Leiyatel's Embrace (Dica Series Book 1)

by Clive S. Johnson

  Penolith was beginning to enjoy Berra’s congenial company and the homely comfort of her farmhouse, but felt it only right to say, “We don’t wish to be a burden to you, Berra, and certainly not to interrupt your work. We can always wait until you were going to eat yourself. Please don’t worry about us.” But she would have none of it, and assured them she was only waiting for her next batch to finish and so was free to make them a breakfast of sorts.

  From various cupboards and drawers, she quickly gathered together some ham and eggs, a variety of pungent mushrooms from a large basket, and some tomatoes. She soon set to adding the smells of mouth-watering food to that of the freshly baked bread.

  It wasn’t long at all before each had a tray and platter on their knees, and were tucking in to some of the finest food they’d ever tasted. Naturally, great wedges of soft bread were made liberally available, along with a tall pot of salted butter and mugs of milk. The room soon filled with the sounds of contented eating.

  Nephril was the first to satisfy his meagre appetite, and with some food still left on his platter, fell to chatting with Berra. “Thou art a fine cook, Berra, the finest I have ever come by, dost thou knowest that?” That immediately endeared him to her and so her talk became as free with him as it had been with Penolith. They chatted on about this and that for some time as he picked at his remaining food.

  All the while, he was carefully steering their conversation. “I do not understand why it is so, that thine fare be so much tastier than I have had elsewhere. Is your soil so particularly good in these parts?”

  “Ah, well,” she replied, “t’aint that it’s particularly rich as such, it is even a bit thin, but it seems to retain its goodness better in these parts than most in Dica. Aye we’re lucky ‘ereabouts.”

  Falmeard was surprised at Nephril’s sudden interest in farming and so listened closely as Nephril then asked, “Oh, and are there places that are not as lucky, as thou put it?”

  This was obviously a subject close to Berra’s heart, and probably all those whose livelihoods depended on the land, for she warmed to the topic. “Oh aye, there’s parts away to t’west that were once big traders wi’ us, ‘ere in Cobdale, in times of mi granddad. Aye, there were big growers o’ turnips and t’like in Grayden, down bi t’coast, but they all went a long time ago. We even used to get a lot o’ wine an’ grapes from Eyesmouth, but they’ve packed up an’ all.”

  She sighed with the memory, passed down from her forebears, and went on to list many other regions where once thriving producers had been forced to cease on account of their failing land. Nephril sympathised, but then asked of those who still prospered. She listed many who still made good harvests, who brought in full and fine crops of fruit and vegetables, or grew strong and healthy animals for slaughter. When each region was mentioned, Nephril would momentarily close his eyes and see, within his mind’s eye, a map of Dica upon which he’d mark each place.

  The conversation stopped as Berra remembered the time and broke off to remove yet more loaves from her ovens, to move those now cool enough to her larder and mop down the table. By and by, the opportunity to continue didn’t again arise, but Nephril had already heard enough.

  The morning had moved well on and Penolith was keen they didn’t get in Berra’s way, so she asked if the river were close by, and if it were possible to take a walk along its bank. It turned out it was and they could, and so they excused themselves and wandered out into the yard, following Berra’s directions. Before closing the door, Nephril turned and once more thanked her for her fine food, and in so doing, confirmed her as a fervent admirer forever more.

  In actual fact, he was obliquely grateful for her invaluable agrarian knowledge of Dica, as seen through its prosaic trading practices, and as such the more substantial by it. He carried that new knowledge with him as they walked around the farmhouse, into its small market garden. There, he noted how its plants thrived so, how vigorous and deeply coloured they were. It all added yet more weight to his deductions.

  From the garden, they passed through a low gate and out into a sloping meadow that dropped away to woods in the valley bottom. Dotted about the meadow were shaggy brown and white cows, their heads continually lowered to the lush grass, their tails flicking idly at flies attracted by the sweet smell of cow dung.

  As they carefully picked their way between the cow pats, Falmeard’s puzzlement got the better of him. “Nephril? Why the sudden interest in farming?” He then, as he looked quizzically at Nephril, stepped firmly in a fresh pat. He began swearing, most graphically, as Nephril and Penolith valiantly tried to stem their laughter.

