“The carriage could only be braked harshly, from far too great a speed, and so I suffered by it.” Nephril passed his good hand across his blackened chest - robe still loosened in relief - and winced.
Falmeard’s gaze had wandered by now to the wealcan itself, genuine interest stirring. Nephril watched him closely, tried to recognise the face he knew so well. “I convinced Leiyatel that better prospect awaited her at Leigarre Perfinn,” he added.
At the mention of that name, Falmeard shot Nephril a pained look, a glint of remembrance in his eyes.
“The carriage broke me, Falmeard, made it impossible for me to carry out Leiyatel’s newly planted desire, so she called upon the only other with the right weft and weave, the only other with some protection of her own.”
That made Nephril wonder where Dialwatcher had got to. The winch had been running by itself when they’d finally been drawn back across the void and up the passageway. Left running, left to draw them to safety by what remained of the charred and smoking rope.
Real fear flooded Nephril at the memory of the carriage snapping free, falling away back down the passage the very second they’d removed the cask. The carriage had vanished towards its final crossing of the walkway, to the island’s now empty honeycombed rise.
It was fortunate that Leiyatel’s remains had rested at the base of that column, for Nephril’s condition would have precluded a climb up its ladder - the one they weren’t to know had finally thwarted Dialwatcher’s own misguided attempt. It had, therefore, been a simple task for Falmeard to charge the cask, following Nephril’s shouted instructions.
The eventual climb back to the entrance had taken some time once Falmeard had fashioned a makeshift splint for Nephril’s arm. It was certainly fortunate that Nephril weighed so little, no more really than a thoroughly wet Wednesday. When he’d finally been brought out, Falmeard had rushed back down for the cask, leaving Nephril lying on the floor by the hole, wracked with pain.
Falmeard had eventually grunted and groaned up the ladder for the last time, finally sliding the cask to the floor beside Nephril before dropping exhausted at his side. While the cask’s closeness had lent much succour to Nephril, Falmeard’s unburdened body had simply freed his mind enough to bring back a hint of an earlier and far stranger recollection.
Once they’d got some of their strength back, and found their way outside into the overcast day, Falmeard remembered more clearly. “Yes! Of course! Why I couldn’t die, eh, Lord Nephril? It’s just struck me. This weft and weave business. ‘Know full well what be thine affliction, for ‘tis also what ails me,’ was what you said in my dream.”
Tears began to well in Nephril’s eyes, a knowing of guilt. “Leiyatel brought thee here for me, Falmeard, brought thee to mine aid. I couldst fain lift mine self never mind her cask, and certainly not take it all the way to Leigarre Perfinn.”
“Is this why I’ve been denied old age and death, Nephril? Has this been my ordained purpose?”
Nephril slowly shook his head. “Nay, Falmeard, nothing in life be ordained. ‘Tis but fancy of life itself to believe it so. ‘Tis but chance, nothing more than Nature’s own chance.”
With a heavy heart he looked at the metal cask. “A chance only Leiyatel and Grunstaan have ever subdued, thankfully only them.” At last, he held Falmeard’s gaze. “We best get her aboard the wealcan then, eh, whilst thou still hath strength for us both.”
32 When an Opponent’s Down
The thin, green line had been a constant worry, increasingly more so for Mirabel than Phaylan. Once they’d drawn alongside the wall of the Upper Reaches, and it had begun to rain, he’d become totally engrossed in following the road. Even she was relieved of the green line’s lure when it finally became obscured by the thickening downpour.
“I reckon it was coming up from somewhere near Galgaverre’s gate,” Mirabel said.
Phaylan tried to let his mind come free of the vanishing road ahead. “How fast did you say the contraption could go?”
“Father had an eye to helping Uncle Nephril walk unencumbered by the weight of a metal cask, so I suppose just that, at maybe a fast walk. I honestly can’t say. Mother looked after that side.”
“A better pace than we’re doing right now then!”
The rain got so heavy they soon had to slow to much less than a walking pace, more a mechanical amble. It didn’t help when they were plagued by water beginning to drip from the carriage’s canvas covering.
