Leiyatel's Embrace (Dica Series Book 1)

by Clive S. Johnson

  “I do not know, my Lady, I am but the King’s messenger. Err. Now. Where did I get to? Ah, yes, Lainsward, that was it, Lainsward then Basjob, then, yes, after him comes Lord Nephril, the King’s Master of Ceremonies, he was next.”

  “Ah, Lord Nephril, well, he’ll be a hard one to come by, certainly in such short order. Do you want me to see if my servants can track him down for you?”

  Laixac happily agreed. “Only two remaining then, Master Pushpen, you’ll be pleased to hear, and they are Progman Brakefever and Lady Lambsplitter.” He smiled, looking pleased with himself. “That’s the lot, your Highness, fully the eight names I committed to memory. Do you have eight names on your paper now, Master Pushpen?”

  “Of course I do. Do you take me for an imbecile?”

  “My sincere apologies, Master Pushpen, I didn’t intend to infer any such thing. I was only being mindful of your committing them to paper, that was all.”

  “Now then, Pushpen, don’t be so touchy, and answer me Master Laixac’s fair question.”

  “Your Highness, my Lady, I have fully eight names in my list, as accurate as you will find anywhere, as neat and well scripted as is possible, given the tools available and the short time at hand.”

  He spun the paper in his hand and almost threw it onto the table in front of her. “Here. See for yourself if you doubt my word.”

  She diplomatically ignored him and just peered diligently at the list. She was trying to guess what the king had in mind. Some ideas were forming when she realised the need for haste.

  “That’s all perfectly good, Master Pushpen, a worthy job, excellently executed and beautiful to look upon. I thank you for your time and skill. You may now return to whatever it was I interrupted.” At that she absently waved her hand towards the door, without looking at Pushpen who snorted quietly, rose from his chair and minced from the room.

  She studied the list a while longer, but then said. “If it suits you, Master Laixac, and you’re able to put your trust in my word, then I’m sure my servants can soon reach all those on your list, although Lord Nephril may take longer. It’ll leave you free to return to the King forthwith. I’m sure he’d value your early return. As for his Master of Ceremonies, well, he’ll be a task and a half and there’s no denying.”

  Laixac wasn’t overly concerned and passed on the King’s comments, that Lord Nephril’s attendance wasn’t of great necessity, only desirable if at all possible.

  Everything now seemed to be in order and so he began to request leave to return when she gently objected. “Pray, Master Laixac, think of yourself for once, afore his Majesty. I’m sure he’d not mind on this one occasion. You’ll do him more service if you return refreshed. So, tarry a short while longer, eh, enough for some food and drink at least.”

  When he started to stammer a refusal, Countess Ragskin became wily. “I’m sure Marrion can find you a simple repast and wouldn’t be at all averse to keeping you company the while.”

  “That would be most kind and gracious of your Highness, indeed it would, and it’d be most churlish of me to refuse.”

  “Very well. I’ll give her my instructions and, whilst you take your rest, I’ll arrange for the King’s Command to be sent on to all these.” She waved Pushpen’s list and smiled, in an oddly satisfied way that Laixac failed to notice.

  She rose with some difficulty, wary of her gown, and as she did so asked, “What do we know of the invasion then?”

  Laixac remembered the King’s instructions. “It comprises a force of some score or more of armoured and disciplined men at arms, my Lady, accurate and rapid in their use of bows, attended by pikemen and led by officers. They were first espied on the Lost Northern Way but soon came upon the Ambec village.”

  “Ha, and I bet I can guess their response.”

  “As your Ladyship rightly suggests, the Ambecs swarmed from their village armed only with rocks and stones.”

  He paused, but she made no comment. “Of course, they were all cut down, every last one of them.” The Lady still said nothing. “The Ambecs are no more, your Highness, they’re all slain, every man, woman and child.”

  The Countess waited for anything else but, when nothing more was forthcoming, asked, “And what of the main body of their company, eh, where are they encamped?”

