Of Weft and Weave (Dica Series Book 2)

by Clive S. Johnson

  From above, it lost its grey isolation and so turned from being oppressive and close to wondrous and afar. Somehow, it mellowed the castle’s removed disdain, its self-confident arrogance, and so made of it something almost wondrously childlike. It so softened Dica that even Dialwatcher stared enrapt, soft and small sighs soon slipping from his rounded mouth.

  Even Nephril felt a change, as though a far wider and greater new day was now dawning. It was perhaps the first time he’d ever seen new arrivals simply enjoy the castle’s wonder for what it was, instead of cowering against its phantom fears. Dica had now become a seeming fairy tale vision, carrying a far more juvenile promise. Despite his impatience, he now found the time to enjoy the delay.

  Strangely enough it was Drax who broke the spell, reminding Nephril of his purpose. “Quite right, Sentinar, we do not have all the time in any one world.” He glanced at Dialwatcher, warmed to see his greater ease and the hope it brought of his likely better cooperation.

  The remaining climb proved uneventful, bringing them at last to the Witness Terrace sometime towards mid-afternoon. Nephril couldn’t help but think back over the millennia, to that fateful day when he’d rushed to draw Auldus back, to pull him from the brink. Nephril needed no one to tell him how utterly he had failed. He could still see it clearly, see his nephew sway at the Farewell Gap and then slowly and silently topple from sight.

  Nephril had to stop for a moment, where he’d so futilely called out to Auldus all that time ago, where he’d called against the east wind’s theft of his words. His eyes were now wet, his jaw heavy and numb, quivering at the memory. It was a personal guilt, though, one he couldn’t share, a wound that would only ever fester.

  Phaylan quietly came to Nephril’s side and looked up into his distant gaze. The lad gently took Nephril’s hand in his own and squeezed it the once before turning to look squarely at the Farewell Gap. Nephril at first looked down at the young priest, but then saw where he looked and so, as Phaylan began to step forward, meekly kept pace beside him.

  Together, they led their party across those last few fateful flags – now watched only by an empty Royal Pavilion – to the very place where Auldus had taken his last earthly step. Nephril leant over the edge and peered into the smoking abyss, sniffed the smell of brimstone.

  More than anything else, that one smell brought the memory so vividly back, so raw and painful. Nephril couldn’t speak, could only stare into the great chasm, lost to his own immense past and its even greater grief.

  Now he remembered why he’d had need to brave those memories, to stand here once more. Steeling himself, Nephril turned his back on the Gap and held them all in his doleful gaze.

  “This very place recently saw Master Storbanther Scaedwera’s final few breaths, if he did breathe at all.” Nephril’s voice caught in his throat. “It was not Storbanther, though, who did that final deed, no, ‘twas the body of that limb that did give it motive force and so sanctioned the sacrifice.”

  Naturally, none of them really understood, not even Penolith, although she felt some of it through him. It was Phaylan who got the closest, he who brought so little preconception in his youthful knowing that the truth of the matter found easier purchase in his thoughts.

  “The act closed the pass, didn’t it, Lord Nephril?” he disarmingly offered, to which Nephril smiled.

  “Thy green mind is always a surprise to me, Master Phaylan, a salutary lesson for a long constrained world. Aye, thou art right. ‘Twas mine shadow’s own tumble to the stream that brought her limb to its own Naningemynd, and Leiyatel’s supposed salvation.”

  Nephril sighed. “Another of their many errors, not that either of them do know it now, no, certainly not Leiyatel for her memory has gone with Storbanther.”

  Phaylan was already ahead. “But why, Lord Nephril? Why cut off your own limb, and with it all thought and memory? What’s Leiyatel gained by it?”

  Nothing,” he said abruptly, but softly added, “She thought she protected herself, Phaylan, thought she saw a threat lunge towards her from within the pass, and so she parried in the only way she could. Storbanther’s thin veneer of Bazarran mind gave her her only understanding, but it was flawed.”

  “But what threat could she have seen, my dear?” Penolith asked.

