Of Weft and Weave (Dica Series Book 2)

by Clive S. Johnson

  He honestly couldn’t believe it. He sat totally stunned, mouth open, eyes welling and fingers lovingly caressing his favourite ode, in fact, the original ode, the one and only one. He couldn’t take his eyes from it and so listened to Lady Lambsplitter’s words without the aid of reading her now blush-tinted lips.

  The king had known of Nephril’s love for it, of his devotion, and so when he’d miraculously come across the ode’s first-hand rendering, he’d put it aside for when next they’d meet. That had, unfortunately, never happened.

  “He'd wanted you to have it, Lord Nephril, without others knowing … other than I of course.”

  Nephril finally managed to tear his eyes from it and so behold the Lady, but her features were largely blurred, so he only listened to her words.

  “He knew of its meaning to you, knew you’d most value it, of all in his realm, and so…”

  What she then said Nephril knew not for his mind had been swept into far distant times. His body had become young again; lithe and limbered, strong and sure without recourse to weft and weave, enough in its own right. The words of the ode mercurially flowed into his inner vision, pushed all else aside, but brought with them a reliving of a time and a being long forgotten.

  Instead of bringing great joy to his heart, though, it simply counterpointed and so enlarged how shallow his ancient life had become, long, long ago become. So much acquired knowing and wit had brought with it but futility. He could marvel again, perhaps only briefly, but marvel at the whole and immense knowing that that single, small volume carried, held now within his own slight but shaking hands.

  He drew it close, cherishing it, but felt a tickle against the stubble of his neck and absently looked down. A folded piece of paper had slipped loose, like a bookmark, further tempting his time-wearied interest.

  He opened the book at the mark’s saved place and there saw some of the words he treasured. Naningemynd ganan nioere ta der aedre… it began, but the bookmark itself soon drew his eye. He gently unfolded the piece of paper, laid it out carefully on his knee, gingerly smoothed it flat, peered at it closely for a moment - and then gasped.

  22 A Final Laying to Rest

  The driveway’s black stones were encrusted with bright green mats of thick, lush moss, its morass of miniscule spore cases all magnified by their encasing dewdrops. Phaylan noticed the squeeze of overnight rain that Countess Ragskin’s feet brought forth, as she hurried ahead, and how quickly it soaked back with her passing. He was so taken by its stubborn possession that he tried to avoid doing the same, until Lady Lambsplitter objected.

  “Master Phaylan? If you wouldn’t mind, awfully, keeping to a straight line and a regular pace. You’re forever getting under my feet!” He turned to excuse himself but nearly went flying as he slid across a particularly large and wet patch. She just tutted and let her eyes drift skywards.

  He’d have stayed on the grass had he not been chided earlier by Lord Lainsward for having left footprints on his own, and what a lawn he’d had! Stretching out a mile or so on either side, it had been perfectly smooth and unblemished, unnaturally even, close-cropped and unbelievably green. To deflect his lordship's evident umbrage, Phaylan had asked what purpose it had, to which he’d only received a dumbfounded look and so was still none the wiser.

  The softer grass would now have eased his feet, tender from their hurried march through the Lords Demesne. It had been the Countess who’d first swept him along the previous day as the king’s funerary wagon had rapidly diminished to the distance, his care her promised duty to Lord Nephril. She’d soon provided hospitality and a bed, given how close she lived, but it meant they’d had to make an early start this morning.

  He’d left her hall quite unable to comprehend it all, to believe that one person could possess such a vast and imposing place. It appeared to be entirely her own, the rolling lawns, the tiered beds and borders, the rockeries, copses and woods, and to top it all, her very own lake.

  Not only that but it was in addition to a sprawling property, a domed entrance tower, long marching hall, cloistered yards and sweeping steps, many disused stables, defunct clock towers and a whole maze of servants’ quarters. Even after walking for a good hour they were still bound within the Countess’s estate. It was only when they’d passed through a rather modest, wrought iron gate and out onto a winding, wooded lane that Phaylan was told they were now on Lord Lainsward’s land.

