48 Only Time Will Tell
The cask had slid smoothly in through the opening, sucked to a soft hissing embrace before the door lifted back of its own accord. Once Leiyatel had left Falmeard’s hands her course had been ordained; ancient prescription, warrant of engers’ purpose past, a matter long writ only within the insensate matter of an engine. She was now no longer their concern.
“We can do no more,” Nephril had said with a sigh. “Best we get to safety, if such there be. Naningemynd will now breath out but ever so slowly, and without let for some good few hours. Time still for Nature to find victory I am afraid.”
He reached out and placed his hand carefully, almost lovingly on the metal column’s gently curved surface. “Such poetry for something with so little soul,” he quietly marvelled, his thoughts not only going out to his favourite ode but also to the fishing frame long left to rust below his old chamber’s terrace.
For the first time in ages he thought of Penolith. He remembered her sitting by him at the very edge of the Graywyse Defence, on their last visit there, his last pilgrimage to touch the frame where it all seemed to have begun.
Perhaps I will go again, he thought. Perhaps I will. If we both come through this in one piece.
They’d restocked the wealcan with naphtha from the supply left for the purpose and then all climbed aboard as best they could. Phaylan had convinced them to leave by the northern way, the one he and Lady Lambsplitter had used.
It seemed Nature had driven Esnadac’s fiery might southwards in the face of Leiyatel, leaving Dica’s northern flanks far freer of ash, certainly unbroken by flows of lava. The battle had now become one of time, one fought out beneath the dust of material things.
They climbed higher up Mount Esnadac, above Leigarre Perfinn and towards the mountain’s still dark-hidden shoulder, but then turned west. Nephril knew the way, although Falmeard often seemed taken aback by something oddly familiar.
When, after an hour or more, they began to drop lower, it was to discover a view of the darkened sea. Far out to the west, above the distant Crystal Plain, evidence of night filled the clear sky beyond Dica’s sullen spread of tempestuous clouds, where stars shone brightly down.
Although ash lay all about, the nearer the coast they got the thinner it became. Where the road ran through the old western entrance to the Upper Reaches, and there turned sharply south, little ash if any could be found.
Falmeard had by now rediscovered the wealcan’s balance and had begun to relish the clearer way. He set the engine fair whistling as he drove them south towards Hlaederstac.
In all that time the mountain had only rumbled or occasionally shaken. The leaden spread above still flickered, though, still rained molten squalls from its summit through the crimson-lit cloud, but its anger seemed to have lost direction, as though it now merely brooded.
Their road turned out to be so much clearer than those in the south that they came to Bazarral’s harbour only a few hours after Melkin’s own party, although they weren’t to know. They left the wealcan at the top of the steps and took to their feet.
Where the Steward and his daughter had made straight for the harbourmaster’s house, Phaylan now led his own party out along the harbour’s quayside, some half mile at least.
Here, set against the harbour wall itself and rising some fifty feet up its height, the old Pilot House straddled the quay’s width. Archways held it aloft to give passage beyond, and in which a flight of steps rose to its entrance.
Its door flew open as they approached the top of the stairs, revealing an excited Cresmol, his face beaming with joy. “Thank Leiyatel you’ve made it safely,” he enthused, briefly clasping Phaylan about the shoulders. He then stepped back and quickly ushered them in.
The hallway into which they filed seemed very small until they turned into a long corridor, another door at its furthest end. There was a figure, a tall and once proud woman standing in the doorway.
For Nephril it seemed to take an age to draw near her, but when he did, he felt tears at his eyes, as though their separation had taught him a truth.
“Oh, am I glad to see your face, my dear old Master of Ceremonies,” she almost cried. “You gave me no end of worry, do you know that?”
They were soon in each other’s arms, Penolith as relieved as Nephril now felt guilty. “I told you I would keep safe and return.”
“No you didn’t!” she chided, pushing herself away. “When you left, you never even looked my way never mind spoke.” She checked herself, bit her lip and forced a smile. “Well. All in the past now. At least you’re back safe and sound.”
“Back, certainly, but as to safe...” Nephril then noticed the old steermaster, seated across the cosy room behind her.
