would follow day in the same measured way and the city would continue to prosper? For the first time in all his years of service, the Proctor was not sure.

Two hooded shadows hurried through the trees, one furious, one desperate to calm his companion, all thought of going unnoticed forgotten.

“We only watch?”

“That is what is set down. We must respect the lore.”

“Did they? When they beat the hewer like that – were they respecting the lore then?”

“They will reap the consequences of their behaviour.”

“Is that all you can say?”

“It is the truth.”

“And if they treat him in the same way? Who will reap the benefits of their behaviour then?”

“You cannot argue that way.”

“How can we risk it all on their respecting the lore? You can see how powerful he is. We cannot take that chance.”

“We must. We must respect the lore.”

“You will see your son beaten to death and not raise a finger?”

“If that is in the weave, it has to be.”

“I can’t accept that.”

“You must.”

“No. I will act to protect him if they act outside the lore of the runner. I will not stand by and see him destroyed. We have waited so long.”

“The Masters...”

“Do the Masters want the world to be better or not? I will do whatever I can to respect the lore and I will ensure they respect it also.”

“You cannot!”

“Master, I will and I must. Let us hope we may meet in the Lists and forget this argument.”

“Lila!”

“Farewell, Master!”

The horse kept wandering from one side of the road to the other and the Rector had to keep pulling on the levers to set him straight. Why couldn’t the damn machine keep going in a straight line? Why had he been so foolish as to attempt such a journey on a mechanical horse?

The Head Learner would have tried to rebuke him for giving in to such a non-productive emotion as anger. It was just as well he was heading out through the cold to Tournemittes as he was in no mood for her twittering. Actually, it had been pride rather than anger that had driven him to use his latest acquisition for the journey. He had been assured that it would make the trip in half the time of a flesh horse. However, there were no guide magnets in the roads beyond the first ring of villages and he had been forced to steer it manually.

He could not remember when he had been in such a black mood. His heart was full of hate for the Weavers. They had taken his best friend and then that friend had taken the one woman he had ever had the slightest feelings for: Souci, dear Souci, always in her yellow dress, sun in her hair and her smile. The three of them had started at the Training School together. Yes, the Head Learner had been there too, assisting the teachers. He had forgotten how old she was. How had she risen to be Head Learner?

When Kyrl had run, he had comforted Souci and they had been firm friends through their days there. However, when he asked her, when they finished at the Training School, if he could continue to see her, she had said she wanted to concentrate on her work. Dedicated to work as he was, he had accepted her decision. When he had gone to replace her a few years later, she had disappeared. No one would say where she had gone or why. Now he knew. Kyrl had taken her. She had just been polite to him while they were at the Training School and Kyrl, the one person he thought was his friend, had taken her. Now their son threatened the future of Villblanche. It was the perfect opportunity for vengeance. Safeguard the city and settle old scores at the same time.

Immersed in such black musings, and struggling to keep the steaming horse walking in a straight line, the Rector headed for Tournemittes. So deep were his musings, he was unaware of the fast approaching rider coming from Villblanche until he reined in alongside him. The formalities were brief; it was just a message to deliver and no reply was necessary. Within a few minutes, both riders were once more heading in opposite directions.

There was nothing in the Proctor’s message to comfort the Rector. The doggerel verse with its continued insistence on respecting the old lore made him more determined to crush the stupid nonsense once and for all. Its backward looking gibberish had softened the Proctor’s mind at last. It had to be weeded out, prevented from sowing its seed to pollute another generation: it was time to free Villblanche from the power of imagination for ever.

The Rector trotted on, furiously plotting how he would finish with imagination in the city and imagining how good it would feel when he took Kyrl’s son, the last of the runners, back to the city in a cage. What would his mother do then? Would she continue to mock him from behind her cell door or would she beg him to be merciful to her child? It was a delicious prospect to think how legitimate power would allow him to remove the hurt he had suffered those years ago, just as it had allowed him to expunge the record of his one beating. It could not be considered as corrupt or an abuse of the power he had as he had received it for the benefit of the city. As it happened, the interests of the city and the Rector coincided. He could proceed with a clear conscience, whatever the old lore might say. The boy had better watch out, thought the Rector, for he was in no mood to be merciful.