  It was suddenly a totally different world. It lacked the sweeping views and rolling parkland, and kept a more intimate acquaintance with wood and glen. The lane stayed dank and darkly hidden between ancient boles of ash and elm, vaulted by massive limbs and a towering canopy. Never straight, it forever held mystery and intrigue, always guarded revelation until the very last, until a rambling manse slowly crept from the verdant press.

  Lord Lainsward had seen them from his drawing room window, and so had joined them at his door. Following curt salutations, he’d slipped in beside the Countess without a second glance at Phaylan. They’d rounded the house and soon come out onto a steep bank cut at regular intervals by wide and ornate stairways, their curving balustrades peppered with large stone urns.

  Below the bank, sloping more gently away, the seemingly ubiquitous sweep of lawns drew their eyes down yet further still, onto even more halls, manors, manses and mansions, each surrounded by its own contrived landscape. It had been here that Phaylan had earned his rebuke, stepping from the hard gravel path to make footmarks on Lord Lainsward’s prized possession – his lawn. It would prove, however, to be their only communication.

  Lord Que’Devit, on the other hand, struck Phaylan as someone far less inclined to fuss over such trivia. He’d met them at his grand entrance with refreshment-bearing servants at hand, their elegant silver trays heaped with all manner of delectable fare. He’d not stood on ceremony, nor greeted them with elegant and courteous prose, but had simply expressed his pleasure at their encounter and then bidden them tarry a while over his ample offerings of food and drink.

  His was the last estate, somewhat smaller than most and tight up against the Lords Demesne’s western border, its wall running close beside Utter Shevling. His was a narrow tract of land, only some half mile in width, his own modest property close up against its wall. So close in fact that they’d only to pass through its high-walled gardens to come to a gateway to the outside world.

  They were now on a narrow lane bordered by a lupin-infested verge on one side, at the foot of the estate’s wall, and a tangled gorse- and bramble-swathed edge opposite. This marked the top of the Great Wall’s sheer drop of some few hundred feet, and therefore offered breath-taking views.

  They looked down onto a ramshackle jostle of small, mellow and rough-stone cottages, across the patchwork roofs of communal halls and public taverns, of stores, wrights and shops. At the water’s very edge, the odd boathouse rested on stilts above the estuary’s high water mark, whilst inland the whole place was neatly cupped by a shallow and broad backed cove, cut through by the overpowering arc of the Great Wall’s relentless march west.

  To Phaylan, the light here in Utter Shevling seemed somehow different; sharper, brighter, all enveloping. Although the sun was hidden behind a thin and milky sky, the estuary’s waves and oily, rippling undertows flashed their watery reflections ashore, splashing the seafront buildings with their own laughing light.

  Between Utter Shevling’s huddle and the treacherous-looking waters of the estuary, quaysides, wharfs and jetties were thronged with activity. A number of luggers were tied up, their masts bare of sails, whilst a hoy lay half submerged, tilted on its side a short way out. There were plenty of small fishing boats, cobles and the like, tight within the harbour’s embrace, with scows, flyboats, skiffs and gigs all threading their way between.

  Phaylan’s party turned away from the coast and followed the top of the Great Wall as it skirted the port. It was fortunate Lady Lambsplitter had kept an eye out for Phaylan for he’d soon been left behind, stock still and stari
ng, mesmerised by the close sight of the sea. It was something he’d hardly known existed and so found it too hard to grasp.

  When Lady Lambsplitter quietly returned to his side, he asked, “Is … is that the sea?” She followed his rapt gaze and looked out across the estuary’s wide mouth to the rolling lie of the Vale of Plenty beyond. She let the Eyeswin’s forceful flow carry her eyes further west, where the river’s fresh waters mingled with the Sea of the Dead Sun’s brine.

  “Yes,” she said, but then laid a hand on his arm. “Come, Phaylan, gather your wits. Mustn’t be left behind, eh? Can’t disappoint Lord Nephril, now can we?”

