Leiyatel's Embrace (Dica Series Book 1)

by Clive S. Johnson

  Falmeard’s embarrassed look made Pettar explain further. “I know those things were once commonplace, in remotest times, or so I’m led to believe, well before the founding of Dica. Indeed, even before the building of Galgaverre and its occupation by the priests, far back when the land was a fearful and superstitious place. They’ve not somehow magically persisted in Galgaverre, though. Nay, far from it. No, Galgaverre is, if anything, the most rational precinct in the realm.”

  Pettar’s face reverted to its dark and clouded look, with some hurt or other resting at the corners of his eyes. He studied Falmeard for a moment, which seemed to lighten the storm clouds, and then he smiled. “You’re sometimes an odd fish, you know that, Falmeard, a very odd fish indeed, but it endears you to me, I’m pleased to say.”

  He smiled radiantly and clapped him affectionately on the back. “But, this isn’t the time for deep discourse, more’s the pity, although I can’t help feeling it’s got some bearing on our story, but that’ll have to wait. Come on! Onward, ever onward!” And with that he quickly stepped out once more.

  For Falmeard, the Graywyse Defence Road quickly paled to boredom. Its lack of variety and feature quickly numbed his mind. He soon realised how little genuine interest he really had in the variation in hue and shape of individual setts. It also showed up his sparse knowledge of the paltry few varieties of grasses, of butterflies, weeds and flowers the deep wheel-tracks sheltered.

  The tedious and flat straight line of the rampart’s coping, the repetitive sentinel towers, with their vacant doorways, and the flat and empty expanse of sea beyond simply deadened his wits. Even the landward side had little more interest than its oft rearing walls and cliffs, all worn smooth but unbroken, hoarding any promise behind their obscuring rise.

  Occasionally, a view would open up into some small courtyard or overgrown garden, but for the most part the road remained separate from the once workaday precincts it bordered. Those few empty and bedraggled spaces were made even more poignant for knowing how they’d once been so thronged and vibrant.

  At least their foundations had been well served by the wall, admirably protecting against the sea’s millennial erosion. Everything proud, however, and so open to the sand-laden gales, had been well scoured and reduced to great pebbles or smooth, stony teeth. They almost grinned at the memory of their once stout standing walls now only dimly remembered. Although smothered by salt-loving plants, with their bleached and straggly growth, it all failed to soften the stark testimony.

  Eventually, the time came when it did begin to change, when Falmeard could see, with immense relief, their goal draw nearer. They were approaching an obtuse turn in the wall’s relentless march, a slight veer more truly south, to run along the eastern board of Foundling Bay.

  Once past that turn, Pettar snapped from his reverie as though reading Falmeard’s mind. “We’ve but a league or so more of this tedium, Falmeard, afore we leave its dead embrace. We head inland, there.” He pointed to a tall tower rearing above the far march of the wall. “From there we leave the wall and head southeast, into the old districts, where the roads will be slower, seemingly haphazard and laid at random. Have you ever been there before, Falmeard, through Bazarral, and on into the Esnadales?”

  Falmeard knew he’d not for he’d never been that far south in his life. Its novel, low lying spread, well away from Mount Esnadac’s rise, had always put him off wandering there. He’d become so accustomed to the lofty heights and dramatic contours of his mountainous home that flatness made him feel oddly claustrophobic.

  When he’d been in Uttagate or Cambray, the only equivalent northern precincts, he’d found it most disconcerting how the views there would stop so abruptly, at the end of a street or the brow of a hill. He found it too stifling to see nothing of what lay beyond close buildings and walls. To his eyes, it seemed to offer nothing but a continual denial of discovery.

  For the same reason, he’d also kept himself away from the gentle wolds that spilled to Dica’s southeast, out into the spread of the Eyeswin Vale or east to the Plain of the New Sun. In so doing he’d unwittingly denied himself untold rewards, ones an intimate acquaintance with the Esnadales in particular would certainly have brought.

