The Last of the Runners
Chapter 17

The Proctor sat suddenly erect, his fingers tight on the carved arms of his chair. Something had happened. He could sense it. He got up quickly and went up the winding staircase behind his chair that led up into the small observatory tower. It gave him a view over all of the city and the surrounding countryside. It was a grey and wet autumn morning. He could see sheet of rain drifting across the country. It was unmistakeable, however, the light in the sky over the forest. It looked just like a gleam of sunlight breaking through the clouds, yet the Proctor could see that it came from the ground, not the sky.

He swung his view finder round in the direction of the gleam, clicking lens after lens into place, trying to magnify where the gleam originated. All he could see, however, were trees, trees bathed in this new sunlight.

It was happening. There was a thread of the new weave, plain to anyone who could see. It was a thread he had to pull and unravel before the weave was completed. Down he went, back to his office and banged a soundless bell. The thump echoed round the room as he paced round the table, then hurried to the door, ripping it open as the grey clad servant glided towards it.

“Get the Rector here. Now!”

Wide-eyed, the servant disappeared at the run.

The Proctor shouting?

The Proctor out of his seat?

What was happening?

In the dripping woods, they saw it too, the gleam that warmed the air for that passing moment. For the Watchers, it was nothing but a brief moment of brightness to light up their miserable search. For those in brown, it was a moment to rejoice, silently as they endeavoured to stay between the Watchers and their hope without going counter to the lore. The celebration was confined to a smile, a clasp of hands, but the hearts were singing. He had chosen and he had chosen well. Was the long wait really coming to an end? One part of the journey remained. He only needed to arrive on time.

A second summons within a week! It was unheard of. In all his time as Rector, he had never been summoned more than a dozen times and now twice in a week! What could have disturbed the Proctor so much that he had to summon him again?

If the simple fact of his summons had surprised the Rector, he was to be astounded by the sight that greeted him when he entered the Proctor’s office.

The Proctor’s chair was empty and the Proctor was pacing round the table. The calm, almost lifeless expression that normally covered his face was replaced with one of frantic agitation.

“What took you so long?” The steely rasp of his voice was harsher than usual. “I needed you at once, not when convenient to your pomposity!”

The Rector’s flabby jowls flushed, like a naughty schoolboy who had been caught breaking a rule. Wisely he said nothing, for he could tell that the Proctor was in no mood for witty conversation.

“It’s happened,” the Proctor said. “The opening move in the struggle for the survival of Villblanche.”

“Yes, Proctor,” said the Rector, though he had no idea what the old man was talking about.

“We must plan our countermove. We must make it as difficult as possible for their ways to take a fresh hold on our people. Do they think we will abandon our ways just because the Weaver King has come? We can make sure he inherits a poor kingdom, an empty kingdom and drive him back into the forests where he can tell his stories to the boar, the only thing they are fit for, while our city continues to prosper, as it must do.”

“And, in your wisdom, you have devised a strategy?” the Rector asked, hoping politeness would mask his total incomprehension. “A long term strategy that will benefit the city?”

“We use the Inquisitorial Officers, Rector,” the Proctor said quietly. “In that way, no one will know there is anything going on. The Inquisitorial Officers are always poking around in schools and changing what they are looking for, so the new initiative won’t alarm people until it is too late.”

“And the new initiative is, Proctor?”

“Make sure there is no place for imagination in our schools. I don’t want the slightest chance of that weed taking root in the minds of our school children. Fact and gain – that is all they need to get on in our society. So let’s start with the young. Don’t wait until they come to the Training School. It’s already too late and the arrival of the Weaver King will have them flooding to the forests if we don’t snuff out their imagination early enough.”

The Proctor was panting now, his impassioned speech making him walk faster around the table than he had for many years.

“I need all the programmes of study revised within the week. Three days would be better. Reading, writing and history in particular can be bad for the imagination and must be changed, but look at everything. It all has to be ready for the solstice, when the war begins.”

The mention of the solstice opened a window of understanding for the Rector, which he used with relief.

“We’ll have caught the boy by the solstice, Proctor. We know where he is heading. The Magister and his men have been sent there to capture him.”

“You’ve sent them to Tournemittes?”

“Indeed, Proctor. Had I already told you?”

“You didn’t need to, Rector. Unlike you, I have studied the lore of this land and know what happens at the Tourney of Tales. I know when it happens and where. So, while we wait for the fat fraud and his Watchers to do the impossible and capture the boy, we send the new programmes of study out to the schools and then the Inquisitorial Officers to check that it is being used. If your powers of drafting are up to the job, we will have imagination free schools within a fortnight.”

