As Leiyfiantel’s light dimmed, so her voice grew ever more distant, steadily obscured behind a vast boiling cauldron of memories. Distant it may have been but still clear when it came. “Ingemynd, Nephhryl, ingemynde, remember, for I have need of thee.”
His own voice seemed cracked somehow, riddled with regret, laden with guilt, the kind of guilt that would have worried Pettar no end. “I have forsaken thee, Leiyfiantel. Remiss in mine duties and with broken oaths to thee and thy kings.” There was an aching pain streaked through his words, a pain that cried out, “I am unworthy!”
She consoled him from afar, a soft laugh wrought with regret but firmed by resolve. She now quietly confided, “The fault hath not been with thee, oh mine piteous Nephhryl, no, not with thee alone. Thou hast been but a pawn in a far greater game, moved by needs beyond thine oaths and promises. Berate not thine self for that which thou couldst ne’er hath knowing of. Thou hast suffered enough wilderness years, far from mine embrace, beyond mine gaze. Almost too much by far, a worrying mite too near to having been lost to mine grasp forever.”
The wind again blew across Nephril’s landscape, but now it blew dark clouds in, threatening a storm riven view across once pleasant pastures. No longer a grass rippling breeze, no longer a soft rasp of swaying seed heads whispering their sweet delight amidst the hanging hum of bees. No, this one was black and teal and grey and ochre, had lightning straining within it, had thunder ready to belch forth and deafen.
Leiyfiantel’s retreating words soon fell far below that storm, but somehow Nephril heard them still and they checked the torrent of guilt that threatened to engulf him one last time. “Were that slip not to hath fallen, eh, mine beloved, were it still to hath given flicker within mine shadow, to hath kept a flame alive within thee. Woe its destruction, that we got it unto Auldus and the Garden of the Forgotten, but it had to be.”
Those words did indeed forestall Nephril’s final collapse, did fend off his ultimate tumble down to the stream and Naningemynd’s eternal soothing. Not directly, not through any power borne in on them, but in the image they brought of a dark figure, of a black silhouette holding aloft a leaden slip in its sooty smudge of finger and thumb.
14 Then Let Me Begin
Imagine the wealth of thoughts and remembrances even a young life holds, the dizzying plethora that can cram it so seemingly full. Just think of the multitudinous connections memories can be made to make, if only thoughts are given free rein amongst them. See it fourfold then, in the eventide of a life well spent, nay, but many times fourfold for the sake of permutation. Gird yourself then to think how much more it should be within Nephril’s ancient mind, a multiple that must surely beggar belief.
Communion with Leiyatel had clearly shown Nephril how sense can only ever come by omission, that a tree be a tree only when its leaves, bark, stalks and stems, and its mites and moulds, are all simply overlooked. Within Leiyatel’s embrace, Nephril had well learnt that forgetting be the only way to remember.
Almost all must be forgotten for our minds to encompass even our own naturally short spans, so imagine Nephril’s burden now. Imagine how much more his own vast span must lose for sense to be gained, leaving little more than the dirt beneath a fingernail. Before him now, though, he had every mote of dust that had ever made up his life’s world, every blade of grass, individual and unique, that had turfed its terrain.
Nephril had clearly lost purchase on time for it was the early hours, Melkin nodding on the chair by his side, when he at long last opened his eyes. They’d slowly measured the room but had, in their arc, drifted clear past Melkin. He’d felt nothing of Nephril’s stirring and so had only snorted and snuffled on in his own light sleep, leaving Nephril’s absent gaze to happen upon the window and there find the Northern Star.
Maybe Melkin had felt Nephril’s rapt gaze, or heard his charged breath, had noticed something that made his hand slip from his cupped chin and so jolt him awake. When his sleep-sullied eyes finally cleared, Melkin quietly gasped.
In the still night air Nephril brought memory and context, name and knowing, from his newfound lands. His voice was low and rich, had a timbre at odds with his ancient frame and a strength that sat strangely with his pallid, grey face. “Nature brought balance, ‘tis now clear to me, yon Nature without and about that turns the heavens, that feels the void in the same way it feels mass.”
Melkin had no idea what he was talking about but in truth cared little for he was just so overjoyed. He was about to welcome Nephril back when something in the old man’s gaze forestalled him; something in the way Nephril stared into the night sky put a finger to Melkin’s lips.