It was more Steermaster Sconner’s size and shape that Nephril recognised for his face looked to be that of another. When their eyes met, though, Nephril soon saw confirmation. It was certainly the old steermaster, but one now with a far vaster knowing adding much clearer depth to his eyes.
“Welcome, Lord Nephril. It’s good to see thee again after all these years. Thee’re looking well enough, considering.”
Before Nephril could speak the room shook violently, Penolith catching his fall. Plaster dust drifted from the ceiling as waves were heard to lap for the first time within the harbour’s protective walls.
Their party behind soon swept them into the room, fast on Phaylan’s heels as he rushed to a balcony beyond. Sconner remained seated, left alone in the room as the others gathered outside.
The balcony had an open view into the harbour, looking north across its comb of quays towards the slant of the Graywyse Defence. To their right, they could just see over the wall’s top towards Mount Esnadac.
The seemingly ever-present clouds had been torn apart, pushed away from its now plainly smoking summit. Within the roiling plumes of evil, black smoke, great heaving clouds of flame spewed into the sky - tumbling and glowing and growling into the dying night. Esnadac’s ridiculous crown stood out in stark silhouette as the smell of sulphur, of potash and pumice began to float sharply to their noses.
They all looked at Nephril, all silently beseeched him with fear in their eyes. “I know not how Leiyatel fairs,” he told them. “I cannot know. No one can. Only time will tell.”
Sconner’s voice boomed from within the room, “And only if time survives, mind, and we be delivered enough yet to nurture.”
Beyond Nephril’s thoughts, out where his intrigue no longer roamed, their wild speculation flew about him like startled birds whilst he considered Sconner’s words. He returned to the room and settled himself in a chair before the old steermaster.
Between them, a low table boasted piles of papers, stacks of tomes and a good number of ancient parchment scripts. Nephril leant forward and slid one out enough to read, enough to prompt Sconner. “Had a bit o’ help from Laytner, a lot when thee think. Bright lad. Knows a lot, lot o’ t’ancient tongue.”
“But thou knew enough afore did thee not, Steermaster Sconner? Knew enough to seek for myths and legends across the wide ways of the sea.”
Sconner sighed. He looked more forlorn as his words brought back the memories. “Whilst haven’s passage allegiance kept, unto kin ‘til time o’er time had leapt,” but then he laughed, although wryly. “A myth that sacrificed us crew, and nearly me. No, no, that’s not fair. A sacrifice of us own making, aye, one ah takes full blame for.”
The balcony shutters rattled against their stays, a sharp wind cutting in from the mountain and out across the harbour. More rumbles rolled in behind it, a flicker of red light filling the room. Penolith came in on its heels and quietly sat beside Nephril.
“Gave me perspective as they say,” Sconner continued, once the room had gained some peace once more. “Saw us lifeboat here in its true light.”
“Lifeboat?”
“Aye, what us realm o’ Dica truly be; life’s last safe refuge against Nature.”
Sconner was plainly still in muc
h pain, enough to draw Phaylan from the balcony to his side and to speak for him. “Our wise steermaster wanted to know why we’d lost contact with the old world, as myth would have it.” He looked at Sconner for reassurance, freely and trustingly given.
“It turned out that we hadn’t lost contact at all, that it was actually the old world that had simply fallen victim to Nature’s greater might. That’s why they’d created Dica in the first place, and why they put it here, here where Mount Esnadac gave so freely of Nature’s own might. The only place life could fight fire with fire.”
Nephril looked unconvinced. “How know thee there be truth in thy belief? Be there more than imagination at work?”
“Steermaster Sconner found this,” Phaylan said as he drew a sheet from one of the piles. “An inscription from a fallen pediment.”
He passed the sheet into Nephril’s hands. Upon it was carefully written, in Sconner’s own neat hand: Dicio Inviglio Confugium Animalis.
“Well?” Nephril demanded, “what doth it mean?”
“We’ve no idea,” Sconner answered, “but look thee at the capital letters.” Nephril did, then gasped.
Falmeard had joined them for he leant over and asked, “Can I have a look at that, Nephril?” then took it to the better light of the window.
