by Chris Ward
‘Nothing you did was evil Sylvion,’ Rema whispered in a voice he did not trust, but he was unable to remain silent. ‘I would not judge you so.’ She smiled weakly but did not look at him.
‘You are kind Rema but I know what I have done.’ She paused and took a deep breath, and to Rema’s surprise continued. ‘And that is not all,’ she said. Rema wondered what could possibly be added to such a story of sadness.
‘I was pregnant at the time of Cryon’s death, and on the next full moon I gave birth to a daughter. I named her Rayven for her hair was so black and the name belonged to my family.’
‘You have a daughter?’ Rema said in shock. Sylvion nodded sadly.
‘And she too is lost to me,’ Sylvion replied, ‘and that is another story which you must hear Rema, for I cannot hold back all that I have held within for so long.’ Rema smiled at Sylvion and waited once more for her story.
‘She was my life for so many summers; such a beautiful child. She grew up with Germayne, who is somewhat older but was like her older sister. You might wonder Rema, at Germayne. She is of the old Wolver line, who are Edenwhood. That is where her height comes from, and not just that; there is no other her equal in wielding a blade...’
‘Except perhaps you...’ Rema whispered loudly enough for Sylvion to hear, and she smiled and nodded.
‘You speak truly Rema, but the Shadow Blade endows me with the skill. I do not have Germayne’s true ability.’ She paused and collected her thoughts. ‘Germayne is my confidante. I selected her in her youth and brought her to the Palace. Before her there were three others. All wonderful women, but sadly of course I have outlived them. Germayne too knows this.’ Sylvion gave Rema a sad smile. ‘But I will tell you of my daughter, Rayven. She grew up with few others to do what children do together. I was with her constantly; and Germayne. She did not seem to show any signs of needing others and from when she was very young I learnt that she had skills which no other possessed. Even before she knew, I could see that she was possessed of a deep connection to the life-force of Revelyn...’ Rema frowned at this and Sylvion noticed. ‘I can see your confusion Rema but I have no other word to describe it. Rayven seemed able to feel the pain in the world around her and often she would stop me and say Kindma the earth is sick again. At first I thought this no more than a child’s fantasy but then I would receive reports from distant places of an earthquake or a town damaged, or more and more often of a place where the land had sunk below the sea.’
‘She could sense the land sinking?’ Rema spoke quietly, awestruck at this possibility.
Sylvion nodded. ‘Without a doubt. Rayven knew what was happening and not only could she sense these things but it caused her much distress. In her childhood she would cry and ask me to do something, but as she grew up this changed and revealed itself more as frustration and anger. I think she felt oppressed at the weight of knowing but being unable to do anything herself to prevent it all.’ Sylvion wiped away a silent tear. ‘She became quite obsessed with discovering how to stop the land’s travail.’ This I understand thought Rema.
Sylvion did not speak for a time whilst Rema sat in silence.
‘And then she understood that I would not grow older as others did. This caused us much pain for if you could see us now we would look but sisters and this is not what a daughter desires in her kindma. Our times together became colder and I felt her push me away.’ At that moment Sylvion glanced at Rema and guessed what he was thinking. ‘You are right,’ she said, ‘just as I pushed Rema away so long ago I too have now suffered from this, and it has truly hurt me greatly.’ Her face was wet with tears but she did not lose composure save to take several deep breaths before continuing.
‘We seemed to find much to disagree on, but in the end it was the silliest of things.’ Sylvion suddenly seemed to lose her train of thought for she fell quiet and Rema observed her struggling with some inner torment. ‘The magician Gryfnor.’ Sylvion shook her head. ‘If only she could have let him in peace.’ Rema was immediately intrigued by this.
‘The magician in the market place?’ he queried. ‘Where I first saw you, this man has caused trouble for you?’
‘Yes,’ Sylvion started, then ‘No.’ She took a breath. ‘Gryfnor has been performing in the markets all over Revelyn since Rayven was born. He is harmless and most popular. He travels widely I believe, and everywhere his tricks and simple remedies are most sought after. I have watched him often enough especially since Rayven started saying that he was not to be trusted. But I can see no harm in the man.’