“Did you call me, brother? I did not think it was time.”

“Your followers do not respect the ancient lore!”

The cloak was thrown back as he stood up.

“What is that nonsense to me or mine?” replied his brother, “It stands in the way of progress.”

“Traditions and lore have helped maintain the balance in the world. Such violence puts a strain on the Weave. It causes pain. Can you not feel it?”

He placed his painted hand upon the trunk of the tree, withdrawing almost immediately as if he had been stung or burned.

“Can you allow her to feel pain?”

“It was her choice, her sacrifice as you put it. I did not force her to do it.”

“You will not intervene? You will not bring them back within the traditional bounds?”

“No. They choose their own path.”

“Then I must allow him help. It must be balanced.”

“So you say. It will make no difference in the end. Whether the boy makes the Lists or not, we will not be stopped.”

“The balance must be restored!”

“Why, brother? Why may not those who wish to strive for wealth dominate? Why must they be held in perpetual balance with the idle dreamers?”

“It is the way of our world.”

“The way you chose for the world!”

“It was so calm after where we had lived. It had to be preserved, prevented from falling into chaos.”

“What you call chaos! It is progress. A world must progress. It must advance and become rich.”

“So you say, brother, so you have said often.”

“So I have said and so will it be.”

“My weave is not of such a type, brother. That you know. It values all equally and strives to hold all in balance.”

“And if the balance is destroyed?”

“The Weave will be broken and the world will fail.”

“Then the end is coming, brother, for the boy will fail, whatever help you give. He cannot turn back the tide of progress and force you state of balance onto the world. If that will break your weave and thus free the people to choose their own course, then it will be a day of joy and release from this prison of thought!”

“I do not doubt the boy. He will replace the strength he needs to restore the balance.”

“We will see, brother, for it is a long road. Until the time then.”

He strode away, his cloaked brother resuming his vigil at the foot of the oak at the centre of the world.

After parting from Ash, Kyrin had walked fast and begun to trail the Magister and the Watchers. It had not taken long; the hulks of empty steam dogs, left by the careless Watchers, had pointed the way. He had found them camped only a few miles up the road. For all their concern at chasing after him, they had lit a fire and flagons of beer were being passed round. Kyrin crept as close to them as he dared. He needed to hear what they were saying. It might give him the information he needed.

“You wouldn’t have thought the old man could have run so fast.”

“Persistent, wasn’t he? Never known someone run like that and to keep going so long.”

“Reckon we’d still be chasing him if he hadn’t tripped. Even the dogs were struggling.”

“Only just got him them. He was almost away when Bran got his ankle.”

“Never seen the boss like that before.”

“Never. Really lost it, didn’t he? Still, the old man deserved it.”

“Do you really think so?”

“He shouldn’t have upset the boss. All that gibberish he was talking, especially after making the boss run!”

“Still, to beat him like that, and to make us hold him!”

“He was still wheezing from the running. You couldn’t expect him to beat the man without us holding him.”

“I reckon he went too far. Not that I can say anything.”

“He was just a weirdo in the woods. There’s too many of them as it is. One less won’t hurt.”

Kyrin moved back into the trees. His heart was thumping and the tears were hot on his cheeks. The Magister! That fat man had beaten Ash to the point of death! Beaten him while the Watchers held him! The mindless, fat bully! Because he’d had to run, because he couldn’t get his own way, he had taken Ash’s life. He had left him in the woods to die. Even some of his Watchers thought he had gone too far.

Kyrin felt an anger welling in him he had not sensed before. He was angry that Ash had been killed for his sake. He was angry at the cowardly way he had been attacked. He wanted to stop it, to make sure that no one was ever hurt in that way again. That was the most important thing to him at that moment. Running had ceased to matter; the Weavers, the Tourney, and getting to Tournemittes on time had stopped being important to him.

He took off his bags and rummaged through them. It was in a side pocket, the clasp knife he had been using to cut his food. It was old and had not had to cut anything more than sausage or apples for many years. It would serve though. It had a point and if he drove it in hard enough, it would penetrate the fat man’s heart, assuming the congealed organ that the Magister evidently possessed was in the normal place.

