Starmaker Stella (Dica Series Book 6)

by Clive S. Johnson

  “What do the words mean, Falmeard?”

  Falmeard put the second paper down and looked again at the first. “This won’t be easy, Nephril,” but his eyes flashed once more. “I still want to know how you got hold of all this,” and he waved his hand over the table.

  “All in good time, mine friend. All in good time,” and Nephril raised his eyebrows as he tilted his head.

  Falmeard sighed. “Well, let’s have a look then,” he said, sullenly. “Now, the first one, ‘Dockdis’, is a form of the verb ‘to berth’, as in when a ship ties up at a quay, but here it has a special meaning, considering where all these stolen words have come from. It’s a particular sentence, one dealing with the docking of the cask I brought back.”

  “The docking of a cask?” Nephril said, ignoring Falmeard’s pointed word.

  “It’s a term used to describe what we did ourselves with Leiyatel’s own cask, you remember, forty years ago at Leigarre Perfinn.”

  “When we slid it in through the door to the column?”

  “Precisely.”

  “Ah.”

  Falmeard looked down at the paper again. “‘Maatrix’ is the crystal structure of a Certain Power, another way of saying the body of it, in this case the body of Leiyatel. As for ‘eyncaegadis’, well, I’m at a bit of a loss as to how to explain this one. ‘Scinanute’, though, is easy. It just means shining out, radiant.”

  Nephril peered at a sheet of paper he’d kept in his hand. “So, we are warned that ‘On no account permit docking of the new Certain Power until the incumbent Leiyatel is still-made to below...’”

  “Quiescent, Nephril.”

  “Quiescent?”

  “Stillenimaned: not active. As Leiyatel was when we came to remove her from Baradcar.”

  “Ah, very well. ‘...until the incumbent Leiyatel is quiescent to below visibly radiant levels’.” Nephril raised an eyebrow. “Well, Leiyatel be certainly radiant now, well visible, spreading her infinite branches out from Baradcar.” He looked back at his sheet. “And if we do not adhere to this warning then ‘face-between eyncaegadis’ annihilation will result’.”

  “Interface, Nephril.”

  “What is?”

  “Not ‘face-between’.”

  “Now thou hath lost me, Falmeard. Rare, I know.”

  “The two are linked: interface and eyncaegadis.”

  “Linked to what?”

  “Each other, and the nature of both Certain Powers and their wefts and weaves.”

  Nephril waited; brows aloft, hands apart, palms open, welcoming revelation. Falmeard swallowed – hard.

  He pushed his hand back through his hair and sighed. “Well, let’s see,” he said and pressed his lips together until they suddenly sprang apart.

  “Right, let’s try this. All certain powers have identical structures, the same maatrix. They differ only in their interface. It’s ... it’s like a key that only fits the locks of one particular family of wefts and weaves.”

  “Family?”

  “Yes, you know, all the variations infusing each of the Bazarran, the Galgaverrans, High Dicans and the rest. Leiyatel has a master key that unlocks each and every one.”

  “Hence why Leiyatel could not see Stella, not directly, her being from a different family. Her weft and weave could only have been unlocked by your new Certain Power.”

  “Well, Eyesgarth’s Certain Power, but yes, exactly,” but Falmeard’s face slowly dropped as his daughter’s name elbowed aside his growing intrigue.

  “And eyncaegadis?” Nephril quickly asked.

  “What? Oh, well ... that’s like the pattern of the key, the way it’s cut. What they knew back in my time in England as its coding.”

  “And that be the thing that would be destroyed, were the new Certain Power to be...”

  “Installed in Baradcar. Yes, Nephril, if it were done now, now Leiyatel’s back to being radiant – strong and vigorous.”

  “But the maatrix would be unharmed?”

  “Indeed. They’re the same structure you see, the new Certain Power and Leiyatel, as are all Certain Powers.”

  Nephril snatched up the bottle of rum and filled both their glasses to the rim. He raised his in salute.

  “Well, here be to the memory of thy wonderful daughter, Falmeard. May her name be enshrined in every Dican heart, as it should rightly be. As it already is in mine own,” and he emptied his glass straight down his throat, much to Falmeard’s utter bemusement.