“That quickly?”

“If the Inquisitorial Officers tear one school apart, the others will be falling over themselves to get into line. Now you had better get on with your revisions. Ask the Head Learner to help; she’ll be good at it. I never knew anyone with less imagination. Whatever you do, suppress narrative. I don’t want them hearing stories, reading stories and I certainly don’t want them writing the filthy things. It is the only way we will combat the threat.”

“I understand,” lied the Rector, overwhelmed by the Proctor’s passion.

“When you have given me the draft, you’d better get yourself to Tournemittes,” said the Proctor, “and make sure that fool of a Magister doesn’t get it horribly wrong. A mistake now could be fatal. Be sure of the lore. Now go.”

The Proctor went back up into the Observatory Tower. The gleam had gone from the sky and grey sheets of rain were blowing across country and city. It looked normal once more. Nothing unusual could be seen through the lenses of his view finder. However, he knew the threat was out there. It would challenge the calm order that had reigned in Villblanche for two centuries. Well, let the challenge come. He would fight it for all he was worth. It had to be resisted.

Why should he throw away all that the city had gained just because of some obscure ancient prophecy? The prophet could not have foreseen how much the city would have developed, how advanced it would be. He would not have understood how the people had benefitted from their life of sober industry. It was illogical to want to see it destroyed because a Weaver King had been found.

If the boy could not be caught, the consequences had to be prepared for, that was clear. The changes to the programme of study would make it harder for story weaving to develop. Perhaps the telling of stories should be made an offence. That was something for the Council to consider. They had to be sure that they had taken every step to defend Villblanche against the Weaver King.

A thought came to him and he hurried down from the tower. He grabbed a pen, scribbled a note, banged the bell and thrust the paper into the hands of the flustered servant.

“See that the Rector gets this. It’s important.”

The Sub-Magister was day dreaming. It helped make the bumping, swaying journey in the cart painless, or at least helped him forget it. With the Magister still on the seat with the driver, he was forced to sit at the back by the cage that everyone else was certain would soon contain the solitary runner. Here he was wreathed in the steam that belched from the funnel of the steam cart and which, as if to annoy him especially, enveloped the Sub-Magister instead of blowing away. Behind them swayed the wagon that carried the Watchers. They were singing and laughing, brainless thugs that they were, and not thinking of anything but the flagons of beer they were passing around to make the journey bearable.

So it was that only Gan saw the gleam that sprang up into the sky from somewhere in the woods round Racontour. He saw the gleam without knowing what it was, but it made him feel better, brighter, despite the rain that kept blowing in sheet across the countryside. It felt almost as if the wind was changing. Gan could sense it, like the still moment at the turning of the tide before the wind veers round. Then it was gone and the rain continued to fall. Gan, however, felt it less than before.

The wagons rumbled on grimly towards Tournemittes. About mid-afternoon they stopped, lit a fire and set about cooking a meal. The rain had stopped, though the clouds still hung low over the country. The Sub-Magister hated the stew the Watchers had cobbled together with its lumps of fatty, gristly meat and half rotten vegetables. He made himself eat it to keep up his strength. Beyond the simple transactions of the meal, nobody talked to him. The Magister pointedly ignored him, cut to the quick by the way his assistant had been working directly to the Rector. The Watchers were polite but evidently did not trust him – too high to be one of them, but not high enough to be trusted and respected.

The Magister had been sharing the beer the Watchers had with them. He was laughing and joking with them, openly smoking his pipe. He had no desire to move on. After all, they had to be ahead of the runner. They were travelling on the road and by cart. Might as well set up camp for the night and make themselves comfortable.

They had built up the fire and the songs were beginning when there was a clatter of hooves and a grey clad messenger jumped from his sweating horse. It was rapidly clear that the messenger was not impressed by the Magister’s joviality or the offer of beer. His message was delivered with insistence and the Magister had no choice but to listen and obey. His resistance had been in vain. Finally certain that his message would be acted upon, the messenger jumped back into the saddle and hurried away towards Villblanche.

“Here,” said the Magister, thrusting the paper at the Sub-Magister. “Your instructions, Get a move on!” S~ᴇaʀᴄh the Findɴovel.ɴet website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

He stomped off, muttering. The Sub-Magister read the paper. He was to proceed to Tournemittes with eight Watchers. The Magister, the remaining twelve Watchers and the steam dogs were to make every effort to capture the runner before he got there. He was known to have been in Racontour - the paper said – it ought not be difficult to block the routes to Tournemittes – “even for you!” it had ended.