Framed within the window, as though a page from one of Melkin’s ancient texts, the star-studded chart hung before them, a great swathe of blackness itself framing the lone Northern Star. Nephril’s words sparkled, as though pinpricks in that same firmament. “There be something Leiyfiantel knows not,” he began. “Something I alone saw, there at the Farewell Gap after mine own dearest nephew Auldus did fall.”
Melkin still didn’t understand a word. “How are you feeling, my old tutor, hmm?” but Nephril either didn’t hear or chose to ignore him. Instead, he reached out a frail hand and rested it lightly on Melkin’s stout arm.
Nephril’s glittering eyes shone up at him. “Mine ancient years were near the death of mine mind, and still wilt be I have no doubt, but Leiyfiantel hath infused me, here within her gaze, and I am now more whole again.” He sighed deeply, leant back against his pillow once more and let his hand fall free.
He gathered his thoughts before saying, “Thou art a man of mechanicking and so should understand better than I.” Melkin wasn’t so sure. “A great swathe of life be in itself most debilitating, hath within it ample desiccant to dry the fount of yearning. Thou wilt ne’re know of it, young Melkin, but it be true that long living be a kind of death.”
He tried to explain how purpose is the only remedy when life cannot be cast off. “I had mine fealty to Leiyfiantel. It well stoked mine resolve and steeled me for an interminable life, but even that did fail me.” Nephril’s eyes wandered back to the window and the still proud point of the Northern Star, a like twinkle now glinting in his own eye.
When he turned back to Melkin, his face was broadly cracked by a huge grin. “She hath called me back, mine true lover, for she be ill. Did thee know that? Meowyh treowe lufa hath dire need of me now. A malady I know well of, aye, especially now I have command of mine memories, an illness that should hath been assuaged by a fateful ring.”
“You must have found fresh purpose then, Lord Nephril, for I see a new strength in you.”
Nephril looked right through Melkin. “I see now, see how I have been forsaken, aye, played the dolt and well-earned the epithet. Ha!” he cried out, making Melkin start. “Ha! Taken for the fool I was.” The room now fell silent.
It wasn’t long before Melkin realised he’d not announced Lord Nephril’s awakening. He was rising to carry the good news when Nephril grabbed at his sleeve and pulled him back, fast words following on. “Thou asked me what had lent me new purpose. Well, the truth of it be hard to speak, but it be fair to say that mine fealty to Leiyatel hath been winnowed, mine allegiance thinned by a knowing that hath granted new revelation, and perhaps new hope.”
He cocked an ear, as though hearing approaching footsteps, but when nothing happened, whispered, “I have seen mine place in the great plan, have seen beyond the parochial and into the ultimately grander scheme, and there I have found new purpose, one that places mine fealty where it should hath always lain.” The door swung open and Storbanther marched in, unannounced.
Whether he’d heard anything was hard to say, his face as impassive and his manner as acerbic as usual. Nephril’s recovery, outwardly at least, seemed no surprise to him.
Storbanther directly addressed Melkin. “Tha’s must bi reet knackered bi now, eh, Melkin Mudark, nay, Steward Melkin as I should say, so I s’ppose thee’ll be wanting to get thee’s head darn
be now. Eh?” He finished with an imperative, not an enquiry. The Steward nodded towards Nephril, and only paused briefly before leaving without a glance at Storbanther.
He, on the other hand, cocked his head and listened to Melkin’s receding footsteps before turning back to Nephril. Storbanther tried to smile but made a botch of it, before bending and flicking crumbs from Melkin’s vacated seat, upon which he now sat.
He tried to look, well, conspiratorial, but Nephril wasn’t so sure. It could well have been the pain of piles for all he really knew. What was worrying Nephril far more, however, was exactly who Storbanther really was. In his overwhelming avalanche of recent memories there wasn’t a one of Storbanther, not a one to be had. Strange that, he thought.
They looked at each other uncertainly for a while until Storbanther said, “S’pose I ought to welcome thee back, or so me Bazarran taint would ‘ave me do. So, welcome back, Lord Nephril.”
“Who art thou, really, Storbanther Scaedwera? From whence have thee sprung and to what purpose, eh, tell me that?”
