Of Weft and Weave (Dica Series Book 2)
Page 29
“You can better ensure success for the venture,” Melkin now instructed Storbanther, “by returning to Galgaverre.” The steward even stole himself to pat Storbanther’s diminished arm, which seemed enough to put to rest what little mind Storbanther had.
31 A Discovered Invitation
With Melkin now in command, ably assisted by Lady Lambsplitter of course, preparations moved on apace. Sentinar Drax and twenty priests made up Storbanther's rescue party, who soon left to carry him back on a makeshift stretcher to Galgaverre.
Whilst those who remained were discarding superfluous supplies, it struck Nephril how they’d know of Storbanther’s ultimate fate. When, or indeed if, they finally came to the pass and it turned out to be free of ice and snow then they’d know he still survived. If not, well, then they’d be at their own leisure to mourn his passing on their long retreat home. If they got there was the phrase still haunting Nephril when Melkin at last announced they were ready to press on.
Before the steward led off he looked unsure, slightly embarrassed and somewhat self-conscious. It took only a gentle smile from Lambsplitter, though, more with her eyes than her lips, for his confidence to return, to make him straighten his back, set his jaw and strike off with far more purpose.
The Lost Northern Way drew them on across the rolling Vale of Plenty like a towline, straight as a die towards the Forest of Belforas, no more than fifteen miles away. Along its course, roads and lanes branched off to meander their lazy ways through the agrarian landscape on either side.
Lacking any intimate knowledge, a traveller would soon find the Vale’s lanes and pathways a veritable maze, a patchwork of ancient farms and estates, of villages, hamlets, crofts and spinneys, of copse and woodland, and field and meadow. Although sparsely inhabited, its vast spread held a sizeable portion of the realm’s remaining numbers, bound to ancient villages or farm estates, or as servants to noble households.
They knew the turmoil now filling the castle would be many days yet from spilling into the Vale. It wasn’t so much lethargy but more inertia that held the Vale of Plenty so fast to its ingrained ways, that kept age-long custom and habit as its master.
The safe and unchallenging pastoral scene proved an immense balm for Penolith. She was only slowly coming to terms with the wider world, not yet over the surprise of its vastness, never mind how green it was, none of which she could have foreseen from her Galgaverran confines.
The further they tramped, the further behind the castle fell until they eventually camped for the night in a soft, fragrant and warm sward not far from the forest. From here, Penolith could look back across the late evening’s sunset-emblazoned countryside, and take in the whole of Mount Esnadac.
Her eyes were drawn magically to Utter Shevling and Grayden, each slowly becoming speckled with twinkling eventide lights, their reflections shimmering upon the estuary’s darkening sheen. Beyond them, rearing unfathomably high into the sparse cloud, the castle’s solitary rise became more and more embossed by the light of a waxing moon, ethereally picking out the plethora of walls and roofs, of spires, chimneys and towers.
Penolith’s voice seeped slowly and softly into the evening air. “Oh! Oh, how beautiful it all is, how so utterly perfect.” Her face shone almost as brightly as the moon. “This moment’s been worth all my years of seclusion within Galgaverre, worth every minute.”
As Nephril watched her childlike awe and joy, he now knew that her spirit had, like a long-caged songbird, finally broken free.
It was unlikely Melkin or Lambsplitter had noticed that poignant moment for they’d steadily become entwined as one, often withdrawn, their thoughts and actions seemingly driven but by a single, melded mind. They each seemed to see in the other a missing part, a chiming concurrence, a pleasing counterpoint or striking lesson. Somehow, despite their disparate blood, they could now have passed for brother and sister, even as twins. Common esoteric interests and a surprisingly quickly cemented affinity quite understandably set them a little apart from the rest.
Most of the time, the priests tended to keep to their own company, other than Phaylan who’d a habit of being at Nephril’s side. Occasionally, though, Cresmol would join him for a chat or a joke, leaving the remaining priests - Telsen, Cathgar and Puschin - to their own devices. Between them, though, they kept themselves in check, relying largely on Phaylan and Cresmol for their leadership.
