The Language of Stones

by Robert Carter

  ‘Store it safely? How? Can there be any place of safety for such a thing?’

  ‘Not absolute safety. But I think if it was mortared into a chamber in the foundations of a great castle keep, if it was oriented correctly and confined within massive masonry, if its chamber was put under lock and key and watchfully guarded by no less a man than a loremaster – well, then and only then, might its malice be contained and no one killed.’

  Will stared gloomily ahead. ‘Well, there’s a cause for celebration.’

  The wizard laughed shortly. ‘On the other hand, we are not in that happy position yet.’

  ‘Are loremasters wizards? Like you?’

  ‘They are men of great learning, but they are not wizards, for that was a term properly kept for those of the Ogdoad. Each loremaster has his own special learning – Lord Morann is the Jewelmaster, Gortamnibrax is the master of lore concerning green growing things, Barinth is master of the salt wave, a steersman of incomparable wisdom, and there are others.’

  ‘But none versed especially in the ways of battlestones, I suppose.’ Will rested his elbows on his knees and his chin on the heels of his hands. ‘I was quite pleased when we found this one, but it seems we’ve uncovered a nice mess along with it. If only the lorc had never been made.’

  ‘The lorc is not to blame. Nor should you think badly of the fae. The wonderful works of old have been abused and broken by the greed and sorcery of later ages. Would you blame the ash tree for arrow shafts?’

  Will thought about that, and decided that the wise ones of old had not perhaps been wise enough. They had not counted upon the three weaknesses and the seven resulting failings of humankind that Gwydion had once mentioned. He watched the trees as they passed. ‘So we’re taking the Dragon Stone to a castle,’ he said, pursuing the subject. ‘Which one?’

  ‘Foderingham,’ Gwydion said. ‘It is not the closest, but I believe it is the most secure for it lies within three broad circular flows, though one of them is a little weak. Also Richard of Ebor, the lord of that place, is a friend who has recently returned home.’

  ‘Am I to stay with him?’ he said, already knowing the answer.

  ‘Willand, Duke Richard is not at all like Lord Strange, and is as reasonable a nobleman as may be found in this Realm. After I have spoken with him I shall in all likelihood have to ride on to Trinovant, for it is in that great city that my struggle will best be carried on.’

  ‘I’ll be sad to see our paths part again,’ Will said, feeling a profound regret creep over him.

  Gwydion laid an arm on his shoulder and said quietly, ‘Be brave. You must watch over the stone for me in my absence, and this time I shall be gone for quite a time. Learn what must be learned, though it will not be easy for you.’

  ‘I wish I—’ He was about to say that he wished he had been left at home, but he saw that would have been childish. He saw clearly now that the first part of his life had come to an end the day he had followed Gwydion out of the Vale. On that day he had left his happy boyhood behind. The second part had been his learning of the power of words and his coming into a knowledge of the main redes of magic. But now what lay before him?

  As if in answer, Gwydion said, ‘It will soon be time for you to learn the ways of the men of power. You must learn how it is with lords and lordlings, and there is no other way to do it than to grow up among them. Foderingham Castle is a place of good aspect, and it is my hope that you will grow to regard it as your home.’

  ‘I doubt that will ever happen,’ he murmured.

  ‘Manners, Willand. According to the rede they maketh the man, for no one but a fool takes what he wants by demands when a quiet word might charm him all that he needs. Foderingham is not a cheerless place like the Tower ofWychwoode. Richard of Ebor has many sons and daughters, including an heir who is much the same age as you. At Foderingham you will learn to hawk and to hunt. You will understand what it is to be a lord. I have a feeling that the duke’s people will take to you, especially the lord of the gardens, whose name is Gort, which means in the true tongue “ivy” or “a wheatfield” depending how you say it.’

  Will looked askance at the wizard and folded his arms. What about the special talent I’m supposed to have, he thought. Isn’t that important any more? I’ve no interest in hawking or hunting, and now it sounds as if I’m about to be apprenticed to a compost-maker!

  Gwydion said gently, ‘I would rather have you go willingly to your new home.’