  Nephril attempted a level answer, as Falmeard set to wiping dung from his foot. “Thou may not remember the discussion Penolith and I had, after mine return from Leiyatel, after thou had eased mine sores, but I did then describe how I had suspicion of the Tree’s distortion.” Falmeard couldn’t and said so, which didn’t surprise them. “Well, the crux of the matter be in mine discerning a channelling of Leiyatel’s influence. Then, though, I could not determine its precise nature.”

  Falmeard didn’t remember, for he’d been asleep at the time, and so listened keenly as Nephril explained. “I did say to thee then, Penolith, that I had need to refine mine guesses by looking further afield.”

  “I remember it well, for it was when you told me that I must leave Galgaverre. I have to admit, I wasn’t really listening after that. I do remember you asking me to make sure we stopped on our way, to allow you to enquire, so I suppose that’s just what you’ve done. Am I right?”

  Nephril smiled. “Aye, that I have, and so also hath thee acquitted thine promise, hath helped me find not only an answer but a place of succour. Our day of rest here wilt serve me well, wilt firm mine fibre and strengthen mine weft and weave.” Whilst he’d been speaking, they’d come to the bottom of the meadow and up against a fence, in which a stile was set that then lured them through a gap in the wild hedgerow beyond.

  It led them onto the shallow bank of a moderately wide and fast flowing river, its music promising a coolness to offset the growing warmth of the day. They found a patch of soft and luxuriant grass, and sat there watching the ceaseless river flowing past as it crashed over rocks and rattled through pebbles.

  As Nephril enjoyed the water’s ever-changing patterns, he began to realise how much fuller his mind now seemed to be. Some of those persistent and wearisome walls that barred his memories had dissolved away. Methodically, he slotted the new observation in to its appropriate place on his mental map. It prompted him to say, more to himself than they, “Aye, so it be. Now I doth know the exact extent of Leiyatel’s disfigurement, and it is, I must say, most telling, most telling indeed.”

  Despite Penolith and Falmeard being all ears, he said no more, not then. Instead, he laid back on the warm grass and closed his eyes. He lay like that for some time until his voice slowly began to float upon the river’s lullaby. “Leiyatel’s influence hath been made most narrow. She now peers along a quite thin tract of Dica and its further reaches. She faces a particular way, however, a stare I can now see some purpose to, but which I have yet to confirm.”

  They too stared, but at Nephril’s returned stillness, and waited, waited some time until he again spoke. “Although Leiyatel doth look two ways, ‘tis only the one that be of true interest to her, the other a mere consequence of the first. Where she now looks, most intently and unwaveringly, is along the Lost Northern Way.”

  Penolith asked, “Why would she want to look that way, though? What’s of such interest there?”

  Nephril opened his eyes and turned to her. “Everything good!”

  She looked mystified. “And where she doesn’t look? What happens there, Nephril?”

  He corrected her. “Has been happening there and for some time, thou mean. But to answer thine imprecise question: nothing good!”

  She bit her lip, but then thought she’d undone the knot. “Everything good? You mean, like fine tasting food and healthy cattl
e? And nothing good, like, like failing crops and…” She gulped. “And kings losing their queens and falling to madness … and ancient old rascals losing their memory in the wilderness, there, where Leiyatel no longer looks?”

  Falmeard added, “And Bazarral losing its fine buildings, and its population diminishing?”

  Nephril sat up and beamed at them. “Now, thou both doth see what hast been happening here for so long, for both good and ill.”

  He lay back and rested in his newfound contentment, in the knowledge that it hadn’t been he who’d failed her, but on the contrary, Leiyatel who’d forsaken him. He now also thought he knew who’d been her agent, who’d cut him loose, but that could wait for a day at least, a day of succour here, here where he now lay within Leiyatel’s narrowed gaze.

  31 Storbanther’s Found

  It was fortunate indeed that Pettar was such a stout fellow, with a body toned by pure chance of blood inheritance, many years wandering about Dica and hard service to the Ambecs. Although he’d suffered greatly during Braygar’s rescue, his injuries turned out to be largely superficial. There were strained muscles, certainly, but nothing more serious. More importantly, after some rest he was able to consider continuing their journey.

