Graynelore

by Stephen Moore

  Graynelore

  STEPHEN MOORE

  HarperVoyager

  An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

  1 London Bridge Street,

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpervoyagerbooks.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain by HarperVoyager 2015

  Copyright © Stephen Moore 2015

  Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2015. Cover photographs © Shutterstock.com

  Stephen Moore asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  Digital eFirst: Automatically produced by Atomik ePublisher from Easypress.

  Ebook Edition © August 2015 ISBN: 978-0-00-810353-8

  Version: 2015-07-10

  For Carol

  ‘Whenever you think I’m lost, and you cannot find me, look here. I am always here.’

  Epigraph

  If every man’s life has the makings of a story, the comings and the goings and the things in-between, where does my story truly begin?

  For want of a narrator, for want of a name and the soul it belongs to, I fear, it must begin here…

  [From: A Beggar Bard’s Tale. Anon.]

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Part One: The Beggar Bard’s Tale

  Chapter One: Graynelore

  Chapter Two: How the World was Made

  Chapter Three: The Beggar Bard’s Burden

  Part Two: The Bereaved

  Chapter Four: At the Mark of the Wishards

  Chapter Five: The Elfwych Riding

  Chapter Six: The Killing Field

  Chapter Seven: The Unspoken Voice

  Chapter Eight: The Broken Tower

  Chapter Nine: Aftermath

  Chapter Ten: Against the Grayne

  Part Three: The Wycken Mire

  Chapter Eleven: Into the Mire

  Chapter Twelve: Wycken-on-the-Mire

  Chapter Thirteen: Faeries

  Chapter Fourteen: Joining the Dance

  Chapter Fifteen: The Secret Meet

  Part Four: The Faerie Riding

  Chapter Sixteen: The Changelings

  Chapter Seventeen: A Brief and Intimate Respite

  Chapter Eighteen: Upon the Threshold and a Dream

  Chapter Nineteen: The Gateway

  Chapter Twenty: The Faerie in the Tower

  Chapter Twenty-One: An Unexpected Murder

  Chapter Twenty-Two: The Eye Stone

  Chapter Twenty-Three: The Pain of Norda Elfwych

  Chapter Twenty-Four: As the Crow Flies

  Chapter Twenty-Five: The Debateable Land

  Chapter Twenty-Six: Night Sounds

  Part Five: The Great Riding

  Chapter Twenty-Seven: The Gibbet Tree

  Chapter Twenty-Eight: Rogrig the Wishard

  Chapter Twenty-Nine: The Gigant

  Chapter Thirty: The Illicit Agreement

  Chapter Thirty-One: The Quickening

  Chapter Thirty-Two: The Battle of the Withering

  Chapter Thirty-Three: A Cry Among the Mists

  Part Six: The Faerie Ring

  Chapter Thirty-Four: A Ring of Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Five: When the Dust Finally Settled

  Chapter Thirty-Six: The Eye of the World

  Chapter Thirty-Seven: The Faerie Isle

  Epilogue: Rogrig the Confessor

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  I am Rogrig, Rogrig Wishard by grayne. Though, I was always Rogrig Stone Heart by desire. This is my memoir and my testimony. What can I tell you about myself that will be believed? Not much, I fear. I am a poor fell-stockman and a worse farmer (that much is true). I am a fighting-man. I am a killer, a soldier-thief, and a blood-soaked reiver. I am a sometime liar and a coward. I have a cruel tongue, a foul temper, not to be crossed. And, I am – reliably informed – a pitiful dagger’s arse when blathering drunk.

  You can see, my friend, I am not well blessed.

  For all that, I am just an ordinary man of Graynelore. No different to any other man of my breed. (Ah, now we come to the nub of it. I must temper my words.)

  Rogrig is mostly an ordinary man. The emphasis is important. For if a tale really can hang, then it is from this single thread mine is suspended.

  Even now I hesitate, and fear my words will forever run in rings around the truth. Why? Put simply, I would have preferred it otherwise.

  Let me explain. I have told you that I am a Wishard. It is my family name…it is also something rather more. I say it again, Wishard, and not wizard. I do not craft spells. I do not brew potions or anything of the like. No. My talent, such as it is, is more obscure. You see, a Wishard’s skill is inherent, it belongs to the man. You either possess it or you do not. (Most men, most Wishards do not.) It cannot be taught. As best as can be described, I have a knack. Rather, I influence things. I make wishes, of a kind.

  Aye, wishes…(There, at last, it is said.)

  Forgive me, my friend. I will admit, I find it difficult, if not tortuous, to speak of such fanciful whimsy. Make what you will of my reticence; measure Rogrig by it, if you must. I will say only this much more (it is a caution): by necessity, my testimony must begin with my childhood. But be warned: if I tell you that this is a faerie tale – and it is a faerie tale – it is not a children’s story.

  Please, humour me. Suffer Rogrig Wishard to lead you down the winding path and see where it takes you. There is purpose to it. Else I would not trouble you.