The Sub-Magister now found himself on the front seat of the cage wagon trundling in the fading light towards Tournemittes. He smiled to himself at the Magister’s discomfort. The fat man was to walk to Tournemittes after chasing the runner through the forests. The runner would be quite safe, thought the Sub-Magister, for he would hear the wheezing well before he was in the slightest danger. Whether he would be able to do anything in Tournemittes that might help his friend remained to be seen, as even that slightly mocking thought had caused the pain to flash behind his eyes.

Ash Couper had been very busy. He had kicked over each pile of staves and then thrown them all into one corner of the cave, creating one giant wood pile. He had not let Kyrin help. It would not be safe, he said, for him to handle other staffs so soon after making his choice. Besides it would not be appropriate.

“No indeed, little master,” he had said. “Old Ash labours for the Weavers. These staves can be sorted soon enough when he returns from getting you past the Watchums.”

He had bustled back and forward until the wood was stacked and looked like any other woodpile. No one would imagine there was anything special about it. With the staves sorted, he had then cleared away every trace of his life in the cave. A few precious items had been stashed away behind the pile of staves, the rest bagged up and taken out into the forest.

“I can’t leave it anywhere near here,” he said, “or they’ll know the cave was used.”

Away he scuttled, hiding bags of his possessions in different places, and each time he had returned, he had encouraged Kyrin to rest. With his own possessions sorted, he had wrapped Kyrin’s staff in cloth.

“Because if you hold the bare wood with both hands, little master, even by accident, you sends up a gleam, which will give away our hiding place to them nasty Watchums.”

“And what if I need to use it?” Kyrin asked.

The obviously wasn’t something Ash had considered, but after three attempts, he had the staff rewrapped in such a way that Kyrin could get hold of the bare wood quickly. Then, it was just their own bags and they were ready to leave Ash’s cave.

Once outside, they paused while Ash set the darkness weave over the entrance.

“It’ll fade in a day or so,” he said, “if I don’t get back, but it’ll deter those nosy Watchums in the meantime.”

They set off and Ash zigzagged them through the trees and led them out of the Racontour valley before they knew it. Moving half-crouched forward, nothing seemed to get in Ash’s way; no branch needed to be ducked and no undergrowth snagged at his clothing. Kyrin struggled to keep up. He was trying to find the best way to carry his staff. Resting it on his shoulder meant it kept snagging in the trees. Using both hands and carrying it in front of him caused just as many snags and he could not stop himself from falling, so he abandoned that as he hurried after the hewer. Gradually, he started to copy Ash’s movements, holding his staff in one hand at its balance point and letting his arm drop. It started to feel more natural and it was much easier to keep up.

They saw no one that afternoon, although on a couple of occasions, the hewer had changed direction suddenly and they had gone on a loop through the trees. Nothing was said as to why and Kyrin saw nothing. Whether Ash had seen anything or that was just his normal route through the trees, it was impossible to tell. Whatever the truth, they stopped in a pine grove, finding a bank that sheltered them from the wind.

“Rest a little,” Ash said. “Wait till it’s deep dark and then we move on. Watchums don’t hunt in the dark, not in the trees anyway. Too scared of what they can’t see.”

Kyrin was glad to sit down. He slipped his bags off and lay his staff down by his side. It was getting colder, he thought, and it was happening as soon as it got dark. He sat down and stared at the patch of earth between his feet. It began to glow.

“No, little master!” Ash’s whisper was urgent. Kyrin looked up and the glow disappeared. “There’s too many Watchums about for such a light, though, save you, you would have kept old Ash warm too.”

In the fading light, Kyrin saw the beatific smile that lit up the craggy face.

“Is there nothing else I can do?”

“No, little master,” said Ash. “You must be patient. Save your weaving. It’s untrained and it can tire you. You may yet need to use it before you begin your training.”

“I’m to be trained?” asked Kyrin, always eager for information.

“Indeed, little master,” said Ash. “All novices are given a Master to train them for the Tourney.”

“The Tourney?” Always something to learn, thought Kyrin.

“The Tourney of Tales, little master, where novices get the chance to show their skill against each other and against the Masters. What tales you see then, little master, glittering in the sky over the Lists! So many beautiful tales and each one is consumed by the most powerful tale and the Master Weaver steps forth to greet the crowd.”

“And what happens to those whose tales are consumed?”

