Of Weft and Weave (Dica Series Book 2)

by Clive S. Johnson

  She soon distracted them with a series of orders, where they were to rest, what they were to eat, who was to bring water from the river below and how, and all manner of mundane matters. When everyone was finally busy about their tasks, she quietly took Storbanther aside where they then spoke privately and at length.

  That first proper break set the regime; an hours’ tramping followed by an hour of rest. She also moderated their pace, to ease the priests’ burden, but they still looked exhausted each time they stopped. At one point, Melkin broached his concern over the sheer amount of baggage, at which Penolith looked suddenly weary, as though she herself were as heavily laden.

  She searched out Storbanther and saw he was still well ahead, as though drawn by demons, alone and with a decidedly unsteady gait. “I think he’s become over-anxious,” she began. “It’s as though he believes the quest will fail if it’s not beaten on, like a harsh driver and a stubborn mule.”

  “But he’s actually running the risk of it ruining all.”

  She stopped, the group slowly passing them by, and lightly rested a hand on Melkin’s arm. “I’m worried, Steward Melkin, worried he’s become overwrought, or somehow crazed with it all. A lot of what he says makes no sense at all, not to me. It’s not only his words, though. He looks ... well, different somehow, as though he’s a close relative but not the same man I knew.”

  By now Storbanther was even further ahead, zigzagging along the centre of the road, his feet strangely hobbling. His arms were held tight to his chest with his head craned forward against a fanciful gale, his robes seeming that bit too empty.

  Now to the south, along the top of the craggy edge that marked the start of the castle's northern flank, the Great Wall reared high. Despite being a good eight miles away it dominated the view and spoke stridently of power, of security and strength. Gray Mountain granite sat atop slate grey crags and there gave Mount Esnadac a pelmet behind which the Park of Forgiveness held Lake Dica’s eastern shore.

  The Guardian called a longer break some mile or so short of the junction for the Ambec village. By now the sun was high, beating down strongly, soon sending the priests into sleep’s embrace. There was a gentle yet cool breeze that blew in from the distant sea, but it was cosy enough in the lee of an old wall.

  Penolith, Melkin and Drax had fallen to talk, and with Storbanther huddled alone and apart, it quite naturally turned his way. Sentinar Drax said, “I’ve never seen him anything like he is now, certainly not. He can be curmudgeonly … well, a darn right pain in the arse it has to be said, but he’s never been like this before, not so … well … not so strange.”

  Penolith had largely been quiet, her thoughts dwelling on her own memories of him. “I don’t know," she said, "he’s always been so attentive, not exactly subservient but respectful all the same. But now…” Melkin was about to interrupt when he noticed something out of the corner of his eye, something moving along the road. The others were still talking when he realised it was a small group of approaching figures.

  He raised his hand to shield his eyes and it silenced the others, they too turning to look that same way. Before long they were all on their feet, peering harder along the road.

  Drax called out, “Cresmol? Here lad, and quick about it.” When the priest joined them, Drax instructed, “Use your better eyes and tell me what that is drawing near, there,” and he pointed.

  It didn’t take long for Cresmol to describes seeing people, perhaps three in all, one of whom was much shorter than the others. Drax was about to ask if he recognised them when Cresmol laughed with joy. “I’m sure the shorter one’s Phaylan, it's certainly dressed like him, and yes … yes, I’m certain one of the others is Lord Nephril.”

  Penolith’s heart leapt, her body starting to tingle as she dared let her worries slip from her, before her face lit with a huge smile. It wasn’t misplaced hope either, and so the smile not only stayed but soon grew wider.

  Before long, welcomes were being given and taken, spirits soaring, questions gushing and answers ensuing, all accompanied by much shaking of hands and slapping of backs. In it all, though, Storbanther had been forgotten until his voice cut sharply between them.

  “What, in yer bleeding stupidity, are thee thinking of, eh? What damned idiocy’s this then?” So sudden and acerbic had it been that they were all stunned silent. When they turned to him, his appearance was now even more shocking.

