Leiyatel's Embrace (Dica Series Book 1)

by Clive S. Johnson

  Holding no attraction, the Guardians of the day had taken the trickle, and eventually the deluge, and buried it in inaccessible corners of the library. The orphans were often piled high in the boxes they’d come in, untouched, unmarked and unread. Although out of sight, and hence out of mind, they did share benefit with their more sought-after workaday companions - their almost perfect preservation.

  As they’d retired to the library, leaving Pettar and Falmeard to entertain themselves, Penolith was already drawing up a list of books to put before Nephril. They were, she hoped, suitable springheads for the river of forgotten memories Nephril sought. No doubt Storbanther had selected them carefully from the immense number at hand. The trouble was, she’d no idea why.

  She’d have confronted him with it now had he still been there, but she’d only that morning sent him in her place to one of her regular meetings. It had been under pretence of injury but, had she been in her right mind, would never have countenanced the lie. Too late for that now, she thought, as she guided Nephril to her desk.

  She sat him down, with a glass of wine at his elbow and a gently glowing globe above his head. Satisfied he was as comfortable as he could be, she started to search out her chosen texts whilst Nephril appeared to pull something from his robes.

  From where she was, running her finger along serried spines, it appeared he’d withdrawn a small frame, inset with two small crystal discs. This he placed on his nose, where it held fast, and through which he then peered, awkwardly. Mystified, she returned to her search but was soon back with two ancient volumes carefully clutched in her hands.

  They were both quite small, each bound in faded, red leather, their pages yellowing with age. When opened, their spines folded silently and easily back before the pages themselves lay flat and un-creased. Nephril leant over and, in so doing, cast them in his own shadow. It made him draw back sharply, somewhat startled.

  When she’d repositioned the light to one side, Nephril smiled and peered at its soft glow through the discs. His distraction was short-lived. He snorted, once and dismissively, before again leaning forward. The text this time was lit clearly but gently and, with guiding finger, he began to read.

  The Legend of the Living Green Stone Tree

  Translated from Lifian Grunstaan Treow

  Royal College Archives –-Dican History Faculty

  Date unknown

  Within the plains and dales of Lower Esna, within the lands twixt Eyes and Suswin, and Dacc of Esna, and upon the Foundling Bay, from whence their ships came in, the Bazarran did plough and till rich fields therein, did herd and shepherd stout stock from thin, did foster thereabouts in power, both homely cot and lowly bower.

  Prospered they from granges spread and peoples few, to hamlets bound round smitheries anew, askirt the Dacc their numbers slowly grew, whilst haven’s passage allegiance kept, unto kin ‘til time o’er time had leapt.

  Lone then the Bazarran took refuge of their kith in stead, did grow adept at drawing fish with net, did fashion stone and dress it wet, and gird from loins and clay, to swell their body ere want of stay, and builded they around the bay, fair Bazarral, fair Bazarral.

  Fair indeed were house and hall, their jostle pressing out as shawl, about broad street and busy market stall, but fairer still were gardeners bed, and brewer’s kiln and baker’s bread.

  So mighty ‘came their forge and last, their anvil and their forming cast, skilled craftsmen swore to ne’er avast, long spent labours brought to bear, reforming stone and earth and fluid air.

  And as they grew and flourished well, though few believed would e’er foretell, they multiplied and beyond did dwell, and then from skill in writ and haft, in sight and sound to nature’s graft, would take from her her deepest draught, in keen Bazarral, keen Bazarral.

  Keen indeed was wit and know, though long hard won and slow to show, like torpid depths of river flow, yet brought them forth learned halls of lore, with sure redoubts revealing more.

  O’er time rare thoughts were shown, of deeper skills to each one known, where brought together for all was shown, how great power did underlie, material things beyond hand and eye.

  From such wit they came to spy, as though revealed in Nature’s eye, a future fixed bar roll of die, and so began contrivance spawned of thought, through deep and subtle convolutions wrought, giving knowing honed as if from naught, in shrewd Bazarral, shrewd Bazarral.

