by Chris Ward
For a time they stood in silence and looked out over the land.
‘Tell me then,’ said Rema gently. ‘Tell me what you will and I will listen as best I can.’
Immediately he sensed her body tense, as though she were to commence a most difficult task. He waited, and all the while he knew she was struggling with her thoughts and many deep emotions.
‘There are two dreams,’ she said finally. One I can recall and give you in some detail. The other is ever present but lost to me.’ Rema sensed her shiver. ‘I will tell you first of the one I can recall for it is easier.’ She shuddered involuntarily. ‘I see quite clearly an awful creature. Always it is the same; a great and ugly face, with horns like a young she goat and eyes which are red and fiercely so. It has a great tail which sweeps all before it; I have taken this to mean it is very powerful. It reaches for me and I run to escape but it I never do although it cannot yet seem to catch hold of me.’ Sylvion was breathing deep and hard now as the image in her mind took shape through her words. ‘It sits upon a small but ornate throne and deals in fell things and commands other creatures to do its bidding. Always it is full of hate, and it roars and offers terror and darkness to all around. I can smell it Rema. In my dream I can smell it, and it is the smell which comes from no place I can imagine. It is death and rotting and bitter regret. Each time it comes to me I smell it and then I wake and always I am drenched in sweat and shaking. Sometimes I will not stop for many spans.’ She ceased talking then and for a time calmed herself by breathing deeply. Rema knew what an effort it was for her to talk of such awfulness.
‘It is so real Rema, as real as you and I right here at this very moment, and when I wake I sometimes think I have fallen into a dream, for the dream had become real and what is real is the dream.
Rema nodded to show that he had heard every word, but he could not think what he might possibly say which would in any measure help Sylvion with her torment.
‘I cannot know what it means Sylvion,’ he said when finally he knew he must say something. ‘Is it some omen, or some deep truth which lies hidden in the vision? It sounds most frightening. I am sorry but I cannot offer you any interpretation. This is beyond me.’
‘I did not expect you to do anything other than hear me, for I have some sense that many things are coming together now and perhaps with this knowledge you will at some point be able to help me understand these things.’ She paused, then continued once more with deep warmth. ‘It is good to share this, for I bear much alone, indeed I have learnt that this is how I journey in this life.’ All Rema could do was to nod and feel completely inadequate as he asked...
‘What is the other dream Sylvion which troubles you?’
And once more Sylvion took several deep breaths before speaking.
‘The other dream torments me even more Rema. Each night I dream it. It is so real and it is the same, night after night. I know it has something to do with Revelyn and why the land is sinking and the evil which is reappearing. I am sure it is a key, but I cannot see it.’
‘You do not recall it?’Rema asked, greatly puzzled.
‘That is the torment Rema. When I wake I cannot recall it. I know it is there, just beyond my grasp. I try so hard to bring it back and I know it is important but I cannot do it. I need something to help me find it, so that in my wakefulness I can see what it is. Only then will I be able to know what next to do.’
‘Do you think it has anything to do with your past?’ Rema spoke the words before he had thought why he had chosen them. Sylvion looked at him quite startled.
‘Why do you ask that?’
Rema shook his head in some confusion.
‘I am not sure, but your past is far longer than any normal life. Perhaps you have forgotten something which might be trying to come back, something which has some bearing on this present day.’
I do not know where this came from he thought immediately the words had left his mouth.
‘Rema you are right, I have forgotten much. My early life is clouded and I never kept a record. It is something I bitterly regret for I know there is much I would like to recall...’
‘Like the Equin.’
Rema interrupted Sylvion speaking quite deliberately for her words had suddenly prompted him to do so. Sylvion put her hands to her mouth and looked at Rema in shock.
‘Of course! The Equin; I have not thought of them for many summers and yet I do remember them, but there is so much from that time which is lost in the fog of time. I do so wish I had written things down.’
And at this Rema smiled, and Sylvion saw him.