“They begin their lives as Weavers,” said Ash simply. “Their time as a novice is past. Some may choose to step back into the Lists a second or third time if they are determined to wear a Master’s cloak, but there is no obligation to do so. Being a Master is an honour, but there is no disgrace in not wearing the cloak.”

“And all novices have to enter the Lists once?”

“Indeed so, little, master, for none do so before they are ready. The Masters see how ready a novice is when they arrive in Tournemittes. They set how many solstices each novice must wait before they may first step into the Lists for the Tourney. With that wise rule, no novice can fail at the Tourney. The Master’s cloak goes to the most successful, to the story that lasts the longest in the minds of the assembly.”

Kyrin considered this for a while, trying to picture a Tourney, with stories as vivid as those that had come from the Weaver’s staff in Contefay. How that green and blue dragon would have consumed the other tales when the old woman’s husband had stood in the Lists. What a Tourney of Tales that must have been!

“How is a novice trained?” he asked, still not sure how to link stories with what happened in the world, despite the example he had given himself by creating the fire weave.

“The Master shows the novice how to project the power of the story into the weave of world. The novice learns how to control the power of his story so that he can be truly creative and make the story you can live in. Then, there is the staff. It’s not a tool you’ll learn to use overnight. Like all crafts, it takes time to master, even if it can be quickly learned.”

“Can a novice choose his own Master?” asked Kyrin, knowing how much he had liked his teacher the previous year and hated the one teaching him this year.

“The Masters appoint those who are to train each novice,” explained Ash. “Usually it is just one. Occasionally a novice may receive several Masters. It all depends on their individual needs, skills and abilities.”

“So you can’t be my Master?” Kyrin wanted to spend more time with this pleasant man who seemed to know so much and have such skills.

“Little master,” Ash was laughing. “Old Ash doesn’t wear the cloak of a Master. He is a simple hewer of staffs. His skill lies in finding the right wood for the Weavers. He couldn’t teach you the skills you’ll need, and there’s strength enough in these legs for a few years before I’ll need a novice of my own.”

“I didn’t mean...” Kyrin was embarrassed.

“Little master, said Ash, “You pays old Ash the greatest compliment to even have thought of such a thing. That you, of all the younguns that come my way, would have thought it, well, it goes beyond thinking. Any road, if you have rested through all this chattering, maybe we should move on a little – then we can rest again before the dawn.”

His head buzzing once more with so many new ideas, Kyrin did not feel his legs groan as he stood up, hitched his bags over his shoulder and, staff in hand, loped off after Ash Couper.

“There are Watchers everywhere. There must be a dozen of them in this wood, not to mention their metal hounds.”

“They have not found him though. The hewer is leading him well.”

“Why can we not intervene? We could make it so much easier for him and us.”

“You know how the lore of the runner prevents us. He has to find his way, without help from us.”

“But will they respect the ancient lore? This whole venture is so vulnerable. One mistake and we lose everything.”

“The time is confused. The colours dazzle our eyes. Not until we can stand back will we see the whole of the weave. There is something else. I have spoken with many other Masters and we are agreed. He should serve his time as a novice under your guidance.”

“But he is your son! Would it not be better for you to take him through this stage? It is so important.”

“Parents are not always the best Masters. Besides, he would hardly recognise my face; I have been away so long. There would be resentments. I hope that is a price worth paying. This weave seems so confused that I would be happier to know that another is to take this charge. I believe he will need you.”

“You do me such an honour. And the Masters, they agreed?”

“Why would they not? You are one of them. You have a right to train a novice. You won that right in the Tourney. With that right and my request, why would they even consider refusing?”

“I have not been considered before. I thought...”

“Think it not. There has not been a suitable candidate before.”

“You will entrust me with this one? My first novice – the one we have been waiting for all these years!”

“You are more than worthy of the task. The boy will need to learn all your compassion and love to make his stories shine like no other. For his time as a novice needs must be short, for he must win at the first Tourney to be acclaimed.”

“But you trained me. Why can you not train this one?”

“Because, my sweet one, I have seen such things in the weave that should scare me were I not secure in knowing he is to come.”

“What things, Master?”

“The threads are tangled and the frame is buckling. Until we arrive, we will not know what is to happen.”

“These are riddles. They make no sense.”

“Just agree to take the boy as your novice and one thread at least is untangled. I fear his heart will be full of blood when he comes to begin his training, but let time resolve that as it sees best.”

“I will train the boy, Master. It will be the greatest honour.”

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