Of Weft and Weave (Dica Series Book 2)

by Clive S. Johnson

  By mid-afternoon, though, he was having second thoughts. The fleeting white galleons had turned to a fleet of grey windjammers, pressing nearer in their numbers as time passed. The trees had become still shorter, and those bordering the road bore more dead growth. When the wind started whipping down at them, it was noticeably cooler, a dry, sweet smell clinging to it sharper edge.

  The clough formed by the trees finished a short way ahead. It held a pastel spread of mauves and purples, fans of teal rattling against the wilder wind. Grey sky spread across its top, the windjammers now pressed in to an unrelenting, leaden sheet. More worryingly, though, the Northern Way finally gave credence to its latter name and became lost to the peat encrusted Strawbac Hills.

  It was only when they came to the forest’s edge that they saw some vestige of its once striding route. A tumble of haphazard stone fragments lay in a broken ribbon up the remaining rise of the slope, curving further to the east before vanishing over the next brow.

  “It seems the best we can do is follow the remains,” Melkin suggested, “and see what’s left further on.” Nephril’s heart had already plummeted, forcing his mind to sink even lower in search of memories. He clutched at the book now held safe in his robes, as though it were a talisman.

  When they reached the brow, it was as though their efforts had been in vain for the view was only repeated - just another jagged ribbon of stones leading to yet another brow ahead. What was even more disheartening, though, was how much less of the road remained, its once broad way now reduced to a single track of broken stones.

  Their progress quickly suffered quite alarmingly, making Melkin worry where best to camp for the night. They’d some five hours left before the grey light would be drawn to blackness, five hours in which to find some sheltered spot.

  It appeared less likely at each brow, no safe valley or hollow hiding beyond, only a slight lessening of their laboured climb.

  The Strawbac Hills were actually one massive heave of land, an unbroken rise, initially steep but progressively lessening to an unremarkable run of rounded and featureless domes. Nothing marked their highest points for they none of them had a peak or summit, just an undulating expanse of boggy moorland. It was a soulless climb, the only interest the occasional water filled hollows, meagre tarns of brown, peaty and unwholesome water.

  At some unremarkable point along their route, the worst happened – the Lost Northern Way became truly lost. Its last stone flag, only a fragment really, jutted up like a broken tooth, or more likely a cock o’ the snoot. It pointed skyward, as if to say in jest, “Were you still to have your long lost gods, then this be the way of your pilgrimage.”

  They all stood around it, as though it were a small menhir, their hearts deep in despair. It was Nephril’s sigh that shattered the moment, that drew their eyes as he stumbled between them and sat down upon the stone. He rummaged in his robes and produced a book, from which he carefully slid a sheet of paper. It flapped errantly in his delicate grasp, the steady wind worrying for possession.

  By the time he’d got it straight and the right way up, they’d all gathered behind him, intent only on its mystery. They each saw something different, though, for it was wholly unrecognisable, even to Nephril. He did, however, have something of an advantage in his half-remembered awareness of its history.

  The only one for whom it wasn’t novel was Lambsplitter, having so recently passed it on to him. Her own prior possession gave her no greater insight, although, like Nephril, she suspected it to be a map of sorts, but its manner of reading remained a complete and utter mystery to them all.

  Steward Melkin, however, had the greatest intrigue and so began to peer at it more closely, prompting Nephril to offer it to him. Melkin looked surprised, as though it were too valuable to share, but carefully took it all the same. The wind impishly tried to intervene, but failed as Melkin turned his back on it and peered even more closely at the sheet.

  It contained a plethora of miniscule symbols, letters and numbers, a faint, dotted line running in a spiral through them all, visiting each in their turn. At the very centre was a triangle, quite large in comparison, from which radiated even fainter dashed lines. Melkin’s question of Nephril was distant and almost whispered. “Do you know what it is?”

  Nephril smiled. “If thou dost remember, Melkin, when I did recount mine sparse knowing of passing this way long ago, there in the Guardian’s Residence, I made mention of a steersman, or some such guide.” Melkin nodded. “Well, thou now hast in thine own hands that very thing, that very steersman, more vital now than ever before.”