  36 Purpose is but the Slave

  When everyone made their way to bed, Nephril drew a chair up to the hearth and sat before the hissing heap of coal he’d piled onto its embers. He watched the rippling ribbons of damp smoke draw into the chimney as he swilled his recharged glass in his hand. Both gave him a sense of movement the rest of the house soon lacked, once doors had closed, floorboards creaked and still silence crept in at his back.

  It left him worrying about Falmeard’s lack of any real understanding of his Guider ac Eynstaelleten. He’d known the meanings of individual terms, impressively so, but not the import of their sentences. It surprised and disappointed Nephril. Maybe I should have brought it all with me, he wondered.

  Eventually, he told the glowing coals, “It must be Leiyatel’s returned strength that be to blame. The removal of memories no longer of use to her purpose, as she hath done with almost everyone else. Maybe in Falmeard’s case it be a safeguard, to protect her from the very act I now so dearly wish to pursue.”

  He smiled. “At least I put mine ancient friend’s mind at some great rest over Stella.” He remembered the look on Falmeard’s face when he’d said she’d recently been to see him in Eyesget, and the relief that clearly flooded through him at Nephril’s recounting of their discussion. Falmeard had beamed at hearing she’d not been ignorant at the end of how truly and deeply he and Geran had loved her.

  On his own part, Nephril was now elated to know that Stella’s idea should indeed work. The task seemed a simple one in principle – a worrying sign if ever there was, he conceded. Falmeard had the new Certain Power’s cask at hand, they knew where it had to be delivered, or more accurately, docked, and both were happy at the expected outcome – more than happy.

  The real problem lay in Falmeard’s inability, however hard he’d tried, to remember anything at all about the preparation of Leigarre Perfinn for the cask’s docking. In all the bits of paper Nephril had brought, they’d been unable to find any mention of it. It must be in the original somewhere, Nephril reasoned, within the major part he’d too cautiously left behind.

  “It be of no great matter now, though,” Nephril told himself and smiled, “not since mine overhearing Falmeard’s conversation in the stables with Mirabel. He may be a simple soul, bless him, but he has always had surprisingly good insight. To think,” he marvelled, “that all that time ago he had clearly seen something I never did.”

  Nephril took a mouthful of rum and closed his eyes as he resolved to broach the matter with Mirabel in the morning. He pondered Falmeard’s words, “And given you’re her daughter”, as much as to say, “like mother, like daughter,” as Nephril had said to her himself not that long ago. How strange, but likely how true, although in a way he’d never suspected.

  Perhaps the rum had been at fault, but Nephril did eventually find sleep slyly seducing his eyes, its sleight of hand swapping the fire’s embers for a moonlit swathe of ash.

  In the muffled silence, Phaylan and Falmeard now at his side, he trudged from the wealcan towards the entrance to Leigarre Perfinn.

  As they neared, he saw Lady Lambsplitter, up to her waist in the ash in which she sat. They drew before her and Phaylan bent, to stare into her staring eyes.

  “We are come with Leiyatel, my Lady,” was all he said before carefully closing her eyes. He rose and gazed at her, a distant look now making his own eyes hollow.

  Nephril’s heart slipped at the sight, but their task pressed its urgency into his words. “The Lady must wait, Phaylan. I am sorry, but
there be so little time left.”

  The lad’s expression brought Nephril’s hand to rest upon the steermaster’s shoulder for a moment. “Lady Lambsplitter would hath understood,” Nephril said. “This was after all her sole purpose in life,” but the look of understanding that now shot across Falmeard’s face shocked Nephril awake, a dull thud echoing through his mind.

  A chill draught briefly caressed Nephril’s neck as he groggily looked down at the black hearth before his feet, thin grey light picking out its lifeless cinders. A trill, a lone dawn chorister, drew Nephril’s gaze beyond the cold silhouette of his lamp to the cliff’s slate grey rock, seen through the window.

  Nephril rubbed his face and stretched, his joints cracking. A thump above his head and the creak of floorboards announced an awakening household, so he pushed himself to his feet and filled the kettle from the tap above the sink.

  A pot of tea stood brewing on the table when Geran lightly came down the stairs and into the kitchen. She faltered before she got to the range and smiled at Nephril’s outstretched arm.

