Of Weft and Weave (Dica Series Book 2)

by Clive S. Johnson

  The chill remained even when the sun did finally climb beyond the mountain peaks, and so spill its sinuous serpents down the slopes and ridges. By then it was already mid-morning and some hours into their day’s long and arduous journey.

  Melkin and Lambsplitter had kept a close eye on the steady procession of mensal-markers, their rate of climb of immediate concern. They’d tried to judge just where they’d be by each day’s end but weren’t finding it easy. They argued the case back and forth until neither had any real confidence, whilst the actual cause of their concern continued unawares.

  Nephril didn’t worry about distance or time, the ascent and its resultant clime, nor food and drink, just kept his mind on putting one foot in front of the other. For that early part of the day it seemed to work well enough and even gave him space to search ahead, to scan the peaks and ridges for a tell-tale sight.

  Melkin may have been worrying they’d end up camping in the pass but for Nephril such a prospect only promised near-success. If he could get that far then he’d be near enough home not to matter; near enough for a cold night to be neither here nor there. All he really worried about was if the pass would still be open, and if so could he last beyond it.

  Their first break for food came as they rounded a sharp bend in the Way and found themselves at the start of yet another long climb. The road here was cut well back into the rock and gave shelter from the wind that had steadily stiffened. They huddled into their capes and robes as they leant against the rock bank, and there received their meagre rations.

  Below them, the Strawbac Hills had finally stopped obscuring the view, so they could once more see the Dales and Vales spread out about Dica. They carpeted that distant world in shades of green, the Eyeswin cutting a meandering pale blue glint through it all, from the hazy Wetwolds in the east to the river’s broadening mouth in the west. Between that far off spread and the swelling purple moors below, the dark green forest cut a broad and continuous swathe.

  What was most unreal was the angle, for they’d certainly gained some height, enough to make it seem they saw it all through the eyes of eagles. All but Nephril sat and ate with their minds awed and their stomachs aflutter. It wasn’t so much the height, for Dica could still boast higher, but more the immediate might the mountainous mass imparted.

  So cowed were they that when they finally came to move on they found their heavier hearts forestalled their feet. Nephril’s own weakness, though, had another cause, and its debilitating effect what now alarmed the Galgaverran priests. Nephril tried to blame the cold, that it had got into his blood, and all he needed was limb-warming movement, but it was soon apparent he couldn’t even stand.

  Melkin and Lambsplitter looked doubtful, and tentatively broached Nephril’s return. “We could spare a couple of priests I’m sure,” Melkin suggested.

  “Yes,” Lambsplitter quickly added. “They could see Lord Nephril safely down to where it’ll be a lot warmer.” It was soon apparent they were both alone in their aims.

  Pettar and Penolith exchanged brief looks before Pettar set his amply broad shoulders before them and said, in no uncertain terms, “I’ll carry him until his blood’s flowing again. He can’t weigh much more than a wet Wednesday.” With that he reached down and swept Nephril easily into his arms, much to Nephril’s own surprise. Before anybody could say a thing, he smartly marched off up the climb without a backward glance. Penolith and the young priests soon quietly followed on.

  The Northern Way briefly climbed to the west before gently curving back to sweep eastwards once more, this time to a break in the next ridge. Pettar led, Nephril safe in his arms, and so they were the first to set eyes upon the wondrous view that greeted them there.

  A vast bowl lay before them, a great amphitheatre formed between steeply falling ridges, all hemmed-in above by ice and snow. Midway across, the swell and press of that overarching ice spilt far down to the floor below, filling it with an impassable sea of jumbled ice. That floor itself soon fell away down a further sheer drop, a thousand feet or more to the Strawbac hills below. Nephril had by now convinced Pettar he felt much better and so stood shakily by his side as the others drew near, their gasps soon sucked out into the void.

  Shockingly, Nephril could remember nothing of it, and looked forlornly at its clear obstruction. It was Cresmol, though, who drew their attention to the Northern Way’s continued course, who’d spotted its perilous perch along the cove’s near-vertical rear wall. Sure enough, they could see it clamber its way along some fault line or other. Where it appeared to stop at a great fall of ice, however, Cresmol’s keen sight saw the entrance to a tunnel.