“Thou said of Nature’s own might” Nephril asked Phaylan. “Didst thou mean the fire within Mount Esnadac?”
It was Falmeard who answered, somewhat absently as he stepped away from the window. “Dica’s set on a vast volcano, Nephril, one that seems to have been kept in check by Leiyatel - and which is now long overdue.” He placed a hand on Nephril’s shoulder. “It’s a massive force that will obliterate thousands of square miles if left unchecked.”
“Leaving a ... a caldera. Was that not what thou did call it, Falmeard?” but Falmeard had returned, unheeding, to the inscription.
Phaylan whistled through his teeth. “Such destruction! It’ll destroy the very last remnants of life both here and in Nouwelm.”
Although horrified, Nephril began to see some answers to long-worried riddles. “So, ‘tis why Leiyatel be so large, eh? Why Baradcar so huge? I oft did wonder. Leiyatel has only had purpose to hold this ... this volcano in check, so she may use its strength for what, though? To keep a few souls alive amidst a barren world? Why? Why should life be so valuable against Nature’s greater worth?”
“Well, for whatever reason, it must be important,” Falmeard called over from the window. “It must have been for I think I know what this says.” He shook the copied inscription at them. “I might be a bit rusty now. After all, it’s been a long time since I was at school, but fortunately I was there when Latin was still taught.”
A distant rumble growled through the ground, seemed to shiver up through the walls. When it passed, Falmeard continued, “The best I can remember, it says something like: Authority for the watching over of the place of life’s refuge. I think so anyway. You know, like a government department for ensuring life’s survival, here, in the place that took its initials, in DICA.”
It may have been the use of his own true world’s language, but no answers were forthcoming. As usual, though, it only added curiosity to Falmeard’s train of thought. “But why so pointedly for that one purpose alone? Why go to all that trouble to maintain such a vast and specialised installation for nothing more than keeping itself alive, as a remnant? The ancient Bazarran plainly didn’t benefit, and anyway, what’s it all got to do with time?”
In answer to which Sconner knowingly smiled before the ground again rumbled, but this time the Pilot’s House began to lurch and shift alarmingly.
49 And Time Did Tell of Time
Cresmol rushed to Nephril and Penolith as Phaylan fussed over Sconner who would have none of it. “Nay, stop thee’s mithering, Phaylan. Ah ain’t going nowhere, not in no such hurry anyway.” Phaylan was beside himself but Sconner insisted. “Thee’s young, wi’ more life ahead of thee than thee can shake a stick at. Thee get thee’s self to safety, eh? Take t’others with thee. Leave me and Lord Nephril here to trust to the luck o’ the old. It seems to have stood us both in good stead so far.”
The Pilot’s House hadn’t moved since the last big shock, the drifting dust now in the air seeming to reinforce its returned stillness. True, there was a great jagged crack a few inches wide newly opened across a wall, but the ancient building’s mass seemed to shrug it off.
Having learned that Melkin and Mirabel were at the Harbourmaster’s House, Nephril suggested they should rightly be told of Lambsplitter’s fate. The startled look the suggestion brought to Phaylan intrigued Nephril.
“Be thee at all unwell, Steermaster Phaylan?”
“Mirabel? At the harbourmaster’s?” It only took a nod from Nephril for Phaylan to excuse himself and rush from the room. Even before Nephril had had a chance to ask, Penolith followed after him, clearly keen to deliver the news more sensitively herself.
Falmeard hung back and quietly sat down by the fire, largely overlooked by Nephril, now more intent on Sconner.
Where Nephril sat before him allowed a narrow view through the doorway to the balcony, a thin view beyond of the castle’s bulk. It cut a slice down the tiers of bridges and arches, of roads and properties and their ash-laden yards and gardens.
The changing light gave some brighter hope, the sun beginning to bleach the stain of Dica’s grey mantle. The view still brought fear to Nephril’s heart, though, for Esnadac’s summit continued to throw out smoke and fire, although seemingly less so now.