  Phaylan himself answered, “Grunstaan’s slip, Lady Penolith, the seed of another woman, a much younger woman at that, a cutting of one to replace her and one so vital and strong and seductive.”

  Melkin was lost. “What’s all this about a cutting, eh, Lord Nephril? What’ve we brought back that I know nothing about?”

  Nephril swallowed and stared hard at Melkin. “Thou bearest a grudge, mine Steward, that I do know. Thou felt prematurely torn from what thou perceived as a treasure trove, despite mine assurances to the contrary. But then, Steward Melkin, thou art of the ancient blood and so cannot deny thyself. I could not reveal our true treasure until now for your singular mind would only hath seen it as profit, seen but a false hope in it, and so wrested it from its rightful place.”

  “Wrested what?”

  “Master Dialwatcher’s ring of course, his own near thing to a weft and weave.”

  They all looked at Dialwatcher who just grinned in an oddly satisfied way.

  That satisfaction stung Nephril deeply and drew the challenge yet nearer still, and therefore more forbidding. He now had an audience of two to convince. How many more would soon be added?

  “Steward Melkin and thee, Master Dialwatcher, and all here, consider this. Thou hast all seen Nouwelm, walked within its closed world, seen its nature and hopefully recognised its vapid and paltry promise. Would any of thee truly wish its ways and worth on Dica, on Bazarral and Galgaverre? Well, wouldst thou?”

  Melkin didn’t need to think, certainly didn’t think to consider. “Yes, but their parochial ways and narrow minds come from their size and remoteness, not their Certain Power, not Grunstaan on her part. We’d make far better use of a reinvigorated Leiyatel.”

  “Wouldst thou indeed, eh, mine ancient blood. As evidenced by Dica’s current sorry state, eh?”

  “That’s purely the fault of the Dicans, and you know that full well, Lord Nephril, know they’re to blame.”

  Nephril glanced at Dialwatcher’s face and realised that time was fast running out. “Thou art wrong, Steward Melkin, wrong to mistake time for nature. It hath been Dican presence that hast delayed the decline, not the decline in Leiyatel’s fabric but the decline she and all Certain Powers must bring to all life within their embrace. Without Dican counterpoint, the Bazarran would have fallen foul far sooner, would have become as Nouwelm long, long ago, sooner prey to their reticent nature.”

  Dialwatcher now looked from one to the other, shock rapidly spreading across his face. Nephril had to speak quickly. “They are both wrongful things, Melkin. Dican wanton demands have, over time, destroyed the Certain Power, yes, certainly, but so too hast the Certain Power destroyed human nature, by removing its challenges. They have both grievously gone against Nature.”

  Melkin’s jaw jutted out, his lips held firm, so Nephril challenged, “Hast thou not seen beyond the truly parochial, eh, Steward Melkin, hast thou not seen the greater scheme, as I have? Be it not plain in thine own mind yet?”

  Fire now lit the Steward’s eyes, his finger rising to point, but Nephril threw his next words at him. “Take mine Ode from thy tunic, Master Library Limmer, and read of it now, read it aloud for all to hear.”

  Guilt spread across the Steward’s face, clouding his startled features. “But...”

  “Draw it out, Steward Melkin, and reveal its ancient wisdom.”

  The Steward sheepishly withdrew a small, green, leather-bound tome, and under Nephril’s guidance, sought out some verses.

  The earliest of them dealt with Naningemynd’s purpose in death, how she goes down to the stream, down to death’s own land, and there tumbles, falls and sooths all hurts. Nephril revealed how it meant that death only brought an end to one’s own tr
uths, that it was only life’s conceit that became as nothing.

  The second of the chosen verses dealt with life, revealed how those things we believe when alive, when we’re in the deep sylvan glen, wherein be Naningemynd’s lair, are all but simply make-believe, all beyond the reach of purity in this gross world; no more than illusion, no more than chimera.

  “And so,” Nephril affirmed, “neither life nor death do hold truth, neither know of the world’s purity, nor can either encompass its remit.”

  It was only when Melkin turned to the very last verse that understanding slowly grew. In his fascination and intrigue, he spoke it aloud in its original tongue.

