‘No doubt there’ll be many more wonders,’ Kaliegraves said. She broke off, staring in delight at the frail, smiling Crone who stood in front of them. Beside her, with a large straw basket at her feet, was a tall beautiful young woman with startling violet eyes and blonde hair swinging in a shining bob past her chin.
‘Khartyn! Rosedark! By the sand of the Dreamers, I was expecting you both, but not this soon! Did you witness the Adonis rites?’
Khartyn nodded, her wrinkled face looking ancient in the harsh light, as if it could fall to dust at any moment. ‘Aye, the maid and I were impatient to attend, so we caught that new-fangled skytrain from Faia. Give me an ilkama any day! Still, quite a spectacle it was. I have not witnessed the Adonis rites for a good many Turns of the Wheel, so it was a rare pleasure to see it again.’
Her hooded, milky eyes passed over Gwyndion.
The Webx tensed. It was like having a laser beam pointed in his direction.
‘The Webx arrived safely, I see. Well, it’s an honour to meet you, young fellow.’ Her hands made the traditional fluttery Webx signal of greeting. Gwyndion, overjoyed at this sign of recognition, reciprocated, touching his heart, third eye and throat briefly. The truth was, he felt slightly intimidated to be in the presence of Khartyn, as the Crone’s reputation was legendary in Faia.
‘This be my apprentice, Rosedark.’
The young girl beside Khartyn bowed her head shyly. ‘Now this, I should imagine, is Samma,’ Khartyn bent over and her wrinkled old hands gently tilted the meerwog’s head back, while she looked deep into its eyes. ‘Aye,’ she nodded. ‘There’s a powerful binding around this one, something I haven’t seen the likes of before. Mary was correct in her diagnosis. But never mind, old Khartyn will find it.’
‘What a darling meerwog!’ Rosedark lit up at the sight of Samma. ‘Can I hold her, please?’ Gwyndion nodded his consent, while Samma mewed happily and leapt into Rosedark’s arms.
‘Rosedark and Khartyn will be staying with us,’ Kaliegraves informed Gwyndion. ‘They have business to attend to in New Baffin, and I thought you might be happy to have some Faiaites around the place!’
She placed her arm conspiratorially through Khartyn’s. ‘Now, my old friend. Did you bring the dragon blood powder I requested?’
Rosedark smiled at Gwyndion. ‘Finally we meet! I have heard much of you over the Turns of the Wheel. The whole of Faia praises you for your dedication to your studies, even as they lament the fact they barely see you because of that same lauded dedication! The tongues wag fiercely that you are on a quest to retrieve the Eom.’
‘Yes,’ Gwyndion replied, beginning to realise there was not much that these two did not know about him. ‘And also my Hostlings, whom the Azephim have tethered alive to the Eom, hoping their energy will recharge it.’
‘Well, I wish you the Dreamers’ own luck, Gwyndion. The Wastelands are not the easiest of territories to journey through, and the Azephim guard the Eom jealously.’ The Webx’s sparrow seemed to miss a beat at this information.
‘You’ve been there?’ he asked, his shyness momentarily forgotten. ‘You’ve actually been inside the Ghormho’s castle? I thought it was meant to be impregnable!’
Rosedark nodded, her hands continuing their soothing stroke of Samma, her startling violet eyes not leaving Gwyndion’s face.
‘Aye, it would be for most folks, but I travelled with Khartyn and a very powerful Crossa, Emma. Emma was a Bindisore sister to Sati, and Old Mother was Sati’s teacher before she abandoned her for the Ghormho. If anyone knows how to defeat the dark puzzle of the Wastelands, it’s the Crone. She knows Sati so well, you see. However, it’s not an experience I’d care to repeat in a hurry. Let’s just say the Wastelands demands a price of those who dare to traverse her — and before you ask, no, I didn’t get to see the Eom or your Hostlings.’
Disappointment flooded Gwyndion at these words, although he could relate to Rosedark’s fears after his time in the Hollow Hills.
