Nephril steeled himself. “Mine request of thy services was not fully answered, although I did reckon then that I knew thine answer. I need hear it from thee now, to hear thy decision born of time’s consideration.”
She now looked deadly serious. “I know the risks and dangers, my Lord, understand them better than I’d have dared thought possible before. I do believe that I have now found hidden strengths, enough to carry such a burden. So!” She allowed herself a smile. “Dear Lord Nephril, allay your fears on my part, put aside reticence and take me fully into your confidence, for I promise I will not fail you.”
He smiled, for the first time since they’d been alone together. “I am greatly relieved to hear that, Penolith, relieved but also cautious that thou be right in thy beliefs, that thou wilt suffer not from our compact.” He shuffled himself more upright against the pillows and propped himself partly on his elbow. “Who … who dost thou think I am, Penolith? Who dost thou think lies before thee?”
She wasn’t surprised by his question for who he was had been uppermost in her mind for some time. “You are Lord Nephril, Master of Ceremonies to the kings of Dica, Keeper of the Living Green Stone Tree, my superior, but I know you mean me to look further. You want me to see the entirety, so I will add more.”
She edged forward in her seat and lowered her voice. “I know you’re the Nephhryl of legend, that it was you who was installed here, in Galgaverre, by King Belforas, you who was charged with tending this installation’s crucial instrument. You who was destined to be the eternal Keeper of Leiyfiantel. I know it, though it seems impossible, but I do also believe it.”
She couldn’t tear her eyes away from him, the manifestation of a legend, the same flesh and blood that had walked here thousands of years ago. As the understanding sank in deeper she began to feel lightheaded, unbalanced, unsteady - but it was his smile that gave her firm ground once more.
He grinned. “Yes, most certainly, now I can see it again, yes, thou art right. ’Twas a surprise to thee, that I can see, but ‘twas no less a surprise to me for I have long been lacking memories of mine past. Much be lost still, or unclear, and that be the reason for mine need of thee now. There ist purpose hidden deep within mine forgetfulness, dost thou knowest that, Penolith? A duty I must fulfil and which, together, we need find and carry with us.”
Penolith was about to speak when Nephril stayed her with a firm hand about her wrist. “I know I did see it in thy texts, within thy library, but I can no longer grasp what it was.”
It would have seemed only natural to have fetched those very texts, but she was wary, wary of casting him once more adrift. She thought back to her own reading of them, back to when they made little or no sense. She read them again, but this time in her mind. It was only when she came to The Treason of Auldus that she found a possible clue.
Could that be it, she wondered. “Lord Nephril? What was meant by: And in despair at possible passing of the Lifian Grunstaan Treow and its Certain Power, he did secrete a cutting thereof and of this slip did fashion safe keeping, and to this end did keep it about him without fail, for though Leiyfiantel may perish Baradcar would endure?”
Nephril blinked, uncomprehendingly, but his eyes slowly became sharper as he said, “Baradcar would endure? Yes, ‘tis a truth indeed, that I do remember. Baradcar will ever endure for it is attended by the original stock, unsullied by what came from it. Bazarral it was that reasoned the way, that saw manner in fashioning nature to its own gain in Baradcar, that built Galgaverre to maintain it. Yes, ‘tis certainly true … as certain as the Certain Power.”
Something suddenly struck him. “Did secrete a cutting thereof? A cutting? Now, what dost that mean? What could be cut from Leiyatel? A slip! A fashioned slip!” He shook his head. “No, its sense must be lost to the passage of time, and more than likely its retelling. It doth make no sense. Leiyatel could not be damaged without it would fail entirely, of that I am sure. Yet. Yet I it was who was supposed to have done it, but what did I really do?” Penolith was starting to worry he was tiring, and quickly, so she offered by way of distraction to make him a warm drink, which he absently accepted.
Whilst she was away, he pushed himself further back against his pillows and tilted his head, so he could look up at the dimly lit library above. “A slip, eh? A slip! Something of Leiyatel, something of the Tree itself, something taken that would not lessen her. What was it, that slip, and why take it, take what could not be taken?”
