Orbelon's World (Book 3)

by Martin Ash

  Shenwolf gave a curt nod, then said, 'May I ask a question?'

  'Of course.'

  'Are both these two so vital to this journey?'

  'The situation is complex,' Issul said. 'It becomes more complex almost by the hour. So, if by your question you mean, can we not leave these two behind now that they are free of Enchantment's Reach, the answer is no. Fectur may well send men in our wake. He knows how important Venger may be. Of Arene he knows less, possibly nothing. But she, too, has shown herself to be a crucial component in a deepening mystery.' Issul hesitated, aware that Shenwolf had not yet met Arene. 'Do you recall, after we escaped from the Karai camp, I asked you if you had seen an old woman at the site where I was ambushed by the Karai, on the road beyond Crosswood?'

  'Aye, I recall.'

  'Arene is the woman I spoke of, and she has come to me now with an extraordinary tale. She comes from afar, but knows much of what is happening here. I will not willingly part with her now.'

  She wheeled her horse around and walked it back along the sodden road to the wagon carrying Arene. Passing the rein to an aide, she slid from her mount and hopped onto the back of the wagon and over the tailboard. Inside Arene sat half-dozing on sacks of meal. Issul threw back her hood and shook free the excess water from her cape, then clambered forward and sat beside her.

  'The weather’s against us. We may be forced to leave the wagons. Will it burden you to ride?'

  'Burden me?' said Arene, rocking from side to side with the uneven motion of the wagon. 'I am old, but more hale and hearty than you might think. I walked for many weeks before I came to Enchantment's Reach. I confess, I was weary when I arrived, and my ankles were swollen and my back ached. But I am much better now. I would prefer the comfort of a carriage with padded upholstery and plump, soft, velvet cushions, but if such is not available, well, I can tolerate an old mare if she is sturdy, not given to sudden changes of temperament, and can tolerate me.'

  Issul smiled. Arene had begun to rouse herself from her half-reclining position. Issul motioned her back. 'Not yet. A league or so down the road the way is flooded. That is when we may have to take to the horses.'

  Arene settled herself once more. The wagon creaked and groaned as it rolled forward, the rain battering its canvas. It pitched violently to one side as a front wheel sank suddenly into a deep rut. Arene clung to the sacks to steady herself; Issul likewise. The wagon was hauled slowly on. They braced themselves for the lurch of the rear wheel sinking. As it was dragged free Arene said, 'What of the young fellow in the forest? Have you found any sign of him among your new recruits?'

  Issul shook her head. 'There has been no time to initiate a proper search. Recruits have flooded in from all over in recent weeks. It would take days to locate them all. His words may also have been intended to lead you astray.' She hesitated a moment. 'Arene, when you viewed the Unfolding, did you see anything of what might now happen, as I undertake this journey?'

  'No more than I have told you, child. Our concern as Witnesses was with the path that led to the death of the Vileborn. We saw the strands of other possibilities, but they were many, and none stood forth with clarity, other than the consequences of your failure to leave Enchantment's Reach. Of course, weeks have passed since I stepped forth to seek out the Vileborn. More may have been revealed in that time.'

  'If that is so, do the others of the Hir'n Esh have a way of contacting you?' Issul asked, rising to this small beat of hope.

  The old woman gave a solemn shake of her head. 'Only by sending another forth, and this they won’t do.'

  'Why not?'

  'We are but seven in number.'

  'Seven?'

  'Aye, and we are all old and failing. Has it not struck you as queer that one such as I should be sent out upon this mission? A hag, ancient and infirm, with swollen veins, no teeth and a wandering and forgetful mind, dispatched on such a quest? In your eyes, am I the embodiment of a heroic and single-minded assassin, even if my prey is but a small child?'

  Issul was bemused. 'I’d not considered it before.'

  'We are the last of our kind, Queen Issul. The seven are all who remain. And we are barren - there will be no more when we’ve gone. It is the energy of the Well of the Immaculate Vision, so we believe. Over generations it has reduced our capacity to reproduce. The last fourteen children were stillborn, many others were slipped long before their time. And now, well, we are too old.'