  Laixac hadn’t even thought there could be more of the enemy. His stricken look spoke volumes to the Countess, who then reached out her hand to his shoulder. “Think you seriously that just a score of men alone, a pitiful number indeed, would approach the immensity of Dica, out in the open, up close to its Great Wall? Can you really imagine that as many as a score of men could be found who were all wanting enough of common sense they’d be prepared to do so without the security of a great force at their backs? I think not.”

  She genuinely didn’t want to alarm him further and so spoke more softly. “Do we know where the advance force went after their slaughter of the stupid Ambecs?”

  “I … I do not … do not know, ma’am, and neither does the King, I think … not as yet.”

  She turned slightly towards the inner door with her hand still reassuringly on his shoulder. “Marrion? Come in here once more and attend me.”

  This time there was a delay as Marrion was already at her mistress’s wishes, packing an overnight bag and laying garments out on her bed. “I need find my maid, Laixac. I’ll despatch her here to take you to the kitchens. There you can have a rest, eh, compose yourself awhile and have a bite to eat. We can’t have you out into the castle once more with nothing but turmoil about your head and your stomach empty, now can we?” She gently let go his shoulder and quietly left the room.

  Laixac stood, stock still, for quite some time, his mind reeling with new demons as his skin grew cold and damp. Slowly, he began to appreciate just how much he needed to be with his Lord the King again. As he was contemplating sneaking away, the door carefully opened and Marrion’s face popped around.

  “Master Laixac?” Her voice was soft with feigned pity. “Master Laixac? Would you like to follow me and I’ll deliver you to the kitchens, eh? Would you like that? We can have a nice bite together, eh, what d’you say?” Compliantly, he allowed her to take his limp hand in hers and together they left the room as the distant muffled ticking of the clock once more seeped in to fill the returning silence.

  12 Galgaverre

  “Mellow stoned buildings’ lofty chimneys rise

  O’er steep raked roofs hooding mullion stares,

  Down tumbling ginnels filled o’ pedlar-cast cries

  Unto cobbled courts and sett-laid squares.

  From postern and lych and wicket gate,

  ‘Cross park and field and meadow straight,

  To tavern and forge and creaking mill,

  In Bazarral, in Bazarral, its fair folk spill.

  Proud jutting jetty’s arching storeys mass

  O’er tight pressed alleys carting woven wares,

  ‘Pon rumbling wagons aft shaft-held ass

  Unto havened ports and far-off fairs.

  In banquet and love and drinking song,

  With yearn and ache and heartfelt long

  To praise and troll and laud it all,

  Oh Bazarral, oh Bazarral, its fair folk call.”

  Falmeard’s words drifted across the town square, in at a multitude of blank and unseeing windows and through umpteen empty doorways. They soaked away into the deadening, empty spaces between once grand and elegant facades. Nephril and Pettar stood transfixed, momentarily lost for their own words as they felt the lyric gently soak through their weary minds. There, in the deserted and dusty, debris-strewn square, before the striking face of a once impressive town hall, they stood, dumbfounded, and stared at Falmeard’s back. He, though, didn’t move.

  Once more, Pettar and Nephril gave each other quizzical and suspicious looks before Pettar called over, “My strange friend, wherever did you find those unusual words?”

  Falmeard spun around and beamed at him. “An inscri
ption, a fine old inscription.” His eyes sparkled with the memory. “In the Park of Forgiveness there’s a most beautiful pavilion, as you probably know, there, on Lake Dica’s southern shore.”

  Pettar confirmed he knew it well and agreed it was, indeed, most beautiful, if somewhat unusual. “But I don’t remember there being any inscription with those words! How did you find it?”

  “They’re plain to see, Pettar, staring all and sundry squarely in the face, all who visit the pavilion with open eyes, that is.” Pettar looked astonished. “I’m sure you’ll have seen them yourself, Pettar, for they’re not hidden nor obscured, well, not from sight that is.”

  Falmeard’s sly grin had greatly cheered them for it showed he was at last becoming more relaxed within Bazarral’s narrow confines. “At the very centre of the pavilion, on the back wall, there’s a slate plaque upon which those lines have long been inscribed, in deep and elegant marks.”

  “I remember the plaque, vaguely, yes, but I also seem to remember it being written in a language I‘ve never come across before.”