Sconner had watched Nephril’s detached gaze with keen interest for his own position gave no view from the room. Nephril didn’t appear to notice, nor did he look at Sconner when he said, “Thou hath been close to death, Steermaster, hath thee not?”
“Aye,” Sconner breathed heavily, “Ah have. A mite too close.”
“What a joyous prospect, mine dear Pilot, for one of mine own affliction that is.”
Sconner understood, could even sympathise, but warned, “’Twill be almost commonplace from now on. Have thee not thought of that, us Lordship?”
“Commonplace?”
Sconner groaned in pain as he moved to lift a tome from the table. He flicked through its pages, clearly searching. “‘Us hurt came from more than just an arduous sea journey, Lord Nephril.” Sconner’s voice wheezed, tellingly.
He opened the tome and laid it flat, pressing it cruelly against its spine with his palms. He turned it to Nephril who leant forward across the table to make better use of the poor light.
He found himself peering at an unfamiliar map, one that made more sense once he’d lifted it from the table and nearer his eyes. There were plainly continents depicted, their outlines suggesting great and wide knowing, their seaboards dotted with names.
It was all colourless but for a small patch at its centre, a round green smudge half way down a great continent’s western seaboard. Beside that singular and lonely hue were four quite innocuous letters - D.I.C.A.
“How much be myth and legend, and how much stark truth?” Sconner said, more to himself. “That’s what finally drove me from our idyll, out through the fingers of a jealous grasp to a dead world’s embrace.” Nephril traced his own fingers absently over the raised and oily green ink, unaware it was coming away with age.
Mock gusto carried Sconner’s next words. “Come on, us Lord, give us a push!” It was only when Nephril saw where Sconner’s hands now rested that he realised the old Steermaster’s chair had wheels. “Ah cannot walk as yet, nor may never.”
He insisted they sit on the balcony for intrigue had got the better of him. Sconner wanted to watch Dica whilst he revealed more of what he’d learnt.
A wind had risen, a brisk easterly, one to blow the lingering clouds away. The tattered remains skittered dark shards of shadow across the castle’s flanks and drew teal patches over the sea’s grey spread. It let the sun strike fragments of hope across the now dusty and damaged domain.
As Nephril plac
ed his own chair next to Sconner’s, the Pilot asked, “What does thee think stole us breath from me, eh, Lord Nephril? What of a sea voyage could do that?” He was now a deep red, wheezing harder as he gulped for more of Dica’s sweetening air. “‘Twasn’t nowt o’ the voyage itself, nay, not the voyage, just the caustic fill o’ the air beyond Dica.” Sconner’s head was nodding less as he began to find his breath again.
“Beyond Leiyatel’s reach, us world be wholly alien to life. Even the sea’s waters be empty there, devoid o’ the soup all fish find of need. ‘Twas unearthly seeing through to the bottom of such a great and deep ocean!”
Even reliving the awe brought him to silence, fear clearly clawing afresh at his neck. He shook himself and turned to Nephril. “Has thee ever wondered how Leiyatel can make men’s thoughts so solid, knowing there’s no such thing as magic, eh? Well, I’ll tell thee, ‘cos I now know.”
He passed a sheet of paper into Nephril’s hands. “Be a copy only, mind, one of us own, seeing as the original fell to dust.” Nephril peered at the meagre words it held, saw how a few sparse scratches could speak so clearly of all possible worlds.
Before any beginning,
Before space and time,
All things can be,
Can be equally
When Nature be one.
When all has begun,
Wrought space and time,
One thing is born,
Is born but separately
To set Nature apart.
Beyond all beginnings,
To keep space and time,
That thing must see,
Must see knowingly
To keep Nature at bay.
To come to an end, though,
Rid of space and time,
That one thing must die,
Must die mortally
At Nature’s own hand.
When Nephril looked up from the words, Sconner said, “Thee asked earlier why life should be so valuable against Nature’s greater worth. Well, there be thee’s answer. All that be anything can only be so by life’s own leave. Without life, be it man or mouse, no one thing can truly be, no one thing at all. Without life, there can be no true worlds, nothing to keep Nature from hoarding all to her own dark chaos.”
Last True World (Dica Series Book 3) Page 19