‘What reason did she have for this?’ Rema asked.
`Sylvion shook her head once more. ‘I have never understood. Rayven just refused to go near him. She would say things like...the land shakes kindma, he makes it shake...’ Suddenly Sylvion seemed to change, overtaken by some deep emotion; she stood and walked about with great earnestness, talking it seemed, to the very air.
‘But she does not know evil like I do. She has not faced the likes of Zelfos. Now that was evil. He had no love of the people. He could not mix with them or amuse them as Gryfnor does,’ Sylvion stood still and shook her head, ‘but we disagreed on this, Rayven and I, and in the end she left. Nine full moons she has been gone, and no word.’
Rema was shocked. ‘She left?’ Sylvion nodded silently. ‘Where did she go?’Rema asked.
Sylvion laughed bitterly. ‘To find the answer to the land’s travail of course. Her last words to me were, “you do not want to listen to me kindma, but I must find out why Revelyn is in such distress.” I can still hear the anger in each word.’ And Sylvion sat and wept, and through her tears she managed to smile as though to ease Rema’s discomfort and he felt his heart yearn to ease her pain, but he sat as though incapable of any movement which in truth he was.
Orcxyl sat at the window of the old alehouse and looked up at the towering walls of the White Palace so close above him. It had taken him several days to find the place which seemed to him to be his best chance to gain entry to the fortress. He had exhausted himself wandering the town inquiring of how best to get close to the Queen. The moment he had leapt from the barge in the Port and disappeared into the crowd his zeal for his mission of revenge had driven him like the desert dogs of the Gnabi. They would stalk a prey alone for a week before bringing it to ground. His mind would not allow anything but the one thought...to see the White Queen dead, to know that Freya was avenged at last. He had sought to find a way to bring this about, but with no success. He had attended a Judgiem and witnessed the White Queen from a distance. He had considered trying to kill her there but his hunting sense prevented him. It was not possible. He had seen the one, Rema Bowman, the man he had met on the barge, win the archery contest, and sitting only a stone’s throw from the Royal box, was unable to see any possible chance to make a move. Twice he had tried the same officials at the Palace entry fort who Rema had spoken to and had been humiliatingly rejected, sent on his way like a farm chicken kicked aside before the path of one far more important. He had circled the Palace five times, searching every lane and pathway which gave access to the almost vertical stone walls. Everywhere he went he was met with the impossible.
Until this last moment; until high up upon the rocky crag on which the sprawling Palace was built, he had found where the walls were lowest and oldest, and not as impossible as all else he had seen.
Orcxyl searched the wall opposite his window with eyes which knew how to see what was important. The setting Western sun behind him illuminated every crack and imperfection, and his eyes saw them all.
The wall is not vertical here, he mused, it slopes enough to press against it and gain some hold. The stones are older I think and not tight as elsewhere. He tracked a path from the lowest foothold judging the gaps in the stonework and the manner in which he might find a grip and then press on to another higher up. He sipped his ale and in his mind laid out a path, over and over until he could almost see it as if he were tracking the familiar luminous path of an animal he was h
unting. Such was his intensity that it caught the attention of several of the drinkers who shared the small alehouse. A nod and whisper brought a few together to play a game of guessing what this stranger was about. They had nothing else to do.
Orcxyl was oblivious to all else; he kept on over and over whispering directions to himself, warning about dangers, which foot or hand to use... When he was convinced that he had it right he stood suddenly and walked out into the evening; the evening before the day when the White Queen of Revelyn revealed herself to Rema Bowman as Sylvion Greyfeld, the bearer of the Shadow Blade, the one who could not die.