  ‘I don’t know what to think. The stone’s making my moods rise and fall like the sea,’ he said, trying hard to master his down-spiralling thoughts. ‘I’d say your holding-spells are allowing that monster in the back there to leak illhumour.’

  Gwydion cast the stone a dark glance. ‘That is quite possible. No one knows what methods these stones use to carry forward their harm. Have you ever heard folk speak of a twist of fate?’

  ‘Yes. Why?’

  ‘Because that may be an apt phrase here. It may be that the battlestones work by warping people’s destinies.’

  A thrill of terror ran down Will’s spine. The idea was nightmarish, for how often had the wizard called him ‘Child of Destiny’?

  He went back over all that Gwydion had ever told him, searching for a clue, but found little to guide him. At last he asked, ‘Master Gwydion, what’s a phantarch?’

  The wizard’s voice remained level, but he could not cover his surprise. ‘Where did you hear that word?’

  ‘You spoke it to me once.’

  ‘Did I? “First there were nine, then nine became seven…” And have I ever spoken those words to you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then perhaps Tilwin has not spoiled you completely by speaking out of turn. The words come from a prophetic song that tells of the Ogdoad.’

  Gwydion began to sing:

  ‘First there were nine,

  Then nine became seven,

  And seven became five.

  Now, as sure as the Ages decline,

  Three are no more,

  But one is alive.’

  When he had finished he said, ‘You cannot be a phantarch, Will. You can only be the Phantarch. And I am the last.’

  ‘Does it mean “wizard”?’

  ‘It means more than that,’ Gwydion stroked his beard. ‘Celenost was the first Phantarch. He headed the Ogdoad of Nine. But Celenost is long departed.’

  Will’s thoughts settled on the word ‘ogdoad’. He had once asked Lady Strange its meaning, since Gwydion had used it in both their hearing. ‘We wizards of the Ogdoad,’ he had said, and so Will had at first supposed it to be the name of some brotherhood or order of wizardry, but the Hogshead’s wife had corrected him.

  ‘Lady Strange told me that “ogdoad” meant a group of eight. But surely you can’t have an ogdoad of nine any more than you can have a pair of three.’

  Gwydion inclined his head knowingly. ‘The Ogdoad was ever a group of eight – plus one more. One who was not wholly of us.’

  ‘Why was he not?’

  ‘Because he was aways destined to betray us.’

  Will scratched his chin, seeing for the first time that wizardry, no less than kingship, was far from a straightforward matter. ‘You mean it was prophesied all along? You knew that one of your number was going to betray you all, but not who it was? That must have been very hard.’

  ‘It was. It affected our thinking, and our work. We began as other men begin. We were born in the Age of Trees, and drawn from among the First Men. Those who might choose the path were born with a mark upon us that only others who bore the mark could see. But having the mark and choosing the path did not mean a man would become a wizard, for the way was long and arduous, and there were destined only ever to be eight of us plus one. Many carried the mark, but few could endure the tests, and so in time the marks upon all but the Ogdoad faded away.’

  ‘But if there was no mark upon a man in the first place then he knew he could never become a wizard?’

  �
��Correct.’

  Will’s thoughts glittered with dangerous questions. Had any of the wizards been women? Most of all he wanted to know what a wizard’s mark looked like, but did not dare ask in case Gwydion showed it and he discovered that he could see it. Instead, he said, ‘You once told me not to call you immortal. Does that mean you’ll die one day?’

  ‘Folk say: “A wizard is as changeless as the Northern Star” but they are wrong on both counts. Even that star is not constant. It moves in its course over the ages, and so do we. Wizards were born as mortal men, but we do not die as mortal men. We do not age as other men age, but we do tire. Your spirit is lodged within your body, but that is not so with wizards.’

  Will’s eyes widened. ‘Then have you no spirit?’

  ‘Of course I have a spirit. But it does not reside within me as my consciousness does. It is elsewhere. This was done as a precaution against magical attack. Our spirits were kept in philosophers’ stones, which each of us hid away in the Far North.’