  'Have you no novices or apprentices?'

  'Others cannot be brought from outside to take our place; the energy is too strong. It enervates normal folk; they can’t bear it.'

  'But not you?'

  'We, it seems, have grown resistant, though not immune.'

  Issul was silent. Arene gave a sigh. 'So no other will hobble forth to seek me out, young Queen. No matter what the Well may have revealed in my absence.'

  'Then perhaps we should go there,' said Issul.

  'And prolong your journey by several weeks? I do not think so.'

  After a silence Arene said, 'Do you have the carving with you? The tusk? May I see it again?'

  From inside her tunic Issul brought forth the blue leather pouch containing the little ivory carving, and passed it to her. Arene studied it, then clasped it in one fleshy, calloused fist. She shook her head. 'It’s a mystery. Have you considered breaking it open?'

  'I fear to do so.'

  'You’re probably wise.' She opened her fist and stared hard at the object again, musing, 'What can it be?'

  Issul took back the carving, pondered it for a moment, then asked, 'Arene, do you know much of Enchantment?'

  'More than you, I would warrant.'

  'Do you have it mapped?'

  Arene gave a short bark of laughter. 'Enchantment can’t be mapped, child. It is ever-becoming, never still.'

  'Then how is it possible to find anything? Those who dwell there must have means of locating one another.'

  'Aye, they know of one another's whereabouts, more or less. The land may be stable for weeks or even months at a time, but that is of little use to a cartographer.'

  'Have you heard of the Soul of the Orb? Or of a crucible of shining adamant in which it is sealed, in a fortress sanctum? Have you heard of the One God?' Issul's heart beat fast as she spoke these words. This was information that had come partly through Grey Venger in his heated conversations with Leth. Pader had told her about it.

  'There is a legend concerning an artifact called the Soul of the Orb,' Arene said. 'It tells how a being who falsely believed himself to be a god was defeated in battle by other similar beings. As punishment they deprived him of his soul and secreted it where it might never be found, sealed within an impenetrable crucible of adamant. The false god they banished from the world, imprisoning him in a bubble of unconscious stuff from which he might never wake or escape. But after countless eons the false god did awaken, and somehow he created out of the unconscious bubble in which he was held, a world, of which he was both separate and apart. The legend goes on to tell of certain adventures, but concludes by saying that in time the false god who was now a true god, a true creator of his own world, broke free of his creation. He searched without end for his lost soul, and sought revenge upon those against whom he had fought so long ago, and who had taken his soul and imprisoned him.'

  Issul listened intently, spellbound. At the same time a sudden, creeping unease stole over her. A false god who was now a true god. . . . That fateful phrase: a True God. It echoed words ranted by Grey Venger when he had declared the coming of the One True God who would vanquish all unbelievers; that is, herself, Leth, their family and virtually all of Enchantment's Reach.

  She felt she was falling. Can Orbelon, who I lead in a quest to find his soul, supposedly to liberate us all, be the One True God of the True Sept?

  'Is there something the matter, child?'

  Issul barely heard Arene's question. She stared at the old woman uncomprehendingly. Then she shook her head, though her face betrayed her inne
r turmoil. In a subdued voice she asked, 'Does the legend tell whether he finds his soul and defeats his enemies?'

  'There is more than one ending,' replied Arene. 'as is commonly the case with ancient tales. No one knows which is the original, or even if it matters. Suffice to say that there are versions which tell of his victory and the vanquishing of evil, and versions which relate how he was again defeated and this time destroyed utterly. And let us not be in any doubt, the legend has come alive. You know that now, don't you? And whatever the truth may be, you and I and all who are with or against us, are part of it.'

  It seemed again that there was too much happening here for one mind to grasp. Issul sat stone still, a chill hand compressing her innards.

  'Where is the god, Queen Issul?' Arene asked.

  'He. . . he travels with us, hidden.'

  'And you trust and believe in him?'

  'I do. I think I do. He has my children, and Leth. He has our future, if a future is possible. I have little choice but to believe in him.'