It was the following day, shortly after breaking camp, that Nephril began to take a closer interest in the nearing forest. He’d assumed the road would simply peter out there, clogged impassable by the millennia of disuse and arboreal creep.
He’d couldn't have been more wrong. Its well-maintained and clean slabs let them stroll on, unchallenged and unimpeded, into the forest’s verdant embrace. The great trees stood shoulder to shoulder down each side, hiding total blackness beyond their pungently sweet stands. The wayfarers had abruptly exchanged the passably warm but fresh air of the Vale for the forest's hot and humid breath.
It wasn’t long before they could see nothing but leaves, branches and boles, and across the entrance to their towering divide only Castle Dica’s massive bulk. Even that soon vanished as the Northern Way gently curved deeper into the forest, on towards the Strawbac Hills.
Far from becoming lost, as Nephril had feared, the few side roads were clearly more minor, leaving their way undisputed. He was trying to think why it was all still so pristine when the oppressive silence was fractured by a distantly rumbling answer.
Around the far corner of one of the side roads they were passing, a massive wagon creaked and groaned and jolted into view, drawn on by a long team of oxen and men. Although the forest stole any real sense of size, the wagon and its load seemed to be as tall as a house, stacked high with enormous trunks. It was still some way off and only moving slowly, so Melkin called a halt and there they sat on the verge to wait.
Like some giant, mythical monster, it lumbered towards them, the men and oxen straining hard to draw its weight. At its head, a tall, stout and near naked man called out their rhythm. If he’d noticed them then he showed no sign, remained enfolded in his dirge-like chant, mimicking in his gait the efforts of his gang. The nearer they drew the more frightening it became, its enormous weight resounding through the road, the creak of its wooden wheels filling the forest about them.
More frightening still was its load, a dozen ancient tree trunks strapped to its tray, three across and four high, each no less than a dozen feet across.
“More than fifty feet high!” Melkin gasped.
“So much timber. What in the world could it be for?” Lady Lambsplitter added.
They had to wait to find out for the chanting had stopped, bringing the wagon to a groaning halt, the driver then striding up the remaining road towards them.
Melkin stepped forward to meet him, but the man brushed on past, a great smile revealing numerous gaps in his yellowed teeth as he came before Nephril. He gave a short nod and smartly brought his heels together. “Your Lordship? What a surprising pleasure,” he whistled through the gaps in his teeth.
Nephril’s face lit up, joy quickly shouldering aside recognition as he clasped the man’s elbows, the highest he could sensibly reach. “Of all the faces to come across out here,” Nephril exclaimed, “I would never have guessed at thine, not in an age of such chance meetings.” He beamed up into the man’s downturned face and laughed. “Well, well, well! Whatever next, eh? Whatever next?”
They stared at each other for a while until the man glanced across at the others. That was enough for Nephril to begin introducing them.
It turned out they were shaking hands in their turn with Studman Shaftrake. Other than Lady Lambsplitter, of whom he only really knew her family name, Nephril’s was the only face he recognised, and so he quickly reengaged him.
“Isn’t it just so amazing how we’ve both come across each other so.”
“A most remarkable coincidence indeed,” Nephril agreed before Studman laughed.
Nephril looked pensive, tilted his head to one side and looked up into Studman’s slightly parted lips. “And how hath thou come by losing thine ivories, eh, Master Studman?”
“Ah,” Studman began, somewhat sheepishly. “Well … you see…”
A wry smile softened Nephril’s face. “Would a fair maiden by any chance be a part of it then?”
“Hmm, well, you know me, Lord Nephril, never been one to turn down a well-turned heel.” Studman grinned. “Trouble was, there were others who’d not been able to either, ones somewhat bigger than me, believe it or not. Quite a few as it turned out. Oh well, shan’t be darkening Utter Shevling’s door again for some time. Mind you, I was getting a tad bored drawing fish with net.”
