And then Farnor, down-to-earth, strong, young Farnor, a steadfast son following a long, steadfast line of sons if ever there had been one. But he had fallen into some kind of trance at that same touch.
Discreetly, Gryss looked at the young man. He was patently troubled in some way, and, it seemed, turning from a boy into a man almost as he watched.
What was moving here?
He wanted to question Farnor, persuade him to speak out and bring his concerns into the open, but he had to be patient. Farnor was teetering on some unknowable edge and an injudicious inquiry might send him the wrong way, plunging him into deeper silence.
Besides, he knew that the urge to bring Farnor’s secrets into the light was merely a reflection of his desire to have his own confusion clarified. Whatever was amiss would have to wait events. For now he could simply use his authority to advocate the caution that Farnor’s intervention had stirred in him.
‘I think I agree with you, actually, Farnor,’ he said, levering himself out of his chair with some effort and moving to the table to sit next to Garren. ‘And I commend you for noticing the size of the wounds to the sheep. It is a big dog, as I said to your father yesterday. A very big one.’ He took the cork from a bottle of ink and stood it carefully on end. ‘And there’s no saying what it might do if it comes across anyone in what it now probably thinks is its territory. Four men per group it is. And well armed at that.’
Farnor breathed a discreet sigh of relief. Garren looked mildly irritated. ‘That’ll cause problems,’ he grumbled.
Gryss pushed a clean sheet of paper in front of his scribe. ‘That’s what we’re here for,’ he said.
For most of the rest of the morning they worked through those problems, deciding who should go with whom, and where and when. Farnor contributed little, but sat in some awe as he listened to Gryss’s detailed knowledge of the everyday affairs of the villagers and farmers being used to arrange a system of watch nights that they would be likely to accept. He was impressed, too, by his father. He had never seen him doing anything like this before, but at the same time he realized that his methodical and orderly approach actually pervaded the whole of his daily, weekly, even seasonal routines at the farm. At intervals the two men came to an agreement, and Garren diligently wrote down the details, his tongue protruding between his lips slightly as his weathered hands pursued this untypical task.
‘I think that’s all we can do,’ Gryss said finally. ‘We’ll discuss it at the tithe meeting tomorrow night. Everyone will be there. A time of great healing.’
The two men chuckled conspiratorially. Knowing that arrangements for night watches were being prepared, more than a few of the interested villagers could be expected to find tasks out in the fields for the next day or so. But absence from a tithe meeting was potentially disastrous, as those attending would determine the tithing to be paid by those absent. Many a bed-bound invalid had been miraculously cured by the announcement of a tithe meeting.
‘I’ll put these away,’ Garren said, gathering up the writing materials and the unused papers.
Gryss nodded his thanks, then, as Garren left the room, he took a risk. He leaned towards Farnor and spoke softly and urgently.
‘In your own time, Farnor, talk to me about this creature and what happened yesterday. I’m troubled by something I felt. Something bad.’
To his alarm, he saw panic filling the young man’s eyes. He raised his hand reassuringly but Farnor was speaking even as he did so.
‘Am I related to Rannick?’ he asked hoarsely.
Garren’s footsteps sounded along the hallway.
‘This is a small community, Farnor,’ Gryss said hastily. ‘We’re all related in some way.’ The panic grew. ‘But no. You’re no more related to Rannick’s line than I am.’ He waved a hand for silence as Garren returned.
‘We’ll leave you to rest,’ Garren said. ‘I must admit it’s been a day or two since I walked so far and my own legs are letting me know it. Is there anything I can fetch for you before we go?’
Gryss declined the offer and rose to see his guests out. The air was pleasantly fresh as they stepped outside. The drizzling rain had stopped and a warm sun was yellowing the thinning grey sky.
Farnor rested his hand on the iron ring as he passed it, causing the bell to tinkle slightly. A faint bark wandered down the hallway.
Gryss laid his hand on Farnor’s shoulder. ‘I’m glad you came, Farnor,’ he said. ‘You helped me get some things clear in my mind about this business.’ Farnor smiled awkwardly by way of acknowledgement. Not only for the words, but for the pressure on his shoulder that said again, ‘in your own time, speak to me about this creature.’
Chapter 7
When they had gone Gryss returned to his wicker chair. He had been right to risk speaking to Farnor. The boy – he corrected himself – the young man, was indeed troubled in some way. But the question he had asked, ‘Am I related to Rannick?’ was puzzling.
Why in the name of sanity should Farnor suddenly imagine he was related to Rannick? And be so terrified at the prospect? Distaste Gryss could understand, but fear?
What had happened the other day when Farnor had met Rannick? And what had Rannick been doing so far up the valley?
He frowned. Alone now, he felt a much greater sense of urgency about these recent happenings than he had hitherto. He really must seek out an opportunity to be alone with Farnor with a view to tackling these ques-tions head on. Then he swore at himself for a dull-witted old fool and, slapping his hands hard on the arms of his chair, he heaved himself up and almost ran to the front door. The chair creaked unhappily at this treatment, and the dog, caught in this sudden maelstrom of activity, scuttled indignantly out of his way and, grumbling darkly, went to lie down in a corner.
Farnor and Garren had not walked very far, and both turned at the sound of Gryss’s penetrating whistle. The old man beckoned them back.
‘I’m sorry, Garren,’ he said as they reached him. ‘There is a little job that Farnor can do for me if it’s not too much trouble. Can you spare him for a while?’
‘Of course,’ Garren said. ‘Any time. Just ask. You know that.’
As he closed the door, Gryss motioned Farnor to the back room.
‘Sit down,’ he said, indicating the chair that Farnor had been sitting in previously. Then he dropped back into his own chair opposite and, without preamble, said simply, ‘Now. Tell me everything.’
Farnor looked at him for a moment, then, clearing his throat, said, ‘Did you really sense something about the… sheep-worrier… yesterday?’
Although he had already admitted this to Farnor only minutes before, Gryss found that the prospect of giving a more detailed explanation was more daunting than he had anticipated. He made his face stern, fearing that he was going to look as awkward as the young man in front of him.
‘Yes,’ he managed to say, authoritatively. ‘Just a flash of something when I held that piece of fur. But my guess is that you felt much more. That’s why you passed out. Please tell me what happened to you. I think it’s important.’
Farnor grimaced and turned away from the old man’s gaze.
Impatience crept into Gryss’s voice. ‘Farnor, you’re not remotely interested in organizing the night watches, are you?’ he said. ‘Least of all if it means walking here through the pouring rain.’ He paused to let the words take effect. ‘You came to warn us about something. And you called that animal out there a creature. Not a dog, a creature. And why have you suddenly got the idea that you’re related to…?’
Farnor lifted a hand before he could finish the ques-tion. ‘Rannick touches things… animals… insects,’ he blurted out. ‘Controls them.’