A Dream of Kinship

Book 54: Gateway Essentials

by Richard Cowper

Genres: Science Fiction; Sci-fi Action & Adventure; Space Opera

Synopsis

They came to destroy! The treacherous Falcons, uniformed in the black leather tunics of the fanatic Secular Arm, descended on Corlay to burn and kill. Commanded by Lord Constant, ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, they were determined to crush the religious heresy of Kinship. But a new dream rose from the ashes. When four Kinsmen escaped the carnage of their beloved land, each helped to fulfill the miracle that had been foretold: the coming of the Child of the Bride of Time.

Release date: July 1, 1981

Publisher: Timescape Books/Pocket Books

Print pages: 240

Sample

January 3rd, A.D. 3019. Dawn of a cold hard day. A low, flat millstone of a sky remorselessly grinding out the thin, gray flour of a winter’s daybreak against the rocky coast of Brittany. Out to sea the Breton trading schooner Sans Pareil, swinging listlessly at anchor, awaited the breeze that would nudge her the few remaining kilometers southeast into the harbor of St. Brieuc. The slow deep swells of the Atlantic, rolling ponderously up the French Channel, lifted and lowered the schooner as if weighing it thoughtfully before moving on to other things. The ship’s timbers sighed resignedly: a new block high up in the rigging squeaked in protest: moisture trickling down a halyard gathered at a splice and wept quietly into the scuppers. By slow degrees the riding light at the masthead grew paler and paler until it was scarcely visible at all.

A man emerged from the cabin into the still-shadowed well, muttered a word of greeting to the dozing watchman at the helm and made his way forward. Grasping a dew-damp stay in his right hand he leaned out over the ship’s side, fumbled with the buttons of his leather breech-flap and then urinated powerfully into the gray, indifferent waters below him. A long arching mane of steam wavered like a ghostly pennant in the cold, still air and was lost in the mist. The man yawned, fastened up his flap, spat explosively, then thrust back the scuttle of his patched, leather cape and scratched vigorously at his short grizzled hair and beard. That done he cupped his hands, blew into them and rubbed them briskly together. And all the while his alert blue eyes scanned the rocky coastline which was slowly beginning to emerge from the thinning mist.

This man was not a member of the crew, though like so many inhabitants of the Seven Kingdoms he was no stranger to the sea. By profession (to use a term which he himself would surely have scorned) he was a furniture maker, but his true calling was itinerant Jack-of-all-Trades. Tinker, chairmaker, clock-mender, water-diviner, the Magpie traveled the Kingdoms of the West and his caravan was known from Edinboro’ to Lyon. Formally speaking he owed fealty to Earl Robert, Lord of the First Kingdom, having been born on the Isle of Blackdown fifty-three years before, but in practice he was his own master and he made a fair living from the skill of his nimble fingers and the sharp wits he had been gifted with.

To look at he was nothing very special. Somewhat less than average height, broad-shouldered and barrel-chested, with arms a thought longer than was usual (his fingertips just reached to his knee-caps), nevertheless he was not the man you would choose to pick a quarrel with. And in this you would surely be wise, for the Magpie had already handed more than one man his final pass into the next world. He did not boast about it—indeed he hardly ever spoke of it at all—but the fact that he had done it lent him a subtle aura of quiet self-confidence that other men detected like a pungent warning scent. It made them pause, think twice, and more often than not, elect to give him the benefit of a doubt.

But this man possessed one especial talent which set him apart from all but a handful of his fellows, while to those select few it linked him with a tie stronger than any tie of blood. The Magpie was huesh. Translated out of its archaic Cornish tongue this marked him out as being blessed (or cursed, he sometimes thought) with the gift of second sight. It was the huesh which had driven him aboard the Sans Pareil in New Bristol and would assuredly drive him ashore the moment they docked in St. Brieuc, for whatever else the huesh might be it was not a command that could be lightly ignored.

Feeling the first stirrings of a breeze upon his bare neck he hefted up the hood of his cape and made his way astern just as two deck hands emerged from the hold, headed sleepily for the anchor windlass and leaned their weight against the spokes. The schooner’s sails flapped wetly as she crept forward along her dripping cable, paused on the slow uplift of a rising swell, hung for a moment, then dipped into the long decline of the following trough. The Breton skipper appeared at the companionway, glanced up at the leaden sky, grunted to the watchman and took over the wheel. A minute later, festooned with weed, the anchor rose to the surface and thumped against the bow.