‘You smile Rema, and I am being serious.’ Her voice was gently chiding.
Rema nodded. ‘Yes but perhaps I can help after all.’
‘You think you might help me learn what this dream is that torments me so?’
Rema nodded. ‘Yes Sylvion I do.’ They stood and looked at each other for a time until finally Sylvion could stand it no longer.
‘Well please tell me Rema.’
‘Well now you will have to follow me,’ said Rema with a broad smile, ‘and I will show you.’ Sylvion tried hard to discern his thinking but could not do so.
‘Then let us go,’ she said at last, and with that they descended the tower and made their way back to the Queen’s rooms where Rema immediately asked leave to return to his quarters.
‘I will be a short time,’ he said.
‘Go but do not leave me wondering long,’ Sylvion replied in agitation.
Rema was gone less than a span escorted by a huge Night Guard. He returned to find Sylvion was pacing the room by the windows.
‘Come and sit in your place,’ Rema said gently, and Sylvion obeyed. He then came and stood before her. She looked up at him with such a hopeful look that Rema felt almost overcome with an emotion he had never felt before.
‘Here Sylvion, you must read this,’ and he placed the book which he had carried from the Highlands on her lap. Sylvion stared at it.
‘Of course,’ she whispered. ‘Rema’s book. His record of the things of that time. Oh Rema I thank you. Even if I cannot discern the dream I will at least be able to remember things I have forgotten, things which were then my life and which I have carried long and unknowing deep within.’ And then she held the book to her breast and wept and Rema longed to hold her but he did not move, knowing that it was not the time, if ever there might be such a time. Instead he whispered quietly,
‘I would like to recover it when you have read it,’ and then immediately felt that this seemed quite the wrong thing to say.
‘I will not keep it Rema,’ Sylvion said gently shaking her head, ‘but it will be wonderful to read no matter what it reveals. You see my situation is so strange. My mind is so full of memories that the oldest get lost in a fog or else they lie buried waiting for something to find them.’
‘Perhaps the book will be that something,’ said Rema sincerely, and Sylvion just nodded.
After a time she spoke once more.
‘You must go now Rema.’ Suddenly she spoke like a Queen and Rema knew that this was how it must be. ‘But tomorrow you will take your friend the hunter and find the evil creature of whom I have spoken and track him wherever he may lead as you have said this man can do. I will send Germayne to you with instructions after you have eaten your first meal. Please make your friend understand that he is not being given his freedom but his success in this matter will be taken into consideration.’
They looked at each for longer than would have been appropriate.
‘My Lady,’ Rema said with a quick bow of the head. Sylvion smiled and let it pass.
‘Good night Rema Bowman, it has been an important day for me.’
And so they parted.
Chapter 10
Sylvion held the book close to her breast, and felt her heart beat faster with the knowledge that she held in her grasp some small measure of closeness to the one she had lost so long ago. She was overcome by the emotions which shook her body, a
nd for a time as she sat on her bed alone in the evening she thought she might faint clean away, such was the lightness of her head and the loss of composure which swept over her.
She had retired early with the express command that she was not to be disturbed, and the two Night Guards which stood like statues outside her rooms knew exactly what this meant. These were not the rooms in which she had entertained Rema that day. Her sleeping chambers were on a higher level and situated on the south east corner of the Palace. They consisted of two large rooms and an ante chamber immediately inside the solid oak door which shut her away from the world of the Palace and its constant demands. Sylvion loved her chambers and she had decorated them extensively with treasures acquired from countless vessels which had called into her Port from exotic lands beyond the understandings of Revelyn. For more than a hundred summers and winters she had added to her collection, until her chambers were like another world; the world of her most precious things. Each object had its place and the servants who cleaned her rooms knew better than to change her things about. There were mounted swords from the deserts of Sehari, home to a dark skinned people who lived where the heat was unbearable and the rain was a miracle. Two Symonite lamps of polished ebony hung beside her bed. They were magic, or so she had been told by a ship’s captain who looked half pirate, half madman, who had reluctantly parted with them; and indeed in the night they burnt without replenishment by some inner source. A woven rug from ancient Persha lay upon the floor in her bedchamber, its thread so fine it could not be discerned, and its warmth to her feet never failed no matter the season. Her favourite piece amongst the many was a single hollowed spear of an ancient giant Narwhale. It had been cleverly transformed into a mighty horn, which when she blew it from her stone balcony, would rouse the animals for leagues about, and they would respond in an eerie chorus as if to acknowledge her call.
