Now she looked lost. “What’s wrong, my Lord, why do you ail so?”
At first he ignored her but then looked around at their vanishing party and sighed. “Come on, Guardian of the Guardian Priests, lend me some of thine strength for we must keep up.” With her help they kept pace but still some way behind the others, far enough to keep their talk to themselves.
It didn’t flow easily, not at first, but Nephril eventually seemed to find words she’d understand. “I may not have right to be thine superior, not now. No, nor ever had such lawful cause in fact, but I have long been infused with the means to be such.”
She was about to sympathise, to denounce the Steward as an imposition, when Nephril squeezed her arm. “‘Tis rightly so, mine dear. Do not naysay it. It be true. King Belforas did indeed purloin Galgaverre. But, well, the knowing doth not alter what I am.”
He rested a little more against her, surprising her by his meagre weight. She felt she could so easily carry him herself if need be. Without warning, she found she could no longer hold back a persistent worry and so blurted out, “Lord Nephril? I can’t say I’m happy about the Steward. His being my superior of all things. Not happy at all, despite what you’ve said. It just … well … it just doesn’t feel right … you know, having a … a Bazarran in charge.”
His face turned sour and his already heavy eyes even heavier. “Mine dear, but thou art Bazarran thyself! Hast thou ne’er suspected it so? Eh? Hast it ne’er struck thee why the Bazarran should ere choose other than their very own blood to minister to Leiyatel?”
When she looked dumbstruck, he allowed, “Ah, but there we are, true to thy vows of course, I should have thought. Yeah, but thou hath all been so true to thine own blood’s long fashioning, as the very Bazarran themselves decreed.”
A partridge burst from its cover and flapped ungainly away, in a huge arc across the heather before finally settling once more some safe way off. Penolith had been startled, had yelped and clung instinctively to Nephril, making him stagger back. She was mortified, quickly regained her balance and protectively wrapped her arms about him, until sure he was unharmed.
Just then the others called a halt and so Nephril sat Penolith down and took her hand in his. “There is much,” he began, “that thy life in Galgaverre, and the duties that hath enshrined it, will hath little prepared thee for.” She stared at him like a lost child, her eyes darting about his face.
“Thy kind’s carefully fashioned blood and fibre give little hope of real understanding, Penolith, of firming in thine own mind how Dica did truly usurp Bazarral.” She still said nothing, even when he added, “Thy fealty to the king and all that stems from him hath been nothing but unwitting sham.”
Slowly, her eyes became steadier, her mouth firmer, but her words yet thinner still. “In which case, my Master of Ceremonies, you too must be a sham.” Her eyes began to widen. “After all, you were assigned Galgaverre by that very royal line. What’s more, you’re even high Dican by birth! Is that what you’re saying, that your own life’s been nothing but a lie?”
Her eyes, her anguished tone, the quiver on her lips all spoke of a shattered view. She was finding so much of the world outside Galgaverre, beneath its outward beauty, was turning out to be just so disappointing. All the order and surety that had marked out her own life had never hinted at there being so much complication and confusion, so much intrigue, skulduggery and sheer utter mess. It felt squalid and unseemly, not more so than in the body of her once superior, in Lord Nephril, the King’s own Master of Ceremonies.
His hesitation was an eloquent enough answer. It made her stare hard into his eyes where she hoped to see denial, but it wasn’t to be. “Perhaps now,” he said, “thou canst begin to see mine own predicament.” He looked somehow hollow. “Dost thou see how lost be mine own purpose now, how mine ancient weariness so surely drags me to the very edge?” Her own worries now seemed to pale. Her face softened and she returned his grasp with her own more tender press.
That press came from a growing affection, but it was also a cry for the truth. “Why are we going to Nouwelm, Lord Nephril? What’s the real reason we’re here, the murky mire meaning?”
For once he smiled. It didn’t relieve the sour taste in her mouth but it did give her some comfort. “I may be Dican by birth but I have grown far more Bazarran over time, a great deal of which I have had to suffer. So, it may surprise thee to hear that we are indeed truly here on Leiyatel’s behalf.”