You would have thought he’d been asked the time of day or whether it was raining for all the surprise Storbanther showed. He did, though, start to draw a smile on his lips but thought better of it. “I’m t’Guardian’s Second, mi Lord, ‘er servant and foil. As to me ‘ailing, well, then I’d ‘ave to say Galgaverre, given ‘ow I’m just about wholly of ‘ere, an’ always ‘ave been.”
“Always have been?” Nephril was about to ask how long that ‘always’ had actually been when Storbanther tersely changed the subject.
“Owe thee an apology, well, two in fact. Didn’t think thee’d ‘ave lost so much o’ thee’s mind in such a short space o’ time. A reet surprise that, I’ll tell thee. Still, couldn’t be ‘elped.” When Nephril failed to say anything Storbanther continued, “We didn’t realise ‘ow little o’ t’mind Leiyatel’s weft and weave sustained, thought thee’d ‘ave had more preserved, like. Ought to say sorry for that, really.”
“Who penned the missive, Storbanther, eh, who? And why in the ancient tongue?”
Storbanther attempted a disarming laugh but failed. “Old tongue were chosen to hide t’message from prying eyes, or at least that were t’idea. Didn’t know about tha’s own loss o’ knowing, though, an’ t’extra knowing now sitting there in Yuhlm. Yuhlm, eh, of all places! No, didn’t know owt o’ that, nowt at all.”
Nephril got the distinct feeling he was dealing with an engine more than a man, as though one of Melkin’s bhleustrang driven looms sat before him. Even when Nephril said no more, something that would have ruffled the feathers of most men, Storbanther just sat patiently waiting. Not patiently exactly, but more dormant.
Nephril finally levelled a question at him. “Did thee write that message, Storbanther, eh? Was it thee who forged her words?”
“Aye, I wrote ‘em, but it were Leiyfiantel’s own words, ‘er own intent, fer she don’t ‘ave benefit of scripting-hand hersen, as tha knows, as tha knows full well.”
Somehow, Nephril was missing something. He’d attended Leiyatel for nearly two thousand years, give or take, maybe more when he thought about it, and knew her well, better, or so he’d thought, than anyone alive or dead. He’d known her intimately, even had part of her woven through his very fabric, yet he’d never had discourse with her, had never once been commanded to put thought to paper. Thought! No, it made no sense at all, and so Storbanther must be dissembling.
Storbanther, however, answered, “Would’ve thought thee’d ‘ve been more interested in ‘t’content than t’mechanics of t’message. Bit odd that, wouldn’t tha say?” Whether the comment was intended to be wounding or not, it still stung Nephril’s conscience. It reminded him how remiss he’d been of his own ancient oaths and duties.
He’d been true to his fealty for so long, had carried the secreted slip about him as surety, as palliative, even as cure in part, for use in some distant future, some far off time like the present. His greatest sin, though, and what weighed most heavily, was having given it up to Auldus, something he now knew he should never have done.
What would have become of Dica had he held it to himself instead, had kept the slip close when he’d journeyed north. How would Mistress Fate’s providence have boded then, he wondered. Would he still have found himself long cast out into his own wilderness? They had both declined, separately but together, he and Leiyatel, and so had both finally come to the dawn of their last day?
So, what could he possibly do now that he’d never been able to do before? Why had Leiyatel need of him in her final day?
Storbanther almost seemed to be reading his mind for he began what turned out to be a rather long story, a story in which Nephril found he’d unwittingly played a very large part.
15 Once Upon a Sorry Time
The story was one they both knew and both knew to be more than that, a true history in fact, albeit couched in archaic voice. How Storbanther knew it and, more to the point, how he knew its veracity was something that worried Nephril. It added yet another thorn to make him an even pricklier prospect.
Storbanther spoke as though recollecting a fable, leaving only his close recounting and familiarity with her ancient name to tell of his real knowing. In the manner of a schoolmaster, he began, “Leiyfiantel were wrought for a purpose, wrought be t’Bazarran for a closely confined need, fashioned to serve only their wants and numbers.” He sat back a little more comfortably.