  From a hunched stance, with legs bowed and head stooped, his drooping face was set with blazing eyes, one a good inch lower than the other, but both seeming to shoot boiling venom at Lady Lambsplitter. From his alarmingly slack mouth equally caustic words fair flew out, phlegm speckled and hoarse. “What in t’name o’ Certain Power’s she doing ‘ere? Bugger me, but she’s a bloody Dican!”

  Lady Lambsplitter had quite naturally stepped back, startled and fearful, a pace or two behind Nephril. He, though, squared himself between them and stared hard into Storbanther’s strangely mobile features. Nephril drove his eyes hard against Storbanther’s stare but couldn’t help being shocked and repulsed. The eye that had started out lower was now much higher, and his nose appeared to hang like a loose sack, pendulously across his pale and quivering lips.

  Instead of words coming from between them, though, they began flapping, spittle and foam seeping from what had once been their edges. All that seemed to remain intact was the malevolence now flaring from his eyes, wherever they happened to be. Even Nephril gulped, his very long life having never equipped him for such a sight.

  In all honesty, Nephril was simply stumped, and so it was fortunate Penolith intervened, abhorrence somehow kept from her face and words. “Master Storbanther? Stop this at once do you hear? Stop it!” She managed to look him in the face, and even to soften her own somewhat.

  As though the enchanting call of a song thrush had slowly dispelled a storm’s squall, Storbanther's eyes imperceptively softened, drew haltingly away from Lady Lambsplitter and slipped into the Guardian’s determined stare.

  Storbanther now looked decidedly lost and somewhat forlorn, let his hands drop from where they’d been held tight across his chest and gave her a hangdog expression. Despite it all, she felt a thread of compassion and so found some soft words. “What ails you, Stor’? What’s wrong?”

  That was as far as she got for she’d now caught sight of his hands, or what was left of them. There were maybe only the two or three fingers left on each, the thumbs mere stumps, the skin glistening brightly as though sodden. He held them open at his sides, a universal symbol of distress, as he went rigid and slowly fell back into the dry, dark dust of the road.

  30 A Limb Saved

  They’d been huddled together in close conversation for some time, Lord Nephril, Guardian Penolith and Steward Melkin. Their talk had quickly dwindled to a hushed consensus of growing revelation. Much of it had come from Nephril’s reaction to Penolith’s description of Storbanther’s increasingly strange behaviour. Melkin had taken them further with his own astute knowledge of what did underlie material things beyond hand and eye. The key came when Nephril told them about his meeting with Storbanther, there on the balcony of Galgaverre’s deserted southern wall.

  It was no time to keep things close to his chest, too much now resting on quick and decisive action, so Nephril tried to explain Storbanther’s real nature. “He is but Leiyatel at large,” he’d said quite bluntly, making their eyes widen, but he suspected, leaving their understanding still shallow.

  “He is almost wholly formed of her, held present and visible in form and function within a thin Bazarran skin.

  Melkin remembered how Storbanther had felt to the touch as he’d helped move him from the road, like a partly filled water skin. “Of course,” he said, only to grin knowingly.

  They looked at him expectantly whilst he thought things through, then he remembered the obscure treowlicas that had once before proven so useful. “Any weight may be bolstered, may be borne up, excluded from ingress or made as naught provided s
uch pressure be balanced or exceeded by the same.”

  They were about to ask what on earth he meant when he added, “Or by such that be greater in its contrary rebuffing.” He smiled and looked at Nephril alone. “The seed of your own recovery, my dear Lord Nephril, and now maybe Storbanther’s,” but it only left them looking even more confused.

  Melkin did so miss Yuhlm college as he tried his best to explain his insight, soon realising how the present ground was but a poor bed for such seed. He tried again but it took Lady Lambsplitter’s overhearing to make it plain to all.

  She’d been visibly shocked by Storbanther’s outburst and subsequent collapse, and had taken a while to recover, a while spent walking along the road. She’d happened back at that very moment and had listened quietly and intently to Melkin’s words.

  What Steward Melkin’s trying to say is that the man’s not a man at all. Am I right?” She’d turned her dark blue, glinting eyes to Melkin, their understanding surprising and intriguing him.

  He realised she smelt of rose petals and sandalwood, that her skin had a lustre all its own, and her voice a lulling depth that drew tingles to his spine. When he didn’t answer, and she had to speak on, he found his eyes following the shape of her lips, watching the sunlight soft on their moistness.