He began to affirm that they did intend returning those things from Nouwelm essential to safeguarding Leiyatel’s salvation, but she interrupted him with the single word, “But?”
He smiled again. “So, thou see, ‘tis true, there be Bazarran in thee. Thou hath quite clearly cut straight to the chase.”
She looked affronted at first, but then couldn’t help but return his smile. “You’ve also got some purpose of your own, though, haven’t you, eh, Lord Nephril?”
The others had started getting ready to move on. “Thou art right, mine dear. I have purpose of mine own.” He glanced quickly about, and content they were still out of earshot, said, “Mine life has been overly long, made such by mine weft and weave of Leiyatel. So very, very long that all in it is now but chimera, an unreal burden.” When she looked aghast, he simply smiled again, but she saw an edge to it.
Melkin called to them, that they were ready to move off, and Nephril waved he’d heard but remained seated. Pettar, though, hung at the group’s heels as they left, often turning to look back.
Nephril gently took hold of Penolith’s arm. “I must trust to thee, mine one true Penolith, trust that thou wilt aid mine purpose, although thou understand it not.” She avowed as much.
“For many a century I have been desirous of death. Nay, nay!” he quickly added as she stiffened. “Hear me out, mine assign. Take mine words as truth of it for they know far more than thy short life ever will,” and she bit her lip. He tried as best he could to make her see just how long living eventually removes any yearn for more, that Nature’s irrational imperative to persist cannot survive what its own fashioning could never prepare it for.
“I am ancient, Penolith, far older than thou could ere imagine. I am so old I have outgrown mine own being, gone beyond Nature’s remit. I should not now be.” He saw a glimmer of understanding, there in her still shocked eyes, in her Galgaverran eyes. Her kind had been wrought for many needs, but the one most useful now was their fealty.
In ancient times, they’d been compelled to take their lead from the Bazarral stewards, but the Dicans had supplanted them with their own, with Nephril, their cuckoo in the Galgaverran nest. Nephril’s tones, his timbre, his very voice, had long become their will, and here it played out no different. “I must get beyond the mountains, Penolith, beyond Leiyatel’s embrace, even beyond her gaze, for mine desire of death to be fulfilled.”
He made her accept how important it was that he pass behind the Gray Mountains’ granite shield, his own carr sceld. “Even here, here where her embrace is but a dwindling fraction, mine weft and weave of her be enough to bar mine own death, mine fall to Naningemynd’s own soothing embrace.”
He flicked his sallow eyes towards Dica. “Even her gaze be enough to thwart mine end,” and then he grimaced. “A persisting limbo! Too weak to live yet too frail to die.” That had been enough. No more needed saying, and their brief delay was at an end.
Oddly, it didn’t seem to take them long to catch up with the others. Perhaps their party had dawdled in their concern for Nephril, or maybe he’d become just that bit stronger.
The Gray Mountains had so absorbed them all for so long that none had noticed the Vale of Plenty, the Plain of the New Sun, the Eyeswin Vale nor the lower reaches of the castle itself all steadily fall from view behind the moor’s southern swell. Even Pettar had only half noticed, each time he’d looked back at Nephril and Penolith’s slow progress.
It was on one of those backward glances that the emptier horizon struck him. Castle Dica st
ill dominated, but only from above the Star Tower, the silver needle still plain against the castle’s darker mass. Behind Mount Esnadac lay the long snake of the Southern Hills, a hazy lilac fold in the far off distance. The Sea of the Dead Sun still scattered sparkling sunlight, well to the west, but only from its far off depths, out where its volume became lost to an indifferent horizon.
It was then that Pettar felt most cut off from all he knew. Even the castle looked foreign. Its Upper Reaches no longer leant against a low perspective but seemed erect, a great triangular black stain against the pastel blue sky.
Far more startling, though, was the castle’s summit, no longer brought to a point as he’d always assumed, but flat and broad. Its crater’s surmounting wall had long been fashioned as a crown, a dutiful but enormous replica of that one supreme royal symbol.
