Leiyatel's Embrace (Dica Series Book 1)

by Clive S. Johnson

  Her questions forced so many new memories, so much long forgotten knowledge, that Nephril almost felt drunk on his answer. “She is but engine and not mind, ‘tis true. That faculty be provided by people, by the minds and bodies of those within her embrace. She doth take her lead from the minds of those about her and knows not of good or ill, only what observation doth collapse to singularity of her own divined end. It is those who experience her influence who do settle…”

  He looked alarmed. “No, that cannot be. I must be wrong. I must be missing something, something I am unaware of … or have forgotten.”

  Penolith now also looked worried. “Nephril? What’s wrong?”

  “If what I know be the full truth of the matter then I cannot avoid a worrying conclusion. If her winnowing be ruled by the minds of others, as I know it to be, then it must mean there are those within her embrace who have need of these newly come guests.”

  They both looked shocked, but it was Falmeard who finally voiced their fears. “You mean, there are those within Dica who actually want this invasion?”

  Nephril nodded. “Aye, it must be so, it must be, but … but who could it be? Who within Dica would want newcomers here, and why?”

  39 Nephril’s Decision

  The tower at the end of the wall glowed yellow down its western side, bathed in the mellow late afternoon sun, so unlike the scene that had met Pettar and his party the previous day. For Penolith it was to bring an answer but for Nephril a decision. There, he knew he had to decide between his duty to Leiyatel and that which he owed his king.

  The two were certainly entwined, but the pressing choice would be which one should take precedence. Since hearing of the king’s returned health, Nephril had felt a growing pull towards his royal fealty, especially since his memory had steadily become keener. The trouble was, his duty to Leiyatel had become even more pressing now they knew they had an enemy at the gates, poised to enter in.

  Falmeard, on the other hand, was just pleased to be back in more familiar surroundings. He’d enjoyment the Esnadales, and had even imagined settling there, but the jaunt was already fast becoming an exotic memory.

  For all three, the tower exerted a pull that hurried them along, drew them quickly to its open and inviting doorway. As they approached its threshold, it was suddenly filled with Pettar’s huge frame, bringing heartfelt relief to Penolith. Before she knew it, she was running with open arms into his embrace.

  Falmeard quietly noted, “She’s been on tenterhooks all day, Nephril, yearning for this moment, and now she’s got her answer - Pettar looks fine.”

  Nephril gave them a little time before interrupting. “Pray, mine joyous ones, but if I may be allowed to come between thee, if but for a moment?”

  They parted, but both turned to him, their eyes swollen with tears. Pettar stepped forward and held Nephril by the shoulders. “Well come, Nephril, well come indeed, you’re a sight for sore eyes and there’s no denying it … and Falmeard? It’s so good to see you both again. It seems like ages since our parting in Galgaverre.” He bade them enter, and led them down to the room below.

  Even as they descended the steps, Nephril was coming to a decision. However, as they entered the room, it was complicated by the surprising sight of Laixac sitting on the window sill. Nephril recoiled, but soon recognised an opportunity. It would certainly be unpalatable, but with careful handling, here was a chance to solve his problem with the king. Laixac, though, seemed unaware of the newcomers, even when they were pressed near in the resulting crush.

  Holding back his distaste, and as civilly as he could, Nephril quietly hailed, “Greetings, Laixac. How fares thee?” There was no immediate reaction. “Are thee in good health, Master Aide?” There was a flicker in Laixac’s eyes and a slight movement of his mouth, but he still refused to answer.

  Before Nephril could pursue it further, Pettar pushed through to them. “Ha, so, Nephril, you’ve spotted our guest have you?”

  “I have indeed, Pettar, and to what do we owe this unexpected pleasure, I wonder?” Pettar grinned, quietly drew Nephril from the room and then recounted how they’d come across him on their return from the sconce.

  Nephril looked alarmed. “Thou hast tried enter the sconce, tried to get near Storbanther? I was going to talk with thee all later, but wilt say here only that thou must avoid Storbanther at all costs. Dost thou understand? Thou wilt learn how narrowly thou hast missed a most perilous fate, and what it be that thou hast thought to confront in thy ignorance.”

