Leiyatel's Embrace (Dica Series Book 1)

by Clive S. Johnson

  Her voice was more constrained, though, when she asked, “Have I delayed you long, Nephril, too long?”

  He pulled his gaze from the splendour above and looked at her for a moment. “Delayed? Oh, mine need of Leiyatel’s infusion. I see. Well, to be honest, I do not rightly know, not for certain. I did greatly benefit from mine nearness to Leiyatel, but it was at such great cost. How the balance will play out, however, I know not. I err, mine dear, err on the side of caution.” He lowered his voice. “Between the two of us, ‘tis more the prospect of further lapse that dost chill mine heart the most.”

  They sat quietly for a while longer, until he noticed a brightening to the northeast. “Ah, ‘tis not long now to gaining our lantern. Soon we can be on our way.”

  Penolith was finding her new experience abroad quite surprisingly pleasant and had started to smile. “Many a time I’ve noticed the moon, but never have I waited for it with such yearning.”

  Her voice carried confusion. “Nephril? Since my eyes have been opened, I’ve had so many strange feelings, things I’ve no words for.” She was silent for a moment. “Sometimes they’ve scared me by their strangeness, and it’s made me fear their return. Here, though, tonight, watching the sky in the quiet of this scented place, I now find them warm and reassuring.”

  Her voice had lightened. “Strange they are still, yes, but now seemingly so full of promise, but a promise I’ve yet to fathom.” Whilst she’d spoken, Nephril had noticed the north-eastern horizon becoming arced with a silvery mist and knew the moon lay just below. He therefore turned to watch her as it broke free and slanted its light onto her face. As it did so, her eyes slowly widened, filled with a pure and simple joy.

  Although not yet full, the moon was bright enough to light their way. Falmeard was roused and they returned to the lane, following it once more northeast towards the distant Aerie Way. It wasn’t long before they came to the end of the lane, to its junction with a broad highway. They were now on the outskirts of Bazarral and beside its furthest bounding ditch and bank. Along the bank’s top, a low dry stone wall crumbled away to the north and south beside the highway.

  To the west, a spread of silvery-outlined buildings, huddling together in conspiratorial groups, descended to the denser distant heart of Bazarral. From their raised position they also had an open view to the east, to the enchanting grey patchwork of farms and fields that gently rose into the rolling lands of the Esnadales. The air was quite warm and very still, the day’s soft fragrances of scything and hedgerow flowers filling it with a lingering sweetness.

  Presently, heading north along the highway, Penolith asked Nephril, “From your meeting with Leiyatel, did you discover anything of Storbanther, anything that could shed some light on where he’s got to?”

  Nephril thought carefully and for some time before answering, “I still do not remember him, either by name or face, although much time hath since passed for us all to have changed so. There be hint of him, but more by absence than his being there, which doth sound most strange, I know.”

  He tried to imagine anybody having lived as long as he had, but found it impossible. “Had he been there back then, he too would hath had closeness to Leiyatel, which cannot be. No other than I were allowed there, but then, maybe,” and his eyes narrowed, “maybe later. Yes, perhaps the trespass was later, when mine guard was down.”

  Not long after that, Nephril pointed to the right. “Ah, here it is. Just what I was looking for, but which I feared I would miss.” His finger drew their eyes to a gap in the wild hedge beside the road, and through which he led them onto a long and almost buried path, deep within a dense elder wood.

  The ground beneath their feet was wet and slippery, catching them unawares in the sheltered darkness. They could hear Falmeard’s oft repeated and varied curses, but their coming to a stile at the far edge of the wood put an end to it. Beyond it, they could see a narrow chalk road running to the east. “Now, this should be easier,” laughed Nephril, as he dropped from the stile to the road’s bright paving.

  Under the moon’s now higher arc, the chalk flags shone out starkly against the close-grown heather across which they cut. The road curved away into the distance like a meteor’s tail and dwindled over the first brow. Much further on, it could again be seen rising, at a slant across the side of the next hill.

  Nephril laughed in jubilation. “Ha! And there was I, worrying mine memory would fail us and lo, it hath remembered the way without let.” He turned and beamed triumphantly, making them realise how worried he’d been.