He stood staring out to sea, where blood and guts from the sacrificed pig still floated on the tide. Further out, at the horizon, yellow and purple sails from an incoming ship fluttered distantly. Gulls screamed harsh cries as they attempted to retrieve the floating body parts. The Webx fought to control his emotions. It seemed at least ten Turns of the Wheel since the Snake Crone had pulled him from the ground as a mere shootling, having retreated in shock and fear from the Day of Ashes. The enigmatic Snake Crone had transported him from his home island of Zeglanada to neighbouring Eronth. There were many times he despaired of ever seeing his Hostlings again. Fears surfaced within him of failing in his quest and never returning to his homeland. At times it was tempting to submerge into this new life, new world and form a new identity for himself. He didn’t feel like a hero; the last thing that he wanted in his life was a quest, and he doubted he would have the fortitude and cunning to survive the Wastelands. Last night’s dream had only intensified his longing for Tanzen and Rozen, his Hostlings.
A faint odour of sandalwood told him that Khartyn had moved to join him. The Crone wrapped her crocheted shawl around her shoulders, and stared out to sea beside him.
‘Let go of it, lad,’ she said. ‘Release the toxic guilt and fear you carry.’
Gwyndion’s shoulders slumped. He no longer cared that he was revealing his vulnerability to the Crone, for she could see right through him.
‘There was nothing you could have done to prevent it,’ she said softly. ‘You were too young, a mere shootling. Let things be for now. Whether we see it and recognise it as such, everything in the known worlds has perfect timing. Don’t fall for the illusions of this world, Gwyndion, lest you be as lost as the souls who just flocked here to witness the Adonis rites.’
‘Is it an illusion that my Hostlings are tethered to the Eom, held in the spinnerets, neither dead nor alive?’ Gwyndion’s throat throbbed with unshed tears. Khartyn watched him, her face eerily illuminated in the torchlight of the fire holders.
‘Yes, and yes and again yes. It is as much an illusion as the dream you had last night that upset you so much, believing it to be true.’
Gwyndion looked at her in shock.
‘You may not be aware of me, young Webx. But I am certainly aware of you,’ she smiled, indeed I have been following your journey since you arrived in Eronth — well, as much as I have been able to scry. You have great strength, Gwyndion. You are a warrior. That is why I feel you incarnated through two remarkable Hostlings like Tanzen and Rozen. You were selected to retrieve the Eom for the Webx people. You are indeed blessed among Webx.’
The Crone’s words had a prophetic ring about them. Scarcely able to absorb them, Gwyndion kept his eyes fixed on the ocean’s expanse. He felt both fearful and inspired by her statements. In the silver choppy waves a sea serpent undulated, attracted by the blood of the sacrificial sow.
Gwyndion felt a primeval fear creep down his spine. Some of the great sea serpents were miles long, and could easily overturn large sailing vessels. Who knew the true size of the beast below, when all that was visible above the surface was a tiny reptilian head and a hint of spine? Seabirds continued to sing their guttural songs, and he felt heat scorching his face as the fire cones flared brightly.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
If the bogeyman catches you, he’ll rip off your head,
The Solumbi’s teeth will gut you, suck your intestines till you’re dead;
But if the Crone spots you have the shell between your eyes
No handsome Faiaite man will ever thrust between your thighs!
— Faiaite children’s skipping song
Khartyn and Rosedark settled easily into Kaliegraves’s spacious home. To Gwyndion, it soon felt as if they had always been there. They shared a large room to the rear of the house, opposite his quarters.
The first night they had sat up till late, drinking flasks of esteo and strawberry mull, catching up on all the news they had been unable to scry from each other. Rosedark had taken a lik
ing to Samma, and lay on the floor with her, brushing her hair, inventing games and plaiting colourful ribbons in her fur. looking on uneasily, Gwyndion acknowledged the worrying possibility that Samma was under a binding spell, as they all proclaimed. Since he had been sapspawned, he had always thought of her as his beloved pet and friend. Now even that relationship was threatened with this news. If they did manage to undo the binding, would Samma still be Samma? Would she want Gwyndion as her friend? Although he hated himself for the thought, he almost wished that the binding might prove too strong to undo.
The Crone had brought fresh raspberries and golden berries from her garden in Dome Cottage. As they feasted on great bowls of the fruit and fresh cream, she questioned Gwyndion closely about his time in the Hollow Hills. She was particularly interested in the Crossas that had been abducted, encouraging Gwyndion to describe their appearance. But to the Webx, all the Crossas’ faces had been a blur, all part of a confused nightmare that at times seemed to have happened simultaneously. Many Crossas had died under there, he remembered with a shudder. He was haunted by the look of wild glee on their faces as they jerked and swayed to their deaths in the lethal Faery dances. Their bodies had been dragged by the Imomm people further back into the Hills, but the faint smell of them rotting had always permeated the kingdom of Faery.