  “Aha, yes, you’re quite right, my young friend, you’ll not have seen such a script before because it’s not of Dica.”

  Leaving their curiosity unsated, he deliberately strolled off to investigate the town hall, more to pique their chagrin than anything else. Nephril himself then showed uncharacteristic curiosity.

  “Now, Falmeard, thee old fox, let us be having some straight talk from thy cunning lips.” He had, by then, caught up with Falmeard at an open window on the ground floor of the town hall.

  Through its shattered opening there was a mountain of stone slabs, richly mixed with ancient, rotten timbers, clearly all that was left of the hall’s once fine roof. “Well, Falmeard? Art thou going to put us out of our miseries?”

  Falmeard turned an aloof face to his old friend, but couldn’t really hold it. The game had, he conceded to himself, truly run its course. “The script was one that had puzzled me for many years, you know, a great number of years, so I was always on the lookout for clues to its meaning. I fell lucky, though, very lucky indeed. In one of the long disused storerooms, in the undercroft of the old Royal Library, I found a book, but not just any old book, mind you. It wasn’t writ by hand but made by impression.”

  He stopped, leant back smugly and then keenly watched Nephril’s face. He could see the concept beginning to crystallise, could see the various connections being made within his ancient mind and then saw the light dawn and add motion to his lips. “Thou mean … thou mean to say … thou hast found a printed book?”

  Falmeard jumped with joy, clapped his hands excitedly and then nodded his head vigorously. “Yes! Yes, I have. I’ve found an actual printed book. And in perfect condition, resting within a tarred cloth at the very bottom of a closed chest. I have it still!”

  “Thou hath it still! Could I see it?”

  “Of course, dear friend, of course, any time.”

  Pettar joined them but in some agitation. “Come on, you two scholars, we’ve far to go still and need get there before darkness. So, if you must carry on your discussion, could you please make to do so whilst walking, eh?” Nephril and Falmeard looked at each other for a moment before finally falling in behind, as Pettar once more led the way.

  From the square, they slipped into a narrow cobbled street that veered, drunkenly, between overhanging eaves. As they quietly picked their way through the rubble, and before they could once more begin to gabble, Pettar asked Falmeard, “So, how did you come by the translation then?”

  Falmeard couldn’t believe his luck. There was Pettar actually offering air for his passion to breath. “It was easy, Pettar, the book Nephril and I were so enthusing about was a primer, a language primer.”

  Nephril then got excited. “A grammar book?”

  “Nay, nay! More than that; a primer, written in Dicanian, presenting rules for the translation of words and grammar from ancient Bazarran, the language commonplace hereabouts, thousands of years ago.”

  It was Pettar’s turn to become excited. “You mean to say, the plaque at Lake Dica was written in the language of here … of Bazarral?”

  “The original language,” Nephril corrected but then added, “The tongue of this land before Dica, before its great castle arose. The tongue of those who, legend has it, sailed here from the west, who first landed on Foundling Bay’s shores and did settle upon the fertile lands of the Esnadales.”

  “You mean to say, that script is the language of my own ancestors?”

  “I am afraid not, Pettar, mine friend. No, the ancient Bazarral script and language have no common line with thine own. Thou art most definitely of Galgaverran descent.”

  “But! Galgaverre was built by Bazarral!”

  Falmeard was fascinated. He’d already exhausted what little he knew of Bazarral and so listened keenly to Pettar and Nephril. “Ah, but so it hath always been. Those of Galgaverre have always puffed up their chests more than the truth of it should allow. Even thou, Pettar, who hast devoted thine life to eschewing such vanities, are but victim to the same.”

  Pettar looked decidedly hurt. “Do not anger thine self at mine words, Pettar, for they are kindly meant. It be understandable that thou should carry, within thy blood, much of the culture of thy birth, ‘tis unavoidable. Do not think I decry thy successes in this regard, for I do not, I do applaud thine stand. No, what I allude to is the firm but false belief within Galgaverre that they are, themselves, the very realm’s foundation. They have always seen themselves as seed of its origin, as much as its subsequent power. The two are oft confused to the one, but it hath never been so.”