  Braygar seemed largely to have recovered from his own severe shock and was now much calmer, much less inclined to babble his effusive thanks at Pettar’s recumbent form. Although a little withdrawn, Braygar was still keen to assist.

  Of the three, Phaylan was the least affected or so it appeared, content with a job well done but dismissive of the heartfelt praise then heaped upon him. He’d the advantage of youth of course, and what seemed like unbreakable nerve, but Pettar detected some hidden enjoyment of their accolades, that non-Galgaverran devilment again showing through.

  Pettar groaned when he eventually got to his feet, but was quick to hide it, keen to furnish a stoic lead. When he looked at Phaylan, he became solicitous. “Can’t have you wandering about Dica in your all-together, my lad, just wouldn’t do.” He leant down to his pack and winced as he drew out his blanket and passed it to Phaylan. “Use my knife and cut yourself a head hole.”

  The hole cut and the blanket thrown over his head, it then hung loosely, affording Phaylan some decency. Pettar took what was left of the old robe-rope and passed it around the lad’s body, knotted it and then cut off the excess. It drew the blanket into a passable robe and made Phaylan once more respectable.

  Before moving on, Pettar cast a cautious eye over Braygar. There was still a slightly crazed look in his eyes and his hands continued to shake. Pettar decided to put him between himself and Phaylan for the rest of the way, just in case. With that surreptitiously agreed with Phaylan, Pettar finally asked, “Well? Are we all ready then?”

  Phaylan nodded, but Braygar seemed startled, his feet refusing to move. Pettar stood by Braygar’s side, bent to his ear and spoke reassuringly. “Braygar? I know you’ve been through a lot, a most horrible experience, one your life in Galgaverre’s done little to prepare you for, but you must see how safe you are now, eh … completely safe. Do you understand?”

  The old priest stared glassily into the near distance, seemingly deaf. Something of Braygar did move, though, his eyes, and they flicked to Pettar’s face when he quivered, “Is that what they mean when they say fear?” His eyes looked imploringly into Pettar’s own, making Pettar’s compassion rise as his heart sank.

  He took the old man’s hand and gently squeezed it, which seemed to achieve little. Braygar then said, “I didn’t know what to do, Pettar … didn’t know what … what to think. All I could…” Pettar wrapped him in his arms and felt him begin to sob.

  Eventually, he managed, “I feel so embarrassed, Pettar, so embarrassed … and unworthy. To think, you’ve both risked your own lives for me … for a miserable…” His sobbing got the upper hand once more.

  Pettar would have none of it. “Come, come, Braygar, you did well, all things considered, eh, did you not? You didn’t panic down there, nor cry out or blub, eh? You did well, my old priest, well enough indeed. You’ve not been trained, after all, to hang from collapsed bridges over deep chasms, eh, now have you? So, I reckon you did very well on your own account. Yes, you did very well indeed, very … commendable.”

  Braygar pushed himself away from Pettar, dried his eyes on his robe and guiltily looked up at him. “Did I do my duty, though, to you and Galgaverre?” Pettar smiled and answered that he had, and more, which made Braygar become his old sullen self once more. Pettar was surprised by the sudden change, but realised he shouldn’t have been. It meant, however, that they could at last get on their way.

  There was little of the wall’s labyrinth left as it turned out, to their immense relief. They were soon at the foot of the last stairwell, the only way on being up. When they listened for the storm, they were relieved to hear nothing but the drip-infested silence. It seemed it had passed by, and so they climbed and soon came out into the dry and leaden air of late afternoon.

  They had a clear view both ways along the wall, but it gave no sight of Drax and his party. Pettar wondered if they’d already got to the tower, or were they still wandering about in the darkness below? When he voiced his uncertainty, Phaylan quite sensibly reminded him, “But we’ve already agreed to meet them at the tower, Pettar, so we should go there first. If we’re wrong, and they’re not there, then we can think about going in search of them. Besides,” he added, “I doubt that lamp’s going to last much longer.”