When she soon returned, it was to find him gently snoring. She saw in him what she herself most dearly wished. She bent and kissed his forehead, pulled the blanket over his chest, turned the lamp lower and then retired to her own bed, and its promise of sleep.
When she eventually lay there and opened the doorway to her dreams, she found the way barred by a jostle of thoughts. There was a single clear one, though, and it was only as Morpheus finally embraced her that it briefly became small, hard and circular between her finger and thumb. It had in it, strangely enough, their very odd fish, their very odd fish indeed.
23 From Without the Walls
He still found the reality unnerving, the castle’s stark rise huge, impenetrable and incomprehensible. It loosened his bowels and slackened his muscles, despite his best preparations. Each time he turned to it, the sight filled him with stark horror, as though it arched over and cowered him, leaving his mind emptied of thought, powerless and horribly vulnerable.
He could only muster concentration, his greatest need now, by turning away and drinking in the prosaic scene that rolled out eastwards, to the darkening sky of evening. Only against the dimming hues of pasture and grassland, of sward, river bank and the ethereally faint glow of far off desert, could he clearly think through his plans.
He’d prepared as well as he could, but memory had played loose with scale. It had stripped much of the immediacy and power from his memories. Once more before it, though, and without its oppressive gate, it was too late to remember true, too late to shield against the force it still held, that it could still drive so cruelly into those arrayed against it.
Out of devilment, he stole yet another quick glance at its fast forming silhouette, its awesome mass quickly falling to blackness as the sun steadily sank to the Crystal Plain in the west. The last of the sun’s light slanted glancing fiery rays from Dica’s northern slopes, picking out an arc of coloured jewels.
Even as the castle lost detail to the cloaking night, its menace still reached out. He shivered, turned abruptly and then shook his shoulders, as though a cold blast had blown between cloak and doublet. He strode off, as determinedly as he could, back to the tent.
Inside, he found the warm glow of lanterns and the hubbub of chat and banter, the soft fragrance of mead and wine and the hovering haze of pipe smoke. Down the centre ran a trestle upon which food and drink lay scattered between papers and weapons, tobacco pouches, field glasses, gloves and flints, and all the other reassuring baggage of battle. The men already there, some fifteen or so, seemed high in their spirits. Talk flowed freely, with its usual cajoling and ribbing, but within it all he felt a nervous edge.
Not one amongst them had not felt the awe of the place, had not first felt its keenness as they’d descended the mountain heights, had seen before them its unfathomable mass, so clear and imposing despite its distance. As they’d come from the pass, and first saw the spread of the vale, they’d all been shocked by the sight of Dica rising from it so threateningly. The army had then slowly dissolved to a mass of undisciplined children.
He’d been the first to pull free, but had had to battle hard to marshal his captains and quieten their men. Had he not been their very rock he knew in his heart they’d have been routed, there and then, and the whole endeavour lost. Despite order having eventually been regained, it had left an ugly mood.
The tent’s warm comfort was certainly testament to the men’s resilience. On the long journey down onto the moors and then across them to the forest, they’d quickly learnt to create
safe havens. The Forest of Belforas had fortunately played admirable wet-nurse to his child army. It had nurtured their courage and grown them once more to men, had drawn them to its heart and kept out the fearful sight of the castle.
As he sat at the trestle and surveyed their faces he was glad of their pure bloodline, all stout men at heart, no nonsense, matter-of-fact and so utterly dependable. Leadernac eased his back against the trestle and smiled with some satisfaction, took his tankard from where he’d left it earlier and drank a quiet and private toast to success – so far.
Looking around the tent he realised he couldn’t see his First Sergeant and called out, “Heyup! Anyone seen Breadgrinder? He’s not under the table yet is he?” There was a ripple of laughter but no answer, not until a voice boomed out, from beyond the canvas, “I ‘eard that!”
In through the opening strode a stout and large-chested fellow, one missing an ear, tattoos covering much of his exposed skin and stubble hair made to patchwork by crisscrossing scars. His face beamed a knowing grin and he swaggered, as best one can through a crowded tent, to stand before Leadernac. There, he snapped to keen attention and saluted.