  Will sat up. ‘Philosophers’ stones – I’ve heard of them, but never known what they were! What do they look like?’

  Gwydion smiled. ‘Mine is a little bigger than a chicken’s egg and looks much the same, though it is almost black and veined through with colours. You see, there comes a time when every wizard begins to fail. Then he must recover his philosopher’s stone and become one with himself again.’

  ‘Fail?’

  ‘Only phantarchs fail, Will. A failing phantarch becomes harder to see, not because he is fading away, though it may sometimes seem so, for mortal men must concentrate harder and harder to notice him. It would be difficult for you to recall what had passed if you had been in a failing phantarch’s company. He leaves an impression of meaning behind, but you would not be able to remember the words he used. To talk with a phantarch who is failing is an unsettling experience, like talking with someone who is forever drifting into the blind-spot of your eye. A failing phantarch is already going ahead of himself, you see. And when the day comes that he is ready to depart on his last journey, he goes into the Far North and all memory of him fades from mortal minds.’

  Will thought of the sadness of going on the last journey all alone. ‘Does no one go with him?’

  ‘During his office the Phantarch has two deputies. One always departs with him.’

  ‘And the other?’

  ‘The other stays and becomes the next Phantarch.’

  ‘So who are your deputies?’

  Gwydion drew a deep breath. ‘I have none, for the Nine are now One. When Celenost failed, Brynach and Maglin both looked into their hearts and Brynach saw that he was not to be Phantarch. So Celenost departed with him, leaving Maglin to head a new Ogdoad of Seven. So it was again when Maglin began to fail, for Urias chose to go with him, leaving Esras to head the Ogdoad of Five. And lastly, Morfesa departed with Esras leaving Semias in charge of the Three.’

  ‘Lastly?’ Will said. ‘But I thought you said you were alone now.’

  The wizard’s eyes darkened and his long face set in an expression of unfathomable sadness. ‘When Semias began to fail, both Maskull and I looked into our hearts, but Maskull refused to depart with him.’

  Will felt a bolt of fear run through him. ‘Maskull? You mean…’

  Gwydion looked into the far distance. ‘Maskull was ever destined to become the betrayer. We are First Men, the last of a stock that came into being long ago when the world was full of magic. Once we were Ogdoad brothers, Maskull and I, pathfinders and guardians, but he has become convinced of another way. He disputes that which ought to be – and so he has become a sorcerer.’

  By noon they were coming to a wide, flat country. To the north, the great oak forest of Roking stretched away dark and drear, but just here the land sloped down gently to the river, and soon a shining castle came in sight ahead of them.

  It was the greatest fortress that Will had ever seen. Earthworks and high ramparts rose above the river on which stood a tall mound surmounted by a keep. White walls stretched between round towers, and the river was crossed by a bridge built under the castle walls. On the nearer bank there was a small settlement.

  ‘A league beyond this castle a plain stretches away to the east,’ Gwydion told him. ‘The Great North Road lies out there, and beyond it is the Deeping Fen. It is that vast marsh that makes this such a useful place to put a castle. Armies marching the fastest route into the North must come under the scrutiny of the men who guard Duke Richard’s walls.’

  Soon the cart came to a sturdy timber bridge. The path led towards, and then through, a protected barbican. The quartered livery of the guards who waited there caused Will’s suspicions to grow for they were blue and white, the same colours worn by Duke Edgar and his son at Clarendon. But when Will looked closer he saw that the guards carried on their breasts no golden portcullis but instead a golden fetterlock enclosing a silver falcon.

  ‘What are we to make of a lord who uses a handcuff as his device?’ Will asked. ‘Is that not a sign of servitude?’

  ‘Look again, Will,’ Gwydion told him. ‘The falcon is freedom, and freedom is trying to break the bonds that bind it. Duke Richard is head of the House of Ebor, a house that is somewhat in exile within its own land. He cannot speak of his hopes for fear of the headsman’s axe, but by signs and symbols do lords show their secret desires. What the falcon-and-fetterlock means is this: whether it be legal or no, in his heart Duke Richard believes himself to be the rightful king.’