  Pettar explained, as though in excuse for their unwitting foolhardiness, how they’d discovered Storbanther, and how they realised he now had call on real force. “I had not thought to draw such a conclusion, Pettar, but thou art right. It doth make of him an even greater peril. It hath also made up mine mind. Come, we ought to return to our welcome, for a short while at least.”

  After Nephril had again pushed his way through to the window, and was about to speak with Laixac, he found himself actually being accosted by him. “What’s going on, Lord Nephril? What’s happening that they wouldn’t tell me about ‘til you arrived? I need to know quickly, so I can get on with my liege lord’s orders.

  Nephril lightly took Laixac’s elbow and drew him from the room. “Come, King’s Aide, we have need of talk for there be much thou needst know of.” Nephril wished he’d asked Pettar what Laixac already knew, and so once more on the landing, began by prying.

  “Thou wilt know of the army without the gates, and that such of Dica have been gathered against it, that parley has begun between them.”

  “Of course I do. I’ve eyes in my head and legs to go about on.”

  “Indeed thou do, indeed thou do, and thou hath made good use of them in thine service to the king. Thou art to be applauded, but there be much that none of us yet knows, which is exactly why we are all here now.”

  Laixac tried to interrupt, but Nephril ignored him. “I have had need to be remiss in mine own duty to our king, Laixac. Hastened time hath not left leave enough for giving report to him, which is where, Laixac, thou could be of even greater service to our lord. A service that would bring with it much esteem, a service I am, alas, unable to despatch.”

  “Of greater assistance? To my lord? What do you mean? How may I serve him better?”

  “We know not as yet who the Dican force are, who commands it or what they intend.”

  Nephril waited, to see if Laixac would let slip anything more he knew, but he either didn’t or was keeping it close to his chest. “Until we know more, Laixac, ‘tis pointless sending news to the king. We can ill afford the delay in coming and going upon him.”

  Laixac cockily said, “It would afford us little delay in apprising our lord. He’s only in the north tower of the gate, from where he’s already watching everything.”

  That startled Nephril, but it lifted a dim memory of something Penolith had said at his arrival in Galgaverre. It sharply reminded him how important it was that he shared his thoughts with her, that he fill in the bequeath of his wilderness years. What else was there he’d forgotten, things he should now know, especially in his dealings with Laixac?

  “I am surprised to hear our lord is so close. Dost thou think he be safe there, Laixac, so near the enemy?” The king’s aide looked anxious. “Laixac? Are thee not aware of the immensity of the imminent danger? Thou dost know of the talk, surely?”

  “Talk?”

  “Aye, talk of treason, Laixac, treason from within.”

  When Laixac shook his head, Nephril pretended surprise. “We have heard suspicion, Laixac, that the gates are to be opened and the enemy let in.” Shock was finding a comfortable home on Laixac’s face. “Should King Namweed really be so near their incursion, eh, dost thou reckon? Would it be wise for Council to be at the forefront?” Nephril knew that, where Laixac was concerned, what afflicts the king afflicts he. “The king and his Council should be in their court, safe at the heart of the castle, where they ought to be kept informed by thee, Laixac, as king�
�s ambassador.”

  The word was well chosen, Laixac soon going beyond seeing simple advantage, and repeatedly whispering to himself, “Ambassador.”

  Before long the whole idea had become his own and Nephril’s next suggestion only a natural consequence. “Of course, I would be most honoured to furnish thee with news, pass on all we find out. I wilt regularly despatch messengers, of course, and draw thee in to dealings in the fullness of time.”

  When Laixac, now puffed up beyond all recognition, began making demands for release, Nephril convinced him he’d been free all along. “There be the door, Laixac, with no constraint upon its use.”

  Before Nephril had even pointed at it, Laixac was already on its threshold, where he paused and turned to look back. “You’ll get a messenger to me you say?”