He wasn’t aware he’d stopped, staring aghast at that powerful but tritely proclaimed message, not until Nephril’s close voice suggested, “Bloody silly sight is it not?”
Pettar, though, was now distracted by the way Penolith held him in her gaze, and through it spoke urgent volumes. It was only when her eyes flicked towards Nephril and were then downcast that he felt free to move once more, to look at Lord Nephril and somehow understand.
From then on they cast not a glance behind but stayed close together, the three of them, with only idle chitchat to fill their time. Nephril didn’t question Pettar’s close attendance for somehow he knew that the bond between brother and sister had brought Pettar unquestioningly into their fold, and thereby ensured his unthinking support.
As is the way with moorland, not a great deal happens, and when it does it does so ever so slowly. What had seemed like an unending moor-top imperceptibly began to drop lower, a slight slope at best but enough to raise the hope of finding somewhere sheltered for their night’s camp. The weather, though, had begun to change.
Above Castle Dica and the vales and dales about, blue sky still canopied all, but above Strawbac the grey mantle had grown yet thicker. To the west and far along the mountain’s march, to where its range denied the sea its northern fill, more forbidding masses had gathered. Black and heaped and rolling eastwards, they fumbled and groped their obscuring way along the innumerable peaks.
Melkin eyed the west, kept glancing that way when he wasn’t searching ahead. They’d passed quite a few mensal-markers but hadn’t thought to consult them, not whilst the weather had held and the way remained so well defined. Now, though, with the rolling threat of rain growing ever nearer, the very next marker was duly inspected.
“Two leagues!” Melkin exclaimed, once he’d studied the steersman. “Two leagues yet before we’re off the moor. Damn it!”
“How do you know that, Melkin?” Lambsplitter asked as she drew close and peered at the steersman.
“There,” he said, pointing. “Below some of the markers there’s a symbol.” He stabbed at their next one. “It’s got three small triangles beneath it, do you see?” She did. “The first marker on new terrain,” he revealed, somewhat smugly. “The one we’re now at has a spiky symbol, the last of boggy ground, marsh grass you see.” She looked closely, smiled to herself and then approvingly at Melkin.
Whilst they’d been so enthralled, Phaylan and Cresmol had taken their own initiative and were now doing some unpacking. Before they set off again, Phaylan offered each a tied roll. It was only when they were opened that their purpose became clear - light but waterproof smocks. One look to the west was enough, and the smocks were duly donned.
By the time they’d finally stepped from the moor’s tedium, the heavens had opened and sheets of rain obscured the sky. To make matters worse, they’d not dropped into a shielding valley or behind a convenient cliff or crag but onto a rock-strewn scarp that climbed its way into the obscuring squall.
The Gray Mountains had by now long been lost, the cloud at their summits seeming to have dropped towards them as the rain bore in. Amidst the torrential downpour, there’d been nothing for it but to pitch camp and sit it out.
36 Highs and Lows
It had been plain to Phaylan even then, just before dawn, that the rain had passed for the stars had been out when he’d first popped his head from the shelter. Their sparkling spread had soon retreated, though, behind the stirring sun’s anil stain, slowly revealing the mountain’s icy mantles seemingly lit from within, their white-encrusted azure depths magically tinged with ember edges.
From the west, in place of rain, a gentle and drying breeze had blown in, its soft meadow fragrance promising much for the day. To the south lay only night’s persisting blackness, keeping the castle’s proud form still hidden. It was the east that finally held Phaylan’s gaze. Its strident defile of peaks soon snatched the sun’s rose reds and pinks, its broom and gorse yellows, and with them made pennons of the mountains’ east facing flanks.
The night seemed to dally about their camp, though, well after elsewhere had become bathed in the sun’s virgin glow. Being so high and close to the mountain meant they were kept within its shadow, the air remaining chill, the dew persisting and the terror of the rearing heights staying hidden a while longer.
Phaylan had hoped to see Lord Nephril about first but had been disappointed, hailed by Melkin as he wrestled himself into the open. Of them all, he it was who seemed least adapted to an outdoor life, who seemed most shocked by the privation and discomfort. He didn’t complain, though, well, not much, and certainly not in Lady Lambsplitter’s presence.