  Will took the news in his stride. ‘Didn’t you once tell me that the king had made Duke Richard his Lord Lieutenant in the Blessed Isle? Was that not an honour? And if the king is so much under his wife’s thumb, why would she want to reward her husband’s rival?’

  ‘That is no honour, but an empty title, for the Blessed Isle is not ruled by the Realm. Some small port properties and grants of land have been given over for the sake of trade and other practicalities and it is to these that the overblown title refers. By conferring it upon Richard the queen and Edgar have tried to exile him across the water. Their idea was to keep him as far away from Trinovant as possible, and so in ignorance of their doings.’

  ‘You mean they thought that while he was in the Blessed Isle he wouldn’t be able to interfere in their schemes to use King Hal as they do?’

  ‘Correct.’ Gwydion tapped his earlobe. ‘But not long ago a little bird told me that the good duke had found his way back into the Realm.’

  Will looked wryly at the wizard, not knowing if he really meant that the news had been carried to him by a bird or not. It seemed more than likely.

  As they came to the gate the guards stopped them and examined the waggon. One of them peered mistrustfully under the sacking that hid the Dragon Stone. ‘What’s this?’ he asked.

  ‘A gift for your master,’ Gwydion told him.

  ‘And well may my lord thank you for it,’ the guard replied, pushing back the rim of his kettle-hat. ‘I say to you that if the choice was mine I’d not let an evil-looking block like this ride across my bridge. But I know you well enough by sight, Crowmaster, and I’ve standing orders never to hinder you in your errands – however strange they may seem to me.’

  ‘I shall remember to thank your lord for his confidence, Jackhald, and for the courtesy of his servants,’ Gwydion said warmly, and flapped the traces so that the waggon rumbled across the sluggish waters and into the shadow of the gatehouse.

  In an effort to raise Will’s spirits the wizard said, ‘I have a tale about Castle Foderingham that might help you feel more at home here. As you know, the lowest grade of true magical skill is called “seeming”, or what some call illusion-weaving.’

  ‘That’s making things seem to be what they’re not.’

  ‘Indeed it is. Now, seeming is very useful for lords and ladies, who are apt to forget humility and must at times be reminded they are of no more importance than you or I. I remember a time when I was here at this castle. It was about the Ewletide, and a cruel eas
t wind had been blowing up out of the Great Deeping Fen for half a week. A thin covering of snow lay over the gardens, and every roof-ridge and every wall-top looked as if it was wearing an ermine collar. After the feast was over, at the duke’s command, everyone went out into the gardens to walk and talk and take the air, but all Duke Richard’s people did was complain of the cold, so he asked me if I might make the sun shine a little warmer for them. But as the snow seemed to vanish away the ladies began to tell one another in loud voices what a shame it was there were no leaves on the trees, and no blooms in the flower beds. So I called forth beautiful roses for them, delicate they were and white as the vanished snow. But then the little lordlings began to complain and ask if it wasn’t time for them to go inside where they might have some more gooseberry pudding. At this I made the bushes bring forth delicious, juicy gooseberries, and I told each who heard me to draw out his knife and take in their fingers a rich, round fruit and make ready to cut it off – but to wait until I gave the word!’

  Will broke his silence. ‘And did they?’

  ‘Indeed they did,’ Gwydion said. ‘For who would refuse a delicious gooseberry when such a thing could be found in deepest midwinter? But then, when all was ready, I snapped my fingers and took away the spell of seeming, which was one of the finest seeming spells that ever I wrought, and each person saw that he had in his hand no gooseberry at all but the end of his neighbour’s nose. Ever since that time the garden has been called “the Garden of the White Rose”.’

  ‘Not “the Garden of the White Nose”?’ Will said, smiling now.

  ‘Oh, not that,’ Gwydion told him as the cart came to a halt. ‘For, as you will soon discover, when lords and ladies are obliged to learn a lesson in humility they rarely wish to commemorate it.’

  ‘Is Duke Richard a fair man to look upon?’ Will asked, betraying a small fear. ‘Will I like him?’