Of Weft and Weave (Dica Series Book 2)

by Clive S. Johnson

  Although Phaylan had found the sea a continual distraction, the mausoleum now readily supplanted it. It was so unbelievably massive that it dwarfed even Nature’s grand features, seeming to sit on the headland as a good rider upon a horse; confident, purposeful, most definitely in charge.

  Below the enormous dome ran an ornate balcony and parapet that must have been half a mile around at least. Beneath that, and holding all aloft, a round and tapered building shone out its stark, white marble brilliance, a spiralling ramp winding its way up from a huge, square granite base.

  They were by now less than a mile from the mausoleum, a mile of open, windswept heath slowly dipping to sad-looking fields and scrubland. The small fishing village of Grayden lay out of sight below and to the north, on the estuary’s southern shore and just short of the point of the headland. Much smaller than Utter Shevling, it seemed to have supplied but few additional onlookers.

  The open aspect had taken a greater toll of the bearers, for the wind had forever tried to topple the king, so they now staggered, almost exhausted, as they came into the lee of the mausoleum. No one lined its final climb, though, all seeming strangely reticent of treading that way. Even those of Utter Shevling slowly fell behind until they too hung back at the monument’s entrance.

  As though they’d passed into forbidden lands, ‘twixt life and death, the cortege silently struggled away from that last cordon of soured faces gathered by the entrance, each seeming to be steeling itself to enter only to have fear freeze its heart and feet.

  Phaylan felt so unnerved he even risked disturbing Nephril, his face still hidden within his cowl. “Lord Nephril?”

  “Aye, Phaylan mine lad, mine faithful aide, what be it that...” but then he surprised them all by throwing his cowl back and staring up, myopically, at the monument.

  “Oh no!” he yelped as he came to an abrupt halt, the bearers almost running him down. “Damn and blast! Had I but the vigour of mine youthful mind, eh, that I could still deliver the sum of two plus two.” All now stared where he stared, except the bowed bearers.

  Catching everyone unawares, Nephril commanded them on, leant against the growing incline and would say no more. When Phaylan again looked behind, he noted the crowd had crept after them, but still at some distance, as though cajoled on by the braver amongst them.

  Phaylan kept well clear of the king himself, but more from the fear of him toppling, the bearers becoming steadily redder of face and less stout of leg. He peered up at the monument and traced the path as it wound its way ever upwards towards the hidden balcony around the base of the dome.

  When they’d only reached the start of the path’s winding rise, Phaylan was surprised when most of the Dican cortege moved away onto an adjoining paved area. Some three hundred and fifty sombrely dressed, middle-ranking nobles, and some fewer lesser ranks, dutifully arranged themselves so they could watch the king’s final and slow ascent.

  What Phaylan hadn’t known was that only the high-born could tread after their lord the king, other than his bearers. Only by oversight was he granted that rare dispensation and so joined the forty or so who would reach the balcony and its alcoves above, and there witness their king’s final stand.

  Nephril urged Phaylan to his side and quietly confided, “Thou wouldst not know it yet, young Phaylan, but ‘tis truth that Leiyatel’s gaze hast not graced these parts in many a year.” Before Phaylan could ask what he meant, Nephril continued, as though only clarifying his own thoughts, “She hast not looked here these past thirty years or more, and so thou will now see great decay within this land, aye, and amongst its once fair folk. Much did rest on her largess, the yield of the land, its folk’s fecundity, their ability to net fish and trap crab, and much, much more.”

  His sudden silence left space for the growing grunts and groans of the bearers, their protestations veering towards obscenity as they staggered ever higher. They particularly wavered when their circuits repeatedly brought them abeam of the wind, but Nephril seemed not to notice. He’d become lost in his own thoughts once more, new insights crowding his mind.

  How the bearers had managed it Phaylan couldn’t imagine, but they eventually lifted King Namweed almost to the surmounting balcony. They’d come within clear sight of its alcoves when Nephril then did the wrong thing.

