Of Weft and Weave (Dica Series Book 2)

by Clive S. Johnson

  He didn’t seem to hear her footfall nor her greeting. It was only when she came to his side and looked into his face that she saw how rapt he was. He stared intently through the entrance, drawing her to look that way and so find herself just as awestruck.

  Nubradcar’s gateway was modest and unbarred, its meagre arch offering nothing more than a simple invitation to those unshackled by any age-long duty. Not far within rose the closest of the eight pairs of towers that formed a circle there. From a distance they’d seemed strange enough, but up close they were even stranger still. Each tower of the pair was quite narrow, maybe five yards across, but the face that ran in towards their common centre was some fifty at least.

  It wasn’t so much their height that was disconcerting, but more their faces. Utterly featureless and rising almost a hundred feet, they each leant in noticeably towards the centre. Dark grey, almost to black and strangely glossy - like polished ebony - they mirrored each other’s stark outlines in ever-decreasing reflections.

  Penolith and Pettar had seen their like before in Galgaverre, but there they were considerably larger. They’d never been as close to those as they now were to these, though. Just half a dozen strides and they could have touched them if they’d dared. Indeed, Penolith might very well have done so had she not then seen what had really taken hold of Pettar.

  The gap between the nearest pair of towers gave a clear view down into a small and shallow crater, about half a mile across. At its centre was what she at first took to be a red lake, but soon realised it couldn’t be. When she steadied her gaze and stared harder, its liquid appearance gave way to what could only be described as scarlet gorse, but then again maybe crimson curds.

  Just the slightest movement of her head or the flicker of her eye changed what she saw. The island at its centre, however, always remained fixed, proud of the shape-shifting lake. About the island ran a low, grey wall over which could be seen a verdant, crystal tree.

  It glistened and sparkled as no wan dawn light should warrant, as though coarse-crowded with a blaze of emerald gems. Its bole soon stole her gaze, turbulent with viridian sparks and jade-tinged stars, myriad shades of green pulsing towards a filigree crown that vanished to a haze of teal, all streaming out into the clear morning air.

  Penolith found her own awe now riven with confusion, like the scintillating flecks carried within Grunstaan’s form. The tree’s sublime beauty, though, only seemed to carry Penolith to a place of deep and dark foreboding.

  Pettar clearly saw otherwise, finally acknowledging Penolith but with a voice filled with innocent wonder. “The answer at last, sister!” His eyes were large and round, and very bright. “Leiyatel’s true shape lies before us. The icons all spoke the truth.” Penolith shivered and had to turn her back on Grunstaan, just in time to see Melkin and Lambsplitter return.

  By the time she’d coaxed Pettar from his enchantment and they’d joined them, Steward Melkin’s voice had become raised. He was protesting most vehemently, to Lord Nephril’s obvious discomfort.

  “But we’ve only scratched the surface! What in blazes is all the hurry for?”

  Lambsplitter distracted Melkin’s rising anger by asking, “Lady Guardian, what view does Galgaverre hold on Lord Nephril’s surprising announcement?”

  Penolith looked at Nephril. “Pray, my Lord, but what is it you’ve announced?”

  In the brief moment before he spoke, she sensed she saw it all in his eyes. Although he faced her, his mind was plainly bent on the others. “I have agreed to acquit a most urgent errand on behalf of Grunstaan, one sorely pressing for her surety and peace. An errand of utmost importance.”

  Nephril’s words certainly found a warm reception with the Warden and his fellows, but they obviously missed their mark with Melkin. “But why do we all have to embark on it? Surely the Lady and I can stay behind? There’s so much gold yet to be mined from their library. Why can’t we make our own way back later?”

  Nephril scowled. “It cannot be, for not a one of us can remain longer. We have already upset the balance.”

  When Melkin began to argue, Penolith found herself saying, “My good Steward Melkin?” in a long-practiced tone of authority, one well punctuated by pointed civility. “We all know of Leiyatel’s diminishment, all those of Dica I mean, and we know what part balance had to play in that.” She raised an eye admonishingly. “How Dica’s great numbers overturned even her firm stand.” Melkin must have seen where she was leading for his shoulders slumped and he unclenched his fists.