What worried Phaylan most was the sharp edge to the road’s right hand side, in places a dangerous drop to the now squall-hidden scarp to the south. He’d already scuffed and scraped the carriage down the wall on the other side in his wariness when they ran into a large, white mass that seemed to appear out of nowhere.
They came to such an abrupt halt that Mirabel slid from her seat and cracked her head against the engine cowl. “Shit!” she mumbled, feeling for blood at her brow. “What in Leiyatel’s name was that?”
“A sheep!” Phaylan shouted from where he’d rolled unscathed onto the road, where he now lay on his side scowling wetly under the carriage. “A big bugger at that.”
“I don’t think I’m badly hurt!” Mirabel pointedly offered.
“Good, because I think we’re going to need all eyes to the road if we’re to make any safer headway, assuming we can get this lump out of the way.”
The sheep - as is the way with sheep - was dead, oblivious of its own demise. By reversing the carriage they managed to get the mangled carcass clear and once again edged their way east, the acrid smell of burnt wool drifting up from the engine’s belly.
By now they were both wet through and peering intently into the wall of rain, wiping it clear of their eyes. There seemed to be no let, if anything only deepening darkness to thwart them more.
“How much further is Leigarre Perfinn, Mirabel?”
“About ten or eleven miles. Why?”
Phaylan scowled, letting water drip into his eye. “Another eight or so,” he said, wiping his face, “makes about eighteen or nineteen. Damn! All we can do is hope that Nephril’s delayed as much as we are, otherwise we’re going to be in the shit.”
Mirabel gently prodded the bruise on her brow. “Uncle’s coming much further, though, my sweetness.” The bruise now carried a sharp pain. “Thirty three or four miles I think mother said. Quite a way!”
Phaylan mumbled to himself. “Say thirty four ... take off eight ... hmm ... twenty six. So, fours into twenty six go ... well, as near as damn it six hours.”
The carriage shook violently and Phaylan yanked it to the left, again scraping along some anonymous gable wall. “Sorry,” he offered as he slowed them yet further. “At this rate we could be cut off by Nephril. We can’t even see the green line now to know where he is. Damn this blasted weather. We could be on top of him ... on top of Leiyatel before we know it.”
It was clear to Phaylan that if they didn’t make good enough time he’d be risking Mirabel’s life, that he’d have to admit defeat. He couldn’t really just dump her on her own, not out here in these conditions – or could he? Or should he? The stakes were after all far higher than any one life - far higher even than the Steward’s only daughter.
He turned her a growingly guilty gaze.
Mirabel screamed, “Watch out!” but before Phaylan could look back the wheel wrenched itself from his hands, his stomach lurched and he suddenly felt light.
The dull thud, the screech of heavy metal and the hiss of steam all seemed to pass quite quickly, leaving only the sound of rain splattering heavily on the sodden earth.
33 A Long Lost Love
By the time they’d got through a deserted Galgaverre, an eerily empty gateway and out onto the now restricted Weyswal Way, Falmeard had become quite adept at managing the wealcan. Sharp turns still required some manhandling, but on the way he’d discovered a salutary comparison.
“Not unlike a Harley I once had!” he’d absently noted on one of those occasions when they’d ha
d to shuffle the thing around a sharp turn. “About as good in the bends, anyway.” Nephril had only half heard, his continuing pain something of a distraction. “Mind you, even my Ducati would’ve had problems with caterpillar tracks.” Falmeard had shook his head in disbelief before climbing back aboard.
There’d been numerous such ramblings that Nephril hadn’t been able to follow, and not always because of his suffering. So many phrases and terms that eluded him!
Falmeard had certainly shown surprising skill driving the wealcan, enough for Nephril to begin to relax. He was still in pain, but the makeshift saddle in front of Falmeard was comfortable enough; enough for Nephril’s mind to wander along avenues he doubted were only of the one true world.
What he couldn’t get his mind around was how familiar Falmeard seemed, and not only from those recent, disturbing dreams they’d seemingly shared. More of an ancient friendship somehow.
“You’re going to have to be a far better pillion, Nephril.”