“Long they benefited from t’Certain Power, long it gave ‘em fortuitous outcome in an uncertain world, until Dica arose, ‘til tribes o’ Dacc o’ Esna, amongst many, came together subtly against their Bazarran masters.” It was only when he came to deal with the rapid rise of those conquered tribes, of how they’d seen advantage in drawing together, how they’d used their wiles and politicking to usurp the Bazarran, that he gained any real animation.
It was the part King Belforas had played that eventually stirred him, the first of the long line of Dican kings but the one who’d usurped Bazarran authority in Galgaverre, who’d stolen Leiyfiantel from them. For Nephril it was Storbanther’s wholly different vantage that gave the story its novel feel, that put an uncomfortable slant on his own close history.
“It were Belforas, may his memory forever rot, who manoeuvred t’Stewards from Galgaverre an’ set thee in their place.”
“Nay, ‘twas not so. I was placed here for the good of all, to ensure the smooth running of Galgaverre and long life for Leiyfiantel.”
“Ha! Thee were put ‘ere so t’Dican kings could rape her, so they and their Dican hordes could grow rich and fat on her favour.”
Nephril was about to argue when he saw a stark image appear in his mind, saw a dark silhouette of a figure at the Farewell Gap, there holding aloft Leiyfiantel’s very surety. The vision surprised him and stilled his tongue.
“Don’t suppose it were thee fault really, no, Nephril, not yours. I don’t suppose t’king’s council did much to appraise thee o’ their plans.”
“Assumed me the dolt, thou meanest, eh, Storbanther?”
“Aye, ‘appen so.”
Storbanther began to denounce Dican demands as selfish and wasteful, bemoaned their profligacy and wanton ways, ones that had ineluctably drawn the Certain Power so thin.
Nephril then said, “I remember it all too well, remember seeing those first signs, how distressed they made me, and how distraught at the king’s indifference. Now, who was it who sat here then upon the throne?”
“King Dryffus it were,” Storbanther immediately proffered. “Dryffus who wouldn’t listen, who’d ‘ave none o’ it.”
“Ah, yes, Dryffus! A weak and ineffectual king, an aberration in the long line.” A thought struck Nephril. “His name came fast to thine lips, though, Storbanther Scaedwera, fast enough to suggest some close knowing.” It drew no comment from Storbanther, though.
Nephril thought back and clearly saw that king’s weak features, the lack of chin, the vacant eyes and worryingly slack mouth. The king ha
d refused to listen, would hear nothing of Leiyfiantel’s hurt. He wouldn’t even give counsel to Nephril’s warnings, so afeared was he of Bazarran accusations of a husbandry lacking. Sadly, that refusal had fatefully set Dican decline in hand, and with it Leiyatel’s certain demise.
It may have been seen as such by Nephril back then, but he’d plainly not heeded it, had still been vassal to his own arrogant, high Dican birth. Only the Stewards of Bazarral, when they’d eventually found out, had shown clear enough sight, with their pragmatic and urbane outlook best suited to the truth. They’d seen where their great labour was destined, what was to become of their vast creation, of Galgaverre, Baradcar and its engine charge. Ever practical, they’d planned ahead, planned well ahead.
They recognised an immovable force when they saw it and so knew they’d have to feint, that they’d have to turn the enemy’s might against itself. They saw how Dican profligacy, their unrestrained seed and insatiable appetite would so surely deliver the Dicans their own downfall, and in so doing, inexorably bring Leiyfiantel to her knees.
Nephril quickly began to realise how things he’d thought fully known before now showed far larger shadow behind. He knew a slip had been devised, a cut for the future grafting of a new Leiyatel, for it had been turned over to his own safekeeping after all.
“It were t’Stewards who got t’slip to yer ‘olding. Tha’s weren’t ta know, o’ course, for we were careful wi’ us plans. Took great pains to mek sure it met wi’ yer own conceits, but truth were ... well ... that thee held it for Bazarran benefit alone, for a time when t’Dicans would eventually count for nowt.” Nephril was truly shocked, not by the revelation as such but by his own failure to have seen it at the outset, or in the millennia since.
There was, strangely enough, a more convincing expression of compassion on Storbanther’s face now, when he asked Nephril how he felt, and whether he’d still strength enough for yet more of the story. Nephril had nodded but had then expressed a wish to partake of a little food.
Of Weft and Weave (Dica Series Book 2) Page 15