  That she was impugning Dica in her mention of numbers and not Bazarral naturally endeared her to Melkin, and by it unwittingly sealed his acquiescence. It made Nephril smile.

  When Penolith added, “Grunstaan is no different. Indeed, she’s even more susceptible, given her smaller size and tender years,” Melkin was already arriving at where Penolith had so astutely led.

  “I don’t suppose we can delay it just a few hours more?” he asked, hopefully, only to see rebuff on Penolith’s face.

  Nephril took command and began explaining something of their new and most urgent errand, how he’d diagnosed Grunstaan to have an ailment for which he knew of only one remedy. Dialwatcher’s eyes had lit up at the mention of its nature, that Grunstaan had dire need of a limb through which to know her world.

  Comparison was then made between Grunstaan and Leiyatel, one that pointed out how sorely important Storbanther had been, how he’d enabled Leiyatel to walk abroad and have some understanding of the physical world about her.

  “For Grunstaan’s equity,” Nephril maintained, “she doth hath urgent need of such a limb, and for which purpose Dialwatcher hath volunteered.”

  So, that was what was behind his perplexing expression, Penolith thought, as Dialwatcher began preening.

  Something made her ask, “But, my Lord, is there the means here, and the knowledge come to that, to achieve such a thing?”

  Nephril swallowed and shuffled his feet. “No, I do not believe such to be here.”

  “But then…” She faltered as she sensed the lie of the land.

  Pettar wasn’t that far behind. “You intend taking Dialwatcher with us, don’t you, Lord Nephril?”

  “Thou hath both seen true. This world affords no means for such manufacture, and no such knowledge can be found here, not even writ upon the parchment within their library.”

  Nephril stared up at the Gray Mountains, plainly lost in thought. “Of all alive today, only two do know of Leigarre Perfinn.

  Lady Lambsplitter added, “In the Upper Reaches, overlooking Bazarral if I’m not mistaken.”

  Nephril smiled and forced a reply, “The Lady knows of it, which be of some intrigue in itself, but knows not its purpose I suspect. ‘Tis hardly surprising. Only I and Storbanther have that knowing. Only now, though, out of Leiyatel’s hearing, can I openly speak of it.”

  He sparingly told them the story of Storbanther’s arising, how the Bazarran engers had seen fit to bring greater freedom to Leiyatel, and with it a better understanding of living things. He didn’t touch on the real reasons, though, didn’t reveal the pearl wrought to encase the unwanted grit. That knowing still stung too painfully.

  “All knowing be within Leigarre Perfinn,” he continued. “Writ in folders upon its shelves, plain only to those with wit enough.” He turned and looked at Melkin, his own lips strangely hinting at a smile. “All knowing be writ there, but writ in the ancient Bazarran tongue.”

  Understanding flickered deep within Melkin’s eyes, but Nephril chose to ignore it. “Behind its strange door be an untouched place, not seen since Storbanther were wrought there. ‘Tis a place where body of weft and weave may be woven, woven within a Bazarran fell.” He turned and finally stared at Dialwatcher.

  Quietly, and with only half an ear to the discussion, Phaylan and the other priests had packed everything away and were even now ready to leave. They waited on Lord Nephril who stood, chin cupped thoughtfully in his hand, and peered at Breadgrinder. Nephril then
turned to the Warden. “Mine good sir? Could thee by any chance see thy way to releasing Master Breadgrinder? I do see some gain in his company for Dialwatcher.”

  The Warden looked panicked at first, glanced concernedly at Nubradcar, but then turned towards the west, towards the Exchange. They could see him thinking, trying to balance the unbalanced.

  When Nephril said, “Thou wilt find unction in it for Grunstaan, to be sure, for it would appease the imbalance,” the Warden quickly became sanguine, even smiled a little as he gave his permission.

  By the time they were making moves to leave, the Warden had gone so far as to praise Lord Nephril for his wisdom. “Aye, grand idea of thee’s, it’ll relieve some o’ strain Grunstaan’s been put under. Won’t be forever, though … will it?” Nephril paused, but couldn’t quite hold the Warden’s eyes as he assured him not.

  Breadgrinder at first seemed shocked, but a corner of his mind had somehow become intrigued by their new and unfathomable hole at the edge of the world. He knew all the world’s ways like the back of his hand, and so the thought of somewhere new, whatever it might be or bring, secretly enthralled him.

