Lost Acre by Andrew Caldecott (Rotherweird #3)
English | 2019 |Mystery/Thriller Fantasy| ePUB | 3.0 MB
Geryon Wynter, the brilliant Elizabethan mystic, has achieved resurrection and returned to present-day Rotherweird. But after the chaos of Election Day, how can a stranger from another time wrest control? And for what fell purpose is Wynter back?
His dark conspiracy reaches its climax in this unique corner of England, where the study of history is forbidden and neither friend nor foe are quite what they seem.
The stakes could not be higher, for at the endgame, not only Rotherweird is under threat. The future of mankind itself hangs in the balance.
‘Intricate and crisp, witty and solemn’ Hilary Mantel, Man Booker Prize-winning author of Wolf Hall on Rotherweird
Gorius sits on a grassy bank where meadows yield to rising beech woods. He tips his head and basks in the midsummer’s day sun, which, tiring at last, has a coppery sheen. Only the unusual leaves tumbling down the slope testify to something out of the ordinary – that, and his age. He smiles. Demigod is too strong a word; a masculine dryad, perhaps. Since his brief transformation, his hearing has been enhanced from birdsong to insects – and footsteps, too. He does not turn; the approaching aura is enough.
They called them hedge-priests in the legion: they looked alike, with white hair falling to the shoulders, faces like arid riverbeds, spindly arms and legs coiled with sinews and veins. After such a long absence, he is unsure whether this is his captor or not, but this hedge-priest clearly knows the distant past.
‘Did you see your tribune?’ he asks.
Still Gorius does not turn, though he drops his head in acknowledgement before returning it to the sun. ‘No, I avoid him, but he’s a survivor, is Ferox.’
The hedge-priest sits down beside him and looks down the valley towards the settlement. ‘They haven’t followed you.’
‘The Hammer did its work. They’re scattered all over the island like soldiers after a victory.’
‘It took years to perfect that brew, and I was lucky in my brewer.’ The old man’s hands are stained purple by hops. ‘What now?’ he asks.
Gorius adjusts the question and returns it. ‘I suppose there’ll be a next time after another millennium.’
‘There will, but you’re safe. You can’t play the Green Man twice; not you, not me.’
Pieces fall into place: they are Green Men both. The indelible bond encourages candour.
Gorius voices his concern. ‘A rope can lose only so many threads before it snaps. The bond between here and the other place is weakening.’
‘It will be worse next time,’ replies the hedge-priest, as if presenting fact, not opinion. A hand delves into his robe and emerges with an offering. ‘A token of my gratitude,’ he says with a smile, which is slightly pinched.