  'That is the way of it, yes. In this intricate matter, none of us is given a choice.'

  'You said. . . you told me I must heed the god.'

  'Aye, I did.'

  'Do you still stand by that?'

  'It is what you stand by that matters, child. You have said, you’ve little choice. And it is true that if the god can find his soul he may bring the salvation you seek. But I think, if you will permit me, I should meet this god.'

  'I will talk to him. It will be difficult under these circumstances, but if he is agreeable I will do what I can.'

  Issul rose and made her way unsteadily to the back of the wagon, eased herself over the tailboard and climbed back onto her horse. Shenwolf was riding down the column of soldiers towards her. Above the seething hiss of the rain and the rattle and creak of the wagon, he called, 'Sir Darly has ridden forward with eight men to try and find or construct a way over the quagmire.'

  Issul urged her mount forward along the sodden road, to take a place close to the head of the column. Her head seemed to spin; again she was overwhelmed by uncertainty and doubt. She would have to speak to Orbelon as soon as possible. It would not be before they made camp at nightfall; even then it might not be possible for her to find somewhere private enough to safely summon him. But what would she say to him now? Was she right to trust him?

  She peered into the drenched dark forest all around her, and wondered whether, beyond her sight, a small boy watched and quietly mocked.

  II

  Despite all efforts Sir Darly and his men had been thwarted in their efforts to forge a passable route over or around the flooded road. The quagmire, formed in a shallow declivity by a freshet from a swollen wayside pond, covered an area about fifteen yards long. Several men had managed, with some difficulty, to wade through on horseback, so when the main company arrived a decision was taken to try to lead one wagon across.

  About five yards into the sludge the wagon listed heavily to its right side. It sank slowly to its belly. Efforts to haul it free resulted in it settling more firmly into the black mud. A team of six horses hauled from the far side of the quagmire, with men up to their thighs in mud pushing the wagon from behind, but they failed to shift it. Plainly, to cross safely, each wagon and cart would have to be unloaded and its cargo carried, article by article, via the forest to the further side of the quagmire. The empty vehicles could then be hauled, pushed and levered through, and re-loaded on the other side. Even with all hands put to the task, it would require at least a couple of hours, quite probably longer. And there was still no guarantee that the operation would be successful.

  After quick consultation Issul reluctantly gave the order to abandon the wagons and continue on horseback. Wagon- and cart-drivers and assistants remained behind, along with Sir Darly and half-a-dozen men-at-arms. Their job, to free the stricken wagon and get all four vehicles across, then proceed in the company's wake.

  Issul instructed Shenwolf to take charge of Grey Venger, specifying that he should be strapped securely upon a horse with his hands bound behind his back, and placed in the middle of the column where he might not make a break for freedom. Venger remained gagged - even so he strained to make his protests heard for some time, with stifled roars and queer, bestial growls and honks of outrage.

  For good measure Issul ordered a cloth hood replaced over his head, from which he might see nothing bar the colourful internal images of his own fury. She was unconcerned about the indignities she was serving upon him. No matter Leth's earlier assurances to Venger, the time for courtesies and privileges had passed. Issul wanted to break this madman down. She had seen the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes when he realized he was outside the city-castle. If further disorientation would serve to permit her a greater insight into his tortured psyche and the information it held, with the situation so critical she had few qualms about employing it now.

  With Phisusandra, Issul took charge of Arene. The old woman was bulky and did not sit gracefully in the saddle. By her own admission she had little experience with horses. But neither was she particularly nervous, and with Phis and another guard riding close on either side of her, she was able to take a place near the rear of the column and proceed slowly on.

  As dusk approached the rain at last began to ease off, and finally ceased altogether. A red-brown scum coloured the sky, darkening rapidly, with streaks of violent bright light lining the clouds. There was no moon, and soon they were obliged to stop and make the night's camp. They pitched tents in a clearing set off the road at the foot of a tall cliff used for quarrying stone. Others were there before them: refugees fleeing the advancing Karai, making for the already overcrowded sanctuary of Enchantment's Reach. They sat huddled in small knots around glimmering campfires, and watched with curiosity and some suspicion as the soldiers trooped in. Issul sent men to join them and talk with them, reassure them, offer them food and drink if they had none, and learn what they could of the Karai advance.

