Ilse Of Illusion

3 - Reunion

Had Josef known what was happening to his king, he would have been filled with terror. As it was, by the time he at last entered the palace kitchen, he felt only dread at the thought of his forthcoming talk with Ranesh.

The big, homely room was deserted except for one thin old woman. She was standing at the stove with her back to the door, stirring a great pot of stew. Piles of bowls stood nearby, waiting to be filled for the crowds in the entrance hall. Marilen’s tray lay lonely on another counter, already set with napkin, knife and fork.

Dismally, Josef hobbled to the table and sat down to wait for Ranesh.

The old woman did not turn to greet him. This surprised him, for all the people he had met in the palace before this had been very friendly.

He coughed politely, but still the cook made no response.

Have it your own way, then, you cross old dame, thought Josef with irritation. I have more than enough to think about without caring for your conversation.

Just then, the woman put down the spoon and turned from the stove. Catching sight of Josef, she jumped violently and shrieked.

Josef leaped in his seat, almost as startled as she. Then, as she began to laugh with embarrassment at her fright, pressing her hand to her chest to still her racing heart, he received another shock.

He knew this woman! He knew that laughter. Knew that face. It was sadly changed since last he saw it long ago. But beneath the ugly scars that marked the cheeks and brow, and the lines of suffering and grief, it was still a face he had known and loved.

He stumbled to his feet.

‘Amarantz!’ he cried. ‘Why—why, Amarantz of the pottery, it is you! I did not know you!’

The woman stared at him, bewildered, for a moment. Then her eyes widened in amazement.

‘Josef!’ she exclaimed, with a sob, flinging herself into his arms. ‘I never thought to see you again!’

‘Nor I you!’ Josef babbled, almost overwhelmed by joy. ‘How did you escape? What of the others?’

But Amarantz said nothing, and at last Josef drew a little away from her, and looked searchingly into her face. ‘Amarantz, why do you not answer?’ he asked.

The old woman smiled sadly and shook her head. ‘I am sorry, Josef,’ she said. ‘I see your lips move, but I cannot hear you. I am stone deaf.’

From the pocket of her apron she drew a small slate and a piece of chalk. She pressed them into Josef’s hands.

Josef took the chalk and wrote.

DEAF? HOW?

Amarantz shrugged. ‘The Grey Guards marched us to the Shadowlands border. I could not move fast enough for their liking. They called me old and useless—said I would slow their way through the mountains. They beat me until I was senseless, and left me to die.’

She touched the scars on her face and her mouth twisted with remembered pain. ‘I was tougher than they thought. I survived—but the beating had destroyed my hearing. Not that this mattered to me. I had already lost everything I cared about. I have lived—or existed, rather—wandering in the north ever since. I came back to Del only a few days ago.’

Josef rubbed the slate clean with his sleeve, and wrote again, with unsteady hand.

THE OTHERS?

A shadow seemed to pass over Amarantz’s face as she stared at the words. ‘The others—my sons, their wives, my grandchildren … and our friends in the resistance—’ Her lips trembled. ‘If they still live, they are slaves in the Shadowlands. Beaten, tormented slaves. You and Ranesh were lucky, Josef.’

Her voice broke, and she bowed her head.

Josef patted her arm awkwardly, filled with helpless grief and pity. Guilt, too, because he and Ranesh had been spared while disaster had fallen on those who had sheltered them.

After a long moment, Amarantz scrubbed at her eyes with her apron and straightened her shoulders. ‘I must not give way now,’ she murmured. ‘I have a mission here, and weakness will not help me.’

Seeing Josef’s puzzlement, she lifted her chin. ‘Why do you think I made the long, hard journey back to Del after all these years?’ she demanded. ‘It was because I knew that Sharn would remember me from the old days. Lief, too, perhaps, though he was only a small boy when I used to visit the forge to get shoes for Dolly, our old horse. Do you remember Dolly, Josef?’

Josef nodded, his chest aching with memory.

‘I saw Sharn this morning,’ Amarantz continued. ‘She offered food and money freely, of course, but that was not what I wanted. I begged for work in the palace. I need to be here, though I did not tell her why.’

She lowered her voice. ‘I am going to speak to Lief, Josef. Find him alone, and make him understand that he must—he must—lead an army of rescue to the Shadowlands, whatever his doubts. The people cry out for it, and he does not listen. But surely he will listen to me! An old friend—who has lost so much.’

Josef stared at her in dismay. But Amarantz did not seem to notice his expression. Her own face had brightened. ‘Why, Josef, I remember now,’ she cried excitedly. ‘You were once the palace librarian! In the north it is said that Lief spends his days in the library. You could take me to him!’

Josef felt desperate. He could not tell Amarantz the truth. But she had to know, at least, that he could not take her to Lief. That Lief was not in the palace.

There is no help for it, he thought. I will have to tell her the lie that everyone else believes.

He took the slate and wrote.

LIEF IS IN TORA

The old woman’s eyes opened wide. ‘The king has fled to Tora?’ she cried. ‘I did not hear the news.’ Her voice rose to a wail. ‘This cursed deafness! I did not know. Tora!’

Aimlessly she turned from the stove and stumbled towards the door that led to the outside air. As Josef watched helplessly, she reached for the doorknob, then let her trembling hand fall.

‘What am I thinking? I cannot reach him there,’ she mumbled. ‘So it was all for nothing. There is no hope. No hope.’ She pressed her hands to her face, and began sobbing in an agony of grief.

Josef could not bear it. He hobbled to her side, tapped her arm to gain her attention, and scribbled on the slate.

HE WILL RETURN SOON

‘No!’ moaned Amarantz. ‘He knows that in Tora he will be safe. Why should he return?’

Throwing caution to the winds, Josef wrote again and thrust the slate in front of her streaming eyes.

LIEF MUST RETURN. HIS

TORAN BRIDE IS HERE.

UPSTAIRS. SECRET.

TELL NO ONE.

Amarantz stared, and slowly her terrible sobbing died away. She took a deep, shuddering breath.

But before she could say a word, the door behind her was flung open. An enormous, roughly dressed figure wearing a cap of fur burst into the room, hauling another, much smaller, figure after it.

‘Where is Doom?’ the tall stranger roared. ‘Bring him at once!’

Frantically, Josef wiped his sleeve over the slate, rubbing out the chalked words.

He was shaking, sweating all over.

Who were these people? Had they seen the message on the slate? Was that why they were asking for Doom? To report Josef’s treachery? To have him thrown into prison?

‘What are you gawping at, old fossil?’ roared the giant stranger, tearing off the fur cap to reveal a shaved skull painted with swirling red designs. ‘Move your skinny shanks! Tell Doom that Lindal of Broome is here, and that he must see her. At once!’

The stranger was a woman! His head reeling, Josef turned to do as she asked. But at the same moment the door which led to the front of the palace opened a little, and Ranesh’s dark, watchful face appeared in the gap.

At the sight of a newcomer, the small stranger held out his hand pathetically. ‘Help me, I beg you, kind sir!’ he quavered. ‘A little food … a sip of ale …’

Lindal thrust him away from her with a snort of contempt. He squeaked and dropped to the floor, rolling on the stones and moaning piteously.

‘I found this puny, whining fellow by the side of the north road,’ the giant woman roared. ‘He has terrible news of the king!’

Josef’s heart seemed to leap into his throat. He saw Ranesh’s eyes gleam with sudden fire.

‘I tried to save him!’ wailed the rolling figure on the floor. ‘I fought like a demon till the end. But what could one poor, starving acrobat do against so many Granous? What could poor Jinks do?’