  “Oh, well done, Nephril,” Falmeard enthused, “that looks much easier, far better than I’d imagined our way would be.”

  Nephril looked even more pleased. “Aye, much easier by moonlight, and taking us much of our way tonight.”

  True to his word, they made excellent time across the hill, never once putting a foot wrong, and were brought uneventfully down into the next dale and to a small stone bridge over a brook. As they crossed its meagre span, Nephril assured them that the next summit would bring a rich reward, but would say no more.

  The path’s white lead steadily lifted them around a small copse and onto a steep rise between an earthen bank and a line of trees. There, they had to lean forward against the gradient, their legs sometimes faltering against the climb. Finally, they came, panting, through two weather-beaten stone gateposts into a well-worn and sloping cobbled yard.

  Along its lower edge ran a deep slit, itself at a slope, and at whose lowest end sat a large stone trough, now full of water. Penolith was breathless, but intrigued enough to ask, “Why’s there a yard here, Nephril, when there are no dwellings or byres nearby?”

  “Ah, well, thou see, ‘tis a butcher’s yard.”

  When she seemed none the wiser, he added, “Where cattle are brought from the herd to slaughter. Dost thou not see that slit there? Well, that be where the blood collects, and from where it be fed to that trough, there.” She still looked bemused. “The folk here about do use it to make puddings. ‘Tis put into gut, thereby sealing it from the air, and there it congeals and is stored for use during the lean winter months.” Penolith looked unconvinced, even when he assured her, “‘Tis most wholesome and has a grand taste, as they say hereabouts.”

  With their breaths recovered, Nephril led them up a further short rise, taking them well clear of the trees. At the very top, he stopped and bade them turn around and face the west.

  Even in the sinking moonlight, they found themselves looking down upon a most dramatic and magical view across the falling moors to the slumbering spread of Bazarral. Their eyes were drawn to where the city lay speckled with small sparkling lights, like diamond dust on silver velvet. Curving beyond the city, and seeming to hover like a cloud above it, the shimmering waters of Foundling Bay held the moon’s rippled reflection.

  Penolith’s voice slowly and softly fluttered free. “Oh! Oh how beautiful it is, how so utterly perfect.” Her face shone almost as bright as the moon. “This moment’s been worth all my years of imprisonment within Galgaverre, worth every minute.” As Nephril watched her childlike awe he knew now that her spirit had, like a long caged songbird, finally flown free.

  29 A Descent Too Far

  Pettar had at last slept admirably, no longer alone, and awoke refreshed and alert. The sky was a leaden grey, with the occasional spatter of rain drifting in through the windows, but the wind had dropped and the day was starting warm. It was some time after Pettar that the others began to stir.

  First awake had been a young Priest who Pettar didn’t know but who seemed bright and cheery enough, despite nasty blisters to his feet. The next was an older man whose face Pettar recognised but who remained quiet and withdrawn. The rest, however, were just that bit too young for him to have known before.

  It wasn’t until Drax had roused himself, not long after the others, that any real talk began to break the dawn’s stillness. He’d stretched, cursed and then turned a bleary eye to the weather before sighing. “Rain!
Ugh! All we need.” He saw Pettar and looked even more sullen, if that were possible. “I suppose I ought to wish you a good morning, Pettar, but I can’t see it changing the weather.”

  Pettar laughed, but it only seemed to make him even more sullen. “Come on Drax, the rest of the way’s downhill, so thank your lucky stars for that.”

  Once their bodies had had benefit of movement, and their stomachs of food, and much they seemed to carry of it, their spirits had risen quite appreciably and free chatter arose. They were even more animated when they discovered the spectacular view spread out before them without.

  The young priest, whose name was Phaylan, turned out to be both talkative and quick witted, ever enthusiastic and willing, and seemed quite free and easy in Pettar’s company. He was free enough to marvel openly at the new wonders his first time abroad was now bringing.

  The others, however, seemed more predictable, solid and dependable certainly, but they obviously took their current plight as little more than common duty. He was content that Drax would have chosen wisely yet did worry it had been purely for numbers, but then, time would tell. So, what with Drax, Phaylan, the other four priests and himself, they were seven in all, and all seven were soon ready to move on.