“What?”
“You’re going to have to trust me more, and lean into the bends.”
The speed they were now traveling at surprised Nephril, made him nervous again. “Be thee sure thou hast proper control, Falmeard? ‘Tis unconscionably fast!”
Falmeard had taken advantage of Weyswal Way’s straight road, an unerringly broad and level run along the seven or so miles of Galgaverre’s western wall. In fact, Falmeard had begun to experiment!
When they came to the end of the wall - surprisingly quickly - at Nephril’s direction they left Weyswal Way onto a narrow lane, leaning the wealcan perfectly into the turn. The only problem was the heavily scoured and potholed surface they came onto. The wealcan bucked, skipped and slewed worryingly until Falmeard - somewhat shamefaced - managed to get their speed down.
Now at little more than walking pace, Nephril felt happier to shuffle around and look north, across the shallow dips and folds of paddock and pasture. He peered through his pain and the fields’ tree-pocked spread in the vain hope of glimpsing his villa.
What he ended up seeing was a black mass of low cloud to the far west. He made Falmeard draw the wealcan to a halt and painfully slid to the ground, limping further along the lane to get a better view.
The grey spread of lowering cloud - a recent habitual presence - seemed to have ruptured, seemed to have poured what looked like dense, black smoke onto the southern flanks of the castle. It hid the furthest heights of the Esnadales, hid the sloping sheep-infested scarp that marked margin to the Upper Reaches, hid everything the previously persistent cloud had until now left untouched.
Striated bands of rain drifted in slow silken curtains beneath it, drenching the veiled ground of dale and ridge and clough. Beyond its visible edge - in the storm’s black belly – both the scarp and the empty precincts of the Upper Reaches would now be awash, as would Leigarre Perfinn.
“We’re not going that way are we, Nephril? Say we’re not.”
Nephril let his gaze drift further east, away from the storm along the still visible saddle of the mountain’s shoulder, and smiled.
“Where did you say you were taking the cask to, Nephril ... that we were taking it to? What did you call it?”
“Leigarre Perfinn, Falmeard, or as its literal name reveals, the place that lets life wage everlasting war.”
“To store it safely, wasn’t that what you said?”
Nephril put his finger to his lips and shushed, nodding towards the cask. “She expects to be reborn,” he whispered, then even closer to Falmeard’s ear, “To rise against Nature once more.”
Falmeard exaggeratedly mouthed, “And she’s not?” whilst gently shaking his head, but Nephril just turned away and climbed back aboard the wealcan.
“Come on, Falmeard, time be of the essence. We may have immunity of sorts but Leiyatel remains a detriment to us both, and we still have far to go. We do, however, have better prospect of the road ahead for a while at least, and ‘tis not too far away at that.”
Presently, the lane brought them to a wall-topped embankment, a dyke of sorts, on whose furthest side ran yet another broad way. This one came up from the south in an unerring straight line, past the eastern limit of Bazarral and away towards the Esnadales in the north, the way Nephril now directed Falmeard.
He again coaxed the wealcan on, finding a strange meditation in the rhythmic slap of its leather band. He also relished the truly empty roads, a joy he only distantly remembered.
They steadily climbed onto a deserted part of the dales, up the eastern ridge of Cleofandale, its flat valley floor a patchwork of once fertile fields. Nephril fondly remembered his and Phaylan’s hurried journey up its charming stretch; meandering along the river’s course through meadow and field, across ford and bridge.
Nephril could see Cleofandale’s dark head away to the northwest as they pressed on, the rock-cut steps and ladders they’d climbed now lost to the dank distance. It seemed but a wall from far off, a curve of sheer rock, its foot littered with scree.
He remembered the promise he’d first seen in Phaylan there; the astuteness, the energy, the verve. How many centuries had it been since he’d last felt such a wrench of fondness? How many? Had it only been that Penolith were other than the woman she was, he thought, with different blood. If only.
A copse blurred past, hiding the view, dimming the memories, bringing the present back. Shakily, Nephril urged Falmeard to bring the wealcan to a halt again.