Leaving his bags, he crept back towards the Watchers. This time he was looking for just one person. Where was he? He could not have disappeared. No, there he was, coming back into the firelight from the trees, adjusting his breeches and making satisfied noises. Where would he sit? Kyrin watched, hardly daring to breathe, hoping the thumping of his heart would not give him away. He had to sit somewhere that gave Kyrin an escape route. It had to be quick – run in, do it, run away and keep running. The Magister was talking to the Watchers closest to the fire. One handed him a piece of meat, rabbit probably, that they had been roasting on a spit. The fat man laughed and Kyrin hated him all the more. Then he moved and came to sit down. It was perfect. He sat with his back against a tree just five yards from where Kyrin was hidden. Just five paces and it would be done. Whatever else happened, he would have paid back the man who had killed his friend.

He opened the clasp knife and locked it. The Watchers were busy round the fire. The Magister was ripping at the piece of rabbit, tearing at it with his teeth, the juices running down his chin. He would hardly see Kyrin until the blade went in, given the angle he would be running. It would be quick. Kyrin raised himself up, keeping himself masked from the Watchers behind the tree. He switched the knife from one hand to another, trying to decide which grip would make it easiest to thrust it into the Magister’s heart. He couldn’t afford to miss. Settled on a grip, he took a deep breath and made to run.

A slender arm went round his neck, a hand covered his mouth and he was slammed against the tree trunk. The breath was knocked out of him and he could not move. His captor made sure of that, before a voice whispered in his ear.

“Not now. Don’t forget; don’t ever forget, but not now.”

Kyrin tried to struggle but his captor was too skilful. He was pinned against the tree, his arms fixed to his sides.

“Let go of the knife,” said the voice, “and let us go back to your bags. Do you understand?”

Kyrin nodded and released the knife into the fingers of his captor. The pressure on him was released a little and he was turned round and guided back to where he had left his bags and his staff.

“Sit down,” whispered the voice. Kyrin did as he was told. His captor released him and came to stand in front of him. His first sense of relief was that the cloak was brown and not grey. However, when his captor squatted down and pushed back the cloak’s hood, he was completely amazed.

“My name is Lila,” she said quietly, shaking her auburn hair loose. “I’m a Master Weaver. You had better put this away.”

She passed the closed knife back to him and then stood up.

“We’d better get away from here. Too close to the Watchers. You lead the way. The fewer times I defy the lore, the better it will be.”

Kyrin picked up his bags and his staff and led the way deeper into the trees, away from the road, the Watchers and the Magister. Lila followed him, two or three paces behind, without talking. They climbed back towards the ridge he had been following with Ash that had been pierced by the gorge. It was the only route he knew, though he had been ignoring it in his pursuit of the Watchers. When they reached the crest, he sat down. Lila did the same, just a few yards away. She seemed uncertain, worried and yet in awe of Kyrin. Her silence since they had left the Watchers was frustrating. Why had she done that? What was she doing here?

“Do I get an explanation?” Kyrin asked eventually. She looked at him with sad, green eyes. “There is so much I don’t understand. Stopping me killing that horrible man is just one more puzzle.”

“Woe to him that iron bore

In Tale Tourney Lists.

For from bad men’s blood

Sayeth the ancient lore

Comes never any good.”

She had recited the verse quietly, almost reverently.

“What does that mean?” asked Kyrin, “I’m tired of riddles.”

“A Weaver sheds no blood,” she said simply.

“So the Magister goes unpunished?”

“It doesn’t mean that.”

“Doesn’t it?” Kyrin’s blood still boiled.

“The Weave of the World is so complicated,” Lila said, “So complicated it would make your head hurt. There are so many things you have to consider. If you don’t, you can make it much worse.”

“Why does everyone speak in riddles?” Kyrin almost shouted, his frustration bubbling over. “The Magister killed Ash. I had a chance to kill the Magister. What was complicated about that?”

“It was a most natural feeling,” said Lila, “but you are too important to the future to be allowed to run wild like that!”

“More riddles!”

“You had better get used to my riddles, Kyrin, for, if my disobedience is forgiven, I am to be your Master.”

Kyrin was open mouthed. When Ash had spoken of the Masters, he had imagined them to be old, gravelly-voiced greybeards who smoked pipes. Lila was perhaps ten years older than him, with shining auburn hair and a soft voice. More confusion for his tired brain! Lila saw his amazement and continued to explain.