Escorted by a raucous squabble of sea birds and helped by a flooding tide the Sans Pareil entered the harbor of St. Brieuc just as the cathedral clock commenced its elaborate chiming of the ninth hour. By the time the first quarter had floated out across the town the schooner was tied up alongside the cobbled quay and the sails were coming down. The Magpie shook the Captain by the hand, slung his knapsack across his shoulder, stepped ashore and glanced along the waterfront.

Already the port was astir. Fishing boats were unloading; others preparing to put to sea; iron-shod barrows rattled over the uneven cobbles; voices shouted; blocks and winches squealed: the racket of sawing and hammering echoed back and forth across the narrow water. And permeating everything was the wild shrieking of the gulls as they swirled in a perpetual blizzard around and around the leafless forest of bare masts.

The Magpie sniffed the air like a dog then began picking his way among the net-menders and the heaps of empty fish baskets, heading toward one of the shabby waterside taverns. Scarcely had he entered and thrust back his hood than there came a great shout from the shadows: “Sacrê Oiseau! C’est La Pie!”

The Magpie grinned and dropped his knapsack on to a vacant settle. “Well met once more, eh, Belle?”

A vast woman, sheathed in a stained apron of unbleached canvas, came sailing out from the back of the tavern like a full-rigged man-of-war. She grappled the Magpie to her enormous bosom and kissed him heartily on both cheeks. “Three years!” she cried, thrusting him out at arm’s length. “Do I lie? Where has the rogue been? Whose bed has he been warming, hey?”

“Ah, ma plus Belle. Could I ever deceive you?”

“The wretch!” she laughed. “He has only come back for my moules! Confess now!”

“And your wine, Belle. You’re forgetting the wine!”

“Monster!” she roared, gripping the flesh of his cheek between finger and thumb and tweaking it fondly. “Come, old gray dog. In beside the fire and tell me all. Môme! A place here, you offspring of a snail!”

The Magpie allowed the woman to conduct him to the seat of honor—the inglenook settle beside the glowing fire—while the little serving wench scurried up, grinning broadly, and set before him a basket of white bread, a pewter bowl and spoon and two tumblers. Belle vanished into the recesses at the back and returned a moment later carrying a bottle of wine. She poured out two brimming measures then set the bottle down on the table and eased her vast bulk into the opposite seat. She handed one glass to him and raised her own. “So, Ma Pie,” she said in an altogether gentler tone. “Tell me what brings you back to St. Brieuc in the teeth of winter?”

“I’m on my way to Corlay.”

“Corlay? You?” Her surprise was evident. “Why?”

“I have somebody to meet there.”

She screwed up her eyes, regarded him pensively for a moment and then murmured: “We hear things have not been going so well for the Kinsfolk on your side of the water.”

The serving maid brought a steaming tureen of shellfish soup to the table and set it down before the Magpie. Belle reached over, scooped deep with the ladle and tipped the fragrant broth into his bowl.

The Magpie tore off a crust of bread, dunked it, and chewed it with unfeigned relish. “Ah, there’s none like this anywhere,” he said. “You’re a marvel, Belle.”

Belle nodded complacently and helped herself to another mouthful of the harsh red wine. “You sailed from Blackdown?”

“New Bristol.”

“And how are things there?”

The Magpie twitched his shoulders. “As always. A bit worse, maybe. The crows…” He shrugged again and left his sentence unfinished.

“Ah. Here too,” she sighed.

“Is that a fact?”

Belle nodded. “The Queen is old,” she murmured. “Today Duke Alain drives the cart and M’sieu Corbeau is perched at his shoulder. They say Corlay lives on borrowed time.” She broke off a piece of bread and dipped it in the tureen. “They mark all who enter and leave the sanctuary. So I have heard.”

The Magpie regarded her levelly over his lifted spoon. “Do you know why, Belle?”

“Why? No. There are rumors of course.”

“What sort of rumors?”

Belle raised her head and glanced swiftly around to see if they could be overheard. Leaning forward until her lips were close to his ears she whispered: “They speak of a miracle.”