  They were soon on their way but stopped briefly at the Exchange where Breadgrinder gathered some things for the journey. Before they knew it, the grey edge of the world again began to fill their horizon, the world’s bounding granite wall curving sharply away to both sides. Above it, the blue morning sky hung unbesmirched by a single cloud.

  The newly bored passageway’s entrance soon darkly appeared, although the Warden, Dialwatcher and Breadgrinder each found it impossible to see, its presence such an anathema. Lady Lambsplitter was the first to reach it, surprising them as she nonchalantly entered in to its cool embrace, continuing on until she realised she was alone.

  She turned and saw they’d all stopped, grouped around Melkin. When she joined them, she heard him earnestly ask Nephril, “What of Leiyatel’s future, Lord Nephril? What of the knowledge for her own salvation that we came all this way for?”

  Nephril at first grinned, but it was grim set, belying his words. “Leiyatel’s future be secure, mine good Steward, fear thee not. I have learnt much from Grunstaan to know full well where that future must lie, and how best it be arrived at.”

  With that, he turned from Grunstaan’s world, placed an arm about Melkin’s shoulders and assured him, “Dica hath a promising future, mine ingenious Steward, a surer one than ere it hath ever had hope of afore, in all its age-long span,” whereupon he gently swept the Steward before him, in through the passageway’s entrance and quickly back to their own true world once more.

  43 An Imperfect World

  It was raw fear that gripped Breadgrinder’s heart so tight he could hardly breathe; fear that pressed in on him with rapidly growing weight as the far end of the passage quickly drew near. Would they burn in the glare of the sun, unshielded and close beyond the world’s edge? Would they gasp their last in its airless heat and forever tumble, inert and lifeless amongst the stars?

  Mercifully the passage was short for had it not been then Breadgrinder’s heart would surely have burst and his mind shattered, he was sure. His blood pumped so hard it pulsed red in his vision and burnt painfully at his neck. His legs, though, felt icy cold, as though their blood had been drawn, leaving them numb and unheeding.

  He stumbled from the passageway and out into what he was convinced would be a long fall into the heart of the sun. Fall he did, but only to be stunned when he felt nothing more than dusty earth beneath his pained palms. He stared hard and close at the ochre hues, at flecks of stone and sand and soil, for he was loath to lift his head.

  As though seeing with another’s eyes, he followed the erratic path of an iridescent beetle as it clambered its way through the dry and dusty soil. It tumbled over twigs and blades of grass, slowly towards the feet of a man. Of all things, it was those feet that gave him the confidence to lift his head, to follow the rise of dusty and weather-beaten skin past faded leather sandals to stout and hairy legs.

  They belonged to Pettar, who was now bending to offer his hand. It was a large hand, as large as Breadgrinder’s own. Its firm and confident grip imparted much needed courage.

  When he stood, unsteadily, and met Pettar’s worried face, it was what framed that face that took his breath away. Around it wavered the wholly unexpected but disappointingly prosaic press of a woodland scene.

  For Breadgrinder, trees were naturally lush and vibrant and regular, balanced and fresh, their branches evenly spaced and leaves all alike, all equally green and perfect. Here, though, the trees were straggly, irregular and unbalanced, limbs at all manner of angles, many bleached or blackened. Their leaves were unkempt shades of green and yellow and brown, most with dark blotches and dry curling edges.

  While voices grew about him, his skin began to creep as he recoiled at what lay beneath that ragged canopy. At their feet, where lush and even, green grass should grow, there was only a chaotic tumble of bare and parched earth, of bramble and briar, of rotting logs and brittle, broken branches.

  Somebody was grasping him, not unkindly, and steering him. He found his backside coming hard against something his hands felt to be gnarled and friable, something whose outer layers came away so easily in his shaking fingers. He looked down and saw the trunk of a fallen tree beneath him – a fallen tree! He was on his feet and screaming before he knew it, frantically rubbing decayed bark from his seat.

  More faces appeared with their garbled words, so many in fact they blotted out his view of those terrible trees and their sinister setting. It didn’t calm him, though, didn’t halt his rising panic, his shortness of breath and sheer horror. One side of his vision briefly darkened before sharp pain stung at his cheek, and with it a stark return to his senses.