  “Aye, I will.” The intense stare Laixac gave Nephril made him feel acute repugnance, but he held his smile all the same, and then Laixac was gone.

  On his return to it, the room was still deafening despite it only being filled with talk, which quickly brought Nephril to call for silence. He then told them to gather their things together for a final journey to more commodious surroundings. “The place I will take thee to be not too far away at all, less than an hour in fact, with a view that wilt reward thy effort.”

  He soon led them from the room, down the stairs and out into an alleyway. It descended further, between blank and crumbling walls of long forgotten villa gardens, in a meandering amble towards Eastern Street. There, they found a broad and elegantly curved thoroughfare, impressively fronted by grand and noble buildings.

  Rearing above them all on the far side was a small but steep hill, encased in an eclectic jumble of buildings. At its flat summit stood what appeared to be a temple, its pillared frontage squarely facing Eastern Gate. They were most surprised when Nephril pointed it out as their new abode.

  They took great care crossing the street, as it was clearly visible from the gate, but once across were then led up through the hill’s mantle-maze towards their new refuge. Although not a high hill, it still took them a while to arrive at its summit, stoutly encircled by a wall and beside which they walked to its western gate, set between small, decorative towers and firmly locked.

  Nephril turned to them all as they gathered about him. “We are come to Layther Manse, atop Scout Hill, where our sovereign lords did once oft dwell on occasions of the realm. Once a safe holding without the old walls, the castle’s later embrace made it a sovereign palace, a place of reception and feasting. It be stoutly built and well provided for, although now long disused.”

  He turned and stared at the gates, allowing ancient memories to flood back, memories of the many kings he’d once attended here. It was Falmeard who then asked. “So, Nephril, how do we get in?”

  Nephril smiled and patted him on the back. “The very question I would have expected of thee, and only of thee, mine old friend. Ha, and thou wilt enjoy the answer, truly thou will.”

  He purposefully strode up to one of the gates, at the centre of which was set a panel, fashioned from what appeared to be ornate marquetry. His fingers deftly pushed and pulled until a loud clunk rang out from the far side. When he pushed at the gate, it creakily swung inwards a few inches before thumping to a jarring halt.

  When he had difficulty budging it, Pettar strode over and tried his own hand. It actually took his shoulder to move it far enough to gain entry. Once inside, the problem was plain. A large stone had fallen from one of the towers, one long dislodged given the lush grass now growing from its gap.

  They were at the start of a long and snaking driveway, through once well-tended but now wild and weed-ridden gardens, up which they slowly straggled. To Nephril, the manse seemed just the same, still untouched by the ravages of time, its white marble walls and columns still glossy, still unblemished from weather or wear.

  It was held aloft on a squat and polished, sable base in which a flight of broad steps ran up to its western door. The door itself was fashioned from the same white rock as the walls, but was uncluttered by any handle or knob. They stepped up onto the strangely oily-looking base, turned and looked out at the dramatic view.

  In the southwest, the castle dwarfed Scout Hill’s meagre rise, whilst in the northwest, the western march of the Gray Mountains vanished into the distant haze of the Sea of the Dead Sun’s shoreline. To the south, the Scarra Face presented a sheer silhouette, stark against the pastel shades of the Eyeswin Vale far beyond. The Face’s blunt brow frowned down at the great outer wall, harrying it a glancing blow below.

  Whichever way they looked, the view was breath-taking, the perfect place to exhibit Dica’s awesome might and majesty. No wonder Layther Manse had played host to so many gatherings of the great and the good. It may have been modest beside its wondrous neighbours, but its setting was all.

  It wasn’t long before Falmeard turned to Nephril, but this time he was cut short. “I know full well what thou art about to ask, Falmeard, so I will delay not in once more astounding thee.” Nephril turned to the door, stood with his legs apart, reached down to the lustrous floor and slowly sank his hands in, as though through water. Gripping hard, he steadily pulled at a handle, as the door slowly slid down into its threshold

  Inside, it was light and airy beneath a high ceiling carried by two rows of slender columns. Nephril led them through and onto a staircase to a first floor gallery, then down a corridor and through a door at its far end. There, they found themselves in a long room set with many tall windows, all glazed with great panes of the finest glass. Through them, they could see the Gray Mountains sweep along the horizon, filling the view. Nephril briefly noted the lone grey head, and by implication, the strength of Leiyatel’s gaze at his back.