Nephril smiled wistfully. He’d not heard anyone quote the old legend in such a very long time, few now even knowing of it, only those classically educated, those who’d creditably passed through the Royal College.
From a distant reverie, Nephril softly suggested, somewhat tongue in cheek, “Perhaps thou shouldst fashion stone and dress it wet.”
“Now, funny you should say that,” Studman enthused, the allusion overlooked, “but I am actually on my way to a change of job.”
Nephril’s brows lofted in mock surprise.
“Yes,” Studman added, excitedly. “Been tempted away from my wood-cutting duties, not that I rue it, no, not really.”
“Had enough?” Nephril wryly prompted.
“Why yes! There’s a limit to what wood and forest can offer after all. Enjoyed it all the same, now don’t get me wrong, but, well, you know how it is.”
Nephril did. Studman Shaftrake had quite a reputation in a number of ways. Putting aside his amorous adventures, he was noted principally for being itinerant. Quick witted, keen and with boundless energy, he just simply got bored far too easily. The pedestrian nature of the realm didn’t help nor, come to that, his rather uncharacteristic Dican interests. Perhaps not so much interests but more accurately singular skills. “To put not too fine a point on it, the lad is a mechanicking genius,” Nephril soon explained.
Embarrassment had made Studman awkward, but it didn’t remove the sharp twinkle from his eyes. To allay his own discomfort, he blurted out, “So, how’s the fishing going then, Uncle Nephril? Still enjoying your fill?”
Nephril chuckled then laughed, finally explaining how the lad had devised a frame, a most ingenious and artful device to save himself much effort in furnishing fillets for his table.
“So,” Nephril said, “will thy fresh job whet thine interests anew, will it fire thee as mine fishing frame did?”
The young man looked genuinely uncertain, even a little confused. “I honestly don’t know, Uncle, not as yet, but I do hope so.” He explained that a messenger had arrived only that morning, with an order for wood and an offer of work. “He was very cagey, though. Said he couldn’t disclose a lot, that too much rested on it for it to get abroad.”
When Nephril looked suspicious, Studman was quick to defend the offer. “He assured me it was right up my street, though, you know, just the thing for my mechanicking bent. Said I’d meet plenty of others with the same kind of passion, lots of them in fact. It all seemed genuine but a bit too good to be true, I must admit, although he did put down an advance for the timber. Letter headed order as well!”
“Timber?” both Nephril and Melkin asked.
“Yes,” Studman said as he nodded. “Bought three whole trees, including cartage. Three of those behind me.” He gestured towards the laden wagon.
It was Lady Lambsplitter who asked the obvious question. “And where, pray, was the order from?”
Studman Shaftrake looked a bit confused. “Well, from Bazarral, Lady, Fair Bazarral.”
They all stared at him in amazement, but none more so than Steward Melkin, his jaw slowly dropping as Studman rummaged in his satchel. He finally produced a sheet of paper, a little torn and creased, and unfolded it for Nephril.
It was the items of the order that first caught Nephril’s eye. There, neatly tabulated in a confident script, the first line read: Quantity of softwood 4” baulks and of near 1’ length and bagged to the cwt in wet form to the 40 tonnes. He read the quantity again, with considerable disbelief.
The next line read: Cartage for the above item and in its entirety by means appropriate and in attendance of Mr. Studman Shaftrake Esq. to the above establishment. Nephril’s eyes darted to the top of the page where they found a somewhat smudged but still legible script that proclaimed and affirmed: Order Assign of the Collegial School of Yuhlm.
He held it out so the others could see, but especially the Steward who simply exclaimed, “Crowbeater!”
32 The Lost Northern Way
What little time Studman had been able to devote to Nephril and his party had been turned over to their immediate needs. They’d learnt that the Lost Northern Way stayed clear and well-made right the way through the forest, as were many of its side roads. There had remained enough demand for the produce either felled or mined there for the road’s ample upkeep, kept well clear by the constant toing and froing.