  Alleinne af Naningemynd aefre betweox gelege en aedre,

  Lang cuman smocaned weft an wefan twegen tredan en sores,

  Eyn der lande af aeghwilc thinges,

  Eyn der lande af aefreniehstan claeg.

  Nephril interrupted, for the benefit of the others, their time now even shorter. Melkin carefully repeated it, but in their own coarse and current tongue.

  Lone o’ Naningemynd e’er ‘twixt lair and stream,

  Long come vapored weft and weave twain tread and source,

  In the land of all things,

  In the land of everlasting clay.

  There be found acceptance

  And humility,

  Understanding of life well spent,

  In serenity only of self.

  There will fill our own untrammelled knowing,

  Of a True World safe in uncertainty.

  Melkin stared into the distance, unseeing of the Garden below, of the wide spread of the castle’s skirts, the vales and dales beyond, of the forest or the mountains. Finally, he said, but more to himself than the others, “Af an Treowe Leoht haele eyn absuransten. An Treowe Leoht, eh, a true world, and one only possible in uncertainty.”

  He turned Nephril a brighter countenance. “All Certain Powers are wrong, aren’t they, Lord Nephril? All, irrespective of provenance, be they Grunstaan or Leiyatel, or ones to come in their place.”

  Nephril knew he couldn’t reasonably expect Dialwatcher to have understood much if at all, after all, even Lady Lambsplitter was biting her lip. He hurried, therefore, to use their failing minutes wisely.

  “All Certain Powers be anathema to Nature, be they small or large, for Nature’s very own weft and weave be uncertainty itself, the one thing Leiyatel and Grunstaan are both wrought to deny. At its base level, Nature is nothing more than uncertainty, pure absuransten, made seemingly certain only by a gross world, by the arrogant conceits of living things.

  Time had now run out.

  Dialwatcher screamed at Nephril, “You promised I’d be wrought right to be in Grunstaan’s presence, but ah now see tha’s tricked me.” He was shaking, but also looked very dangerous. “Yer after destroying her, destroying Grunstaan an’ all she means. Take me back now, d’ya hear? TAKE ME BACK!”

  Nephril saw panic fast rising in their stick of a man, making him jittery and liable to flee, taking with him what would be almost impossible to find again.

  Everyone else, though, just seemed shocked, taken aback, useless to Nephril’s needs, all but Breadgrinder that was. He calmly turned to Dialwatcher and said, “Stop this nonsense, and now d’ya hear?”

  Miraculously, Dialwatcher did exactly that, stopped his nonsense and stared blankly back at Breadgrinder until lamely saying, “Sorry, Master Exchanger Breadgrinder. Forgot myself.”

  “Apology accepted, Master Dialwatcher, but mark me words, keep a level head on yersen, eh?”

  He didn’t wait for an answer, but beckoned Dialwatcher to draw near, which he duly did. “Now look ‘ere, Master Dialwatcher. However much any of us would wish it, we ain’t none of us going back home. Not only that but we’ve happened upon an answer I never suspected ‘ad a question. Before we come to that, though, I think you’ve summat Lord Nephril needs.”

  Breadgrinder turned a knowing face Nephril’s way.

  Nephril had never even considered Breadgrinder, strangely enough, not since leaving Nouwelm, and so was taken aback. Somehow, he knew Nephril’s urgent need and that was, for the precious moment, more than enough.

  “I take it it’s ‘is ring thee’s after?” Breadgrinder asked, to which Nephril lamely nodded.

  Dialwatcher’s shielding slip, the ring, was quickly close under Nephril’s nose, held out between Breadgrinder’s large fingers and thumb.

  “Nay, Master Breadgrinder!” Nephril cried, in some alarm as he shrank back. “I cannot take it from thee. I must not touch it.”

  “Then what were thee wanting it for in t’first place?”

  A reasonable question, Nephril thought, and something he’d overlooked.

  “Could I take it for you, Lord Nephril?” Phaylan quietly asked as he’d stepped forward. “I’m pretty certain I know what you were intending.”

  There was so much confidence in the lad’s words that Nephril only nodded, and Breadgrinder freely let him take the ring. Phaylan stepped over to the Farewell Gap and there stood quietly studying what now lay in his hand.