Orcxyl strapped his bow behind him on his back. He had no other possessions now, except for the knife at his side and a small pouch at his waist containing a poison for the three arrows tied to his bow. He moved like a mountain cat in absolute silence, lithe and sinewy, each muscle ready for the job it must do. He had no fear. Long before he had sworn that his quest to avenge his sister would end in his death or success. For Orcxyl the Great Hunter there was no shadow of grey in this, and his mind was clear and as sharp as a Gnabi thorn.
‘I climb for you Freya,’ he whispered as he stood before the wall. ‘I will see you soon or the Queen will die. Either will be welcome.’ He did not know that a small group of drinkers had gathered to stand at the door to the alehouse, some spilling out onto the street. They did not have the wits to know what he was about to attempt but were interested enough to find some amusement in this stranger to fill their empty evening.
Orcxyl reached up and with his finger tips found his first hold. His feet seemed to move without needing his sight, as though his memory of his path was already imbedded deep within the muscles which guided them. To the awe of those who stood watching he was ten cubits up before they realised what he was attempting.
‘The fool will kill himself.’
‘I wager a round of ale for any taker, he will fall before the sun has set.’
And so the wagers were made and remade as the stranger climber higher and higher. Orcxyl heard them then faintly but did not allow them any place in his mind which was hunting now, guiding his feeling of the stones and the cracks, judging the next move as he changed his position, spreading his body flat against the warm wall in the dying light. At thirty cubits he slipped and slid, tearing away two nails before his toes and fingers halted what should have been a deadly fall. The gaping ones below let out a chorus of groans and fearful sighs. Orcxyl paused and gathered himself and then continued. At fifty cubits he found the wall became more vertical than he had judged and his flattened body gained less grip. He halted and planned another path. So long was he still that several below thought him paralysed with fear.
‘Keep on,’ one called but Orcxyl heard nothing. He laid out another route a little left to where a shadow showed that a stone had pushed out of the wall to give a gripping point. With a slow and intense coiling of his legs muscles Orcxyl suddenly pushed up and left and for a moment he was completely free of all contact with the wall, as he did so he moved his left hand up and out and with this his fingers caught the lip of the protruding stone and held him there, swinging slightly above the ground far below. Once watcher vomited into the darkness. Another went inside unable to watch further, knowing that the stranger would soon be dead. The others were all in thrall to the awesome sight of a man climbing the impossible, unable to tear their eyes away from what seemed so chilling and yet so wonderful.
‘Keep on,’ murmured the same man, now no longer worried that he might lose a wager; and Orcxyl did do.
At sixty cubits he encountered the battlements which were formed in a slight overhang. He knew this was the most dangerous moment, but he felt no change in his emotions. Both hands had found good purchase in the worn stones. One leg was hanging free, the other turned slightly inwards was holding well on a sloping surface. But now Orcxyl felt the strain. His muscles were tiring and he knew that the next move must work or he would die.
‘Help me Freya,’ he whispered. ‘I have come this far, help me now.’
And with this he swung his free leg up and around his body, pressing up with his hands so that the leg was launched high above his head. For an instant he lost all grip as his body inverted, the other leg torn away from where it gave support. The watchers below saw this final mad attempt and in a frozen moment all knew the stranger would die.
But he did not. Orcxyl knew where the battlements were, his mind had memorised them perfectly. His leg flew up and over between the crenulations and hooked on the lip of the wall at its highest point. He hung upside down by this one leg. In an instant he felt it slip and using all his remaining strength Orcxyl reached up and grabbed the stones either side of where his leg had found some purchase, and then he disappeared from view to those watching, falling wearily onto the battlements as a faint cheer reached him from below. And then Orcxyl smiled.
‘Thank you Freya, he said, ‘we will not meet so soon as I imagined.’
He stood and peered down at the small crowd which had gathered. He allowed himself a small wave, and then gazed out to the west, overtaken by the view and where, far away, the horizon had cloven the sun’s orb in two. And then without warning two enormous hands wrapped themselves around Orcxyl’s torso. He felt their mighty power squeeze the breath from his body. He was spun around and in an instant one of the hands encircled his throat, and Orcxyl realised he was looking at the biggest man he had ever seen.