  Shrewd indeed were plan and scheme, long coming born of matter lean, yet resolute in goal and mean, to build upon what went afore, to hone and polish their growing lore.

  With firm hold struck upon right place, its rock and warmth gave close embrace, firm stand was lent for radiant face, star crossed by radial arms so thin, deep grown the ruff that cupped it in.

  Long leagues across and wrought of nature’s hand, with guiding governance o' chosen band, the few gold grains amongst the beach’s sand.

  As Baradcar knew they that face, its gaze set out to sun and moon in place, below their ever arcing trace, for prudent Galgaverre, prudent Galgaverre.

  Prudent indeed were her servants there, for long bestowed their tender care, with selfless act they gave repair, with primitive native usurped blood, fashioned and wrought for the one true good.

  Wall and rampart breasted firm redoubt, for dormitory and passage and room about, where governance broached no lasting doubt, of body or self from carefree health, and so it gave e’er lasting wealth.

  Galgaverre sustained its charge so well, that fortune thence was wont to tell, only where winnowed destiny doth dwell, when dusty cloud of chaff doth lower, revealing but the one due dower, the all-pervading Certain Power, Certain Power.

  Certain indeed did rude elements avower, through charm twixt soil and crowning flower, from roots in mundane loam to growing tower, of wondrous tree enshrined in stone, where verdant life brought gain bar none.

  In that place can no man but one attend, the needs and wants to harvest dividend, chosen for wisdom with eternal end, guardian and keeper fore’er forswears, all but cherishing of fair tree’s years.

  Within Baradcar layeth Crimson Lake, that doth drink to it its golden slake, drawn from sun’s bright glow doth make, of stem and bough sustaining vitellus partake, so Living Green Stone Tree foretell, fore’er of fortune’s bounteous Leiyfiantel, bounteous Leiyfiantel.

  Baradcar! Oh Baradcar!

  Thou dost draw and thus encase,

  The vim of sun’s eternal grace.

  Hungry be Baradcar’s countenance,

  In need of succouring radiance,

  To turn but mere ephemeral chance,

  To Leiyfiantel’s gainful permanence.

  Having carefully read it through the once, Nephril sat back awhile and closed his eyes. He sat very still for some time, breathing lightly, his fingers entwined together, before finally leaning forward and very carefully reading it over again.

  This time, his finger marked out each word of each sentence. When his finger rested lightly in one place, he’d then lift his head to think, stare blindly into the distance with his tongue gently probing his lips. Penolith sat by his side, throughout, careful to remain quiet but memorised by his finger’s progress.

  When he finally trailed it from the last word of the last sentence, and let it fall softly to his lap, she moved her eyes to his face. There, she found silken tears gathering force, threatening to seep out onto the dry skin at his cheeks.

  Somewhere within her, from somewhere unfamiliar, a strange warmth welled, a rending that seemed to pull at her very guts. She’d no idea what it was but it brought her closer, gave her a yearning to embrace and comfort him. Its very unfamiliarity stymied her and so she remained, unmoving, by his side.

  There was a sudden flicker in his eyes, and a momentary glance her way, before he sighed and spoke, quite matter-of-factly. “How came thee by this particular text, mine dear?”

  “This … oh, err, well … I found it left open on this table, left by Storbanther I reckon, as though … as t
hough he himself had but recently been reading it. It was left open at that very page.” She looked down at the mellow paper but its words were strangely blurred, blurred by an unfamiliar wetness about her eyes.

  20 The Past Returns

  Chiffenger Basjob’s voice had steadily risen, in both pitch and volume, making of his usually convoluted and meandering sentences something more akin to the babblings of a lunatic. Only Progman Brakefever still seemed to follow his gist, but even he sought far fewer points of clarification than usual and his face fell to confusion more often.

  Basjob and Progman both rallied their rapid staccato across the heads of the Council whilst Lord Que’Devit threw his quite reasonable objections into a disinterested field. His words only vanished into the melee now unfolding from the heated argument between Baron Stormangal and Countess Ragskin.