“Ah! Breadgrinder, what reports would you have for me then?”
His First Sergeant remained at attention as he answered, “Nothing further to report of note, sir. The guards have all reported-in present and correct, sir.”
“Good. Then stand at ease, man, get yourself some food and drink and sit by me awhile.”
Breadgrinder saluted, turned to the trestle and thrust a hunk of pork into his mouth, which he noisily chewed as he fell to piling more on his platter. Adding a tankard of mead, he then dropped heavily to the stool at Leadernac’s side. There, he let out a muffled grunt through a still full mouth.
Leadernac looked sideways at him and smiled, took a clay pipe from his pocket, flint from the trestle and deftly struck light to his tobacco. He drew in deeply before blowing the smoke clear and lowering his voice. “So! How’re the men, Bread’, are they holding well?”
Sergeant Breadgrinder rocked forward and glanced about, making sure they couldn’t be overheard. He swallowed his mouthful and then answered, in a surprisingly low and gentle voice for such a large man, “There’s nowt to be rattled about, they’s all good lads, every one of ’em. Would stake mi life on’t.” He threw another handful of pork in his mouth and set to chewing.
Leadernac gave him some moments to enjoy it, sipping at his own wine and noting how tolerable it was. “And the guards? They’re assigned short watches, as we agreed?” Breadgrinder looked affronted. “Forgive me my unwarranted doubt, Bread’. I know full well you’ll have carried out my orders to the letter.” He sighed and cast him an apologetic look. “I’m sorry, Bread’. Tension gets to us all, as ya know. We’re none of us immune, me no less than any.”
The two then sat in silence for some time, contentedly listening to the throng about them. They occasionally joined in, with the odd jibe or joke, until Breadgrinder had swallowed his last and was into his second tankard of mead.
Leadernac leant forward, elbows on knees, and tipped his head toward Breadgrinder. “What think you of yon castle, then? What impressions does it strike in your military mind?” Breadgrinder leant in towards him and peered, from beneath knotted brows, past him to the unseen mass of the castle, beyond the canvas wall.
“Well! First off, had we not met their force today, before t’gate, I’d ‘ve said it were deserted, aye, I would, empty o’ life.” Leadernac nodded. “Then, tonight, as it got dark, I were surprised when no lights sprang up, none, anywhere wiyin t’castle. Nowhere! Aye, bloody strange that, not even a watch-fire, nor owt.”
He checked again that they weren’t overheard. “That’s what I were doin’ ‘fore I came in ‘ere, before ya called mi an’ all … Not a damned light t’be had anywhere. Bloody odd that, now we knows it ain’t deserted or owt.”
“Aye, you’re right, t’was what struck me the most.”
“I can understand their lack o’ watch, I suppose, one look at t’place would be enough to quell any army. No! Ya wouldn’t take such walls be surprise, now would ya, no, but, I tell ya what, makes me think they’ve not fought anyone for a long while. A very long while! I mean, you must’ve taken in what they were wearing and t’strange assortment o’ weapons they carried.” Breadgrinder was warming to his theme. “Carried aye, but certainly didn’t bear. Not a one of ‘em looked like they knew which end to use.”
Leadernac leant back and sipped some more of his wine. He was trying to match what they’d so far seen with his own dim memories. Breadgrinder had certainly hit the nail on the head, and in one.
Where were the massed throngs that should’ve been spilling about the castle and its lands, where were the inquisitive heads along the battlements, the children being chastened back to safe-keeping? Where were all the crowds and traffic you’d expect of such a vast place? Had Dica actually fallen so far it was now nothing more than a shadow of its once great self? Who was left? Who would there be still to hold the ancient knowledge? How hard was his task going to be?
Breadgrinder tapped him on the knee. “Third off, that damned mad rabble from t’village. Nah, what were all that in aid of, eh? What were t’idea o’ rushing at us, unprovoked an’ all? And why didn’t t’castle come to their aid, eh, tell me that? Why?” Leadernac couldn’t answer. “Well! I s’pose, if they haven’t fought proper in so long then maybe they weren’t geared to it, like.” Breadgrinder looked remorseful. “Don’t s’pose castle would’ve given ‘em much aid anyway, what wi’ gear they‘ve got. Oh well.” He sighed. “Ya sees everything in battle at some point or other. Just a matter o’ time.”