  It wasn’t just the lure of scenery and views, though, for many of Dica’s communities pursued their activities in the Esnadales. There was ample interest afforded by mead brewers, vintners and smallholders, by pig men, bakers, tallow-men, garment makers and weavers. All took advantage of its equitable clime and excellent thoroughfares. Although now only a shadow of its former self, it still sustained much within its dales and broad valleys. It held sleepy suburbs and proud parks, hamlets and dormitories, fields, copses, smallholdings and market gardens, amongst much, much more.

  Now it held but a piffling fraction of the once teeming population that had made it, in its heyday, a thriving and industrious place. Despite the work still carried on there, it wouldn’t be at all unusual these days to walk clean across without meeting a soul.

  The Esnadales were the first flat land encountered when travelling south, but before Mount Esnadac could fall away, a dramatic cove cut sharply into its flank. More than a thousand feet high, its shallow but sheer hundred foot cut was laced with numerous elegantly arched bridges. They reared, dizzyingly, each closely stacked above the other, away into The Upper Reaches, where the cove petered out to the mountain's lessening slope.

  It was called Hlaederstac but mariners of old knew it as the Castle's Corset, for its suggested promise of land borne delights. It hid behind its western bluff and faced southwest, towards Foundling Bay, and could so easily go unnoticed when passing south, despite its size. When they did, eventually, have the wonder laid bare, each step revealed yet more of its bridge-laced scar.

  They marvelled at its seemingly forever-rising ladder, its uppermost span enclosing a patch of sky, between arch and cove head, that closely resembled an eye. The Eye of Baradcar they'd once called it, the eye that had watched over Dica's vast trade with its realm, that had vetted and set assize, safeguarded its fruitfulness, that had indeed assured the passage of plenty to the profit of many.

  That wonder had certainly sparked excitement in Falmeard, despite his apprehension at the flatter terrain to come. As the sloping skirt of the castle’s descent to the vale finally reached down to sea level he found himself truly enchanted by the uneven swell of the land. There were stretches of sun kissed stonework interspersed with verdant fields and parks, a patchwork flooded by the morning sun.

  It fair took his breath away and made him stop, to drink it all in. As far as the eye could see, as far as the sloping horizon in the east and the vanishing haze in the distant south, the castle undulated according to the fall and rise of ancient valleys and hills. The mellow stone of the buildings sat so well with the rich and varied greens of the fields and woods alike.

  Unlike the austere, impersonal and granite lofty reaches in the north, rearing up in grandeur with the mountain, here it felt warm, familiar and comforting, more on a scale with those who dwelt within it. Falmeard never realised how so utterly beautiful it could be.

  Pettar and Nephril had stopped, a few paces ahead, and were waiting, indulgently, for the impact to take its course. Although dimmed by familiarity, they were both well aware of its effect, reminded of how momentous that first sight could be. They willingly enjoyed its frisson once more, if only by second-hand.

  Nephril’s features had softened and he smiled at Falmeard. “Bazarral! The most ancient and original part of Dica, a place I am surprised thou hast not visited afore but I see plainly thou hast not.”

  Falmeard continued to stare, his enrapt gaze stealing attention from Nephril’s words, all but the name he’d spoken. Falmeard’s mouth slowly began forming its shape and then its sound. “Bazarral. Bazarral. Baz … arral.” His eyes were wide and shiny for some time before he could prise them slowly away and to Nephril, his expression honestly declaring his absence. “It’s wonderful, Nephril, so utterly wonde
rful.” His eyes were soon drawn back.

  Nephril turned to Pettar and spoke softly, low enough for his words to fall well short of Falmeard. “It doth seem to me that Falmeard hath recognised somewhere closely familiar. Thou knowest, he doth seem as though he comes home, but I do believe his words true when he says he hath never afore been this far south.”

  Pettar nodded, looked a little puzzled himself and then stole another look at Falmeard. “You’ve known him far longer, and far better, why do you think he finds it so familiar?” It was Nephril’s turn to sneak a look at Falmeard, at his easy and relaxed stance, but the face he turned back contained only confusion.

  It left Pettar to draw closer to Falmeard, where he gently asked, “Are you fit to continue, Falmeard?” Contact was only slowly made but Pettar could readily see, within Falmeard’s eyes, deep wells of recognition, subdued longings and a sad remembrance. He did, however, reply, although somewhat dreamily.