The Magpie stared at her for a long moment and then returned his attention to his food. Before she could add anything two men uniformed in the black leather tunics of the Secular Arm entered the tavern and called for soup and wine. Belle heaved herself up, touched the Magpie lightly on the neck and sailed off to attend to her business.

Although it was barely three hours past noon the daylight was already beginning to fade as the Magpie gained the crest of the final hill that lay between him and his destination. Below him, some two kilometers to the east, he could just make out the gray ribbon of the high road to St. Brieuc wriggling back and forth across the floor of the valley. A faint, misty chaplet of lights was all that remained visible of the village from which the castle took its name and where, if Belle’s information was correct, the agents of the Secular Arm were keeping watch on any stranger who visited the sanctuary.

Leaning his back against the gnarled trunk of a chestnut tree he unlooped a leather flask from his belt, tilted his head and filled his mouth with brandy. From the shadows all around him came the faint patter of water drops dripping on to the drifts of dead and decaying leaves. He swallowed the spirit a little at a time, savoring it gratefully, conscious of the warmth trickling down into his chilled stomach, while his eyes ranged over the hillside seeking for a path which would not prove too treacherous and would yet allow him cover.

Having found what he sought he allowed his gaze to wander on up to the head of the valley where the distant turrets of Corlay were now sharp silhouettes against the tarnished silver of the western sky. He watched the lights of the castle beginning to prick through the gloom and he saw a plume of smoke waver up from some invisible chimney among the battlements. It rose hesitantly, questing this way and that, and was suddenly shredded and scattered by the freshening wind from the Channel away to the north. A bright vision of the blazing hearth that lay below the column of smoke made him shiver abruptly. He took a final, comforting gulp of brandy, wiped his lips with the back of his hand, then thumped home the stopper and returned the flask to its place on his belt. Taking a firm grip with one hand on the stout ash pole he had selected for a staff he hooked the thumb of his other hand under the strap of his satchel and strode off along the crest of the ridge.

Half an hour later he scrambled up the treacherous bank of a scrub-filled gully, skirted an empty sheep-fold and found himself standing on the ancient slabs of quarried stone that paved the road up to Corlay. Long ago huge oaks and beeches had lined this route, casting a welcome summer shade upon all those who toiled up the steep incline to the château, but few of these giants remained and the leafless saplings which the Kinsfolk had planted to replace them seemed tokens of hope more than of expectation. Stamping his wet boots to restore some feeling in his frozen feet the Magpie set off on the final stage of his long journey.

Directly above the outer gate of the château four carved marble escutcheons had been set side by side into the wall of the gatehouse. Each bore the coat of arms of one of the four royal families who had at one time or another occupied Corlay. Hovering protectively above these, so new that it appeared startlingly white in the thickening gloom, was a spread-winged effigy representing the Bird of Kinship. The sculptor had fashioned his vision in such a way that the airy, soaring, upsweep of the wings combined together with the downward droop of the head to suggest a mingling of aspiration and compassion that was truly unearthly.

As he plodded toward the gatehouse the Magpie noted the avian symbol but experienced no appreciable lifting of the spirit other than the relief normal to a footsore and weary traveler who has at last reached his destination. The outer gates stood open so he walked through and peered about him. Hearing voices behind a door which was set into the gatehouse wall he rapped on it with the butt of his staff and heard a cheery voice cry: “Entrez! Entrez!”

He twisted the latch ring, thrust open the door and stepped over the foot-worn threshold to find himself standing in a sort of office. Seated on stools around an iron stove were two men and two women. An oil lamp suspended by a chain from one of the low rafters cast a warm glow over their faces. Between the stove and the doorway where the Magpie stood was a wooden counter, constructed in two sections and bridged by a hinged flap now laid back. Lying upon the counter was an open register.

The Magpie thrust back his hood and nodded to one of the men who had risen to his feet and was now advancing toward him. “The gate stood open,” he said by way of explanation. “I saw no bell.”

“Those who wish to come, come: those who wish to go, go,” said the man, smiling. “That gate is never closed. Welcome in Kinship, friend. You are from across the seas?”

Again the Magpie nodded. “From New Bristol, yes.”