  Given his distraction, it was a wonder Phaylan didn’t fall from the wall. Its loose, overgrown and unguarded top held a narrow and threading path, sometimes veering dangerously close to the edge, but it let them quickly bypass the port’s tight and torturous ways below. It did, though, keep the magic allure of the sea all too evident for Phaylan.

  To their right, the greater part of the port huddled about its harbour, but inland and on their left, the rest of it climbed steeply against Eastern Street's zigzagging descent. Down there, the previous day, King Namweed’s funerary wagon had rumbled its way past the port’s gate, now directly below them, and up the western bluff to its high-held keep.

  Phaylan was so intent on what lay ahead that he gave no thought to what might have been following on behind them. Yet more of Dica’s high and mighty were even now making their own ways along the wall. All knew from long tradition, unlike Phaylan, where that way would take them, and what the day should bring.

  Once across the cove and drawing near to its western bluff, the path veered towards the wall's landward side, where it seemed to vanish. Phaylan watched Countess Ragskin, now well ahead, seemingly step off into thin air and haltingly descend. When he and Lady Lambsplitter reached that same place, they found a long flight of descending steps.

  At the bottom, they came out into an alleyway that soon spilled them onto Eastern Street, its setts almost stepped in the road’s steep climb. That last mile had been Brushboiler’s greatest test, but more so for his team of Punches, their hooves slipping and sliding, their shoes sparking against the road. Even for Phaylan it was a hard climb, but one that presently brought clear sight of the keep, a short way ahead.

  The road ran straight and level towards it but veered sharply past its door, on its further way west to Grayden. The keep was little more than a squat stone tower, a massive door set at its base. If there were windows then they didn’t face south, not towards Phaylan and his party, although its top must have had a parapet wall for a partly hidden figure stood there watching them. Even at the distance, Phaylan could plainly see it was Nephril.

  Utter Shevling had brought Lord Nephril its own burden of preparations, ones to be despatched before their cortege could make its final way. His biggest problem that morning had been collecting together the bearers. They’d scattered far and wide in their previous night’s cups, a few to the arms and beds of local lasses.

  As Phaylan drew near the keep, the last stragglers were even now being shepherded in. They gave embarrassed company to the smell of sour ale, of stale pipe tobacco and cheap feminine perfume. Nephril, now at the open doorway, rebuked them each with cold stares.

  At least Brushboiler’s Punches had proved more reliable, their natures as placid and their labours as freely given after their night at grass. It had taken a while to get them all groomed and harnessed, but when done, they looked so solid and proud and noble.

  Their journey was to begin again at noon, the wagon to follow Lord Nephril’s lead with the bearers behind. They were only eight miles from the King’s Mausoleum, but Eastern Street ran for only four. Those last four, however, were to demand of the bearers the very same fortitude they'd shown the previous day, for at its end was a final steep climb.

  With half an hour to go before noon, as best Nephril could judge in the absence of a sundial, he and Brushboiler managed to back up the wagon and horses without too badly damaging the keep’s doorway. They eventually got the wagon and team into the middle of the road and facing the right way, the Punches placated with feedbags whilst the bearers drew up in two lines behind.

  The mounting activity, and the spectacle of a gathering of Dican high and mighty, had increasingly drawn a crowd of onlookers, those of Utter Shevling who still had the luxury of a day of rest, whose straits didn’t constrain them to be always at drawing in their nets. Few seafarers would have been foolhardy enough anyway to deny a curse, superstition being their middle name. Even the handful of landlubbers who’d turned up still held back for fear of getting too near the king - just in case.

  When Lord Nephril reckoned midday had at last arrived, he placed Phaylan beside him on the wagon and instructed Brushboiler to drive it on, and so push the event forward. The worthy and the good of the Lords Demesne, followed by the progressively less worthy and not so good of the rest of Dica, all dutifully stepped in behind, all to their allotted places.

  First was Countess Ragskin, in close company with the Lords Lainsward and Que’Devit, then Lady Lambsplitter and Baron Stormangal with others of their near close rank behind. Maybe some three hundred in all, they slowly began to wind their way along the ridge that led from Utter Shevling to Grayden’s headland, and the King's Mausoleum.

