When Drax asked, “How’ll we know if we’ve been successful?” Nephril turned and gestured through the windows towards the gates.
“Thou wilt see thy success or otherwise plainly before thee, for Storbanther’s priests toil even now at the gate’s engine.”
With no other comments, and her mind now firmly on the practical, Penolith quietly enquired, “When the gates are finally opened, Nephril, will we play any part then?”
Nephril’s answer placed them at the very centre of things. He’d agreed to host the reception at the manse, its very purpose after all, which would naturally require much planning on their part. They were to be the reception party, to meet the Nouwelm army on Eastern street, from where they’d be brought to Layther Manse for a feast.
Before long the place was abuzz with discussion; the procurement of furniture, food and drink, the choice of chamber or hall, its being got ready, the need to second some of Storbanther’s priests to assist in it all, and many other details of what was fast becoming something of a state occasion.
Nephril carefully guided the discussions whilst secretly feeling very pleased, very pleased indeed. The excitement garnered enthusiasm from which, he knew, would grow their earnest desires for the gate’s opening, their real and solid hopes.
It didn’t take long before they were all buried beneath rapidly expanding lists of activities and duties, the occasion taking on a life of its own with an unstoppable force. It was well into the late hours before tiredness caught up with them, by when much of the preparations had broadly been planned.
One minute the salon was alive, the next still and quiet, the last few goodnights distantly drifting from the hall beyond. It left only Nephril, now wrapped in his own thoughts. He faced the huge window through which the gate hid within obscuring dark. The mass of it, and its wall, gave faint outline against the slightly less dense blackness of the night sky. In there, Nephril knew, Storbanther’s engers would even now be toiling at their ropes and pulleys.
~o~
When it was he couldn’t quite say, but at some point he became aware of how much lighter the sky had become and realised dawn was beginning to break. He must have been drifting, and for some time, for the dawn herald was some half hour old at least. He could already see the edges of the gate’s great towers, and if he looked to one side, even the outline of the gates themselves.
He must have slept after all, and perhaps that was why his sight was now blurred. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms and yawned as he stretched his arms high above his head. When he reopened them and his sight had become clear, he found himself staring directly at a sharp, bright column set amidst the gate’s black expanse.
Leaping from his chair with a shout, he ran from the salon, calling their names at the top of his voice and so shattering the slumbering peace. Various groans and muffled voices came to his ears as he careered about until coming face to face with Pettar.
“Whatever’s the matter, Nephril? Is the place afire or something?” He looked shocked and ruffled, as anyone would when rudely dragged from sleep.
“Come! Come! Follow me! Come and see for thine selves.” Nephril was away and quickly back into the salon, repeating his words as he vanished from sight.
Pettar stumbled after him and saw Nephril standing there, stock still at the windows. He was staring fixedly at the gates. Naturally, when Pettar drew beside him, he too looked that same way. Where the two great gates had seemingly been locked together forever, there was now a thin column of light. It appeared far brighter than the dawn sky itself, contrasted as it was against the gate’s jet-black setting.
Slowly and quietly at first, Pettar exclaimed, “We’ve done it, haven’t we, Nephril? We’ve damned well gone and done it!” By then the others had all gathered around and were also staring.
“It would appear we have, Pettar, indeed it would. We have helped guide Leiyatel. The gates be open for the first time in more than a thousand years, dost thou know that, Pettar? A thousand years or more they hath been barred, a thousand years of disuse through want of need. That be a long time, a very long time indeed for a realm to slumber so.”
They would all have just stood there, transfixed, had Falmeard not groggily noted, “They don’t seem to have opened very far, though, do they? Surely, they should’ve been thrown fully open by now.”
Drax agreed. “You’re right, Falmeard, looks as though something’s gone wrong. What do you reckon, Nephril?”
Nephril had to admit he didn’t know, but then called, “Phaylan? Get thyself down to the sconce and bring word from Storbanther. Do as I instructed thee last night and thou wilt be taken directly to him, and hurry, lad, spare not thy legs.” Phaylan beamed at them before running from the salon on his first errand of the day, his face flushed with youthful excitement and expectation.
42 Preparations Apace
Eastern Street, with its imposing and impressive buildings, cut a broad swathe through and effectively obscured the ramshackle sprawl of shambles and ginnels that formed the district of Uttagate. The street ran to Eastern Gate, about which Uttagate jostled and then spilled, from its northern border with the Park of Forgiveness, south to the once thriving commercial quarter of Cambray. There, the streets generally ran southwards as Cambray meandered its way towards the Scarra Face.
Cambray’s western border was marked by a small and ancient defensive wall, some hundred feet up the side of Mount Esnadac. Still some way above it, Foundering Wall enclosed the Garden of the Forgotten from where its molten depths would occasionally belch forth clouds of brimstone to hang as a pall above it.
Uttagate had been, like many districts, frozen into a lifeless existence for so long its very buildings seemed to snore perpetually under their blanket of neglect, forever slumbering through their twilight years. That all changed when its alleys and passageways were rudely jolted awake by the growing frenetic activity now beginning to pass through them.