He tipped his head back, mouth wide, and poured in the last of his mead. Having slammed his tankard down on the trestle, Breadgrinder resignedly announced, “Must take mi rounds. Might be solid sorts but they still need an eye on ‘em.” He gave a brief laugh, rose and then awaited dismissal.
Leadernac tarried for a short while before looking up at him. “What do you think of that Storbanther then, eh? What d’ya make of ‘im?”
Breadgrinder carefully dropped back to his stool and wiped an arm across his mead-wetted mouth. “Hmm,” he began. “Hard to say at such short meeting, but I wouldn’t trust ‘im, not as far as he could throw ‘imsen. Eyes too near together, if ya get mi drift.”
Leadernac nodded and then rose to salute him, drawing Breadgrinder quickly to his feet and his own returned salute. “Thank you, Breadgrinder. I greatly value your opinion, you know that. But I’ll let you get on now. Dismissed.”
The noise in the tent slowly subsided as the night grew older, and the men about him more tired and subdued. One by one they prised themselves upright and saluted, as they made their ways to their beds. Eventually, he was the last one there.
He kept going over the day’s events. Every time he thought of their parley with Storbanther that afternoon he couldn’t help but think that something was amiss. It didn’t add up, but he was at a loss to put his finger on why, exactly.
He’d been most prepared for the knotty issue of the villagers, how to placate Dica and excuse their own innocent part in it. He knew it couldn’t have appeared so, not at the time, not as seen from the castle. It had seemed such a tall order, an intractable hurdle, but Storbanther hadn’t even raised it, not a single mention. Astounding!
The night had become eerily still and quiet, the wind no longer scouring their raised camp, there on the knoll. Somehow it beckoned him out, tempted one last look across the Eyeswin to the castle.
He carefully made his way to the edge of the knoll, saluted the guard there, and found a craggy seat from where he could stare at its blackened silhouette. It blocked out a vast swathe of the night’s stars and hid the moon behind its huge bulk, leaving a silvery triangular halo staining the heavens.
Somewhere in there Storbanther was probably going through the day’s events just like he was. No doubt, like himself, he was surprised at how well they’d
understood one another. What Breadgrinder hadn’t earlier picked up on, however, was how strangely similar their accents were, how alike were his and Storbanther’s delivery, their use of phrase, and even the way they’d held themselves. It was odd, certainly, but the more so when compared with Storbanther’s companions, the little they’d said, how they’d seemed so foreign and exotic beside him.
So, what had Storbanther taken away from their parley, and what had he been looking to get from it? That was another odd thing. He was definitely after something, some profit from their meeting. It had, though, always seemed to hover just out of sight. It was as though he’d been held back by the company, as though his lips craved privacy. ‘Well, at least I’ve made one decision,’ Leadernac thought. ‘I now know we have to have a private meeting, somehow, one where the two of us can talk openly.
For his part, he was content the Dicans had, very much against the odds, readily accepted their peaceful intent, that they’d come only to forge a mutual alliance. It relieved him more so that Storbanther almost seemed overjoyed by their presence. ‘Still,’ he thought, ‘must remain cautious. Must keep Breadgrinder’s warnings close to heart. Gently does it, for after all, there’s still a long way to go.’
24 Parting of the Ways
Falmeard had risen early that morning, keen to see how his old friend fared, and was overjoyed to find him hale and hearty. Nephril was already tucking into a fine breakfast, in itself somewhat unusual. They’d both sat contentedly, however, chatting about this and that with neither touching upon anything of any great weight.
It wasn’t long before they’d both been joined by Pettar and Penolith, each solicitous of Nephril, but Penolith seeming to have her mind elsewhere. They’d helped bring the board to disarray, but all the while, Falmeard had detected an edge to her.
Leiyatel's Embrace (Dica Series Book 1) Page 21