  The only Council voices not being hurled about the room, not adding yet more spittle to that already flying, were Lord Lainsward and Lady Lambsplitter’s for they were both sitting aside, deep in their own quiet discussion, and completely oblivious to the rising maelstrom.

  The king alone sat silent, silent and disapproving, and rapidly reddening as his rage grew. As Basjob was mid-sentence, warming himself to yet another circuitous, precise and painfully tedious contestation, King Namweed slowly started to rise to his feet.

  Nobody noticed, least of all Basjob. “…and upon the alternative premise it beseeches me to equate a quite comparable dialectic, that is to say…”

  At this point, and with Stormangal shouting at Ragskin, “You’re a complete idiot, d’ya know that, a complete idiot. D’ya really believe an army…” the king’s patience finally broke and he bellowed, “SHUT UP! WE HAVE RISEN!”

  The room fell instantly silent and nearly all heads swivelled towards him, with various looks of mystification, surprise or embarrassment. Only two didn’t follow suit, those of Que’Devit and Lambsplitter, their muted voices still flirting until the pervasive silence finally impinged.

  The king simmered whilst he held each face in turn. On the whole, the effect was productive and the heat and tempers individually cooled appreciably. They continued to cool until Namweed felt steady enough to speak in a more composed manner.

  “Lords, Ladies and Engers of our esteemed Council, if we may, perhaps, be allowed some space? Hmm? Well, may we?” A murmur of supplication spread slowly around the room. “That’s better, we must say that that is certainly much better. More … well, more conducive to productive discussion.”

  Namweed strode to the long window, so he could put his Council quite literally behind him, and there looked out, only half-seeing. He rested his chin on his hand and propped its elbow against the sill. There, he gathered his thoughts for a while, absently noting Laixac running quickly towards the salon, back along the northern arm of the gate.

  He turned back to his Council and tried to put the meeting back onto an even keel. “Our esteemed Council? We think all must accept that we’re going nowhere, and very fast indeed.” His words momentarily brought back the image of Laixac. “Perhaps it would be gainful if we were to return to the original issue, to the pertinent question in hand, and that is: how likely is it that we’re really dealing with an invading army, but,” he hurried to add, “we’ll take the views of you each in turn, with no interruption from another, and weigh the balance of opinion at …”

  The door broke open, and with it, a great crash as it struck the wall, heralding the panting arrival of Laixac; his hair awry, his eyes wild, face almost scarlet and arms flailing uncontrollably. Before he could stop his headlong dash he’d slipped and sprawled across the floor.

  “There … without, they’re … there!” He pointed, wildly, past the king, through the window behind him and out towards the gate’s distant sentinel towers. “They’re here, forsooth … without!” He looked completely mystified at their lack of response.

  In desperation he tried again, but at the top of his voice. “THE ARMY, D’YA HEAR, IT’S HERE!” That seemed to do the trick. Startled, everyone jumped to their feet, chairs overturning and scattering as they rushed to jostle at the window with the king.

  At first they could make nothing out, nothing untoward, nothing between the gate’s arms or upon Eastern Walk. Nothing about the gate’s huge, squat sentinel towers or in their narrow gap, but wait. What was that their far-straining eyes could only just make out? What was that smudge beyond the gap between the towers, out towards the Eyeswin Bridge? Could it really be?

  Stormangal was the first to break their breath-held silence. “Has anyone got eyes young enough to tell me what that is, there?” He pointed. “Beyond towers, there, can ya see? Summat across t’Eastern Walk. Well? Who can tell me then?”

  Nobody spoke, either because their eyesight was no better or, if it were, because sudden, freezing fear had gripped them. Without waiting for an answer, he turned and fled the chamber. Countess Ragskin was the next to follow suit. They were both fully in sight, rushing along the battlement, before anyone else had moved.

  It didn’t take the Countess long to catch up with the Baron, his great size, girth and weight adding appreciably to his ungainliness. They were, therefore, together when they ascended the steps onto the northern arm and there paused briefly to get their breaths back. They could no longer see through the gap and it spurred them on to renewed effort.

