The lad was fascinated, his eyes wide and glistening. When she offered him the steersman, he glanced briefly at Melkin for approval, willingly given, and then took it with reverence.
“So,” Nephril said from where he’d been listening intently but unnoticed at the base of the mound. “That ist how thou knowest which mound we be at, eh, Steward? And so, where should our next one be?”
Phaylan confidently pointed across the heather and bracken, along an apparently unremarkable line, but wasn’t finished with his questions just yet. “Why the spiral, my Lady?”
Interestingly, Phaylan had asked it of her, not Melkin, but it was he who answered, “It signifies how far from Dica each mound is. So you see,” he pointed at their current place on the steersman, “here it’s close-in to the triangle, not far from Mount Esnadac, but progressively further away as we follow the route. The castle’s always the constant beacon that holds it all in place, the beacon we’ll not loose ‘til we pass beyond the mountains.”
As he finished, their elation began to wane as his final words sank home. Beyond the mountains had brought ice to their blood, and ice it was that Nephril hoped would not bar their way.
He wondered how Storbanther was, whether Leiyatel had changed in any way yet, in a way that might already have closed the pass. He realised they’d not seen the Gray Mountains for some time now, that the rising Strawbac Hills had hidden them, had replaced the forest’s obfuscation.
The Gray Mountains had begun to take on almost mythic proportions, some great symbolic obstacle with attendant riddles and rites, a fairy-tale borderland into the unknown. Naningemynd had gone down to the stream that soothed all hurts, whereas Nephril’s soothing seemed to lie above the springs of water, even above the feet of men. Maybe his land of everlasting dreams, of his aefreniehstan swefnen, lay beyond the sky, beyond embrace, behind the granite shield, his own carr sceld.
They’d passed their latest test by wringing reason and use from the steersman, but what of the final test to come? How would they all fare on the long climb, the ever more gruelling way ahead? Nephril was sure they’d none of them realised just how mythic that challenge would be, how so utterly daunting.
What’s more, he could no longer help, for he already felt his distance from Leiyatel. They may still have been in her gaze, but it didn’t succour Nephril’s weft and weave, nor forestall his mortal tread. They only had hope now of that gaze, that it would succour their desires, would grant their feet be lighter, their hearts that bit stronger and their breath more golden. Nephril knew that his final path would be his hardest, in all ways, but one he hoped would still hold enough of Leiyatel’s gaze.
34 The Strawbac Hills
Tedium! It was the only word that seemed to sum up the Strawbac Hills, pure tedium. The seemingly endless climb, the hard going of heather, bracken and bog grass, never mind the sucking gaps of black mire between, all sapped their very will. The only saving grace was the ever more spectacular views afforded of the forest below, of the vales and dales and castle to the south. It would fill their eyes at every stop as they rested back against the pliant slope, keeping their backsides clear of the brown-staining damp by perching them on crowns of grass or swaying tufts of heather.
Ahead and to the north, their way held no view at all, only the frayed horizon of the next near brow, above which the cloud-stained sky dampened them with drizzle for much of the day. Occasionally the old Northern Way would miraculously reappear, its flags still firm upon their enduring bed. Their party would then step out, feel the freedom of an easy stride and the comfort of drying legs.
That first full day on the Strawbac Hills set most of them in their own worlds, wracked ever darker thoughts from their idling minds. Even Melkin and Lambsplitter toiled separately, their strange affinity put aside. Granted, Melkin’s mind was full of steersman, way-mounds, times and distances. Of them all, though, Pettar and Penolith seemed to have found most union now. They it was who chatted and offered each other assistance, who pointed out features in the southern view and knocked together like any normal brother and sister would.
However, as the day slowly drew to a close, even they became subdued, joined the general despondency the impersonal mass of the moors irresistibly imbued. Lady Lambsplitter had become quite withdrawn, more so than would have been expected of her practical nature. It was only when Melkin had found a shallow hollow, the best to be had for their night’s camp, that he discovered why.
Whilst the priests busied themselves erecting the shelter, she wandered away some distance, to the remnants of the road where one of its edging flags formed a seat. She was cautiously removing her boots, a shapely but blackened ankle placed on her still lilywhite knee. Even from where Melkin watched, he could clearly see restrained pain etched across her face.