  Their faster descent from the Scarra was in many ways more arduous, their legs and feet taking a lot of punishment on the interminable steps and ramps. Many a time a priest would slip and fall, to add yet more bruises to their growing collection.

  As the morning wore on, Pettar began to appreciate just how stoic a people the Galgaverrans were, particularly when it began to shower fairly persistently. It revealed how largely uncomplaining and forbearing they were, but also served to remind him of the nature of their blood. Yet Phaylan did seem unusual in that respect, did seem more, well, more curious.

  Pettar had walked with Drax at their head, but their conversation had been sparse at best, the long antipathy between them keeping barriers in place. Eventually, some vein of curiosity seemed to stir Drax into asking, “Do we know what Storbanther’s up to then?”

  Pettar shot a glance at Drax’s face, where he was relieved to find nothing more than simple and honest curiosity. “All we know is that an army’s been put to parley with the invaders, an army of Dica no less. We also know that Storbanther’s recruited five hundred Galgaverran priests from the enger units. What he’s up to with them all we’ve no idea, not as yet.” When Drax made no comment, Pettar concluded, “We’ve made no more than conjecture that the two are in fact one and the same. Only conjecture mind you, but it looks a strong case.”

  They walked on awhile, once more in silence as the showers dwindled to mizzle and a bright patch broke the cloud to the east. Drax cast it a welcoming glance before saying to himself, “Never did trust that man, and never had a minute’s rest when he was about. At least he didn’t dare recruit any of my own priests.” Pettar looked sideways at him but with new eyes.

  Drax’s comment made Pettar think back to their many confrontations. He suddenly saw some surprising similarities between Drax and many Dicans who were not of Galgaverre. Despite his fervent adherence to all ways Galgaverran, Drax now gave the hint of an outlook more in keeping with Pettar’s own. Pettar wondered if that was really why their past dealings had so often been fraught.

  By then they’d dropped low onto one of the castle’s many inner walls, one of those that had once marked its ancient nearer border. The better footing lent Pettar more time to think. When he added in his observation of Phaylan’s unusual attitude, he realised there was actually a common thread. His sister and himself certainly weren’t in the flush of youth, and likewise Drax, but Phaylan was but a lad, and yes, Pettar was now sure, sure that these days the young of Galgaverre were less, well, less Galgaverran!

  Drax’s voice broke his train of thought. “Pettar? Is it far to where we’re heading?” and he nodded towards the east. “The weather’s turning nasty, nasty enough to make walking pretty unpleasant.” Pettar looked east himself and saw a high, rolling wall of black cloud within which dark blue masses and great, grey blotches chaotically tumbled. Atop, a cap of slate grey slanted precariously towards them.

  Just then the wind cut up sharp and urgent as the edge of a squall began to reach them. Pettar scowled. “You’re right, that’s nasty weather and we’d be unwise to be out in it. Seems we’ve not much time before it gets here, either. Come on, we’ll have to run.”

  He leant forward into a brisk trot, the rest of the company closely following on. They ran along the wall for a half mile at least, to a flight of steps that ran down into its once fortified depths. As they reached the first landing, and were about to turn onto yet another flight, the air suddenly crackled and fizzed.

  The stairwell’s habitual blackness momentarily flashed a blinding white. At the same time, their ears filled with a cacophony of crashing water as the storm threw rain rods down the stairs, closely followed by the roar and bellow of thunder. As they swiftly descended, they could hear the might of the breaking storm slowly dwindle to the echoing distance, only to be replaced by a dank and suffocating closeness.

  They’d spilled into the lowest of the wall’s passageways and stopped to catch their breath by a lone, guttering torch, glad of their close escape. All the priests stood patiently waiting, all but Phaylan who animatedly exclaimed, “Phew! But that was close. Haven’t seen rain like that in ages … and it happened so quickly.”

  Even in the faint light, Pettar could see the sparkle in the lad’s eyes, could see the wonder and excitement. Pettar peered back up the stairwell, “Indeed it was quick, my lad, very quick, and I reckon it’ll be set in for some time. So, it’s fortunate we can carry on our way down here.” He peered into the blackness. “Having said that, this darkness is going to pose some problems, some very real problems indeed.”