“And what draws you to Corlay?”

“I seek a girl,” said the Magpie. “One Jane by name. Jane Thomson. She came here last April in the company of a priest called Francis.”

He sensed the sudden stir of interest that his words had evoked among the three who were seated around the stove and his sharp ears caught the murmur of “Jehane?”

The man reached up and tilted the lampshade so that the light slanted across the Magpie’s weathered face. “You are not Kin, are you?” he asked.

“Does it matter?”

“No,” said the man and let the shade down again. “But I must ask you to write your name in the register. It is our custom.” He selected a pen from a stone jar, dipped it in a brass inkwell and handed it over.

The Magpie pulled the book toward him, scrawled “La Pie—Nouvelle Bristol”—added the date and returned the pen. “Jane is still here then?” he asked.

The man glanced at the entry in the register and nodded. “Yes. She is still here.”

“And how do I find her?”

“I am going that way, m’sieur,” said one of the women. “I will take you to her. Does she expect you?”

“I doubt it,” said the Magpie. “But it’s possible.”

The woman rose to her feet, picked up a shawl and wrapped it around her shoulders. Then she took down a storm lantern from a shelf, lit its candle at the glowing stove and clapped its window to. She gave the other woman a quick kiss on the cheek then came over to the Magpie and invited him to follow her.

He stood aside to let her pass, nodded to the lodge keeper, and stepped out of the gatehouse, closing the door behind him.

A thin drizzle had begun to fall. The light from the lantern gleamed dully on the worn slabs that paved the roadway between the gatehouse and the main entrance to the chateau. The woman glanced back to make sure he was following and said: “You have come far today, m’sieur?”

“From St. Brieuc,” he said.

“On foot?”

“Yes.”

“It is a hard climb that. Especially in the winter.”

“You do not have many visitors?” he asked.

“Not now,” she said. “In the summer, yes. Some from far away. Even from the Americas.”

“And it is”—he sought for a word—“permitted?”

“They come,” she said. “In the summer they come. Why should they not? They do no harm to anyone.”

“So you feel safe here?”

“Safe?” She repeated the word as if she were unsure whether she had heard him correctly. “But who would wish harm to Corlay, m’sieur?”

“There are plenty of evil men in this world, madame. In the Kingdoms the Kinsfolk are outlawed.”

“Ah, so I have heard.”

“And I saw many Falcons in St. Brieuc.”

“This is not Seven Kingdoms, m’sieur. We are a free people.”

“The crows do not trouble you then?”

“No. They keep themselves to themselves. But perhaps down in St. Brieuc it is different.” She sighed audibly and clutched her shawl tighter about her shoulders.

They were approaching the wide, vaulted entrance to the château. Huge, blank and impassive the walls and towers loomed up as if they alone were supporting the burden of the weeping skies. This would not be a difficult place to defend, mused the Magpie, provided you were prepared to do it.

The woman gestured with her lantern across the paved and graveled inner courtyard to where two lamps dimly flickered on either side of a balustraded flight of stone steps which led up to a porched doorway. “Jehane lives over there in the Queen’s Tower,” she said. “Go through that door and climb the stairs which you will find on your left hand. She has the chamber on the first floor where you see the light shining.”

“Thank you, madame.”

“You are welcome, m’sieur.”

She gave him a quick, shy smile, bobbed her shawled head and moved off into the shadows.

The Magpie crossed the courtyard, mounted the steps and tried the outer door. It opened easily. A lick of the damp night air pushed past him as he stepped inside. Within a stone niche the flame of a solitary oil lamp shivered nervously and shadows flapped like black banners across the bare stone walls. He closed the door quietly behind him and dropped the wooden latch back into its slot. Through a corbeled archway he could see the stairs that the woman had spoken of spiraling upward, but before he ventured upon them he walked a little way down the cold, dark hallway and peered curiously about him.

He saw two or three unlit passages and no sign of any living person. The place seemed almost as bare and cheerless as a prison. The only human touch appeared to be a stoneware jar standing on a window ledge into which someone had despairingly stuck some sprays of autumn beech leaves, a few hips and haws, and one or two bleached stalks of dead cowparsley. Dead flowers and cold, dead stones.