  The raw west wind soon urged them into the lee of the ridge, following the road onto the sheer cliff face where only a low wall came between them and a very long fall. They soon all saw how the relentless dips and rises of the road ahead would quickly drain Lord Nephril, so when they came across some discarded but weather-seasoned wood, Phaylan and Cresmol hung back. Only when they’d caught up did it become evident why. They’d roughly fashioned a perfectly adequate stretcher; two wooden spars laced with strips cut from an unused rain-smock.

  They encouraged Nephril onto it, with surprising ease, and then shared his bearing between them. Melkin and Lambsplitter were much relieved for it now meant their pace greatly improved, but they were still well short of the tunnel’s mouth when noon arrived.

  As best Melkin could judge, totting up mensal-markers, he reckoned they still wouldn’t get to the pass before sunset. For the time being, they found a sheltered spot and settled down for a bite to eat in the surprisingly warm sun.

  The view was unnaturally sharp and clear, so high above the heavy air of the Vale’s fields and meadows. Even the Lost Northern Way could easily be seen, its thin line stretching past the knoll and the castle wall, then on beside the Eyeswin.

  Phaylan remembered wondering at the great distance they’d trod to the king’s funeral, but now starkly saw how it had been but a spit. What was more disconcerting was how small it made his own world seem. The castle appeared no more than a pimple amidst Nature’s vast countenance, her very own brow now frowning high above them.

  Surely, he thought, the mountains must mark the boundary to Nature’s own, the very edge of all knowing. But no, no, it couldn’t be, for they were set on going beyond, down into Nouwelm and its own further world. He turned and looked up the vast wall of rock above them, then frowned himself. How big is the world? Really? Where does it end, and what’s there?” When Melkin once more called an end to their break, Phaylan realised that it might not be that long before he found out.

  Nephril hadn’t moved from his stretcher. There was something about him that didn’t look right to Phaylan. When he studied Nephril’s face more closely, he was startled to find no movement at all; no drawn breath, no flicker of an eye, no flare of a nostril or quiver of a lip. It was only when Pettar and Penolith joined him, at his own call of alarm, that Nephril showed any signs of life.

  His eyelids fluttered but barely opened, the pupils peering blindly at the sky. “What’s wrong with him?” Pettar asked, but nobody seemed to know.

  Melkin soon joined them and began prodding at Nephril and feeling him. He put an ear to his mouth, a hand flat against his neck, and felt under an armpit and at his groin, all the time just tutting and sighing.

  At long last he stood and announced, “Well, although I can’t deduce any infirmity, I don’t really think he’s strong enough to go on. He should return.”

  Nephril’s voice croaked thinly up at him. “Nay, Steward Melkin. Still be fibre and force in me yet.” His eyes remained motionless, however, not even blinking against the bright glare of the sun. “If the priests can afford me their kindness still then I can attend thee thy crossing of the pass, and may even still be of some use to thee, for a short while at least.” Melkin knew argument would be a lost cause and so silently turned from them, past Lambsplitter and once more to leading them on.

  It had seemed a long way o
ff, but they surprisingly quickly came to the mouth of the tunnel. As pristine now as when it had first been crafted, it cut through the hard granite like a hot knife through butter. Neither adorned nor embellished, carrying no inscription, it just toothlessly yawned at them from its hollow, dark depths.

  Cautiously, they stepped in and found a refreshingly even, wide and gentle climb. Where it had appeared pitch black from without, once treading its smooth way they could see regular pools of light ahead. It was beneath one of these that Cresmol yelped and cried out for Penolith to come.

  Under the strange blue light, diffusing in through what looked like a plug of ice in the roof, Penolith looked down onto Nephril’s lifeless face and her vision blurred. He did indeed look lifeless; mouth agape, slack and still, eyes wide open but unseeing. Even when Melkin sought signs he could find no more reason for hope. His voice was sombre. “I feel no surge of heart nor breath of air,” and slowly and gently he closed Nephril’s eyes.