  “It would appear we have a limb of Leiyatel amongst us, one that’s strayed a little too far from its host, one that’s lost its pulse, as our own would were we removed from our heart. Have I got it right, sir?”

  Melkin was astounded, and so at first only nodded. When he realised she’d been holding his rather impertinent gaze in her own, he shook himself free. “Most well put, good Lady, succinct and clear and certainly embodies the urgency.”

  “Urgency?” Pettar asked. “He’s not dead then?”

  “No,” Nephril assured him. “Not dead but certainly dying, or dissipating to be more precise, if I have followed Lady Lambsplitter aright.”

  When Nephril sat up straighter, his ancient joints creaking against the soft grass, they all looked at him expectantly. He carefully cleared his throat. “People oft confuse her gaze with her embrace, even those who should well know the difference.” He looked across to where Storbanther’s body lay, almost vanishing beneath his robes. “Even I myself have done no better, have blamed her averted gaze for ills not due it.”

  He looked at Storbanther again and sighed before adding, “More prone to the error is our simple engine, more likely to see her gaze as succour when it be her embrace that counts. His very being is her own rare matter, as is mine true weft and weave, their vibrancy both dependent upon simple distance, not gaze nor intent.”

  Melkin coughed, a little embarrassedly. “I think you’ll find it’s not quite so simple, Lord Nephril. No, not simple but dictated upon division by that very distance, only self-fold.”

  When Nephril only looked blankly back, Lady Lambsplitter explained, “The succour lessens to a quarter at first, and when removed by the same again, to one ninth part, then one of ten and six parts, and so on. If we’re already at the ten and sixth part then, were Storbanther to press on, he would soon have but a twenty and five parts nurturing his fabric.”

  Lady Lambsplitter realised they were all staring at her in astonishment. Melkin, though, had an added vain of admiration. Drax, however, interrupted. “Lady Guardian? Master Storbanther’s started to mumble!”

  They were soon gathered around him, mesmerised, his form shifting and swimming before their eyes, yet his mouth and eyes retained their defiance wherever they happened to be. Like a slowly shifting mass of cowheel jelly in a muslin sack, the very look of him urged Pettar to venture, “If it’s distance from Baradcar that counts then shouldn’t we get him back there as soon as possible?”

  Nephril agreed. “Whether it will put him right or not I dare not guess, but I see no other choice.”

  Melkin sounded relieved. “Well, at last we can cut our burden down to size. He’ll need carrying back, so he’ll need some of our priests, quite a few in fact - quite a good few.”

  Melkin was about to arrange things when Storbanther screamed, “Ya ain’t getting’ rid o’ us that easy, ya bastards.”

  “More Bazarran veneer than Leiyatel I would hazard,” Lord Nephril allowed. “That part likely to stay vibrant longest when away from her.”

  “Piss off, Grit. Ya can’t break out o’ t’pearl just like that, nay, it'll cost thee dearer than that.” Storbanther broke into a long cackle that made his slack body ripple back and forth. “I’ll be alright in us own gaze. It’ll watch over me, never fear. We’re still strong tha knows, strong enough to save oursen.”

  Fortunately, his mouth slid beneath his robes and was lost for a while, his ravings muffled enough for others to be heard. Lambsplitter gingerly drew nearer him. “He can’t be taken back like this, not ranting and raving. He’d be far too much of a handful for the priests, however many we send with him.” She was right and Nephril knew it.

  He remembered a rather important fact that he’d somehow overlooked. Their whole quest hung on the way through the Gray Mountains remaining open, a way not only made passable by Leiyatel but also by Storbanther.

  Nephril had never quite got it completely clear in his own mind but suspected that Leiyatel’s altered gaze somehow stemmed from something the ancient Stewards had embedded in their sentinel. They’d left Storbanther with a mend of some kind, something he’d carried until that very day, some ninety years before, when he’d finally seen fit to use it. Somehow he’d infused Leiyatel with its change, altered her fabric or nature or essence. Nephril had no way of knowing if it would last without Storbanther, but it was too great a risk to run.