As for beyond, well, Studman had no idea, having never been that far, but had heard that the high lying land north of the forest was certainly clear of trees. Clear enough for line of sight? Nephril had wondered.
They’d been lucky that the road had lain in shadow, where the morning sun couldn’t beat down on them unrelentingly, for the way had climbed steadily and at times steeply. Engulfed by the forest’s towering growth, their eyes had quickly become bored, leaving much time for thought. For Nephril, it had reopened an age-long yearning now complicated by their unusual journey. He was beginning to feel his old time-wearied discontent when Phaylan happened to his side.
“Why did they grow all these big trees here, Lord Nephril?”
Nephril smiled as he tried to envisage the world as seen through Galgaverran eyes, eyes that would have known little but manmade shapes. Occasional trips into Bazarral, with its tree lined avenues and ornamental parks, would have ill-equipped Phaylan for the stark reality of Nature’s plenty.
Nephril explained how the forest had been here first, long before Mount Esnadac’s relatively recent rise, how all the land had once been covered by trees, as far as the deserts of the Plain of the New Sun. “From sea to drifting sands, from Gray heavenward peaks to heather-clad earthly hills, the tree was master of this land,” he revealed. “Mightier in those times than men.”
“What, even in the Vale?” Phaylan asked, incredulity lifting his features.
“Even in the Vale. Even there, there where but few still stand as wood and copse, their close packed brethren hacked down and uprooted long, long ago. The mouths of men are not mighty until their numbers swell, until what little Nature gives willingly be not enough.”
With the lad’s mind now careening off through difficult imaginings, trying to see everywhere swathed in forest, Nephril returned to his own thoughts. ‘Not mighty, no, certainly not. Not until Nature’s own inner workings could be turned against her, could be harnessed to man’s insatiable greed.’
Somehow, in the still silence, Nephril could again clearly see life’s own nature, all of life, both great and small, could see its persistence as no more than rightful selfishness. ‘Selfishness! Such a harsh word when viewed from a social stand,' he allowed. 'Singular success legitimised by communal need, itself the self-same selfishness.’
The trees continued to press slowly past, the worn stone flags to pound at their feet, the blue sky ever filling the gap above, but the closeness of Nephril’s reasoning still held fast. Even such sparse fare fed his yearning for truth, each tree clearly selfish in its own need of light and water and air, but more persistent within the greater numbers of their f
ellowship. So with man, where compassion and companionship only hide selfishness behind the conceit of their massed success, a mass to glorify heroism, altruism, consideration and love with its veneer of gentleness and compassion.
A very long and unnatural life had led Nephril to where no life should reasonably go, to immunity from Nature’s test and estrangement from its selfishness. He’d long lost that irrational urge to live on, that part that all life possessed for no other reason that its own possession.
Phaylan seemed to have sensed Nephril’s darkened mood for he’d remained at his lordship’s side for the rest of the morning, chatting about this and that. Even had they not been so engrossed, they probably still wouldn't have noticed how much height they'd gained, hidden as they were within the cleft of the trees. The slightly lower treetops now waved more in the brisker breeze it brought, the air at their bases a little lighter and cooler.
They stopped for their midday meal, and even spent some time dozing on the narrow verge where the air soon filled with the sounds of insects. The sky, though, had begun to cloud a little.
Slipping from the still distant Gray Mountains, solitary clouds now drifted overhead, white and rounded. They added some interest to the wayfarer's reclining gazes, their bellies full, limbs nicely warmed and their ears soporifically filled with the drone of insects.
Through only half-opened eyes, Nephril noticed that Melkin now stood, staring up at the sky, his nose twitching as he sniffed the air. When he realised he was being watched, he frowned down at Nephril and suggested they move on. “A long way still to go, eh, Lord Nephril, and I don’t suppose it’s going to get any easier.”
When Nephril just grunted and began to prise himself to his feet, Melkin confided, “Strikes me there’s rain in the air.” Nephril didn’t think so, the blue sky and its occasional white galleons quite at odds, but he said nothing.