  Melkin looked at the sheet, turned his head this way and that, and even turned the paper around. He still looked confused when he finally lifted his head, only to find Nephril chuckling. “You’ve a cruel sense of humour at times, do you know that, Lord Nephril?”

  “Nay, ‘tis but the fair hope of thine intrigue that doth make light of mine own current mood.”

  When Melkin looked back at the steersman, and peered closely at its diminutive marks, he remembered that discussion and in it found a profitable path. “At the time, you made mention of way-mounds, Lord Nephril, way-mounds and…”

  “Mensal-markers,” Nephril supplied. “Small piles of stones they were, the way-mounds, holding proud their mensal-markers, so they could each be seen from afar and thereby give a point to steer by.”

  “Point to steer by,” Melkin repeated, absently, as he continued to scrutinise the sheet.

  Whilst the two were occupied, Phaylan and Cresmol had been quietly listening. When Phaylan drew Cresmol and the other priests to a discreet huddle, they remained unnoticed. Lady Lambsplitter was too absorbed, following the steersman’s new lease of life, standing close by Melkin with her eyes drawn to his. Pettar and Penolith too were a captive audience, both still too cowed by the vast, wild and untamed terrain.

  The priests, however, had begun forming into a circle, only a little way from the others but still unnoticed. They each soon peered outwards.

  Melkin slowly asked, “Didn’t … didn’t you describe them...” He looked closer at the sheet. “Describe the mensal-markers as having legends on them, two lines and some numbers if I remember rightly?” Nephril affirmed it. “What? You mean like one of these?” Melkin angled the sheet towards Nephril and pointed.

  “Well, yes. Something of the sort, although mine memory leaves me uncertain, but…”

  Melkin was just about to interrupt when Phaylan shouted, “There! Lord Nephril? There!” He was pointing. “There, along the brow, to the right. Do you see?”

  They all followed his finger’s aim, all stared at the seemingly featureless scene but could see nothing, then Telson yelped, “Oh! Yes, you’re right, Phaylan. I can see it myself now.”

  Half of them did and half didn’t. Only the priests seemed to have good enough eyes. They all soon saw what Phaylan had, something only seemingly of the brow ahead by virtue of its height and nearness. However, only Puschin, the youngest, could see the mensal-marker’s silhouette atop, only just darker against the now rapidly darkening sky.

  33 Leiyatel’s Gaze

  The best is not always good enough. The best of a bad lot was Nephril’s sentiment as he firmly held the wall of their shelter to stop it from flapping free again. The way-mound had been less imposing than he remembered, a pile of bare rocks when it should have been a grassy mound, but it had indeed been the best to be had. The priests had done well to spot it, something he’d never have done, not in a thousand more years.

  Although Melkin had been right, and the wind was cutting in from the southwest, the way-mound was just too insubstantial to thwart the wind's grasp of their shelter. The light canvas writhed and jerked, this way and that, pulling savagely at the meagre pegs. Too frequently, one would suck free of the peat, letting the wind whistle through, leeching the paltry warmth they’d so laboriously hoarded.

  One of the priests, usually Telson, would then scramble from his blanket soon to be heard blindly searching
out the liberated peg. He’d taken to stacking rocks on them, and so as the night crept ever so slowly to dawn, the interruptions had grown less.

  Despite it, few snatched any real sleep. Their shelter had been fashioned to keep rain off some delicate outdoor repair in a sheltered corner of Galgaverre, not here where the elements were hurled almost horizontally against it.

  Their respite seemed to be lasting, Telson’s initiative having paid off, and so it gave Nephril some better comfort in which to think. He’d been trying, unsuccessfully, to picture his last and only other time here, trying to remember how he may have used the steersman.

  He could unearth nothing it seemed, no glimmer of familiarity, no smiting recollection, nothing. Maybe Melkin had been right, maybe the Northern Way’s clear lead in those days had made the steersman an unneeded precaution.