The gate had indeed been opened ajar, but its engine’s great wheel had once more ground to a halt as its bearing moved on to still dry sections of its race. Storbanther’s priests had set to with yet more fat and grease but to little subsequent effect. At least the wheel had moved to some degree, and drawn the gates a few feet apart. It had given the rising sun access to cut a long line of light across the rooftops of Uttagate, a sight unseen in living memory, excepting Nephril and Storbanther of course.
Nephril himself stood on the manse’s terrace, gazing at the gap, following the sun-scribed line as it rippled across still shadowed Uttagate. Here and there he could make out hurrying shapes, mostly of priests but with Drax or Pettar or Falmeard occasionally appearing.
Penolith had stayed with him, however, and together they kept an eye on their company’s activities, so that everything continued to progress well. Nephril had chosen the banqueting hall for their feast, not too large to dwarf the expected numbers and with excellent access to the kitchens.
Storbanther had despatched his best cooks, who’d then presented Falmeard with a long list of requirements, ones that stretched even his wide knowledge of the area. All had steadily been brought into hand as yet more of Storbanther’s priests scurried, maps and lists in hand, along once little used byways.
The one problem that none of them had addressed was the matter of their attire. Each was dressed in travel stained vestments, admirably suited to that one task alone but certainly not to entertaining, and most definitely not to making a suitable impression. Pettar and Falmeard had both racked their brains but come up short. Falmeard was naturally inclined to belittle the problem, but Penolith saw in it the ha’p’orth of tar and so insisted they do something.
The only places Falmeard could think of were the Royal Courts and the Lords Demesne, both of which were far too distant, and as he’d said, “We’d all have to go there, to be sure of a good fit, and we can’t all be away for so long, and besides, it’d alert them to what’s going on here.” Nobody could naysay him.
The
Certain Power, though, seemed to have taken an interest for Braygar came amongst them, overheard their discussion and said, “But there’s a room below full of clothes! The place fair groans under their weight.” They all looked at him in astonishment.
Indeed it was true, much to their surprise. There, beneath their very feet, the answer had lain all along. They marvelled as they filed into the musty deadness of the cellar room, packed with racks of garments in all manner of shapes and sizes. Nephril’s memory then sneaked up on him and he found himself saying, “Ah! Yes. The Players Wardrobe, of course.” All heads turned to him, questioningly.
He looked somewhat shamefaced and cast his eyes down. “I can but apologise for being so remiss, but thou see, mine memory still doth play tricks upon me. Aye, I do now remember this warded room and the use it was put here for. Now? Which king was it?” he wondered. “Which one had passion for played distraction? Oh well, I cannot now remember, but it was he who had this place equipped so, stuffed full of dress suitable for any character the fertile minds of his playwrights could conjure up.”
Whilst he’d been explaining, Penolith had been moving through the tight press of hanging clothes, but then spoke, somewhat muffled, from somewhere out of sight. “We’ll have to be careful in our choice and only take the ones that are still serviceable. Many of these are either rotten or mildewed.” She’d taken down a particularly resplendent full evening gown from which one arm had already torn away under its own meagre weight. Its fabric parted at the slightest touch.
Some seemed to be made from far better material or were the work of later seamstresses, and so in time they all came away content in fit and fashion. To be sure, they retired to their own rooms where they spent some time donning their garb and checking it would last the event. Nephril knew they’d look most odd together, their choices no doubt bringing together disparate periods and social intimations. He was content that their Nouwelm guests would be none the wiser.
Once again back in his weathered and tattered old robes, Nephril happened onto the terrace where he glanced at the gate, as he’d often recently done. The sight this time brought him up short. He stopped and stared, mouth agape, at the long reach of its outstretched arms beyond. Scout Hill sat square on to Eastern Gate, and so from its vantage he could see straight down Eastern Walk, all the way to the gap between the two great towers. It was a sight that filled him with awe.
How many times had he stood there, he wondered, watching the throng of Dicans incessantly moving through. How many crowds had he seen mill along the Walk or vassal armies cower to the castle’s overpowering embrace? How many times, but how long ago.
By late afternoon they were all more than happy that everything was in hand. They’d repeatedly gathered, in various groups, to count off their tasks and then ponder what may still have been overlooked. However, each time Leiyatel’s embrace appeared to have guided them well.
As evening drew on and brought with it their time for repast, Pettar announced that the great gates were once more shut tight. As though his words had been a signal, Phaylan came into the salon with a message.
He beamed broadly as he presented it loudly to Nephril. “My Lord Nephril? Sentinar Storbanther wishes it be known that they now have full command of the castle’s gates and can open and shut them at will, and for this he sends his sincere thanks.”
Nephril beamed back. “Thank you, Phaylan, that be good news indeed.”
Phaylan then added, “My Lord. There’s more.” Nephril gestured for him to speak on. “The Sentinar has asked me to tell you that he’s sent a message to Lord Leadernac. It affirms our preparedness for their entry upon the morrow, as already agreed. They are to present themselves upon Eastern Walk, directly before the gates at an hour past sunrise, there to await their invitation to come in.”