  Tears stung at Phaylan’s own eyes as Pettar and Penolith blindly reached for one another. The lad knelt at Nephril’s side and bent his head in sorrow. Above him, above their saddened faces, Penolith’s words echoed from the tunnel’s cold rock. “Oh, but so shy of your own Naningemynd, my dearest Lord Nephril. So near your own carr sceld.”

  “Carr sceld?” Melkin asked. “How have you come across such a term, Lady Guardian?”

  Through tears and taut with heartache, Penolith forced herself to tell of their conversation, of Nephril’s long yearned-for end, a sure end behind his own stone shield. “You see, he couldn’t find eternal rest until he’d got beyond the Certain Power’s grasp, until he’d dropped behind the Gray Mountains.” She couldn’t go on,

  Melkin paced about in the gloom for a while, then stopped and faced them all. “His own carr sceld! What? You mean like here?” and swung his arm out to encompass the rock about them, but they only stared back, dumbfounded.

  “Well?” Melkin persisted. “Isn’t this exactly what he was after, eh, his own rock shield?”

  Only Lady Lambsplitter answered. She drew beside him and quietly suggested, “I would have thought Lord Nephril meant a bit more than just being stuck behind some rock, eh, Melkin? There must be more to it than that, otherwise he’d have chosen somewhere a bit easier to get to, wouldn’t you have thought?”

  She looked down at Nephril’s body, bit her lip and then looked back at Melkin. “If his mind still lingers, though his body be dead, then leaving him here might very well condemn him to eternal purgatory. Has that not struck you as a possibility, eh, my love?”

  Phaylan could stand it no more. “I don’t care what any of you think, I’m taking him to where he wanted to be, even if I have to carry him myself, on my own back.” He pushed them away so he could begin lifting Nephril’s body, but Pettar gently stayed him.

  “Fear not, Phaylan. Your concern is just, and appeals to all those with a true heart.” Pettar was soon overwhelmed by support from the priests and Penolith, so much so that Melkin retreated, shamefaced. Lady Lambsplitter went with him, but not until she’d silently nodded at Pettar and Penolith.

  “Leave him here!” Penolith decried. “Alone and forsaken. What a thought!” and she eyed Melkin’s retreating back.

  The tunnel wasn’t overly long, maybe a league or so, but when it did come to an end, it delivered them to the far side of the ice fall and once more clinging to the Northern Way’s precipitous ledge. The sun was beginning to dip by now, reminding them of their limited time, enough of a reminder to return Melkin and Lambsplitter to their study of the steersman.

  For the Galgaverrans, though, the sun’s stark light revealed the true nature of their burden. Nephril’s body had turned ashen, any trace of flush yielding to a dirty yellow, his closed eyes deeply sunken into their waxen sockets. They tried their best to carry him carefully, almost reverentially, but the slightest jar made his head loll and his limbs limply bounce. They’d have covered him but for want of a suitable shroud.

  By the time they’d reached the cove’s furthest side, and come to its bounding ridge, the sun spoke of late afternoon and but few hours of remaining daylight. They could now hear Lambsplitter’s exasperation as she pressed Melkin, until he snapped, “In all that’s just, woman, I honestly don’t know. See if you can work it out for yourself, but in the name of the Certain Power, stop plaguing me will you.”

  He almost threw the steersman at her as he stormed off towards the gap in the ridge. She looked affronted as she grappled with the steersman, and as the Galgaverrans solemnly passed by, their burden fast becoming lost in the volume of its own meagre robes.

  They were drawing near Melkin when he cried out in joy, “There it is! By the Certain Power, we’ve come to it at last.” He was now pointing to the north, his face lit with jubilation.

  When they reached the corner he stood at, where the road left the ridge and ran towards the mountain’s shouldering flank, the Northern Way could be seen to rise steeply in a sharp and rapidly deepening cut. It rose straight up the mountain until its cutting finally petered out to where the flank’s own rise flattened off, and where the road then became lost to sight.

  Higher up, though, it could clearly be seen zigzagging its way up a narrow valley between two far higher towering stacks. To the west and east, all the way along the range, the mountaintops were encased in thick ice and snow, all except there, there where the road snaked its way into a strangely temperate pass.

  It took some time but they finally climbed to the road’s serpentine rise, to where they’d expected bone-numbing cold. What they found there, though, put them in mind of high summer. The pass’s guarding flanks were green with grasses and speckled with the blues and mauves of highland flowers.