  Drax’s grin couldn’t quite be seen in the gloom, but it came through in his voice. “Fear not, Pettar, for we’ve come prepared.” He beckoned to Braygar, the morose priest, who smartly stepped forward and turned his back to them.

  He presented a backpack from which Drax drew out a short crystal phial. He tapped it sharply two or three times, and from its clear contents a swirling mist appeared within it. When he vigorously shook the phial, a bright light began to shine out. Drax again grinned and said, somewhat cockily, “See. We of Galgaverre aren’t completely useless.”

  Pettar stared at the phial in awe. “Indeed not, indeed not at all. It’s a wonder!” He looked from its glare back into the passage, but could see nothing but the lamp’s ghost.

  “I’m sorry, Pettar. I should’ve warned you. The burn will pass soon enough, but until then, you’ll not benefit much from its light.”

  Pettar blinked and shook his head. “Not long I hope, for I’d like us to be at our journey’s end fairly soon, and our new route’s going to be much slower, more’s the pity.”

  Whilst they waited, Pettar was keen to find out more about the wondrous lamp. “Is it of Galgaverre? I’ve not seen such before.”

  Drax sounded a bit guilty, another emotion once alien to Galgaverre. “Err, well, it’s from one of Baradcar’s exigency supplies, but I suppose our task here could be seen to fall within its remit … in a manner of speaking.”

  Pettar still couldn’t see properly, couldn’t easily see the difficulty written across Drax’s face, but to be honest, the stretching of procedure mattered little to Pettar, certainly not against his consuming fascination. “How long will it last, and have you got any more with you?”

  In order to avoid the temptation of looking into its glare, Pettar closed his eyes as he listened to Drax. “We’ve half a dozen with us, enough I’d hazard, for they last many hours.” Drax fell silent, a quiet that spoke of yet more guilt. “I … I’ve been somewhat ingenuous with you, Pettar.” That drew Pettar’s attention. “I did imply we were of more use than you’d have us be, but that’s strictly not the whole truth. You see, these lamps … well. They weren’t fashioned by us, that’s to say, we
ll … not by Galgaverre of the present, no … no, they were made long ago when such skills were commonplace. If truth be told, it’s now a lost art.”

  He coughed, as though to check an overly free tongue. “So, we should make the best of them, and not waste their valuable light. Are you ready to lead the way yet?” Pettar checked his vision by peering once more into the gloom. Although he could still see faint images of the lamp, he could see well enough.

  Their way within the depths of the wall was both slow and tedious. There were many changes of depth and direction, with much in the way of debris and loose footing, but they eventually came through with no real mishap to another stairwell. They strained their ears up the damp shaft but could still faintly hear the storm lashing above. Rivulets of rain - running from this crack and that joint - and the metal scent of lightning carried down on the moist air, all confirmed the storm’s continuing potency.

  There was nothing for it but to carry on in the depths, and Drax’s lamp continued to light the way. Yet more turns and tiring steps eventually brought them to a narrow metal bridge, spanning a short gap. The lamp, though, failed to reveal much beneath it.

  Pettar stepped onto the bridge, his hands clasped to its rails, and walked smartly across, Phaylan close behind. Drax held back and marshalled the priests, setting Braygar next to follow. A great crack then rent the air, filling the passage and its chasm with ear-splitting echoes.

  Pettar and Phaylan both spun around in time to see a startled face drop from before them and out of sight. On the other side, Drax and two of the priests stood frozen, petrified as a huge clanging boom erupted from the depths. A third priest was even now teetering on the very edge, where he rocked - arms flailing - for what seemed an age, until Drax snapped to, reached out and pulled him clear to their side.

  As their shock subsided, like the diminishing sounds of the falling bridge, and their limbs unfroze, they raced to the chasm’s edge and there looked down in fear. Clear, within the lamp’s revealing light, they could plainly see the remains of the bridge swinging lazily below. It creaked as it swung from its one remaining hold to a bracket close by Pettar’s foot.