  He stopped dead in his tracks, shocked, as he stared intently and now knowingly at the alcoves. He stared so intently he managed to bring even the bearers’ heads that same way. “So, that’s what the Baron meant, and why good folk no longer enter here.” Nephril’s words drifted back along the cortege.

  Every past king of Dica stood within his own alcove, preserved and posed in similar intent as King Namweed, each encased in his own glass casket, looking out upon his realm, confirming his continuing power and line. They’d been expertly preserved of course, but even the best skilled of Dica couldn’t hold back the ineluctable march of time, could not forever bar entry to the agents of decay, not now Leiyatel had been absent for so long. That absence had pointed up all the deficiencies of unction and oil, and of seal and sterility.

  In many cases there was little left in the caskets to signify bodily form, just bones and dust and dryness, but in some, recognisable figures still gestured out, flesh dripping like warm wax from their bones. Their faces were most shocking; static, white eyes slipping from grey, tendril-laced sockets, blackened noses hollowing out to widening gapes, white teeth now grinning manically from frayed, green mouths.

  Over thousands of years, they’d come together here, each to look out over his favoured region, or out to sea where he stalwartly denied invasion, or north to succour the plenty of the vales. Wherever they’d chosen to look, Leiyatel had constantly brought preserving choice to Nature’s random chance, had filtered all but the beneficial, as was her purpose. The minds of men had desired permanence, and so Leiyatel had been steered to hold all the kings fast to their final and supposedly eternal stand. With Leiyatel now gazing wholly upon the pass to Nouwelm, though, Nature had silently slipped in to reclaim her own, to demonstrate the true ways of the world.

  All the kings of Dica had rotted, every one, brought to their insensate parts or on their way there. In the eyes of men, though, that simple and natural path held fears that only they could know, gave them the urge to puke, to turn and flee, fears that would bring nightmares to their stolen sleep.

  The bearers were no different, reacted as their fellows would, perhaps more readily so in their weariness. Two or three immediately turned tail and ran, as fast as their legs would carry them, and were already below the cortege as King Namweed slowly began to sway.

  The remaining bearers weren’t up to the extra burden, especially with their stomachs now churning. Before long, the king’s waywardness simply overcame them, brought fear of their own crushing to the fore, so they all turned tail and ran from their plight.

  One end of a golden shaft hit the path first, thus tipping Namweed towards the tower, where the casket struck hard but stayed intact. The other shaft struck the ground at the casket’s recoil but instantly snapped, levering all out over the path’s low retaining wall.

  Phaylan was the first to look down and follow King Namweed’s precipitous fall, to see the crowd below quickly step back in horror as they watched his descent. The king struck the tapering tower just before the path’s next passing below, thereby throwing him past it, again falling freely for a time. He performed that same feat twice more until all that lay beneath him was the fast approaching ground.

  The casket shattered and spilled Namweed’s body and all his preserving fluids at the very centre of a stunned crowd of Grayden and Utter Shevling’s bravest. As the sharp tinkling of shattered glass died away, all that could be heard then was the distant cry of seagulls.

  The king’s impromptu journey left Nephril with an unpalatable but no less valid truth. All their fortunes had now changed, and with it an inversion in the order of things. Where the highborn had once taken credit for a bountiful realm, they w
ere now seen as agents of its downfall, the very cause of all suffering. As Nephril watched the crowd’s reaction below, he now knew with certainty that not only were he and his noble party in great peril, but that they were also completely trapped.

  23 Estranged

  Enthusiasts are a strange bunch in the main. They have a propensity to assign equal weight to all things connected with their passion, irrespective of any objective assessment. Whatever subject it be, whether birds of the air, ships of the ocean or pebbles of the beach, they’ll collect the most minor and inconsequential of facts irrespective of importance. Sometimes, though, such a ragbag mind may actually hold something of true worth, something that literally turns out to be the difference between life and death.