  With the greatest will in the world, and for even the fittest, that dash along the gate’s arm was still a challenge. Although making surprisingly good progress they soon began to hear footsteps rapidly closing from behind. Ragskin threw a brief glance back.

  It was Namweed; head back, chest thrust out and long legs rhythmically pounding the flags. As she looked back the way she was going she’d caught sight of yet another figure, someway behind. So, she thought, the Council had at last stirred!

  The king sped past, without a sideways glance, and showed them both a clean pair of heels. The next pair of feet to streak by belonged to Laixac; face once more the colour of beetroot, breath wheezing horribly as he leant forward, almost tripping, as he too ignored them. Stormangal had heard nothing, for his breath had filled his ears, adding more might to his blood’s thundering, so it was only Ragskin who knew they were no longer pursued.

  In fact, she wouldn’t have been surprised at all to know that both Basjob and Brakefever were even now still in the chamber, discussing the event in purely abstract and theoretical terms. There too, still at the long window, stood Lainsward, Lambsplitter and Que’Devit, all still frozen. It was Lord Que’Devit who was the first to steel himself and race along the wall, after the distant figures he now saw vanishing into the sentinel tower.

  Ragskin and Stormangal squeezed themselves through its doorway and onto steps that ran up its inner side. By the time they’d come out into the bright light of day, with the wind cutting fresh against their faces, Stormangal could hardly see a thing. He certainly couldn’t hear much at all, what with his blood’s pounding and his breath wheezing loudly in his ears. He was, therefore, imprisoned in his own little world as he bent forward, panting, hands resting shakily on his knees.

  Countess Ragskin, however, being the fitter of the two, strode on, eager to join Laixac and the king. The two were now peering out from the battlements onto Eastern Walk, some hundred feet below. As she came up behind them the view below slowly began to be revealed in the crenel between them.

  At first, she could only make out the rearmost line of ranked heads, now amassed across the Walk, near the Eyeswin bridge. As she falteringly moved forward, her heart missed a beat as further ranks came into sight.

  When she’d finally come between Laixac and the king, the serried ranks simply filled her vision. Only then did she see, at its head, a small group beneath a flying banner – quite obviously their leading officers. Other than that fluttering banner, and various streamers amidst the host, all was unnaturally still.

  The spell was broken by Lord Que’Devit’s measured and objective voice. “Does see
m to me our answer now lies plainly before us, does it not? If memory serves me aright, ‘tis but a simple matter of squaring the field to tenths and then multiplying, thus to get their number.” Que’Devit quietly counted to himself, jolting Stormangal to note, “Matter’s nowt what number they are for we’ve no army to meet ‘em!” He swore, in-between wheezing and coughing, as Lord Lainsward and Lady Lambsplitter then joined them at last.

  It was King Namweed who now felt most at a loss, he who felt the greatest weight of the occasion. He knew he should have been showing leadership and resolve but it had all just simply overwhelmed him. He’d no experience of such a thing, no familiarity against which to make decisions and was, like them all, completely unprepared.

  Although he knew the walls offered some delay he suspected they would, in time, eventually succumb. What had it been he’d decided, in their rush to be there, when he’d felt need of his Council and had sent Laixac off? What was it he’d reasoned, that he’d seen as their only hope?

  It was actually Lord Que’Devit who unknowingly answered. “Some seven hundred men, as best I can hazard. We certainly can’t fight them, eh, so what do we do? Maybe we should tell them they’ve got the wrong place, eh, and ask them to move on, close the gate behind them as they leave. Eh? How’s that sound?”

  Namweed missed the humour. “We must parley. We’ve no other choice. But, how does one go about such a thing?”

  It was Countess Ragskin who rose to the question. “I suppose we’ll have to approach them on the ground and find out what they’re after. We can’t decide what to do until that much is known.”

  Baron Stormangal then chimed in. “But, to go down on t’Walk will leave whoever does it most perilously exposed. There’s no way we can offer any protection.”

  Namweed’s mind came free. “Well, who should be our parley group?”