  The Steward had certainly seemed confident enough in himself, but Nephril still found it hard to believe he’d so quickly seen the answer to their riddle. “But then,” Nephril thought, “he dost hath his mechanicking mind.”

  When Melkin had finally seen the way-mound earlier, he’d stared back and forth between it and the steersman. It hadn’t been long before he’d turned and stared at the castle, once more repeatedly looking from it to the sheet and back again. All he’d said, though, even when questioned, had been, “Interesting. Now, that’s very interesting.”

  They’d known he’d been onto something when he’d started holding the steersman level and turning it this way and that, peering along its many lines to the view beyond. He’d even started squinting across it, as though to be sure, and mumbling numbers to himself. Only Lambsplitter and Nephril had kept vigil at his side, and so when he’d suddenly shouted, “Of course, damn it, but of course,” all the others had jumped in surprise.

  “See?” he’d excitedly shouted. “It’s so simple! Plain as the nose on your face.” When he’d thrust the steersman before them, and pointed at the triangle at its centre, he’d chided, “No, no, turn this way, come on, turn around.” He’d almost manhandled them in his haste, but had finally got them all facing the castle. “There, what’s that look like to you then?” He’d pointed once more at the triangle.

  Lambsplitter had quickly looked from the paper to the castle. “Ah!” she’d squealed. “The castle! Of course,” and Melkin’s eyes had sparkled, his words clattering from his mouth.

  “Aye, the castle, or Mount Esnadac, whichever, as they’re both the same shape.”

  She’d realised that Melkin’s triumphant face had become dimmer, that the daylight was fast dwindling. Even Melkin noticed, despite the joy of discovery, and so had quickly ordered them on to the next way-mound, and its meagre prospect of protection.

  They’d only just made it in time, just enough to erect the shelter before it became too dark to see. By the time they’d squeezed into its sanctuary their hunger had to be assuaged solely by feel, their carefully rationed supplies fumbled around between them.

  It had hardly been satisfying, with the constant threat of their shelter being blown away. It had seemed the prospect of sleep was their best course, but as they quickly learned, the best is not always good enough.

  Nephril was fairly immune to privation, but not so the others. Even those who had slept through the many initial threats of eviction, courtesy of their fatigue, had found themselves suddenly wide awake, assuming dawn to be just around the corner. Their hearts had sunk when they’d discovered they were still well short of midnight.

  When Nephril realised Melkin was awake, he’d tried very quietly to further his own understanding, to which Melkin had whispered back, “Can’t be sure, not ‘til daylight. Have to see what’s scribed on the mensal-marker. It seems to me, though, that everything relates to the castle, after all it must always be in view until well into the pass.”

  Melkin still had the steersman safe in his tunic, wrapped from the damp in waxed paper he’d found in their supplies. He’d patted it reassuringly and then drifted off into yet another short and shallow doze.

  Dawn did finally seep through the morning drizzle. Blinking into the chill air, Melkin’s initial disappointment at the poor visibility slowly turned to hope. The wind had dropped, so he could at least stand still and stare carefully and appraisingly at the pastel-wrought scene.

  Somehow, the damp air flattened everything, its greyness removing much in the way of relief due to shadow or hue. When he looked back the way they’d come, he was shocked to realise they’d passed an earlier way-mound.

  That one had retained its covering, though, the thick heather carpet reaching to just below its mensal-marker table, its presence evident only by its unnatural shape. When Melkin turned and scanned ahead, where he thought the way might lead, he was disappointed to see no more. “Either we trust to priestly orbs or I must put my own ideas to bed,” he told the morning, and then scrambled up their own naked mound, the large rocks clattering underfoot.

  Its mensal-marker had certainly seen better days, the table encrusted with moss and lichen, with bird droppings and glistening snail’s trails. He scratched at it with his fingernails and felt still-sharp edges within its surprisingly smooth metal. It wasn’t hard to clear, the centuries of neglect coming away quite easily as a thick grey, green and yellow mat. The cold, grey light made the revealed bronzen surface look brassy, the script speaking out from its muddy brown cuts.