In the returned silence, Nephril softly asked, “Thou dost know thou art likely trapped here for good, young Falmeard, that anyone dear to thee has now been forever left behind?”
“Trapped? What d’ya mean trapped?”
With obvious discomfort, Nephril turned more to Falmeard and laid a hand on his own, where it gripped the wealcan’s steady-bar. “Thou hast been drawn here by Leiyatel, likely with the very last of her strength. Wherever it be that thou hast come from, or whatever time, it wilt fore’er remain without thee.”
There was panic in Falmeard’s eyes. “I ... I know I’ve been here before. How, though, I just don’t know, but I know that I didn’t stay. I went back. This isn’t my world, Nephril, it’s yours!”
“If it were truly so, that thou did indeed return from here, then it must hath been long ago, when Leiyatel was strong.”
“But this is a dream ... well, of sorts, isn’t it, Nephril? It may feel real to me now, I know, but isn’t that the way of all dreams?”
Nephril couldn’t answer for he didn’t rightly know. He squeezed Falmeard’s hand as reassuringly as he could, a hand he found to be cold.
“Dost thou remember owt of Dica, Falmeard, from before? Can thee remember anything of our once long friendship here, for I cannot?”
Falmeard looked across the dark spread of Cleofandale, a hundred shades of grey beneath yet more possessed of the clouds above, and softly sighed. “There is a memory, or at least it purports to be one.”
Nephril hadn’t realised, not until now, how still Dica had been these past few days - still and dark and foreboding; not a whisper of air, not a breeze nor a breath. The thick cloud just hung there above them, above the castle, seeming to hold all time in check.
“Time, eh? Time,” Nephril said to himself. “What Leiyatel had called Nature’s only weapon, but again, why the need for a weapon, for the high hand she now seems to be showing. Why the need of force when Nature be all things in balance? It was only Leiyatel, aye, and Grunstaan too, who upset that balance. So, be it a weapon to wield against Certain Powers alone?”
“Geran!”
“I am sorry, Falmeard, what was that?”
“I remember a name, Nephril, I remember a woman’s name - Geran.”
“Geran? Geran? No, ‘tis not a name I know.”
“Her family lived at Blisteraising Farm, I’m sure.”
“I still know her not, but wait. Blisteraising, eh? If only Penolith were here. She hast always been the one to deal with household affairs.”
“Lady
Penolith?” Falmeard asked, looking puzzled.
“The Lady Guardian, yes, the one and the same, but how...”
“I don’t ... I honestly don’t know, but her name sounds so familiar. Haughty, statuesque sort? Full of herself?”
Nephril smiled, remembering how officious she had once been, but when he began to answer, he noticed that Falmeard was now crying.
“I never did recite that poem to Geran,” he sobbed. “I never thought ‘til it was too late. A lost chance that never was it somehow feels.” Nephril couldn’t console him.
Falmeard had afterwards driven them on somewhat sullenly, keeping the wealcan to a sedate speed up the rest of the rise, lost in his own thoughts. Nephril kept to his own pained company, although he strangely felt more at ease now despite the air steadily chilling as they climbed.
When their next turn drew near, Nephril at last broke the silence to direct the way, but then added, “There will be time aplenty to chase up old loves, Falmeard, rest thy mind at that. We are upon the final act, mine friend, set to return Nature to her rightful harmony.”
Although encased in the metal cask, Nephril knew that Leiyatel could still feel beyond, so was careful to change his thoughts. “I am sure there be a Blisteraising Farm, Falmeard. So, if there be the farm then there too must be thy Geran, and perhaps this time thou wilt see some sense and waste not the opportunity,” after which it did seem that Falmeard’s spirits began to lift.
34 When Truth’s Denial Fails
There are many things peculiar to life alone, things beholden the tenuous nature of its persistence. Although an immeasurably long drawn out form of life, the rock of any world has significant benefit in its seemingly immutable stance. Whereas rock enjoys a protracted animation that almost belittles time, the more fleeting kinds of life need to approach survival with considerably more acumen - more so in mind than monument.
Last True World (Dica Series Book 3) Page 13