  The cortege met a quieter reception on the way. There were no ribald shouts, no lewd innuendo or knowing looks. The king’s unfortunate pose seemed to go unnoticed, in fact few even looked his way. The thin straggle and loose knots of people along the route all seemed somehow cold and stern, as though harbouring too much hurt to be stirred even to ridicule.

  They seemed to be truly of their place, for the ways themselves looked unswept, more potholed and awash with mud and muck. The houses looked just as unkempt, tired and decayed. Windows were unpainted, broken panes simply stuffed with old cloth, whilst the doors were plainly scuffed and scraped under their rain-spattered layers.

  When Phaylan looked even more closely, as the street narrowed and brought the onlookers nearer his place on the wagon, he was sure he saw anger and hatred simmering there. Dark looks were thrown their way from disenchanted lives, from the lessening profit of growing toil. Little did he know of Leiyatel’s absence here, of her averted gaze.

  He was quite relieved when they finally left the last streets of Utter Shevling behind and slowly moved out onto the open tops of the headland. The wind peevishly ruffled Nephril’s sober robes, the more so when the field walls fell away leaving naught but windswept heath. Below and to the south, vineyards sloped away, their meagre white grapes promising but poor yield of the area’s once notably sweet wines.

  To the north, falling away on that side to the Great Wall’s top and Grayden’s meagre gate now well below, haphazard orchards were veined with leafless trees, their black silhouettes testament to recent decline. Ahead, Eastern Street’s final, gasping reach came to an abrupt and pitted end at a stone-strewn patch of bare earth. Here the wagon came to its own rocking halt before Brushboiler yanked on the brake.

  The Punches whinnied and stamped for a while, somehow knowing their labour’s end to be near, but also smelling traces of faintly foul air. When they’d finally settled, Nephril turned and commanded the bearers.

  They closed to the rear of the wagon where they quietly, if somewhat shakily for some, climbed aboard. Meanwhile, Brushboiler drew out the ramps and secured them in place before Nephril’s next command brought the two lines of bearers each to a crouch. They grasped the golden shafts, still thrust through the king’s plinth, and then, at yet another command, hoisted them with swaying difficulty to their shoulders.

  Brushboiler gently pushed Phaylan aside, as the bearers staggered precariously down the ramp. King Namweed leant alarmingly as they fought to keep him aloft and their feet from slipping, until they’d all finally come safely to the ground.

  The Dican cortege gave an audible chorus of sighs when the bearers finally steadied themselves at the rear
of the wagon, which was then driven on to clear the way forward. Nephril called out to command them on, stepping ahead as stately as the rough ground would allow, all the time fearful for his bearers.

  As the wagon retreated back towards Utter Shevling, Phaylan waved a guarded farewell to Brushboiler and then stepped in behind Nephril, as they passed through a dilapidated gateway and onto a narrow, windswept lane.

  Fortunately, it was smooth, gave good footing and went some way to allaying Nephril’s fears. For Phaylan, though, it gave him an opportunity to look ahead, beyond Nephril’s incongruously robed figure.

  There was little to be seen now but the grey sweep of sea between the lane’s walls, for they were drawing to the headland’s highest point, to where only milkily wan sky above could give it company. It wasn’t long, though, before they began to drop lower, more so with each step, until something else slowly began to appear.

  Oddly, a lone tree started to rise ahead, quite a large one in fact, its foliage seeming to belie the apparently parlous state of the place. As more of it came into view beyond the lane’s gently falling brow, it began to seem even odder. Unnaturally bright red fruit began to appear, but it was more the way in which they did so that seemed wrong.

  It was the tree's slow revelation, and how little its position changed as they moved towards it, that seemed distinctly at odds with its apparent nearness. Only when Phaylan saw its base appear did he realise it was no ordinary tree.

  Coiled about its bole, a vermillion-coloured serpent seemed to slither, its head just visible as it jutted out to sea. Soon, below it, Phaylan watched the apex of a huge and chalky dome come into view. There, before them, the whole of the Kings’ Mausoleum began to appear, standing at the very point of the headland and at their arduous journey’s end.