Turning on his heel he retraced his own damp footprints to the courtyard door and began to feel his way up the narrow twisting stairs, the butt of his trailing staff tap-tapping against the stone treads. At last he saw a chink of light ahead and, shuffling toward it, discovered a stout oak door on which he rapped briskly with his knuckles. There was a quick pattering of feet from within, the latch clicked, the door swung open inward, and the Magpie found himself gazing into a pair of the bluest eyes he had ever seen. “I’m looking for Jane,” he said with a grin. “Am I come to the right place?”

“Who is it, Alison?” inquired a dear and familiar voice.

“It’s me, Janie!” he called. “Your old Magpie! Aren’t you going to ask him in?”

“Magpie! It can’t be! Oh, my dear—my own Magpie!”

She flew into his arms like a bright bird and clung to him hardly able to speak for joy.

“Ah, Janie lass, but it’s good to see you again. What’s this? Tears? What sort of a welcome for an old friend is this supposed to be, hey?”

“Oh, you’re so cold and wet, Magpie. Come over by the fire. You take his cape, Alison. And then run and tell Francis who’s here. No, bring us some wine first. The best one. The very best. You know which one. Oh, I can’t believe it! Magpie! My own dear Magpie!”

She pulled him to the fire, sat him down in a low chair before it and gazed at him as though she would eat him up with her shining eyes. He stretched out his hands to the blazing logs and let out his breath in a long, contented sigh. “Faith, lass, but you’re housed a long way from anywhere up here. I’ve been on the road since ten.”

“Have you come in your van?”

“No, I legged it. All the way up from St. Brieuc. A tidy trot.” He cocked his head on one side and ran his eye over her. “So how long have we got now, Janie?”

She glanced downward, placed her right hand over her swollen belly and laughed. “A week or two—that is if he isn’t late.”

“And how’s it been with you?”

“All right. They’re such kind people, Magpie. And I’ve always had Francis.”

“Aye. So you have. How is he, by the by?”

“Oh, he’s fine. You’ll see for yourself soon.”

The girl with the blue eyes and the barley-bright hair came in carrying a tray on which was a bottle and four earthenware beakers. She set it down by the hearth and said: “Would m’sieur like something to eat?”

“Of course he would,” said Jane. “See what you can find in the kitchens on your way back. Take the basket with you.”

Alison nodded and a moment later they heard her skipping away down the stairs.

“Who’s the golden angel?” asked the Magpie.

“Alison’s my best friend,” said Jane. “She’s lived in Corlay since she was a babe. Her parents are dead. I sometimes think that if it hadn’t been for her I’d have run back to Quantock long ago.”

“You still miss it then?”

“Oh, Magpie!” She closed her eyes for a moment then drew a deep, gasping breath and shook her head as if to say: “What good does it do?” “Those first two months,” she said, “before I could be certain about the babe, I hardly stopped crying at all. And at night I always dreamed about Mum and Dad. Night after night after night. All the time. I even used to wake up crying.”

The Magpie reached out and gripped her hand in his. “I did the best I could, Janie. I lay low for a week or two and then slipped across to Tallon and had a word with Rett and Simon. The Grays had cleared out by then and… Well, we gave them a fair burial up in the orchard behind the cottage. Under that old cherry tree. Rett cut a headstone and we planted a whole load o’ daffs…”

Jane gave a slow, sad sigh then ducked down and kissed him. “Bless you for that,” she whispered.

“It was the very least I could do for them, love.”

She knelt down beside him and laid her head against his knee. “And Thomas?” she whispered. “What of Thomas?”

“Aye,” he muttered. “I might have guessed that was coming,”

“Was it the Jaws?”

“It must have been, Janie. There was a great blow from the north in the middle of May. Three days it lasted. The sea wall at Chardport was breached in two places and Lord knows how many fine trees were laid flat. The Quantock combers were out gleaning the wrack when they found him. One Eye told me about it. He guessed it must’ve been Thomas when he heard tell of a black bolt in the ribs.”

“They didn’t…?” The words stuck in her throat like a cinder.

“You know the combers, Janie. What was a drowned Kinsman to them?” Suddenly he slapped his hand on his knee and cried: “Hey, I’ve brought you a present! Something you won’t be. . .