‘Why are you so interested in the Crossas of the Hills?’ Kaliegraves asked bluntly. ‘The few that survive do so because they adjust to life there, or else it pleases Diomonna to let them live. They belong with the Imomm and would find it nigh impossible to return to life in their original world.’
‘Yes,’ Khartyn replied. ‘But I heard rumours in Faia of a young dark-haired woman and a Crossa midwife hanging around the Bwani stone. When I travelled to the stone and questioned the Virgins, I learned the dark-haired woman had formed some type of communication with Bwani.’
Kaliegraves pushed her berry bowl away with a satisfied sigh. ‘They be the best berries I’ve eaten in a Turn of the Wheel. The fruit they are trying to pass off at the markets in New Baffin is inedible, like pig’s whiskers . . . Are you saying you believe the dark-haired one to be the Awakener?’
Gwyndion frowned, attempting to follow the conversation. Although they spoke in the Tongue of All Worlds, he found the language difficult to follow when they spoke rapidly. He glanced quickly from one Crone to another. The two could not have been more different in appearance — Kaliegraves’s face round, flushed and open, Khartyn’s tiny, ancient and oval — but the power that flowed like raw electricity from them was almost identical.
‘Yes, I think it is highly likely,’ Khartyn replied. ‘Through the Turns of the Wheel I’ve used my scry and I always found it difficult to believe that the silver-haired Fenn was the one. I think the Ghormho and Sati have been fooled by an Imomm changeling. Besides, the Bluite dog they smuggled across has never settled here with the Ghormho and Sati. I have observed her continually sniffing at an unseen presence. I think she senses Maya is near.’
‘If the Imomm discover that Fenn is a changeling, will her life not be in danger?’ Kaliegraves asked. ‘What of Diomonna?’
‘Oh, they would seek to destroy the Imomm Queen,’ Khartyn said grimly. ‘And Diomonna can be careless in her arrogance. She underestimates the Azephim’s ruthlessness.’ She addressed Gwyndion directly. ‘I can feel the Faery Queen’s energy all over you. Am I correct in assuming there was some sexual contact between you both?’
Gwyndion flushed, realising Rosedark was staring at him with interest. He still found it difficult to recall his time spent in the Hollow Hills, and the erotic games he had partaken of, without feeling a disconcerting mixture of shame and arousal.
‘You were indeed fortunate that the clover aided you in breaking the enchantment the Imomm wove around you,’ Khartyn said, letting him off the hook. ‘I have not heard of anybody escaping from the Hollow Hills. Most Crossas either go insane, or are killed by the Imomm. But I do not think you have ever really left there, have you, Gwyndion?’
The Webx stared at the ancient Crone, misery on his face as he recalled the tormenting Faerysong that continually called to him, the numerous nights he lay awake, burning with desire for the Imomm Queen.
‘Diomonna does not let go easily,’ Khartyn said to him. ‘She would hate a handsome young Webx to escape her clutches. I fear she fancies herself in love with you. If so, then you are in great danger. I see you have a bell around the meerwog to protect her from Faery. I will also make you both a clover charm that will give you added protection. Now, Kaliegraves, I have sipped and supped my full, and old Morpheus is waiting for my shabby bag of bones. So I bid you goodnight.’
While Kaliegraves was showing them to their rooms, Gwyndion sat staring into the small fire in the kitchen. His mind bubbled over with unanswered questions. Who was the Awakener? Why did he feel as if it were applicable to him? Shuddering, he recalled the terrifying dream he had had about Diomonna. Taking Samma into his lap, he stroked her, too tired and drained to move. Zeglanada seemed depressingly far away.
Khartyn and Rosedark were unpacking their clothes from a simple straw charmed bag that they carried, pulling out an impossible array of objects. There were dresses of varying colours with sashes to match, gloves for Khartyn, hair ornaments for Rosedark, herbal cosmetics, combs, essential oils, a Book of Shadows and a few other books they could not bear to be parted from. More items followed: shoes, a portable scrying mirror, magical stones and crystals and bones. Finally, a small stuffed doll that Rosedark had carried since a child and refused to discard. She placed it with tender care on her lavender pillow.