But now, as Sylvion The White Queen of Revelyn sat with this new thing at her breast, she knew that she would give them all up in a moment if it meant she might discover within its leather cover some memory which might relieve her nightly distress and restore something of her Rema to her .
She brought it to her lips and kissed it gently.
‘Oh Rema to think your hands gave this life. Find me now and return some peace to my heart.’ She paused and then added so quietly that she was not sure if she had spoken it or merely thought it. ‘I have missed you so. Forgive me Rema.’
It seemed then that the book fell open in her hands and in an instant before it fled, she caught the smell of him, and with it her memory was enlivened, and Sylvion began to read.
The story commenced with a mad flight through a dense forest; Rema told of his pursuit by three deadly wolvers. She marveled at the simple account of his killing the three in a manner so skillful it could not be overstated and yet it was so simply put. She read of the Highlands and Rema’s love of the hunt; his mad chase of the Orax with Serenna his childhood friend. Her name brought tears to Sylvion for despite the distance in time from what she read, she could not but feel a bitter regret that she had lost Rema to this mountain girl, so tempestuous and wild, and the memory was hard indeed. At that moment a folded note fell from the book. She found a small pouch in the back where it must have lain hidden. It was a drawing that Rema had made having been entranced by the defence works on the Island of Lavas. He had carefully drawn the mighty legendary catapult which protected the Island from its position high up on the volcanic slopes above the port, and she read in the notes around the sketch that it had aided his defeat of a mad and evil captain who had kidnapped Serenna. And she read that this had happened as Rema has set out on his quest to rescue her from her captivity in the hand of the evil Zelfos and the King Lord Petros.
‘I never knew this,’ she whispered. ‘We never spoke of it, why did you not share this with me Rema?’
But Sylvion knew.
I was too lost within myself. I did not ask. I did not give you the time. The Shadow Blade was then creeping into my mind…
‘And I have forgotten so much,’ she whispered. ‘My captivity; I can barely remember what happened, and yet here you write of it.’
Sylvion folded the simple drawing carefully and placed it back in the pouch. She returned to the book and read on. And the more she read the more she could not stop for her memory began to stir. And as she fell asleep and the book slipped from her hand, Sylvion knew that her captivity so long before was key to her distress. Her breathing quieted and as her sightless eyes flickered back and forth beneath her flawless eyelids, the dreams came upon her once more and she shuddered as though possessed of some fell spirit.
The Night Guard heard her cry, but did not move. He had heard her before this night and did not fear for her safety. All in the Palace knew the White Queen was overtaken in the night.
Rema stood with Germayne in the market place. The morning sun was well above the horizon, but had not yet had the time to make them too hot despite the lack of wind. All around was the bustling of people, and the incessant calls of animals. Chickens in baskets competed with the bleating of sheep and goats. A number of geese had escaped their cage and roamed freely, pecking at any unlucky enough to be in their frenzied path. The frantic honking which accompanied their every action was almost painful to the ear. Young children seemed to be everywhere. They ran cheerfully about, some in fun; others on the lookout for easy pickings from a stall which might not be well guarded. The smell of fresh produce combined with the stronger odours of the many animals provoked by so much activity, hung powerfully in the air.