His salutation seemed heartfelt enough, but perhaps only well-rehearsed. “Good morning to you, Phaylan. I hope you slept well?” Phaylan knew there’d be a rider, and he was right. “Just wish I had. Damned hard this ground you know. Far more so than I’m used to, I can tell you.” Phaylan didn’t comment. His thoughts were still with Lord Nephril, and they were worrying ones.
Fortunately, Lady Lambsplitter dragged herself from the shelter, somewhat stiffly and sleepily, and stood blinking at the new day. As Phaylan expected, she quickly engaged the Steward and so left Phaylan ignored and thankfully overlooked. Whilst the two traipsed off to find a stream to wash in, Phaylan returned his own attention to the Gray Mountains.
Although still in shadow, the lightening sky now gave the scarp more detail and began to expose its daunting steepness. The Northern Way curved to the east so it could rise at a shallower angle, and was the clearest Phaylan had yet seen it, largely cut from the very rock of the mountain.
Its surface was divided into three; smooth ribbons either side of a central, ribbed crown. His gaze traced its ascent to where it vanished from sight around the gentle curve of the scarp, beyond which the shadows still lay too deep to see more.
At last, Lord Nephril appeared, although shakily and uncharacteristically groggy-eyed. He acknowledge Phaylan with a grunt and turned at a stoop to look up the mountain. Craning his head clearly pained him and so he only stared for a moment before slumping to a rock from where he stared at his feet.
Phaylan squatted down beside him and placed a hand on his arm. It made Nephril start and jerk his head towards Phaylan, but it was the alarm in his eyes that really scared the young priest and so stymied his voice.
They silently stared at each other for a while, before Nephril quietly said, “Thank thee, mine faithful aide. Thank thee for thy concern.” His gaze flicked up at the mountains again but quickly returned to Phaylan. “Thou art not to worry, young Phaylan. I know what I do. Pity me not.” Before Phaylan could let slip his hand, Nephril covered it with his own and smiled. “I know thou see the weakness in me, but ‘tis rightly so. There is purpose to mine affliction. Good purpose.”
He gently patted Phaylan’s hand a few times and let his smile slide, his eyes becoming heavy as it did. Phaylan removed his own hand and said, “If there’s anything I can do then … well, you’ve only to ask.” Nephril slowly nodded, tried to smile again but then looked out towards Castle Dica, still largely lost behind the Strawbac Hills.
When Phaylan stood, and was
about to move away, Nephril said, “There seems to be much succour in Galgaverran blood, mine lad, much to make stout that which be too old to carry itself. Why, and what be woven in it, I know not.”
Phaylan sat back down and peered closely at Nephril, bit his lip and finally plucked up courage. “But you’ve been this far before, Lord Nephril. You came, all that time ago, when you found the pass to be closed by snow.”
Nephril laughed hollowly. “Ah, indeed, indeed I did, but thou see, Leiyatel was strong then, strong enough to succour me even here.”
There was a bit of a commotion at the shelter, Pettar and Penolith emerging somewhat more refreshed than most and clearly arguing about something. When they saw Nephril so near, they stopped and looked a little shamefaced. Nephril leant close in to Phaylan. “Thy concern be not alone. If thou wish to aid me then keep thyself and thy fellow priests close by, eh?”
Nephril didn’t wait for an answer, but turned a brighter eye to brother and sister, even managing a smile of sorts. It didn’t fool them, though. They still fussed over him, checked he was rested, as well as he could be, and if he were hungry or not. From then on, though, Phaylan, and in short order the other priests, all kept close by, as best they could. Even as they dismantled the shelter and packed it away, there was always one or two close by.
When they at last stepped back out onto the Northern Way, and set their faces resolutely ahead, Nephril was almost swamped by Galgaverrans. Strangely, in some unfathomable way, it did seem to improve his step, added extra wind to his breath and fibre to his legs. He almost strode out as though on a pleasant summer’s afternoon walk, but for the growing chill and the unrelenting rise.
Of Weft and Weave (Dica Series Book 2) Page 32