  “I am, Pettar, I am.”

  It was fortunate for Falmeard that the wall began to drop lower and the view become obscured. By then, they’d changed their approach to the tower, the one Pettar had earlier pointed out, and it soon started to displace Falmeard’s retarding rapture. It was becoming plain that it was in fact a huge arch, not unlike an enormous whalebone, and fashioned from some soft, yellow stone. A hundred and maybe more feet high, it easily dwarfed the low buildings and walls about it.

  Its base, some fifty feet across, was filled by a tall fretwork wall with a wide gateway at its centre. At its apex, a great worn shield held the tree and serpent emblem. Towards them, a broad avenue swept through the gateway and then fell into a cleft in the Graywyse Defence. There it became a precipitous stairway, dropping steeply between two vast lighthouse towers, their crystal lanterns glistening in the late morning sun. Pettar and Nephril both knew it plummeted to the old harbour below.

  Beyond the arch, the avenue passed between old and ornate buildings, cloistered at ground level and boasting large mullion windows above. Down its sides ran rows of statues, of moderate size but now mostly fallen or broken, all well weathered to anonymity.

  They were soon down a wide stairway, into the wall’s cleft, and onto the avenue, where they turned towards the great arch. When they came to stand at its wide gate, other than the wheeling cry of gulls, the place had an unearthly hush that quietened Pettar’s words. “We’re entering Bazarral, the castle’s founding father, and where the streets and ways for the most part are devious and narrow. To newcomers it’s a veritable maze, so it’s imperative we don’t get split up. Eh, Falmeard?”

  He jumped at his name, obviously yet again lost in his own wonder, but soon snapped-to and nodded. Pettar looked relieved. “Good! I know you’re familiar with the place, Nephril, but I’d suggest we adopt my own route to Galgaverre, if you don’t mind. I want to raise as little awareness of our visit as possible, so I’ll be leading you through mostly abandoned districts.” Nephril just nodded his understanding.

  “With luck we should be there before sunset,” then, with a quick look at Falmeard and a final “Good” half to himself, he freed his feet to step purposefully through the gateway and on down the avenue. Falmeard hesitated slightly but soon followed on. Nephril, though, hung back, his thoughts upon long memories of their friendship, before he too passed beneath the arch and on into Bazarral.

  11 A Call to the Lords Demesne

  King Namweed still had the vigour of youth, not being much more than fifty, but was of late unused to extended periods of exertion. On the other hand, Laixac was several years younger, thirty or maybe even forty at the most, but well used to long excursions about the empty Upper Reaches and acclimatised to the thin and cold air in those parts. It was no surprise then, to either of them, that it was Namweed who was making heavier weather of their journey.

  Laixac’s extra vigour also stemmed from a certain grim determination, a desire to expunge the memory of his embarrassing and humiliating encounter with Pettar. He only had to think of torch brackets to find his teeth grinding. It may have been painful to remember but at least it had fired his resolve.

  Against that, there was his genuine delight at seeing his liege lord’s return from imbecility, of having him once more the strong figure of authority, wisdom and knowledge he so badly needed. How long it would last he couldn’t tell but hoped, in his heart, it would be some time. Without his king he’d felt lonely and scared, lacking in self-respect, untutored and becoming ever more wayward.

  Keeping himself respectfully a pace or two behind, he periodically threw Namweed covert glances, fearful he’d see that ghastly idiot’s face return. So far, though, thank the Certain Power, he’d been rewarded with a grim but purposeful countenance.

  The king’s thoughts, in complete contrast, contained nothing of the sort, no worrying about his recent state, no fear it may return and lay him so completely low again. In fact, the king had no memories at all of his recent past, as though it had selfishly wiped the slate clean. Instead, his mind was racing, turning over the few facts he now knew about the invasion, testing this stratagem and that tactic against the meagre evidence.