By the time he’d joined her, her foot was bare, large white patches of skin either mobile or torn, their rolled edges revealing red stains beneath. “That looks nasty,” he noted as he knelt down before her and gently stroked the top of her foot.
She looked embarrassed but angry, and not a little worried. “Oh, what am I going to do? How the blazes am I to keep up if this is going to keep happening?”
He didn’t answer but lifted her boot and cautiously felt inside. “There’s no lining!” he exclaimed and gave her a disapproving look. “A dress item, perhaps?”
“Well, I was going to a funeral, if you remember?” By now, much against her wishes, she’d become the centre of attention.
Penolith was aghast. “My dear, your feet! You must be in agony, you poor thing.”
Before he knew it, Melkin had been eased aside by those proffering remedies. Pettar had found the softest of sphagnum and was gently dabbing at her sores whilst Nephril carefully inspected them, then called for their sewing kit.
“The unbroken ones need lancing,” he said, and ordered Phaylan to strike a fire.
The only dry place was the old road itself and so the priests brought what best tinder and kindle they could find and mounded it there. Having finished cleaning her wounds, Pettar directed the fire-making and sorted through the kindle for the driest of the wood, mainly dead heather. Nephril was about to strike a spark from his box when Melkin interrupted.
He had his own box, a small agate affair, tooled and inlaid, but in which no fire-steel or flint resided. When he opened its tight lid, Nephril saw only sticks, each with a black, bulbous blob at its end. Melkin removed one before again sealing the box tight and turning it over. The underside was a dull mauve colour, marked with comet shapes, and against which, holding it near the tinder, Melkin smartly drew the stick’s bulb.
The dull evening air erupted with bright blue and green light, the bulb melting to a flaming orange glow as it dripped to the tinder, Melkin already well clear. It fizzled, spluttered, spat and trilled until the crackling of wood could be heard. As he carefully wiped his hands clean of turquoise dust, rubbing hard at one or two stains, Melkin noticed he was being stared at.
“Oh,” he exclaimed, rather sheepishly. “Sorry. I should’ve warned you all. Bit unpredictable, but it always works a treat.” He looked down in defence at the blazing fire.
“More Bazarral wit and wrought I assume,” Nephril sighed, a look of resignation on his face as he looked down at his own now redundant tinder box.
Telson had found a needle and he and Puschin watched as Nephril pushed its blunt end into the end-grain of a stick, then placed it all carefully in the flames. Meanwhile, as the needle began to glow white, he did the same with Melkin’s knife whilst the others attended to Lambsplitter.
It wasn’t the pain so much as the worry that was making her fret, keeping her usually soft features sharp in a frown. She was adamant, though, that it wasn’t going to hold her back nor slow them down. “I’ll go barefoot if need be, on my hands and knees if necessary, but I’m not giving up.”
Pettar gently laughed. “I don’t think it’ll come to that, my Lady. If we tidy up your wounds and give you more worthy footwear then I’m su
re you’ll be fine. A bit painful for a while I’ve no doubt, but strikes me you’ve got more than enough fortitude for that.”
He was right. He’d no real need to distract her when Nephril came to drain her blisters, nor when Melkin carefully cut away the loose skin. As they tidied her feet, Pettar explained how her boots were inadequate, but how fortunate it was he’d a spare pair of sandals.
“I’d never fit into a pair of yours!” she objected, to which he smiled and winked.
“Never fear, good Lady, nothing a deft bit of knife-work can’t put right.”
By the time they could only see by the firelight, he’d already cobbled a pair that fit well enough, even if they were somewhat inelegant. They all had a bite to eat and rationed out the water and so were soon relatively content in their shelter, no wind this night to play havoc.
~o~
The following day proved drier if still somewhat chilly, but Lady Lambsplitter’s feet had healed appreciably. She looked decidedly embarrassed, though, hobbling about in her new footwear, but once more resolute and buoyed. She shared more in Melkin’s calculations when he set to with the steersman, helping him judge where their next way-mound must lie.