  On the opposite wall hung a long series of large and richly-framed portraits - the long line of Dican kings. Belforas was at the far end, the darkest through his own obscuring patina, with King Hogsbower, Namweed’s great-grandfather, the nearest, still fresh and vibrant. He was, though, the last of the line hung there. Beyond their musty march, through the room’s furthest door, they came to a salon.

  The windows there were even larger, extending from a high vaulted ceiling all the way to the tiled floor. Each window closely abutted the next, making the whole side of the salon one enormous glass wall. Plainly seen through it, awing them each in turn as they entered, reared the massive Eastern Gate, as though spilling into the salon itself.

  They stood for quite some time staring at its might, at its enormous, timber and metal-braced gates, all held between two stout stone towers. Across the top, for a hundred yards at least, a richly fashioned gatehouse frowned down from a bristle of battlements. The enormous spectacle rose almost three hundred feet from the road at its feet, so high in fact that its battlements even looked down on Scout Hill. They were all greatly relieved to see that those gates were still closed fast, still barring the way from without, although it brought home just how little time they now had left.

  Nephril quietly drew Pettar, Penolith and Falmeard out onto the salon’s terrace, where he said, “Penolith may hath already guessed, but I need make clear to you all what course I now see before me.”

  “It’s too dangerous, Nephril,” Penolith immediately replied. “You may have weft and weave of Leiyatel but it’s heavily outweighed by Stor’.”

  Nephril ignored how baffled the others looked. “’Tis that very thought that hath stolen mine resolve, Penolith, that hath left only indecision.”

  “Then why do it, Nephril, why?”

  “In truth, it be that very indecision that now lights mine way.” He then addressed them all. “As time be our master, come first light I must search out and speak privily with Master Storbanther himself.”

  40 The Grit Learns of the Pearl

  Storbanther felt as near to elation as his limited understanding of that emotion could take him, found his steps lighter and more easy, as though his legs were infused with air. His meeting with Leadernac had gone very wel
l, although he was still a little wary. That sliver of Bazarran within him insisted on whispering into his ear that easily won hopes usually came before a fall. It wasn’t helped when he looked up at the gates and remembered the intractable problems his priests were still having. Why couldn’t they work out what was wrong? More to the point, where was Leiyatel in it all?

  His priests had found grease and lard and spent all night packing it into the great wheel’s bearings, but still it refused to budge. It broke perfectly good ropes when they were strained against it. What was it about that engine that was proving so impervious to the Certain Power? Quietly, his Bazarran taint whispered, ‘What counter wishes were getting in your way?’

  Something to his right, high up, caught his eye, something on the battlements of the northern arm of the gate. He swung quickly around but saw nothing. Little did he know that he’d just missed glimpsing the hasty retreat of the Royal Court, hurriedly led by a puffed-up and self-important Laixac.

  He dropped his gaze and found the closed door to the castle now before him, and was forced to stop. He rapped loudly, but when there was no answer, had to rap again. He was about to strike it once more, this time with his sword, when it swung open with a jerk and a startled priest peered out at him from beneath an oversized helmet. “Sentinar! Oh dear, I’m so very sorry. We missed your return, sir, but please, please forgive me…”

  Storbanther growled at him as he pushed past and on into the tower’s passage, making his way to the quadrangle, but was astonished when the priest called after him. Storbanther stopped, turned upon the unfortunate man and was about to harangue him for his impertinence when the poor soul blurted out, “But, Sentinar? Lord Nephril is here.”

  Storbanther’s words froze on his lips, almost comically, as his eyes went blank. He found it impossible to swallow or wet his mouth, but then uncovered a rather small voice. “Lord Nephril? Master of Ceremonies? He’s here?” The priest nodded.