  At first, his immediate thought had been the need to reconnoitre. If they hadn’t already arrived at the Eastern Gate then they would, eventually, for it was the only access to the castle. What he’d only now begun to feel the lack of, though, was wily and persuasive argument, neither of which could be readily had with Laixac alone. Although useful and reliable, Laixac was neither a sharp knife nor an old and experienced hand. What Namweed really needed now was the sound advice of his nobles, some of the lords and ladies of his court.

  It was a good couple of hours yet before they’d come to the Eastern Gate. Most of his council, he knew, were about an hour away so he stopped once more and turned to Laixac, who assumed the king to be in need of yet more rest.

  “My faithful aide, I have need of you to run me an urgent errand.”

  Laixac beamed and noticeably puffed up. “Your word is my command, Lord.” He sank to one knee and bowed low before his liege lord.

  That triggered an old habit in Namweed who then took up a more kingly stance; one foot slightly before the other, back elegantly arched and head levelled down towards Laixac. He paused, long enough for royal effect. “We have dire need of broad counsel, do you hear, and this council must attend us as soon as humanly possible … preferably sooner. We will continue to the Eastern Gate and there espy the enemy whilst we await our chosen council.”

  Laixac hurried to his feet. “I am your Majesty’s most humble and willing servant, my Lord. I will speed forth to gather those whom thou so desireth to attend thee. Just speaketh their names and I will be thine herald forthwith.”

  Namweed smiled, wryly. “Very well, Laixac, our faithful aide, bring forth to us; Baron Stormangal, Lord Que’Devit, the Countess Ragskin, oh, and Lord Lainsward, who lives nearby the Countess. Now, let me see, oh yes, Chiffenger Basjob, for we’ll have need of his mechanicking knowledge, and, of course, Progman Brakefever for his wit at planning.”

  He paused, but only briefly. “Ah, yes! Mustn’t forget Lord Nephril, my Master of Ceremonies – if you’ve wit to find his abode and speed enough to go that far, but fear not if you don’t, for he may be omitted at a pinch. Then there’s Lady Lambsplitter, for her wide knowledge and arcane understanding, for she may have some clue as to where this damned army could have sprung from.” Namweed fell silent whilst he counted on his fingers, stopped, stared at the ceiling of the passage and counted them off again.

  He froze and stared blankly at Laixac, who started to worry again about the King’s wits. “Did you get all that, eh, Laixac? Did you register our wishes as command and, if so, how many nobles did we request of you?”

  Laixac did his own finger counting. “Eight in total, my Liege. You have commanded me to bring you eight of your council.”

  “Very well. You have the King’s Order to command them, to enjoin them to attend our person at the Royal Apartments, the one
s above the northern arm of the gate. They must make all haste, mind, and tarry not a minute too long. Oh, and if they know nothing of the invasion then you’re to deliver them only the bare facts and thereby gird their loins the more by it. Do you understand?”

  Laixac affirmed as much. “In which case, Laixac, be off with you and take our wishes for a speedy and fruitful journey.” Laixac hesitated a moment before snapping to attention, bowing and then racing off to the nearest of the king’s chosen council - Countess Ragskin.

  All the noble families of the court had their manors and halls within the Lords Demesne, to the northwest of the Royal Courts. It was a select and treasured part of the castle and enjoyed architecture and landscape far more beautiful than could be found anywhere else, except in Bazarral. Where it certainly won out was in its grand scale for Bazarral could never squander such space, could never have shouldered aside so many neighbours for such opulent extravagance. It was, therefore, quite simply unique.

  As with nearly all significant things, its singular character came from its history, from its confluence of geography and politics. The great bulk of Dica’s northern regions were principally utilitarian, with little to please the finer senses, but it was there the royal court had need to be. There was direct access, along Eastern Street, to the castle’s single gateway, and through it to crucial interests across the Vale of Plenty and within the Forest of Belforas. It certainly commanded a view but also demonstrable power, power over the many tribes and families it had long drawn together from across the vale.

  They’d been seduced, from their disparate familial ways, and melded to the realm’s purpose through the recompense of nobility, and all it brought with it. Such payment gave them need to live close by the royal court, to their source of esteem and power, with each new generation’s growing wealth adding yet more extravagance to already splendid family seats.