  It seemed such a lot of fuss over so very little, a dull, lifeless-looking ring of leaden metal, ever so light, belying its weighty appearance. As Phaylan peered more closely, he noticed a slight groove, nothing more than a scratch really, but it somehow held his finger’s idle curiosity.

  Absently, he was about to let the ring slip onto his finger when a naked black figure appeared, as though it had simply walked in from the void through the Farewell Gap, and there it stood for a moment looking their way.

  It had no features, no eyes or nose or mouth, but it had fingers and a thumb, sooty silhouettes, with which it reached out to Phaylan who then innocently passed it the ring.

  Had Nature had a mind to, she might have lent her servant limb a mouth, a mouth with which to grin her satisfaction at having, at long, long last, brought final balance to her own domain. She may even have thought to add eyes, eyes through which to savour the sight of that last piece of grit being removed from her wheels. A small fleck of grit it may have been, in the great scheme of things, but one that would still have been felt, in the long fullness of time, beyond the furthest of her furthest stars.

  Those eyes might also have shown some gladness, in their momentary glance at Nephril, seeing the short space of time still left him. A time to be all the richer for its brevity, one to be sweetened yet in the company of friends and the companionship of a loving woman.

  But then, who could really say, who could be sure? Even Nature herself might eventually be proven wrong. As it was, the black figure just stood for a moment, ring held aloft, before closing its sooty hands about it and then simply vanishing, as it stepped back through the Gap for the very last time.

  49 A True World

  It’s strange how knowing can often precede understanding, how import can grow amidst confusion, and clarity come from obfuscation. Usually it’s the inconsequential that benefits, the minor or trifling, but occasionally, very, very occasionally it’s of profit to the momentous.

  Nephril had known the Aoide tar Degan from being a young man, had intimate familiarity and an early blossoming love for the ode. Despite losing its written verses almost two millennia ago he’d always managed to remember them, indelibly inscribed on his mind – until his wilderness years of course. It was almost as though Leiyatel had wished that work soonest and longest lost.

  Grunstaan’s invigoration had let it flood back, but so tumultuously he’d had to relearn its familiarity, pluck old friends and lovers from its broiling waters. In that newness and turmoil he’d only had time and space to find its principle lesson, the one that taught of Nature’s own weft and weave – her own base weft an wefan of uncertainty.

  It had served Nephril well enough at the time, had revealed a course and a destination, and kept his purpose clear. Its written form, though, had wielded even greater power, and forced compulsion not only on Melkin but strangely enough on Breadgrinder too. It had been such an abr
upt and hurried lesson that even now it still surprised Nephril just how convincing it had been. However, it had really been more a trigger than tutelage.

  The wisdom it embodied had been delivered without the usual recourse to argument and reason, and so had left much unsaid. The Aoide tar Degan was, however, about far more than just addressing Nature’s own fabric. In traditional ancient Bazarran opposing fashion, the real topic of the work had been life itself.

  Life, all life - be it man or beast or plant - is no more than an expression of imagined certainty, its own truth, its own habben treowlic. Life should never be, not really, certainly not in Nature’s own uncertainty. Its selfish self-belief is all that makes it viable, that which a chaotic, entropic and random universe should rightly deny. Life is but a dream made real, the dream but its own truth kept safe from Nature’s own gross world.

  Nephril smiled somewhat resignedly and stared out across the sea. How we delude ourselves, he thought. As with all manner of life, we snatch what we can, and as much as we can. It’s what life’s all about after all, its very own true nature, its habben treowlic. Give any life a glut and it will gorge itself to extinction. It’s just the way of it – the nature of the dream. As to purpose, well, now, there’s a wholly different story.

  “Reminiscing, my beloved? And I wonder where you are now in your thoughts, as if I need ask.” Penolith smiled lovingly at him, although there was some sadness clinging to her eyes.

  “Oh, just thinking back, mine dear, wondering at it all, as you have already guessed.”

  “Well, don’t forget the stoom-wagon’s due in half an hour.”

  “No, I won’t.”