  “So,” Phaylan said, “Master Storbanther must live on. The very answer Lord Nephril had so dearly hoped for but would now never know.” He looked down at what remained of Nephril, but could only see his dry, grey features through a blur of tears.

  It wasn’t long before they had to strip to their vests. The steadily thinning air had given way to the heavy scents normally found enfolding riverside meadows. It was all most strange, here, within Leiyatel’s narrowed gaze.

  So much easier did the Certain Power make it that they’d little need of rest, nor felt much thirst or hunger, but simply kept on at the climb. It amazed them all to find they’d reached the end of the Way’s zigzagging ascent as the sun slowly dipped to the quenching sea. The last of its reddening light slanted great blue shadows across the pass’s upper valley, where it levelled between black-sided peaks. Here, though, just where they needed it, they found a soft and dry hollow beside a sparklingly clear brook.

  Still on the stretcher, the young priests placed Nephril on a flat rock and there found rich, mauve heather to cover him. Phaylan was left to his own grief whilst the others made camp, and was arranging flowers on Nephril’s chest when he noticed something loose in the folds of his robe.

  What had come adrift was an ancient tome, small and bound in faded green leather. Gingerly, Phaylan withdrew it, glanced awkwardly at Lord Nephril and then held the book up to the sun’s dimming light. Its cover was bare of script and considerably worn, but its pages still held close in the binding’s tight spine. He carefully opened it only to find disappointment.

  Although many of the letters were recognisable, a lot weren’t, and certainly none of the words. It was obviously written in some foreign tongue, and with that realisation he carefully returned it to its rightful place.

  When he’d finished attending to Nephril, and was turning from his body, he caught sight of Melkin. Without a word, the steward hastily turned and continued on his way, but it was the look in his eyes that left a lasting impression in Phaylan’s mind.

  By the time camp had been made and their rations consumed, the sky had become black. Not just the black of nighttime but a thinner black, one that suggested a void, a void through which starlight failed to twinkle and the stars themselves seemed to crowd mo
re densely. It made the heavens peer down intently, as though expectant, their stillness unnerving.

  The pleasant evening itself felt distinctly wrong, so out of keeping with their sorrow. They’d each often turned, in their withdrawn silence, and stared towards Nephril’s heather-shrouded body, only then to look distantly out across the Realm of Dica.

  Nobody seemed keen to retire, and so they sat in the warmth of the darkness and listened to the night insects until Penolith quietly said, “We should not grieve.” They all turned to her lone voice, their breaths held.

  Although they couldn’t see her, her voice had said she was serene, that she’d somehow reasoned a way to acceptance, one she was keen to share. She revealed much of Lord Nephril’s purpose, and the reasons behind it, although admitting she understood little. “But,” she affirmed, “I know he was right, that his heartfelt yearning was born of his overly long life.”

  She fell silent for a while, but eventually added, “Despite all, he was a good man. Although I didn’t know him well, I could feel the goodness in him, could feel it draw me out.” She paused, as though now aware of her audience. “We owe him our allegiance, so the least we can do is to fulfil his own earnestly held quest.”

  There then arose the knotty problem of where best to lay Nephril’s remains. Melkin had become quite sanguine by now, something Penolith suspected was owed Lady Lambsplitter, and was more than happy to have him borne along with them.

  “You say he had need to get beyond the Certain Power’s influence?” he asked, but then added, with an air of intrigue, “Beyond his carr sceld I believe you actually said.” Penolith affirmed it so. “Then all we need to do is wait until we’re on the downhill, to find a suitable place there, somewhere he can be laid to rest, somewhere nice and peaceful, eh?”

  Penolith wasn’t too sure, but remembered something Storbanther had said. When she’d been worrying about Nephril’s absence at the king’s funeral, he’d said something about Leiyatel’s embrace that had calmed her. She thought back and found Storbanther’s voice still clear in her mind; “T’shadow ain’t as black as thee thinks.” When she’d asked him what he’d meant, he’d just said, “Although Leiyatel gazes towards Nouwelm, there’s peripheral spillage.”