Tyrant's Blood by Fiona McIntosh Page B

to disappear and he had been feeling particularly joyous about Piven’s astonishing healing skills. Piven could work miracles; the boy made him look like a charlatan with his silly herbals. But now those skills frightened him. Piven had been a lot sunnier then and Greven knew that the boy’s present disposition was not simply the result ofbecoming a moody youth; it was more than that. It was a feeling of darkness.
    ‘Jon, you old devil, you look more handsome with each passing moon,’ Evelyn said. ‘Your skin looks mighty good.’
    Even from the early days with Piven the side of his face most affected by the lesions had dried up, looking more like a skin complaint than anything more serious. He’d stuck to that story, explaining it was a result of accidental poisoning from some of his less predictable plants, and people had accepted it, especially as the sores no longer looked like traditional leprosy.
    ‘Yes, it seems the poison has finally worked its way out of my body,’ he smiled.
    ‘Indeed. You look very good, very smart.’
    ‘Thank you. I’m seeing some people who knew me from my childhood at Medhaven,’ he said, hoping to move on quickly.
    But Evelyn clearly wanted to linger. ‘Oh, that would be the couple staying at the Grape and Whistle?’
    Greven felt a prick of fear sting him but he kept his voice even. ‘Probably,’ he replied absently and then in an effort to distance himself from the visitors added: ‘I hope I recognise them. I haven’t seen them in many anni.’
    ‘I’ve just been speaking with them. Clovis and Reuth, right?’
    Greven feigned a smile. ‘That’s right,’ he said, as if he’d heard their names for the first time in a very long time.
    ‘Nice people.’ She frowned, and he could almost see her reaching for the opportunity to prolong this meeting. ‘How do you kno—?’
    ‘Forgive me, Evelyn, but I mustn’t be late. And I’ve promised to call in on old Bern; his gout’s playing up.’ Greven began to move forward. ‘I really must find a better remedy than the one we’re using now.’ He smiled in genuine apology. ‘Sorry to rush off.’
    She returned his smile, although hers was tinged with sadness, as if she knew he needed to escape her. He would have to confront this matter again, he realised. He needed to be forthrightbut gentle, rather than relying on this cowardly avoidance. But not today.
    He lifted a hand in farewell and turned his back on Evelyn to complete his journey into Minton Woodlet. It was a busy morning. He’d forgotten it was market day but that suited him; more people around meant it would be easier to talk to the strangers without drawing attention.
    The Grape and Whistle loomed. Greven felt a mad desire to turn and run, to run as far away from this place as possible. He had an ominous sense of doom closing in. It was getting harder to fight the illness he’d suffered since birth, of course. He thought of it as a disease and rather than fighting his urges he’d given in to them, little by little. By exposing himself to his desires, he had taught himself how to stay on top of the driving need. The forest helped, and the forced removal from society that the telltale leprosy had required was the best remedy of all, but still he tempted fate, deliberately remaining close to the eye of the storm, in the hope that as the years passed he would master full control.
    And he had. By the time he found the courage to follow the raven to the fringe of the forest that day, he was confident of his immunity to his weakness. And had demonstrated it. But he wondered now if Piven’s wild and powerful magic might somehow seek out the truth. He didn’t understand it—it didn’t make sense—but he found himself unable to spend great lengths of timearound the boy. He particularly hated his testiness around his child but lately he was having to dig deeper and deeper to wrestle his urge to walk out of the forest that hid him so well. Perhaps he should tell the