  Part One

  The Beggar Bard’s Tale

  Chapter One

  Graynelore

  Children remember in childish ways. So, through a child’s eyes, I will look again upon Graynelore. I can see a frozen wasteland. Deep winter’s ice lying broken and sharp upon a horse-trodden path. The riders are long departed. My breath is a broken kiss upon the air. The land before me is a magical silence.

  I can pass a child’s hand across the ruts and crevasses of a cold, wet stone wall. It is the wall of a house, and built so thickly this Rogrig can stand at his full height and yet hide safely within the depth of its wind-eyes.

  I can find a child’s delight in the crackle and spark of burning logs, the heat of an open fire.

  I can lift a child’s finger to my tongue and taste the iron of an abandoned broken war sword. I can feel the dead weight of it again, as I struggle to drag it across a stone floor for the lack of body strength to lift it.

  I can sting my nose with the smell of the piss and the shit of fell beasts – animals sheltered indoors against the rumour of coming raiders – and yet still know the comfort of it.

  I can raise the beat of my heart and laugh at a tangle of drunken men, falling through an open doorway, playing at the Old Game. And I can wince at t
he foul cry a young woman gives them in chastisement.

  ‘Ah! Behaving-you! Do you have to come kicking that fucking head about in here? You’re spilling blood across my freshly strewn floors!’

  I can ache to my soul for the death of my father; only slaughtered, it seems, for his surname. I can hear words, murmured together in a single breath: murder, blood feud, Elfwych, and understand them, with a child’s innocence, only as the unbearable pain of my father’s absence…and a mother’s tears.

  I can huddle with a grieving family, grimly gathered at our fireside, making the cursed talk of revenge.

  Sick with fear, I can taste stomach bile at my throat on seeing the sudden stillness of my first human killing. He was a Bogart by grayne; though a Bogart out of an Elfwych. Upon a holyday, I once played childish sport with the lad. Yet I dropped a great stone upon his head – broke it apart – as he lay face down upon the ground. His body was already sliced open, that the work of another’s sword, but it was I who killed him. To possess all that is life, then, in a breath, in less than a breath, to take it all away…

  Before the raider’s trail, I can sit piss-scared upon my own dead father’s hobby-horse. And I can heed the old wives’ warnings that came ringing to my ears.

  ‘Mind how you go there, child! Keep off the bloody bog-moss. It swallows grown men whole! It sucks down full-laden fell-horses, carts and all! It will leave us no sign to remember you by…’

  And, of a bright summer’s day, without a care, I can run again through the long dry grasses with Old Emma’s Notyet, chasing after the cat’s tail. Mind, that is no man’s business but my own, and I will thank you for it and keep it to myself.

  Do you follow me, my friend?

  Old Emma, my elder-cousin, was a long time dead. Notyet, her daughter, was my playfellow. She was a weedling child, plain-faced, stoical, yet not displeasing. In age, there was less than a season between us. We came together because we lived together. We sat out upon the same summer fields and watched, lazily, over the same stock. We ran, a-feared, from the same raiders, raised the hue and cry. We ate from the same table, burned our faces at the same fireside. Bloodied our noses against the same hard ground and broke ice from the same stone water trough. And we each caught the other looking, without a blush, when we washed ourselves, naked, in the same stream.

  Notyet would often hide herself away in some secret woodland dell, where she would play awkward tunes upon the crude wooden whistles she made. I would listen, and follow after her simple music. I liked to find her there, in hiding. Was she my heart’s meat? Was she? Ha! Upon Graynelore! If it were true, I would not have admitted it. She was my kissing kin, but…(And but is enough to condemn me, and us.)

  Little more than babbies, we made a babbie together. She did not carry the infant well. It was dropped too early, born a feeble weedling; and un-cherished, it was soon dead. Birth is such a bloody struggle. Life is such a difficult trail to follow, while death – the sudden stop – so very easy.

  My friend, I have given you these awkward childhood memories; these fleeting glimpses of Graynelore, not because of their individual worth, but because together they might give you a sense of the world into which I was born. For the most part, they might appear to be nothing better than the gathered pieces from a broken clay pot! A handful of shattered fragments, a few, no doubt, so cruelly sharp they can hurt still, but, at best, incomplete.

  Indeed, there are pieces missing. There is another memory I must share with you. I must take us to another day, and to a meeting with a Beggar Bard.

  Chapter Two

  How the World was Made

  I can still see him, standing before an open door on a winter’s evening. He appeared out of the darkening shadows, just as a cold sun fell out of a weathered sky. Just as the bars were about to be drawn and the wind-eyes battened against the night. The old man’s back was stooped, his yellowing skin so dry, so thin, I was certain he was something of a wych’s trick; a bag of old bones somehow kept whole. Though he remains forever nameless – he offered us none and history does not recall – I remember him cadging a supper and a fireside in return for his story. All my family, from the eldest crone to the youngest babbie, quickly gathered there, eager to receive him. (For there is no luck in turning a Beggar Bard from your door; ask any who have tried, any still living.)

