Balin and Columbine (A Children of the May Novella - Book 1.5b)

Chapter Ten: Prophecy and Plans

There was a pool in the hills, about a mile from Garnish’s cottage, where first Balin, and then Columbine went to wash. She spent a while trying to scrub the goat and the mud out of her clothes, but though the water removed the dirt and gristle, the bloodstains ran deep. She had not touched the stains on her pigeon-skin cloak. Her blood will have blood, the holy man had told her; she didn’t want to risk the magic that would lead the cloak to the back of the one responsible for Lily’s death – to Sir Garlon. The sun had come out, so she lay down on the cloak and waited for her other clothes to dry.

Castle Spar-Longius, the Lady of the Slates had told her, that was where the knight invisible would be. She had to convince Balin that they should follow their quest that way, rather than north towards the lands of the lake. It was Garlon they needed to revenge themselves upon, not Lady Nemone. Columbine went for a final swim and managed to get the last of the mud out of her hair.

When she returned to the cottage she found Garnish outside. The round lad sat in a sturdy chair with the Dolorous Stroke on his lap. He was examining the symbols on the scabbard, checking them against a leather-bound book perched on his knees.

‘Is that bacon?’ Columbine’s stomach rumbled. The smell of salty, smoky meat floating from the cottage door made her stomach envious of those who had already broken their fasts.

‘Plate for you inside,’ said Garnish, without looking up.

‘Where on earth did you find bacon up here?’

‘Being a long way from home is no reason to give up the comforts of home,’ shrugged the portly boy, his eyes still moving between the scabbard and his book.

Balin was sat on a stool just inside the cottage. He was stripped to the waist, with a bowl of soapy water between his feet. His hair had been roughly chopped with a knife, and he was now almost clean-shaven. Columbine felt a chill as she saw just how much he resembled his dead brother, though the Savage’s chest and arms were more muscular than the Philosopher’s had been.

He looked over his shaving knife at her. ‘Here she is,’ he said, ‘and by hell she looks almost clean. Miracle of miracles.’

‘Whereas you, my friend, would require another miracle to scrub you halfway decent.’

He grunted, and leant down to the soapy water to remove the remains of his beard from his blade.

‘Missed a bit,’ she said. ‘Just where your head meets your neck. You should have used the Dolorous Stroke.’

‘And take my face off along with my beard? No thanks.’

‘You could stand to lose a few of those features. Your nose, for instance. Would improve your looks no end.’

Neither of them had mentioned the kiss. Columbine had put it down to a moment of temporary madness, brought on by the combination of exercise and heavy blood loss.

There was gloriously greasy plate of bacon and mushrooms fried with herbs on Garnish’s small table, with a crisp hunk of bread on the side for her to clear her plate, her favourite part of any meal.

Balin removed the hairs he had missed at the corner of his jaw, and reached for a towel to pat his face dry. They went out into the open air, she with her plate of breakfast, he pulling his shirt over his head. He walked easily; there was no sign his leg had ever been injured, apart from the stains on his breeches where the blood and puss had seeped through.

‘What’s the book, Garnish?’ said Columbine. She sat down with her back to the cottage wall, looking over the bleak sunlit lands towards Camelot.