  “A burl!” Melkin exclaimed when Nephril had finished explaining. “Storbanther the Burler, eh? Well I never. Yet another string to the man’s many bows. Wherever will it end, eh?”

  Nephril thought he understood, although he wasn’t too sure. Maybe Lady Lambsplitter did for she soon rallied to their need.

  Although Storbanther was most definitely quite repugnant by now, she steeled herself to kneel at the end most often resembling a head. One eye had followed her but the ranting had ceased. The eye blinked with distrust as she leant over it, confidentially.

  She gathered her thoughts for a moment before softly saying, “Nuu, lysna closlic, meowyh Storbantha Scaedwera, and listen well.” The eye almost literally stood out, stared hard and wondrously at her. “Well,” she said, “that’s got your attention.”

  She was right. The eye’s gaze locked to her lips whilst Storbanther’s mouth, wherever it now was, remained silent. In her most soothing tone she said, “I know much of history, Master Storbanther. Did you know that? Hmm? Well, I do. Real history, mind, not that palliative sop beloved of the royal line and their Dican vassals, no, the actual stuff that happened. Stuff like … well … let’s see now, yes ... stuff like the theft of Galgaverre by King Belforas for example.”

  The eye now did actually rise on a short stalk, tried to draw nearer in its utter surprise. She ignored it, as best she could, and went on to enumerate yet more truths that would have been so dear to his heart had he had one.

  “Lord Nephril isn’t the Guardian’s superior,” she said, “not by a long chalk. No, not that he knew it himself until recently. Baradcar and Galgaverre were fashioned by the Bazarran, under the guidance and wisdom of their very own stewards.”

  The eye nodded its own eager agreement, but the mouth remained silent. “You’re right to deny Lord Nephril his authority.”

  Nephril started, shot her an acid look and was about to interrupt when Melkin drew in front of him. Out of the eye’s sight, Melkin defused Lord Nephril with a knowing look and a slight shake of the head.

  Lambsplitter, on the other hand, carried on regardless. “He’s a usurper, and that’s the bare truth of the matter, a royal puppet to keep the bounty of Leiyfiantel for Dican ends alone. We both know that well enough.” The eye again nodded but this time the mouth added a sigh.

  Stor
banther’s face had somehow regained some much needed arrangement, although still missing an eye, and so she found it marginally easier to offer a smile. “Leiyfiantel rightly belongs to Bazarral, something that’s now been assured by King Namweed’s passing, and the subsequent disarray that’s begun to spread across Dica.”

  She stood and looked down at him before reaching out to draw Melkin to her side. “Here,” she affirmed. “Here’s a genuine steward, one newly risen from the blood of old. Look!” she commanded. “Look upon your true master and hear his wishes, and therefore those of your own host.”

  Storbanther’s lips quivered, as best their loose flapping could achieve. “Steward Melkin?” his thin and watery voice lisped. “Is thee really a true steward? Eh? Is thee? Not just nicked the name?”

  Melkin was unsure at first, totally at sea, but gained confidence when he saw Lambsplitter’s encouraging look. “Aye,” he rather weakly affirmed, but soon added, with far greater strength, “Aye, that I am. Melkin Mudark, the first new steward of Yuhlm.”

  “And soon to be of Bazarral,” Lambsplitter quickly but pointedly added.

  Melkin looked from one to the other and saw in each face, in particular in Lord Nephril’s, the same affirmation. It filled his voice with confidence when he turned back to Storbanther and assured him, “My whole intent is Leiyatel’s surety, for Bazarran benefit alone, undiluted but rightly restrained, and so my concern quite naturally is now with you, her faithful servitor, to your wellbeing. After all, our common quest rests on your continuance.”

  Watching the way Lambsplitter had handled Storbanther confirmed to Nephril where his recently reinvigorated bodily passion had so suddenly sprung from. More disappointingly, though, it confirmed why it had also waned. Although he’d suspected it all along, the knowing in no way lessened the hurt, didn’t assuage Leiyatel’s selfish plucking at his own weft and weave. She’d had need of Lambsplitter’s wiles and surprising knowledge, to save her own errant limb, and so in some unfathomably fundamental way, had brought elemental reason to bear on his own gross sensibility.