  “If I may be permitted to wait upon the mistress of the household for a change?”

  “Well, thank you, Nephril. What a pleasant surprise,” and she sat at the table, a steaming mug soon before her. “And thank you for telling Falmeard,” she said over the top of the tea’s varnish-brown shine, before rippling it with a cooling breath.

  “Telling Falmeard?”

  “How you’d spoken with Stella the other day. It’s made all the difference to us both, especially to Falmeard, it really has.” She frowned and stretched out to a folded piece of paper, jutting out from beneath the teapot. “What’s this, Nephril?”

  “What be what?”

  Her look skipped back and forth across the now unfolded paper, Nephril clearly having not noticed it earlier.

  “Oh no,” and she sighed. “Oh, the silly woman. I wish she hadn’t, not before we’d managed to straighten things out with her.”

  Geran handed the paper to Nephril.

  “Dear Geran and Falmeard,” he read through a tea-stained ring. “Please forgive me my taking early leave of your kind hospitality, but my presence is plainly an imposition. Our grief may be common but evidently cannot be shared.”

  Nephril raised an eyebrow, seeing regret crowd Geran’s face. He concluded his reading, “My love and sympathy, however, still lie with you both ... Yours, Mirabel Mudark.” Nephril slowly lay the note on the table, beside Geran’s hand.

  “I think,” he quietly said, “Falmeard has been a tad too tardy in delivering his apology.”

  “Damn, and he was going to take her aside this morning.” She frowned up at Nephril. “You must have been asleep not to see her go.”

  “I think the door closing behind her must have awoken me, not that I knew at the time.”

  “I wonder if we can catch her up.”

  “I doubt it, Geran, it has been too long now. It will have to wait, more be the pity ... on both our accounts.” He stared out at the growing light. “Falmeard and I both appear to have misjudged the lady, denied her her genuine honesty ... and her love.”

  Geran drank some of her tea. “I’d prefer to put things right in person, though. A letter’s so impersonal, but it’s a long way to go: all that way down to Yuhlm.”

  “Leave it with me, Geran. I too have need to speak with Mirabel, and had likewise hoped to do so this morning. A missive be out of the question for mine self too, so I will have to visit her, and soon.”

  “Will you be staying for our noonday meal, though, Nephril? You’d be more than welcome.”

  “Thank thee, mine dear sweet Geran, but I have pressing matters. I just need to say my farewells to Falmeard and then I will be gone.”

  The man himself came into the kitchen, groggy-eyed but frowning.

  “Good morning, Falmeard. I hope thou slept as well as can be.”

  “Can I speak with you?” Falmeard said and took him aside

  “I don’t understand it, Nephril.”

  “Understand what?”

  “I can’t remember where it is.”

  “Where what is?”

  “The cask, Nephril. I know I knew yesterday, when we were discussing it, but this morning I was thinking through what you’d said and realised I couldn’t for the life of me put my finger on where I’d hidden it.”

  Nephril stared at him, recalling intensely, quickly, everything that had happened the previous day. A thought of his own struck him. “It must be Leiyatel’s returned strength that be to blame,” he told himself. “The removal of memories no longer of use to her purpose,” finally resonated in his mind.

  What more would Leiyatel do to protect herself? Nephril now wondered, his stomach sinking. What more would mine continued presence likely foment?

  Damn, he thought, but softened his words. “It matters not, Falmeard, mine friend. It was only a pipedream. I put much thought to it last night and now realise how foolhardy the venture would be. All is as it should be, I assure thee,” and he patted Falmeard’s shoulder.

  “But you said...”

  “Forget what I said, Falmeard. It was only mine grief speaking. Anyway,” and he looked out through the window again, “time I was getting back. Mine driver be at the Bluebell Inn, so it will be a pleasant walk for me down there this fine morning.”

  Falmeard frowned as he blinked for a moment. “Well, if you’re sure. Nephril,” he finally said, his eyebrows lofting as he grinned.

  Before long, the rutted lane from the farm passed rapidly beneath Nephril’s feet, although he saw little of it through the thoughts now crowding his mind.