To the south, the castle still filled the view, the Upper Reaches now swathed in low cloud, their last way-mound sitting proudly silhouetted against it on the brow below. When they turned to begin their new day’s journey, Puschin noticed yet more of the Northern Way a short way off, its flags glistening with dew in the morning sun.
“Maybe an easier start,” Melkin hoped, which did in fact turn out. Not only an easier start but a pleasantly easy morning.
The old road had survived far better here, higher up the hill where the peat was thinner and drier. There were even stretches of meadow grass alongside, small mauve flowers littering their spreads. The road climbed more directly up the now shallower slope, keeping more to the north.
The easier climb was welcome for it was much further to the next brow, mid-morning by the time they drew near, and when the lowering sky beyond briefly revealed a tantalising slash of white. When another appeared to the west, Phaylan called to Nephril, “What is that, my Lord? Over there.” He pointed.
Nephril peered that way and smiled, but rather wryly. “‘Tis a fairy-tale borderland to the unknown, mine lad, a formidable beckoning to the foolhardy.” He checked his words, dragged himself from his constant thoughts and looked back apologetically at their now staring faces.
He said no more, only lowered his head and pushed on against the incline, stepping heavily from one broken flag to the next. His foot caught in the tough grass between two and he fell forward onto his hands. The others were around him in a flash, carefully lifting him to his feet, dusting down his robes.
“Don’t fuss. Leave me be … please,” he implored. “’Twas just a trip. Nothing broken.” He sighed before gingerly stepping forward and wincing. “Damn!” he spat. “Oh, but mine foot doth ache now.” He wouldn’t be consoled, but only waved them aside as he limped on, leaving their worried faces to follow on behind.
Pettar soon came to his side, looked askance and asked, “Are you sure you’re alright, Lord Nephril. You don’t look comfortable.”
Nephril again sighed as he came to a halt, all but Penolith cautiously passing them by, but he then turned to Pettar and admitted, “Mine body doth seem to be letting me down somewhat this past day or two. ‘Tis no great worry, but … well … keep it to thyself if thou wouldst, eh, Pettar?” His deep set eyes seemed even deeper now, full of old age but new wearying. Pettar was about to press Nephril when he saw those eyes were now looking past him, and steadily widening.
Nephril pushed forward almost at a run as Pettar turned to look, leaving him to stare in wonder. A great curtain of cloud had separated, revealing a gigantic and sheer vertical ridge, black and forbidding, a massive buttress to a hanging valley. At its edge rested a thick bulge of blue ice, its head shrouded in brilliant white snow. The others now stood with Nephril along the line of the next brow, all staring intently. Pettar rushed to join them.
Where lower down only a glimpse had been seen, here, looking from the brow and across the shallow rise of the moor top, the whole of the Gray Mountains now stood before them in their naked might.
Still some unfathomable distance away, the serried ranks of Pettar’s white-haired, wise old men strode across their vision. Shoulder to shoulder, they marched in a long line from the west all the way to the far off dessert in the east. They filled the whole world from edge to edge, reared imponderably high into the tumbling clouds that harried their peaks, an impenetrable wall to Dica’s suddenly diminished realm.
Melkin sat heavily on the road, his legs weakening at the sight, his eyes glazed and mouth hanging. Even Pettar had to squat down, his own legs quivering uncontrollably. His youthful mind had never envisaged them like this, had never conjured such awe, nor such immediate and overpowering menace. Even Lambsplitter swayed a little as she tried to take in their sweep, tried to fill her mind with their untenable mass. They’d thought Mount Esnadac and its shroud of castle impressive, but it had nothing on this, was but a mere mound of dirt beside.
Phaylan was the first to find voice, eventually, although it quivered when it came. “Bleeding heck!” was all he could find to say at first, but more did come. “How in the blazes does it all stay up?”
Only Nephril really heard, only he who hobbled to Phaylan’s side where he looked down at him and softly smiled. “Impressive is it not?”
That simple observation seemed enough to break the spell, enough to drag the others from their awe. Whilst the tumult of wondrous descriptions grew, Nephril quietly scanned the peaks.