‘The meerwog is adorable,’ Rosedark said. ‘I was much taken by her’
‘So I observed,’ Khartyn said dryly, assembling the collection of magical paraphernalia on a table near her bed. ‘I think Samma is not the only thing you find adorable.’
Rosedark crimsoned; she knew from past experience there was little that escaped the milky eyes of the Crone. Talk less, watch more, Khartyn was fond of repeating.
Hopping into bed, Rosedark watched as Khartyn sat with her scry in hand, mentally clearing her mind to receive impressions. Rosedark lay back on the lavender-scented sheets, thinking of Gwyndion. Through her studies with Khartyn, they had examined in detail the Webx people, focusing on the Day of Ashes. The implications of that day when the Azephim had violently seized the Eom crystal from Zeglanada had rippled through the known worlds.
Gwyndion intrigued her. It wasn’t just his looks, although his melancholy silver eyes were potentially heartbreaking. It was the power that coursed around and through him. Combined with his vulnerability, it was a heady combination. The Webx had witnessed his entire race of people destroyed and his Hostlings seized by the Azephim. In Rosedark’s eyes, he was a heroic, romantic, tragic figure. She wondered if they would have to accompany him through the Wastelands. As much as Rosedark was attracted to Gwyndion, she fervently hoped not. One trip into the nightmare landscapes of the Wastelands was enough for a single lifetime, she thought.
The Crone replaced the cover over the scry with a sigh. She looked frail and vulnerable in her white lace nightdress with her white hair hanging loosely to her knees. Rosedark felt a wave of affection pass through her that was almost physical. Although Khartyn gave off a youthful, exuberant air at odds with her years, the truth was she was centuries old. Tonight she seemed brittle, like a fossilised shell.
‘Are you all right, Old Mother?’ Rosedark asked, dying to know what the Crone was witnessing in the scry.
Aye, but I’m not happy with the pictures in my looking glass. Faia is in such a volatile, precarious state at the moment. They don’t even seem to care about preparing for Mabon! I’m unsure of what to do for the best. One thing is obvious: the Faiaites are turning against Mary as quickly as they once embraced her. There is much darkness around the High Priestess at the moment, and I have no idea why.’
‘Would you like me to hold your feet for you while you scry?’ For some unknow
n reason, Khartyn’s scrying was occasionally amplified if Rosedark added her energy by holding the Crone’s feet.
‘No, maid. Perhaps I’m overtired and emotional, trying too hard to enter the scry’s world. While we’re in New Baffin, I will visit the Oracles and consult their advice. Perhaps I’m too old to receive clear guidance. The Dreamers only know I feel my years tonight.’ She sighed, feeling curiously depressed.
Turning to her apprentice to bid her goodnight, she was startled to see that Rosedark was already asleep. Khartyn studied her peaceful face, feeling moved. Moonlight filtering through the large glass windows had turned her face to silver-blue. The maid was worn out, Khartyn realised with a pang. Her apprentice’s attraction to the Webx had not escaped her attention tonight, and it had saddened her. Apprentices could never marry or form relationships in Eronth. All their energy was channelled into serving their Crones and preparing for the responsibility of becoming a Crone themselves. It was not a life choice that Rosedark could ever walk away from. Her chosen destiny was to serve Khartyn; thus she had been marked with the burning shell emblem of the Dreamers.
Despite Rosedark’s apparent acceptance of her vocation, she was still a young maid. How would she feel, Khartyn mused, watching her peacefully snoring, when she couldn’t return the ardour of males who came courting? When her body realised it would never have children?
As ancient as Khartyn was, she could recall the gutwrenching loneliness when she had served as apprentice. The resentment had overpowered her at times, the helpless feeling that although she might move in the world, she would never fully be a part of it. Her body had cried with sadness for years with its longing for a child, but once her menses had ceased, she had mercifully been spared that longing. When she had achieved a level of wisdom, it had been easier to let go of all attachments.
‘It is a hard road ahead of you, maid. May the Dreamers hold you tight and never wake,’ she whispered, looking with dread at the angelic face below her on the pillow. However, not even Khartyn could have predicted just how hard that road would prove to be.
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