This really is a giant, he thought, bringing both hands up to try and wrest himself free. The giant just smiled confidently at him, and Orcxyl knew he was moments from passing out. As his knees sagged the grip loosened a little and the giant guard spoke as much in shock as anger.
‘Where by all the god’s do you come from and what in all madness are you doing? Is this some attack upon the throne?’
Orcxyl looked the giant in the eyes. He is dim-witted but strong enough to break my neck like a twig he thought. I did not consider this. He shook his head which under the circumstances he found most difficult. He went to speak but was unable, so tight was the grip upon his throat. The guard realised Orcxyl’s plight and released his grasp a little more.
‘Just a friendly wager sira,’ Orcxyl managed to gasp whilst thinking as quickly as his befuddled mind would allow. ‘Look below you will see.’
The guard leaned over the parapet still holding Orcxyl by the throat. The crowd of alehouse drinkers was still standing there looking up and they waved and cheered. The giant guard looked hard left and right and all about for some sign of a ladder or rope.
‘You climbed the wall unaided,’ he whispered, suddenly in awe.
‘Just an alehouse bet sira,’ Orcxyl pleaded hoarsely fighting for breath, ‘something you must have done.’
‘Are you a lizard, or an insect?’ The giant demanded; he was clearly very puzzled. ‘Are you a wizard to walk up a wall such as this? It is impossible.’ Orcxyl shook his head but was unable to speak for the guard had unknowingly tightened his grip once more. The giant spat on the crowd below in pure frustration. ‘Never have I had such a thing come to pass on my watch.’ He then looked about to see if any other had witnessed such a thing. When he again he looked upon his prisoner he saw that he was unconscious and hanging by the neck from his mighty fist.
The Beast sat upon its ornate but tiny throne. Once again it quivered in anger as the two new Wrythers before it did not seem to show sufficient deference.
‘What news of the Shadow Hunter? I need it here with me, now!’ the Beast demanded and such was the force of his anger that the two Wrythers became a blur of interweaving.
‘He is close my Lord,’ they sang in unison, ‘He has found a way down from the Highlands and will be here before you within two days.’
‘So long,’ roared the beast, ‘I want him now.’ But the Wrythers just writhed.
‘He will become more than ever before. If A Shadow Hunter can be slain by another sword I must create one which is beyond this. And then I will wreak my revenge
and enforce my will, and you Wrythers will witness my greatness.’
‘My Lord!’ They squealed in pleasure at the beast’s rage.
‘And Revelyn will fall to me at last...’ The Beast stood and began his transformation, ‘Go now and lead him here,’ he ordered, and the Wrythers fled his presence immediately... as his humanness took full form.
I must procure the Royal Sceptre, it thought; I must prevent the Shadow Blade from any further power.
To the north and east the Shadow Hunter ran swiftly, led by a deep instinct that called it on, and in its wake it left a trail of death for the air it breathed became foul and the ground upon which it passed was poisoned so that creatures which stumbled unwittingly upon its track were unable to breath or eat without being consumed by the dark hand of death which ate at their lungs and rotted their flesh from within. And in its path word quickly spread that a fell sorcery was on the move in Revelyn.
Chapter 9
‘What you tell me is a hard thing indeed,’ Andes said quietly. He and Rema were standing on the parapet which joined their private rooms high up on the southern wall of the palace. ‘You say this Queen is the same Queen which has ruled Revelyn for over a hundred summers and is unchanged, and will not die?’ He shook his head. ‘I cannot believe it, yet you talk with conviction Rema. I perhaps will soon have the chance to meet this person who does not grow old?’ Andes looked at Rema who nodded.
‘It is not easy but I cannot find fault with her story Andes. She loved my forbear, whose name I hold, the one whose Cairn you and I, Andes have passed when hunting more times than we know. She is in the book. He wrote of her.’
‘It is magical, a mighty mystery,’ Andes whispered shaking his head.
‘It is unnerving,’ Rema replied sombrely and Andes frowned at him.