The fact he had to crane his neck so far reminded him of the magnitude of the challenge ahead. “Still some forty miles away, yet seeming so near in the way they fill the eye. How far still we have to climb … that I have to push mine fast failing limbs.”
Only Penolith heard his plaintive words, only she saw him search amongst the white-capped heads. Only she noticed the flicker of his eye when he seemed to find their distant way. He’d seen neither clement pass nor snaking road, only two great ice-packed ridges that jolted his ancient memory.
That view must have seared itself into his mind to have lasted so long, to have brought forth such clear recognition across the millennia. Slightly to the east, behind inconspicuous shouldering ridges, the Northern Way’s pass lay hidden.
A long stretch still across the bleak and barren moor. Many miles yet of peat before they’d reach the scree and rocks and crags that lay at the feet of that granite wall. Some seven or eight leagues still of the Strawbac Hills, over their hopefully drier and still road-crossed heather.
If not, then Nephril knew without doubt that he would not make it, that his fibre would fail. Let that not be, he pleaded. After all, that was all he’d ever desired, to make that one last climb and so finally rest behind his own carr sceld, and fall peacefully into the arms of Naningemynd.
35 A Partnership Cemented
Usually, moorland instils a feeling of utter exposure but with a tinge of profound isolation, as though cast there naked yet unseen; literally atop-the-world yet hemmed in by an unrelenting and featureless horizon, no place to hide but then nothing to hide from. High moorland, like the Strawbac Hills, should rightly afford little but purple heather, bare bracken and the almost ghostly call of unseen birds.
Certainly, the mournful whistle of plover and the insistence of greenshank both conjure brooding spectres, but the chip-chip-chip of a pipit would soon cast them back. But then, as though a ghost itself, the hidden fieldfare would cackle contemptuously at the unfortunate nightjar’s frog-like call. Only the tongue-twisting eloquence of the skylark would bring a hint of soul-warming comfort to soften such a stark and impersonal place.
In fact, the Strawbac Hills weren’t hills at all, nor did they adhere to the true spirit of moorland. Where they should have surmounted all, heaving in splendid isolation, they were cowed by
the mountains they lapped; just as cowed as Melkin and Lambsplitter were, as Pettar and Penolith and all their party of priests. Only Nephril seemed unaffected, not driven mute but simply lost in his own thoughts.
It was fortunate the Northern Way remained to guide them, although its usual flags had long given way to setts. Like well-worn teeth, they stubbed and tripped or lay sudden puddles of black mud across their path. At least their treachery gave a clear lead, removing the need for the steersman and keen sight.
Although the going was uneven and their eyes almost wholly held aloft to the north, they made surprisingly good time. Nephril, though, had found it harder work, had more often stumbled or found need of a rest, and so had slowly dropped back. Penolith had kept with him, only a step or two behind, but to her his pain had been all too clear.
At times he’d swear and curse at himself, and then screw his face up before pushing on once more. It was actually his suffering that edged Penolith’s fear of the mountains to one side and let her Bazarran blood run free. It welled in her stomach and then rose in her throat, moistened her eyes and tightened her jaw, but its unfamiliarity simply stymied her.
It was quite some time before she could see her way through such new emotions and could weakly raise her voice. “Lord Nephril?” she tentatively broached as she came beside him and looked gravely into his eyes, which he quickly averted. She tried again. “Please, Lord Nephril? Let … let me help.” He stopped again, plainly pained, but when he turned his eyes to her she was shocked.
Nephril’s eyes had always been deep-set, but what she now saw made her think of inkwells, or the tins of oil she’d sometimes seen about Galgaverre. Those eyes now seemed hidden, pale reflections, as of deep water in a sunken well. Then there was his skin; grey, dusty, paper thin.
She stared at him but Nephril soon took a frail hold of her arm and confided, “Do not pity me, mine Guardian. Do not wet thine eyes on mine own account for I am but almost happy. Dost thou know that, eh, mine songbird-at-large?” She looked confused. He reached up and stroked her cheek, his voice full of innocent envy. “Such vigour, such fine supple strength. Oh, but were mine own fibre only half as firm.”
Of Weft and Weave (Dica Series Book 2) Page 31