  Pettar fell to thought, his brows knitting, his gaze slanting towards Nephril’s sympathetic eyes. Eventually his face did relax and he drew a deep breath. “I see the truth of your words, Nephril, although they pained me at first. In fact, I’ve proven you right by my very reaction, haven’t I? The insult I felt was, I now see, no more than fruit of that very vanity. I stand corrected and indebted to you, my friend.”

  Nephril gave him an affectionate smile. “There never be need of indebtedness to the truth for it feels naught, Pettar, is unaffected by belief. Be indebted instead to thine own frankness, for therein lies contentment.”

  Falmeard was rather bemused. “Surely, if Bazarral built Galgaverre then isn’t Pettar of that original stock, isn’t he also of Bazarral descent?”

  Nephril sat down on a nearby wall, sighed and then looked up into Falmeard’s eyes. “Galgaverre was commissioned by Bazarran ancestors, that be so. It was fashioned for a single purpose and peopled to achieve the same. Pettar is of the line of those who were charged to serve the Certain Power, to serve it in Galgaverre, and so his own forebears are not of Bazarral.”

  He dried up when he felt a growing unease at treading on such ancient byways, about impinging upon the memories of those far distant generations. He realised he could never truly or adequately explain their deeds, certainly not in any current light. They’d been perpetrated so long ago, well before even his own time, that it was quite unfair to expect he could justify any of it.

  In desperation, he jumped straight to the end of his story, hoping to deflect them from those parts he dared not go. “Galgaverre was reasoned and wrought by Bazarral to ensure their lands and themselves were forever imbued with a power, a perpetual, raw and wholly natural power of coercion. It was a power so subtle and all-pervading that few understood it, and certainly none do so now.”

  Nephril suspected he’d lost them, but the telling had a weight of its own. “That power gave to them, to the ancient Bazarran, control over uncertainty, a prism through which likelihood could be resolved and winnowed … and … and by doing so could, if they so wished, allow them to do no wrong.”

  When Pettar caught Nephril’s eye, he saw in it a pleading, as though he’d wished he’d never spoken at all. There was a worry there too, a dread he’d awoken something that should have been left sleeping.

  Ever the pragmatist, Pet
tar said, “All very interesting, I’m sure, but we’ve tarried here far too long. The light’s waning and we’ve still a long way to go. Come on. I’m sure there’ll be time for it later.”

  Falmeard was left puzzled, aware there was something he couldn’t quite get a hold of. On the other hand, Nephril looked immensely relieved and keen to be on their way. It was no wonder then, that he and Pettar were the first to stride off down the street.

  True to Pettar’s promise, they encountered no one as they crossed Bazarral. His route took them through districts that mouldered under the centuries of neglect, their very fabric slowly dissolving under the incessant weight of age-long weathering.

  Their passage wasn’t without its dangers, though. Many of its structures had become precarious, especially the bridges. They were often forced into long detours or unpleasant wading, keeping them so occupied there was little real time for talk the rest of the way to Galgaverre.

  Despite it, Falmeard’s mind still picked at their last conversation but, try as he might, he couldn’t square it. ‘Maybe,’ he thought, ‘maybe Galgaverre itself will throw some light on the matter.’ With that, he was at last content to let it drop.

  Although decrepit and ravaged, the ancient city still lay so much joy and wonder before his eyes that he soon became more pleasantly occupied. At every turn there seemed to be even more vistas and views. There were great avenues laid to paving and cobbles, and some surfaced with black and broken tar that deadened their footfall. What most intrigued him of all were the number of windows he found still glazed with crystal panes.

  He’d heard how crystal had once been used that way but also knew how expensive and difficult it was to work. He found it hard, therefore, to believe that just about every window there had, at one time or another, been secured by it, and by very large sheets at that. He was so amazed he actually tempted another question of Pettar. “Am I right in believing that all the windows of Bazarral were once filled with sheets of crystal?”

  Pettar smiled. “Ha, you’re almost right there, Falmeard, but it isn’t crystal – far too expensive and fragile – no, it’s glass.” Falmeard had never heard of glass before, although it did seem to chime with something in a remote corner of his mind.