“Runners should complete their run without assistance from the Masters. That is in the lore of the runner. It is also in the lore that no violence should be used against them. Most runners are tired and frightened when they are cornered, so they give up. If they are determined and try to push through, no violence should be used to stop them. That is the lore, the tradition of the runner. It has been respected for centuries and had ensured that the right people serve each community. The Masters observe the runners; replace out how they respond to the challenges of the run. It allows them to decide how strong they are and to select an appropriate Master. However, they don’t intervene. They won’t stop a runner from being caught. It is not in the lore. I am here in disobedience to my Master. He said I should not come and I disobeyed his command.”

“Why?”

“Because I too saw what happened to Ash Couper.” There was anger now in Lila’s voice. The softness had been replaced with a steely resolve. “Because I saw that this Magister is no respecter of the lore. I could not stand by and risk your run being ended by one who does not understand how this world goes. And you have shown such...such feeling. What you did, what you risked for Ash Couper marks you as special. That cannot be snuffed out in a moment of defiance of the lore, of our age old tradition, so I too must defy it.”

The anger in her voice, her evident revulsion for the Magister and the evident admiration she had for Kyrin was a potent mixture. Any reservations Kyrin might have felt, any resentment that she had stopped him from stabbing the Magister floated away. An alliance formed, they had to consider how best to move forward.

“If you have defied the law, will they stop you being my Master?”

“It is possible – likely even. I have not had a novice before. They did me a great honour to appoint me as your Master.”

“What is in the lore?” asked Kyrin. “What is a runner allowed to do?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I asked Ash to help me,” said Kyrin, “so could I not ask you?”

“But what would you ask?”

“If I asked you the way, could you answer and not defy the lore?”

“Any Master would be obliged to answer a simple request like that. It is a common courtesy.”

“And if I asked you to travel with me,” asked Kyrin, “so that I do not lose my way, would that be against the lore of the runner?”

“No, little master,” said Lila with a smile. “Once again, it would be a matter of courtesy.”

“And if I asked you to do nothing other than give me directions, you would not have gone against the lore and you could still be my master?”

“Provided that you choose the way, little master, I would not, though I can give no guarantees as to the decision of the Masters.”

“Then, Master,” said Kyrin, standing and with a slight bow, “Please show me the way to Tournemittes but stand not between me and the Watchers. Here, take my knife, so that I am not tempted to break the lore myself. It is yours until you are my Master.”

Lila stood too, took the knife and returned the bow.

“I will show you the way to Tournemittes” she said. “I will tell you three ways to enter the Lists. You must choose which one to follow. I take your knife as pledge that the lore is respected by us both.”

They stood a moment, in sombre reflection, acknowledging the bond they had just made. Then Kyrin laughed, and flung his arms round Lila’s neck. For a moment, he was a boy of thirteen once more, a boy who needed and had found a friend. Lila too was laughing and enjoying the simple pleasure of friendship. The cleverness of this young boy, his astuteness vindicated her decision. It had been a small act of defiance that had prevented a greater evil. Kyrin would not ask anything else of her. Whether she could obey the second part of his request and not stand between him and the watchers – that was a much harder thing. What if the Magister...? Would she allow that man to beat the laughing boy that clung to her? Why was this weave so complicated?

A roar of laughter from back down the slope brought an end to their embrace. They stepped back as if embarrassed by that moment of tenderness. Youth against the world and struggling to make sense of it all.

“We should move on,” said Kyrin, grown up wisdom inside now speaking, although it still sounded strange with his light boy’s voice. “Do we continue along the ridge for the moment?”

“Yes, little master,” said Lila. “Let us walk while the Watchers sing and drink; then we can rest while they breakfast. With them following the road, we can have a lead of three or four miles if we take the ridge.”

“That’ll be about an hour and a half at the speed they walk,” said Kyrin. “Surely more than enough time to get to Tournemittes?”

“Assuming that is the only group of Watchers,” said Lila. “I fear there may be others ahead.”

“Well, then let’s move on while we can. The sooner we replace out if there are other Watchers ahead, the easier it will be to get round them.”