  Pettar glanced at it and reckoned he was right, there’d be no sense in them all ending up scratching about in the dark. He buried the lamp in his pack as they then made their way north, towards the tower at the end of the wall.

  The storm was well away to the west by then, venting its fury on The Upper Reaches, obscuring the Towers of the Four Seasons and all above. Out to the east, though, where the weather was being born, the scene was much brighter, the sky less lowering, filled with golden shafts that boded a change for the better.

  By the time they drew near the tower, the sun was peeking between the clouds, slanting its rays towards the distant desert. For a brief moment, the sun cast its golden light onto a small knoll that faced Eastern Gate. Pettar only half noticed as they stepped through the tower’s entrance and to the head of some steps. Their clattering feet soon carried them down to the next landing, where they then found a closed door.

  Pettar pushed at it and it opened easily, so easily in fact that it slammed against the wall behind, dislodging a shower of dust and debris. Just then, Drax appeared at an inner doorway, his face wrought with anxiety. It certainly lit up when he recognised them, his voice carrying genuine welcome. “Ah! Thank the Certain Power. It is you. We’ve not been here long, but I was already getting worried.”

  He quickly drew them into a small room, already filled with priests nursing their accumulated bruises, but all overjoyed at being reunited. Drax described at great length how they’d blundered about in the darkness, and their joy at finally reaching the stairwell. They’d braved the tail of the storm, he’d proudly added, thinking they’d be late.

  Pettar was concerned at the size of the room, but could think of nowhere else to go. “As it’s getting late, I’d counsel we rest here tonight and complete our journey in the morning.”

  Drax readily agreed, but then asked, “Is there still far to go, Pettar?”

  “No, not far at all. Only a few leagues if that, but I’m keen we arrive in good light. I’d like to espy the ground first before seeking out Storbanther.”

  Drax nodded. “Where are you actually taking us?”

  Pettar strode to the only window and looked out. “Down there,” he said, pointing at the outer wall, just south of the Eastern Gate. “There’s an old sconce there, set on the inner side of the wall but which gives out onto Eastern Walk. It’s held all sorts of battle gear for a very long time although it’ll be obsolete by now, not that it’s ever been used in anger.”

  Drax stared out at what appea
red to be a small fort set hard against the wall, at the huge gate’s southern corner. It comprised low buildings upon each side, as though cloistered, with what seemed to be a parade ground at its centre. From one of its many chimneys, a thin plume of smoke drifted straight up until caught by the easterly wind now whipping across the top of the wall. Drax commented, “It would seem your guess as to Storbanther’s whereabouts was quite right.”

  Pettar had seen it too. “Aye, would appear so. It seemed the most likely place, as it’s got enough room for five hundred and more. In which case that’s where we’re bound to tomorrow, Drax. That’s our journey’s end.”

  Phaylan had quietly joined them but then coughed. Drax and Pettar both turned and he offered, “Excuse my presumption, but I was just thinking. Would it be useful to have some early findings, you know, of exactly what’s going on down there?”

  They stared at each other, eyebrows raised, before Pettar answered, “Indeed it would, and I’ve no doubt it’d be wise military counsel. So, what’ve you got in mind, young fellow?”

  Phaylan grinned. “I’d be more than happy to scout ahead whilst there’s still light remaining, and bring back any observations, err, if that would seem right to you both.”

  They smiled at each other before Drax said, “I think we can trust to your ample abilities, Phaylan, but I’d suggest you take a companion. Yes, take Cresmol, he’s got some wits about him, but don’t tarry, there’s not much of the day’s light left.” The two young priests then soon gathered a few things together into a pack which Cresmol then cheerfully shouldered.

  Phaylan opened the door to the hall, across which they passed like windblown smoke, through the outer door, down the steps of the tower and out onto a twilit path. It sloped quickly down, meandering amidst a jumble of properties that gave it only their blank rear walls until it turned abruptly at the entrance to an ancient and dilapidated villa. It was the first frontage they’d encountered, but one aggrandised by a broad and steep flight of steps that rose to a pillared elevation, all topped by an elegant pediment.