  Lady Lambsplitter’s was one such, and her passion history. She knew so many seemingly trivial bits of dross, in amongst the momentous body of knowledge she held, that it seemed almost natural that something from it would come to their aid. Even had they been in one of Dica’s most insignificant hovels, the chances were she would still have pulled something from the hat. Given they were actually on one of the realm’s most imposing and significant monuments made it all the more certain.

  The one particular piece of information that few outside the area knew was that the Kings’ Mausoleum was not a solid structure, that its external pathway was for nothing more than show. Even Nephril was surprised at that little titbit but even more so when he learnt that another way from the place existed, and a quite hidden one at that.

  The remaining cortege followed Lambsplitter up the last of the climb and onto the balcony that ran in front of those damned alcoves. They passed many already set with caskets, each filled with human detritus, until they’d stood before one of those still empty.

  It had been yet another speck of dross that had led Lambsplitter to stop there, a recognition of a small and apparently insignificant mark at its lintel. Although the alcove looked no different from any of the other empty ones, she knew it would always remained unused for it was in fact a door. There was one problem, though. Lady Lambsplitter had no idea how to open it.

  “I only knew of its existence and mark,” she began to explain, “not how it should be used.”

  Phaylan had been looking over the balcony wall before interrupting. “Better find out quickly then. They’re fast making their way up here!”

  He’d been right. The folk of Utter Shevling and Grayden, those who’d braved drawing near the mausoleum, were even now noisily straining against the incline. Despite hearing them well enough, Nephril and the others still had to step over and have a look down. Nephril saw there must have been fifty or so, all with faces like thunder and eyes aflame with anger and hatred.

  As he returned to stand before the hidden door, a part of him was saddened at how low they’d all been brought by Leiyatel’s waning. It was a part that now clearly saw how the whole realm had relinquished its responsibility, had become so utterly tamed to domesticity by its own selfish greed.

  Nephril’s fingers had begun feeling around the alcove when he wondered how they would fare, cast out once more into the wilderness, their soft bellies shrinking as the fat of idleness wasted from their bones? It wasn’t that Leiyatel had left barren ground. No, he now realised, as he unknowingly let that part of her within him guide his fingers, her absence had only returned the land to its natural providence. As he began to see their own absconded wit and skill as the true culprits, a loud click rang out and a crack appeared.

  With almost no effort, the alcove gave way to his slight pressure and quickly revealed a doorway. Instead of all smartly filing through, and quickly sealing themselves from the maddened rabble now almost upon them, a kefuffle broke out amongst the nobles.

  Countess Ragskin had taken umbrage. She was huffing and puffing with indignation, poo-pooing Lady Lambsplitter and Phaylan’s entreaties. “They must respect their betters, ‘tis only natural,” she’d adamantly insisted.

  Lord Lainsward had immediately agreed, sounding just as affronted, but Nephril saw a glint of panic in his eyes, quenched only by the oaths and curses Baron Stormangal began throwing at the onrushing rabble. It was his bravado that was to seal their fates, his hot-blooded foolishness and Lainsward’s pusillanimous streak that irrevocably bound them to the Countess’s fateful arrogance.

  Had those who should have known their places better not crashed in upon the small cortege, at a run and armed with makeshift cudgels and bludgeons, then some sense may have been brokered. As it was, Nephril only just had time to reach out to those nearest, to Lady Lambsplitter, Phaylan and Lord Que’Devit, who he managed, unceremoniously, to drag through the doorway before quickly slamming it shut.

  The sudden darkness was stifling, as were the muffled sounds now coming through the door. Nephril was about to throw it back open, and in his rising rage confront and face down their attackers, when the Countess’s raised voice cut shrill and icy to his heart. They couldn’t hear her actual words, nor the Baron’s that followed her piercing scream. The dull rhythmic thuds that finally took their place, though, spoke eloquently enough.

  It was Que’Devit’s arm that grasped Nephril's, and Phaylan’s that pushed at his chest, but he hardly noticed, could only distantly hear Lady Lambsplitter’s cracked voice pleading that he come away from the door. In his frantic state, only the jerkily receding doorway found any purchase in his mind, its withdrawal symbolising his own shameful dereliction.