‘Your friend is avoiding me,’ said Germayne nodding with her head toward where Andes stood some way off. ‘He has been most cool to me since we spent the day together. I cannot work out what I have done to offend him.’ Andes leant against a large timber box full of vegetables, and munched disinterestedly on an apple. He had not looked at Rema or Germayne since they had taken up positions at the southern end of the market where they could watch Gryfnor and the crowd which would gather to be entertained by his magic and simple banter.
‘He is missing his love,’ Rema said quietly. ‘For all his size and strength he has a soft centre.’
‘This I can see,’ Germayne replied nodding. ‘He is to be admired for this. Fryn is a fortunate woman.’
Rema looked at his friend and knew there was more to his strange mood than mere fretfulness because of Fryn. I cannot make you out Andes he thought. You have been cool to me as well. It is so unlike you. ‘He slew a Shadow Beast recently,’ he said quietly, ‘he is so quick and powerful. The Edenwhood blood runs freely in him at times, but sometimes he can be so stubborn, so hard to read…’ Rema suddenly regretted showing his frustration, and did not finish the sentence.
‘I think we both struggle with the mix of blood which fate has dealt us,’ Germayne whispered and Rema saw that she was looking most gently at the giant man whose dark mood seemed to so enclose him.
‘Tell me Germayne,’ said Rema wanting to change the subject, ‘what are these things which the magician Gryfnor offers, these Diabules. Surely they are just some monk’s remedy which he foists upon the weak of mind for quick gain?’
Germayne was quiet for a moment.
‘I used to think this,’ she said after a while. ‘I would ask myself, how can it be that a small rock, for that is all they are, how can they bring back a memory or offer reality to some deep desire which has been longed for and remained unrequited over the seasons.’
Rema sensed in Germayne a strange ambivalence.
‘You think it is possible?’ he asked.
‘No Rema, more than that, I know it to be true.’
Rema was amazed at the firmness with which she spoke. ‘These things, these Diabules are magic, of some deep sorcery perhaps?’ he inquired.
‘I do not know, and I have not cared to find out,’ she replied, ‘but I have spoken to a few who have sought out this strange remedy for their grief and desire, and all swear by it. The Diabules have some powe
r to make a deep connection with those passed on or lost to this life. And for some they allow an experience, beyond any understanding, of things they want.’ Rema shook his head in puzzlement. ‘But deep desire is a dangerous thing Rema,’ she continued quietly, ‘a dangerous thing.’
‘I cannot see how this is possible.’
‘I did not think I would see one beat Gravyn, or do what you can do with a bow and arrow,’ said Germayne evenly, ‘and yet you can. There still exists in this land deep magic and strange gifts and powers. Not all good, and some evil.’ She shrugged. ‘It is possible, what is claimed of these Diabules, but I will not trifle with them. I think it dangerous to allow some unknown power to play with the mind.’ She shook her head dismissively. ‘I cannot say it does no good, this strange thing which Gryfnor offers, but I can live without it. I will leave others to meddle with what they do not know.’
Rema nodded slowly in agreement.
‘You can tell the ones who have used them often,’ Germayne continued. She looked around at the market crowd and in a moment saw what she was looking for. ‘You see over there Rema, that man?’ she pointed quickly with a finger. ‘You see the tall man with the missing teeth?’ Rema had no trouble in locating the man in the bustling throng for he stood taller than most and was standing staring somewhat vacantly toward them, and there was but a single tooth in his upper gum.
‘I see him.’
‘Do you see the purplish mark in his forehead?’
Rema looked, and now that it was pointed out he suddenly could see quite clearly a dark stain above the man’s eyes in the centre of his head. He nodded. ‘I see the mark.’
‘I am told that the Diabules work when pushed against the forehead as one thinks hard on what subject they wish to bring to mind,’ Germayne continued. ‘After some use the rock will stain the skin, and so for those who know, it is a sign that the bearer belongs to those who use the Diabules. If you look about Rema you will see many others like this man.’