  The broken night had left Melkin with a woolly mind, but it was swept aside by renewed enthusiasm that made his fingers fumble at his tunic and the steersman it held. “Two now to confirm it by, two along our way.”

  He peered closely at the steersman and then quickly at the marker. “Hmm,” he pondered, absently, “all linked … either dotted or dashed.” He didn’t notice Lady Lambsplitter, a measure of how absorbed he’d become, nor that she’d nimbly but none too quietly come up the mound behind him.

  He was still deep in conversation with himself even as she balanced a step or two behind and looked over his shoulder. She nearly went tumbling, though, when he sharply turned and threw out an arm as he started to shout, “Lady Lambsplitter… Oh!” He gasped as he struck her lightly across the chest, then grasped at her just in time to keep her from falling back.

  She was stunned, more startled really, and instinctively snatched at him, her surprising strength inadvertently drawing him close. He looked mortified, convinced he’d hurt her, shame, guilt and disbelief stirring the paladin within, not that he knew it.

  Their eyes were but inches apart, their bodies pressed yet closer, warmth passing between. She felt their lips almost brush, close enough to breathe of the other. Her eyes half-closed as her lips slowly parted.

  “There’s another way-mound behind us, one we’ve missed,” Phaylan shouted up. “I didn’t know if you’d seen it this morning, Steward Melkin?” His voice had held uncertainty before trailing off, his eyes then darting between them.

  “Indeed, I did see it, Master Phaylan, indeed I did, before having to save this fair maiden a fall,” and swiftly withdrew his arms.

  “Not good footing, no, but a fine sight, my Lady,” he said softly to Lady Lambsplitter. “An end to riddles and a surety for our way forward,” he added with an air of having touched upon disparate themes.

  “Have you finally worked it out then, Steward Melkin? Have you?” Phaylan enthused. Melkin smiled and beckoned them to the marker.

  They looked down at its engraved table, at the circle marked there, from which two lines pointed, each with two numbers, one of each pair more dominant and of a greater value than the other.

  “Distance,” Melkin revealed. “Distance to the next way-mound, and this,” he said, pointing at the dominant number of the remaining pair, “is how far we are from the one before, the very one you’ve just brought to my attention, Master Phaylan.”

  “Right enough,” Phaylan confirmed after scrabbling around the mound and staring along the line’s aim, directly at the missed mound. “But it’s not a mile and a bit away, surely?” The
y’d certainly laboured more than a mile in their previous night’s dash, more like three it seemed to Phaylan. So it had been, for the numbers signified leagues, leagues from one to the next of the mensal-markers.

  The diminutive numbers, Melkin espoused, were hours, the time expected to walk their respective lengths.

  This had Phaylan puzzled. “Surely the one’s another way of saying the other?”

  Melkin laughed, although kindly. “Nothing like. Not alike at all. Here a league may take twice as long to walk because of the great climb involved, or half the time if it be downhill.”

  It didn’t take Phaylan long, much to Melkin’s surprise, about as long as it took Lambsplitter. “It’s a measure of height, isn’t it, Steward?”

  “Relative height,” he corrected as he beamed in admiration at the lad’s quick wit.

  “Whether the way ahead climbs or falls, and by how much,” Lady Lambsplitter succinctly summarised.

  When Melkin cast an affirming eye her way, he found it captured by her own, somehow caressed and soothed. For a moment, though, he found his gaze hard to take back, only coming away reluctantly to Phaylan’s now perplexed look.

  “So? Why the steersman?” Melkin asked him, but it was Lady Lambsplitter who furnished the answer, who explained how it gave the wayfarer freedom from having to keep both way-mounds in sight.

  “You see, you can always tell where you are by where the castle is. Look,” she said as she took the piece of paper from Melkin’s pliant hands. “It’s always at the centre.”

  Like Melkin had, she too pointed at the triangle. “If you line it up with the castle, along the dashed line, then from this one mound you know where both the one before and the one after are. If we were to be between the two, then provided we can still see one of them, the direction to the other is known.”