  He fought to get free, began to scream and shout, but stopped when an ominous sound echoed around them. They all froze, staring at the faint outline of the doorway, and listened to the alarming sound of regular pounding. It only took a glance at each other to find sense, and for their flight to begin.

  Lady Lambsplitter led the way through the dim gloom, her long, full skirt drawn up above her garters. They clattered along the gently sloping passage towards a slightly lighter patch ahead, a place that echoed with a wealth of incessant drips and smelt of age-old mould. Behind them, the regular rhythm of shoulders pounding against the door pushed them on, kept their eyes fixedly on the passageway’s fast approaching end.

  Nephril would dearly have loved to ask where they were going but had no spare breath for it. Instead, he tried to see what lay ahead, past Lambsplitter and Que’Devit. Wherever they were heading, it appeared to be raining there, a constant fall of faintly glittering points pointing the pattering sound of incessant drips. Nephril was still trying to square the unexpected change in the weather when they finally issued into a vast vault.

  They were on yet another balcony, but this time on the inner side of the mausoleum, its curving wall falling away behind and below, leaving them seemingly suspended in mid-air. The hollow, dark depths revealed nothing of what lay below.

  Above them, though, clearly arching over the empty space, the inner side of a chalky dome curved away. At its apex, grey-green light flooded in from a bright ring, fed by some intricate means from the effigy of the Living Green Stone Tree above.

  By the time that light gained their current position it had spread so thin it barely lit their faces. What it did so exquisitely do was fill every drop of water - now dripping from the dome’s constantly rain-charged stone - with tiny, tumbling fireflies, each dropping from the tips of long-grown stalactites.

  The booming door still cursed out into the echoing void as they splashed their way around the balcony, and even as they reached the head of a dizzyingly long flight of metal steps. They were soon racing down them, as best they could in the poor light, until they came directly beneath the entrance passage. There, they briefly paused, for the pounding had now stopped.

  They held their breaths as they listened, but no sounds of following feet could be heard. Their pursuers had given up the ghost, or so it seemed. Nephril earnestly asked, “Maybe they know where this way comes out. Is that likely, dost thou reckon, Lady Lambsplitter?”

  “I believe it’s common knowledge locally, but it’ll still take them some time to get down there, q
uite some time in fact. Our way’s more direct by far, but we must hurry.”

  Their eyes continued to adjust to the progressively poorer light, but as they dropped lower, there did come a point where they could see nothing more ahead. They took to feeling their way down the steps for what seemed an eternity until the place began to sound much more intimate. It was also far more dank, the flat smell of stale water wrapping them in a chill embrace.

  Phaylan, now in the lead, nearly stumbled when his foot failed to find the next step. It jarred against a damp and rough stone floor. He quickly warned those behind and then cautiously slid his feet forward, testing the way until they came up sharp against something hard.

  When he felt ahead, he quickly recognised a wooden door and soon realised how large it was, the sort to take a horse and cart. His feet, though, were by then thoroughly sodden, the sloping floor becoming progressively deeper in water as he felt his way across.

  “We must be on the very rock of the headland, the mausoleum’s foundation,” Nephril said before testing the door himself. Que’Devit soon joined him, pushing, prodding and finally kicking at the obstinate wood.

  When Phaylan blindly asked Lady Lambsplitter if she knew anything about it, she just said, “I’m afraid not. I know this way was once used in the upkeep of the mausoleum, for bringing in materials and the like, but that’s about all I know. Lord Nephril? Maybe you can bring some vestige of the Certain Power to bear here, eh, as you seemed to do at the alcove.” Had there been light enough they may have noticed a knowing look on the Lady’s face, but Nephril deigned not to answer.

  As it was, all they could really do was feel along the door and finally put their futile shoulders against it. “There be no light between its timbers,” Nephril observed. “It be either rare stout or overlapped in some way, or the other side be as dark as in here.”