  Issul considered the risks of bringing Orbelon forth to consult him and, if he was willing, to arrange the meeting Arene had requested. Things had moved at such breakneck speed that Issul had had only the briefest opportunity to tell Orbelon about Arene before they left Enchantment's Reach. She had not brought Arene to meet him, nor had he requested she do so. He had been intrigued, though, and perhaps a little perturbed by Issul's news that his coming and predicament had been foreseen, at least in part, by the Hir'n Esh; that Arene had advised Issul to heed him, and that he was somehow a living, enigmatic component within a greater web of Unfolding revealed by the Well of Immaculate Vision.

  These factors, Issul reasoned, would surely weigh in her favour if she chose to ask Orbelon to meet with Arene. But did she want to now? Such doubts assailed her after Arene's recounting of the legend earlier, and the references to the true god. She was cast back onto her deepest fears, and a dreadful sensation of being alone and toyed with for ends that could only culminate in her loss and the downfall of Enchantment's Reach.

  It was only this afternoon that she had realised that she had omitted all mention of the ivory carving to Orbelon. It had been unintentional, with so much else occupying her mind. But it seemed quite possible that Orbelon might be able to enlighten her in some way as to its provenance and purpose, if purpose it had. He might even be able to identify it. But now . . . should she reveal it to him?

  Issul summoned Shenwolf to her tent. With Orbelon's agreement she had, briefly, brought both Shenwolf and Pader Luminis to her chambers before parting. There she had called forth the god from the blue casket. As the two gaped in astonishment she had explained to them the most essential details concerning the quest she was involved in, and revealed the truth - as revealed to her by Orbelon - about King Leth's and the childrens' disappearance. Now, in matters concerning Orbelon, Shenwolf was the one person she could confide in, though she was not yet ready to express her newest fears.

  'Here in the camp it is not secure; I can’t risk Orbelon being d
etected, even by my own men, yet I must speak to him urgently,' she said.

  'I suggest you let me escort you into the woods,' Shenwolf replied, 'with Phis and sufficient men to throw a protective cordon around you. You can be in cover, beyond the men's sight and hearing, yet secure from any intrusions. Take a lantern with you, so that I can see your position. I shall stay far enough away so as not to overhear your conversation, if you so wish.'

  'Excellent. I think that will work.'

  'Then let me scour the nearby forest now for a suitable location. I will take ten men and place them in secure positions, then return for you.'

  Shenwolf departed. Issul sat alone, staring at the wooden chest that held the blue casket of Orbelon's world. From somewhere outside there came a cry, shrill and brief, as of some wild animal in distress. Issul sat up straight, her spine tingling. Had the sound come from without? She felt a welling of grief and guilt. It was not the cry of a wild creature; it was an inner sound, a plaint that had touched her again, wounding her to the core. It was a child's cry, and the child was her own, little Galry, her son, calling out for her.

  When Shenwolf re-entered he found the Queen in tears. He quickly knelt on one knee beside her and took one of her hands in his.

  'We will save them,' he whispered. 'Be sure of that. We will.'

  Issul squeezed her eyes shut and could not speak. Shenwolf lifted the back of one hand to her cheek and gently brushed away a tear. 'Jace,' he began, then faltered. 'I am sorry, I knew you first by your daughter's name, and have not yet grown accustomed to calling you by any other title.'

  'That’s all right.' Issul cleared her throat. Her hand was still in his.

  'I think, in my h--, in my mind, you will always be Jace. I hope that doesn’t offend you.'

  Issul shook her head and managed a small smile. 'Of course not. Why should it?' She understood that he had been on the verge of saying "in my heart". She recalled a time when they had been together in the woods outside the Karai camp, and again after the Karai had been successfully overcome, when he had also come close to professing such feelings for her. There had been other moments, when she had felt a closeness to him - a closeness she could never admit to. Even in her own mind she shied away from such notions.