  37 Hope Against Hope

  Henson, Nephril’s occasional driver, looked flustered by the early call to duty. The handsome lad hitched his braces onto his shoulders as he came out to meet Nephril in the deserted lounge of the Bluebell Inn. A slip of a tousled and buxom lass slid like a shadow in his wake before busying herself behind the bar.

  “Where to today, my Lord?” Henson managed to enthuse.

  Nephril had long given up trying to stop him from using his own now long defunct title. “Back to Eyesget, Master Henson, but take time to break thy fast aforehand. As long as we get there before dark.”

  The lass came out from behind the bar with a cloth and wiped down a table, at which Nephril sat, nodded and smiled at the girl.

  “Can I get thee owt, m’Lord?” and her eyes twinkled.

  “A Palmaeppel Porter if thou hath it,” to which she nodded, smiled and slid her hand across Henson’s backside as she passed him at the bar.

  A sleeve of nutty black ale soon sat before Nephril, an expertly pulled head bowing creamily above its rim. Nephril only stared at it, though, as his thoughts bettered his thirst.

  Hindsight, what a wonderful thing. If only he had pressed Stella on exactly where she had found Falmeard’s cask. He wondered if she had told Mirabel, and if she would likely tell him. If not, it fell to Falmeard to regain his memory which Nephril reckoned highly unlikely.

  “Hast though won again, Leiyatel, eh, as thou must always do?” he found himself saying aloud, drawing glances from Henson and the girl’s close-held conversation. Nephril lifted the sleeve to his lips and at last relished the ale’s smooth invigoration.

  A life swapped for a seal of sadness, he couldn’t help but think. A memory stolen to thwart all freedom and so ensure the curse of two immortal lives. What more could he now do but hope against hope that Mirabel’s lack of any weft and weave be his chance of redemption. If she knew – if Stella’s lover knew – then she will still know herself, whatever Leiyatel’s wishes.

  “Stella, mine dearest one,” he whispered to himself, “although I met thee properly only the once in truth, I do somehow miss thee sorely,” and he let slip down his throat half his sleeve of ale.

  The morning continued fine and dry, as they largely always did, as Henson sat atop their carriage and drove them along the Cambray Road, the horse’s hooves mesmerically clip-clopping upon
the flags. Nephril saw little through the cab’s windows for his thoughts still chased their own tails in ever decreasing circles about his mind.

  Only when the carriage rose onto the heights of the Scarra Face, along the precipitous Aerie Way, did Nephril cast his eye beyond his bleak thoughts. He stared at the dark smudge of Wetwold in the middle distance, marking the furthest extent of the Eyeswin Vale. The far off desert beyond shimmered beneath the distant blue-green sky, blurring the ochre horizon, hinting at phantasmagorical cities and forests and glittering lakes.

  Falmeard’s favourite view, Nephril remembered. May Leiyatel have left it in his memory still to draw him here, to look out once more for those tantalising glimpses of far off Eyesgarth.

  By the time they’d dropped down towards Eyesget, Nephril had reconciled himself to his hopes having well and truly slipped through his fingers. The square of yew hedges around Carr Sceld, when it came into sight, no longer seemed a safe haven but more a prison.

  “Perhaps I have denied mine own freedom long enough,” he told himself. “Perhaps I should look abroad more, find interests further afield. Or renew an old interest? Now, there be a thought. It would be a long walk, though, but then to know what remains of Haweshead Manor might allay Whinny’s worries. She never asks, I know, but I can sense she wonders.”

  The carriage slowed and lurched, pushing Nephril against his seat as they came to a halt on the steeply cobbled yard at Carr Sceld. As he alighted, the afternoon sunlight bleached the road beyond the gap in the huge hedge and reinforced his new desire: a wish to break free of his home’s now stifling hold.

  Henson called down, “Will thee be needing me again, m’Lord?”

  “If thou would?” and Nephril decided he needed a clear day to plan his meeting with Mirabel. “Another start at first light I am afraid, but the day after tomorrow.”

  “And where to this time, m’Lord? So I knows which horse to hitch.”

  “Yuhlm.”

  “Yuhlm? If thee say so, m’Lord.”

  Henson turned the carriage in a circle as Nephril unlatched the side gate and went through to the garden. A bite to eat would be in order, he thought as he climbed the steps to the front door, his hand on the handle when a voice from behind drew him up short.