  When he began to tell his story, he began mine. For he told us the tale of how the world was first made.

  How easily that frail old man stole a fireside. For as long as he talked he kept his bones warmed, and his audience believing every word. And such a performance! He never stood still. His fragile limbs jerked and twisted in time to his every phrase. His sallow eyes, alert and sharp, even in old age, fell upon each of us in turn and seemed to reach into our very souls. He scared the babbies witless. He had grown men and women cursing and bellowing like cloddish fools. At my side a boyish Notyet was caught sorely stiff afraid. In my excitement I let my fists fly, made her yowl, banged her on the ear to bring her back.

  ‘Hoy!’ she cried, returned her closed hand, and cuffed me back.

  And I? What did I make of this Beggar Bard? When he spoke, it was as if time itself ran at a listless pace, against its nature. Rogrig was…spellbound, beguiled. The Beggar Bard drew us all into his dark tale.

  ‘Look sharp, my friends. Look sharp about us,’ he began. He spoke through rotten teeth and with a rasping, ailing breath. ‘We are at the beginning of all things. So come and watch with me, as a single scratch of light appears out of an eternal darkness.’ The old man’s withered hands enticed, beckoned to us, all the while drawing magical, fleeting pictures in the smoke-filled air around us. ‘Pass through this stagnant swirl of ageing yellow mist. And come upon a tall grey figure, standing motionless before a great stone tablet.’ The Beggar Bard’s open fingers and narrowed eyes signalled a caution. ‘Make no sound! Keep deathly still. This man before us is a Great Wizard, a Lord of Creation. He must not see us here.’

  From somewhere among our gathering there came a gentle roll of knowing laughter. (This childish Rogrig mistook it for simple pleasure.) There were many there who already knew this tale by heart, and the manner of its telling. They were content to play their part and hear it told again, but they took the Beggar Bard’s performance for what it was: common trickery and simple amusement. Sleight of hand to baffle Tom Fool, not a faerie’s Glamour, worthy of the gibbet. The Beggar Bard continued his tale, unabashed.

  ‘Now, my friends, watch carefully. Do not blink! Or you will miss the first of it!’ He gave a waggle of his bony finger. ‘See? The stone tablet, its surface, quite plain and unadorned, in an instant is deeply cut: incised and embellished by its master’s hand. The form is a map. The image is a pair of islands – one great, the other small – set upon the broadest sea. Notice how its waters glisten, even upon the stone. And the smaller island: it is such a strange curiosity. What magic is this? See how it moves…marking out its course as it cuts a swathe across the surface of the tablet.’

  Again and again the Beggar Bard’s fingers made magical pictures in the fire smoke. The stone tablet…The Great Wizard…The map…The islands…The sea…I was so convinced of what I saw there that night I can still see it all, vividly. Every detail, everything conceived.

  ‘And why was the stone map made?’ asked the Beggar Bard, rhetorically, expecting no answer but his own. ‘It was like a great eye that looked out upon the whole world and saw everything. An Eye Stone,’ said the Beggar Bard, ‘an Eye Stone, created, that all creatures everywhere should know their place in the world and marvel at its splendour. Nothing was missed. For a Great Wizard knows his task and his world quite well enough. And if his concerns were for design and skilful ornament, rather than for accuracy and scale, then he made up for its lack with an indubitable certainty.’ Now, the meaning of many of the Beggar Bard’s words was often lost to the ears of an ignorant child (aye, and the contradictions too) and yet this only added to their mystique and to my unwavering belief
in their authority.

  ‘He made a mark for the Stronghold of The Graynelord; the Headman of all the graynes…And a mark too, for the bastle-houses of lesser men,’ added the Beggar Bard, shrewdly. At which, there came a great stamping of feet and a roaring of approval. ‘There were marks made for the mountains of the gigants, and for the dwarven holes. Marks for the elfin forest dells; for the lakes and for the mires, where the kelpies lie in wait for unsuspecting travellers; and for the broad grasslands of the unifauns. There were simple marks for the hills and the vales; for the roads; and another for the great River Winding that comes out of the mountains and finds its way into every part of this land. All manner of things were cut upon that stone face: the marvellous and the mundane.

  ‘And when, within the making, the Great Wizard found himself at a loss – after all, if he knew his own homelands best, and other, stranger parts at the world’s furthest corners hardly at all, can he be blamed for his enthusiasms and omissions? – he simply cut these words and wrote: The Great Unknown, or Here Be Monsters.’

  ‘And what of this curious moving isle, Lord Bard—?’ The interruption came from the Headman of our house: Wolfrid, my elder-cousin, eager to have the story told. He spilled wine from the mouth of his stone drinking jar as he spoke, left a spattered trail upon the earth floor at his feet.