  A woman’s face, its concern mixed with impatience, held him now in a steely gaze. He felt his hand pressed to his pained cheek. Somehow, it forced everything into sharp relief, and with it a semblance of reality.

  Breadgrinder heard her words and miraculously understood. “I’m sorry, Breadgrinder, but it was the only way.” Lambsplitter’s fine, dark brows lofted, as much as to say, “You had it coming,” but then she smiled. The soft warmth of her palm gently pressed against the back of his hand, allaying his terror and finally putting his fear to rest.

  His eyes came free of her gaze, free to drift calmly from Lady Lambsplitter and out to the woodland about them, to the rough ground and its chaos, and to the gently curving, grey wall through which they’d only just passed. Beyond the edge of the world! Breadgrinder marvelled. But! But into another!

  He began to laugh as he turned to embrace it all, quietly at first but with growing strength, only stopping when he drunkenly swung into Dialwatcher’s startled arms. “Ha! So, thee’s come through it an’ all has thee? ‘Tis thee ain’t it? ‘Tis t’skinny blighter Dialwatcher I see before me?”

  “What’s wrong wi’ thee, eh? Tha’s gone an’ lost thee’s marbles or summat?”

  Maybe I have, Breadgrinder thought. Maybe I have, but then again, maybe not. Maybe I’ve actually found them.

  Although he’d not seen Nephril’s face in amongst those that had crowded him, he sensed the urgency in his voice when he asked, “Be thee settled enough to press on now, Master Breadgrinder?” to which Breadgrinder only nodded, somewhat foolishly.

  The unfolding wonder continued to enthral him as Nephril led them across a deep, elder-packed ditch and onto, of all things, a well-made road. Its solid footing made Breadgrinder feel that bit more at home. It wasn’t long before the road began to climb gently and the trees thin. It seemed he’d only just come to terms with the woodland when it quickly vanished, dropping away behind them as they climbed.

  Breadgrinder was about to turn back and stare when Lord Nephril engaged him. “I should really have thought. Aye, that I should.”

  Breadgrinder had no idea what he meant but his words intrigued him, the more so when his Lordship leant in closer. “Thou hast been removed from much
, there in thine own enclosed world, Master Breadgrinder. Aye, thou hast, and so know nothing of the greater world without. See thee yon Southern Mantle?” Nephril asked, peering up at the Gray Mountains.

  Breadgrinder lifted his eyes and saw its familiar spread but realised something was wrong. Not only were the angles slightly awry, but more worryingly, it seemed to descend to the very earth at their feet, a continuous heave of land, fold upon fold.

  Breadgrinder felt lost again, and Lord Nephril unwittingly didn’t help. “Thy small world hast falsely cast ground as celestial form I am afraid, reasoned its rising heights to be but heavenly feature. What thou hast always known to be but a companion to the stars, to the sun and moon, be no more than a short day’s climb.”

  Breadgrinder looked startled, sceptical, and would have mocked Nephril had Dialwatcher not enthused, “‘Tis true, Master Exchanger. ‘Ard to believe I know, but ‘tis.”

  Nephril reassuringly patted Breadgrinder on the arm before drawing them once more into their journey. Breadgrinder, though, hung back and slowly spun around, trying to square what he saw when his eyes came to rest on the vast expanse of the desert.

  In a small voice, he asked Dialwatcher, “What’s all that?”

  “‘Tis unending land, Master Exchanger, a forever of ground,” and then closed his eyes. Nephril, already well ahead, immediately came to a halt.

  Dialwatcher’s eyes soon shot open and he smiled, raised an arm and pointed much nearer, down to where the empty expanse was fringed by green and brown. “See there?” he asked, pointing. “There, where the endless land begins, see, below us now?”

  “What about it?”

  “That brown stripe’s a river,” and again he closed his eyes, and said, as if reading aloud, “It’s moving water, collected from t’rain bi t’Southern Mantle, or t’Gray Mountains as they should now be known.”

  It meant nothing to Breadgrinder but the spread of green bordering it was plain enough even to him. “Is that t’woods we came through, that mucky green stuff on either side?”