Nephril again thanked him before saying to them all, “So, everything be set and the way forward clear. On our side, we have command of our own undertakings, for which I give heartfelt thanks to you all. Thou hast, without exception, given sterling service. All that remains now is for us all to keep things in hand whilst taking of a little well-earned rest and sustenance. We may then sleep soundly, it be hoped, afore our early start to what should be a most momentous occasion.”
He then turned to their own role in it all. “Storbanther will provide our escort of some three hundred, drawn up to our rear at our place on Eastern Street, before the gates and at the same hour.” He smiled as he let a few more thoughts cross his mind. “We should make quite a spectacle, me thinks, dressed in our players’ garb, at the head of our pretend army and all against the backdrop of Uttagate and Scout Hill’s manse-topped pinnacle. Aye, it should make for a rare sight, but also an occasion we must all try to enjoy.”
His eyes glinted with similar ancient memories, but he soon saddened as he realised an absence. There would be no royal presence this time, no regal accord, but it couldn’t be helped. These were new times, bringing with them new hopes. Putting that aside, he bade Phaylan return with his own reply, with which he was then despatched.
Their meal much later turned out to be a rather subdued affair. They all seemed still bound to their duties and tasks, unable to put them aside so easily. The only conversation centred on this plan or that decision, but Nephril soon saw how exhausted his faithful company had become. He therefore thought it wise to chide them on their way to their beds.
This time it wasn’t difficult to gain their attention, just rising to his feet bringing a hushed audience, all except Falmeard. “Nephril? Our company’s chiefly those of Galgaverre but few others. What of Bazarral, and more to the point, Dican royal presence. Why isn’t the king presiding over it all?” Nephril’s heart sank and he glared at Falmeard, despite knowing how guileless his question had been.
Nephril had tried to keep Dican matters on one side, left to moulder in the recesses of their principally Galgaverran minds. He had, though, quite forgotten Falmeard’s eclectic interests. Should he make it clear how dwindling Dican presence would come to be, how the royal line would be shouldered aside, pushed ever deeper into a diminishing corner until it faded away?
He could see no way around Falmeard’s direct question, and was still considering his answer when Pettar forcibly asked Falmeard, “What place have Dicans in our future then, would you reckon, eh, Falmeard, what role would you have for them?” Falmeard swung round to stare myopically at Pettar, as though he didn’t really understand the question. “Well, Falmeard? What good’s the royal house going to bestow on our new realm do you think, what’ll they promise better than Bazarran stewardship?”
Falmeard still looked nonplussed as Pettar continued, “You’ve heard from Nephril how the High Dican families have brought destruction on the Living Green Stone Tree, how their greed and selfishness, and their profligacy and unbridled procreation have brought us to this sad hour. Would you have us come yet again to this same place in our new realm’s distant future? Well, Falmeard, would you wish such a fate on our offspring?” Falmeard looked hurt. “Oh, I’m sorry, Falmeard, I know I shouldn’t have attacked you. Please forgive me, it was uncalled for. I suspect you didn’t really see what your words implied.”
Neither Pettar nor Falmeard said any more, but it left the room tense, tense enough that Nephril felt compelled to say, “Pettar be right. There must purposely be no place for High Dican interest. That is why I arranged for Laixac to draw the king and his Council away, back to their own precincts, far enough that they can no longer play a part in our dealings tomorrow.”
Falmeard finally passed over the matter in his own strangely detached way. “Oh. I see. I never really thought of it that way,” and that was then, thankfully, the end of it.
Nephril coughed. “So, Nouwelm will soon begin returning the knowledge now needed for Leiyatel’s renewal. In return, we will open our realm to unsullied Bazarran blood, the realm’s true descendants, the children of its ancestors, and give to them the benefits of Leiyatel’s grace. The compact we will forge
tomorrow will return the land once more to the ancient paradise it was, and preserve it so for ever more.”
He’d hoped to dispatch them to their beds in a more jubilant frame, but Falmeard’s unwitting question seemed to have tarnished it. With the day’s exertions fast overtaking them, they soon left the salon empty but for Nephril, yet again looking out at the blackness of the castle.
His life had been so entwined with royalty and his own High Dican birth that cold understanding of the need for their loss couldn’t quite allay the sadness he felt at their passing. It was both sadness and tiredness that conspired to give him so little true rest that night, that let him only drowse towards the early hours of that momentous day.
43 Best Laid Plans
Penolith’s voice was urgent but he couldn’t quite make out what she said for her words seemed to float to him from afar. He thought he could see her in the distance, on Eastern Walk, beyond the two towers, see her sway from side to side on the Eyeswin Bridge. She wore a torn and tattered evening gown of faded rose-print, her hair matted and streaked by the torrential rain that thundered onto the setts of the bridge and masked her insistent voice.
He tried to move towards her but realised he was still on the terrace, the length of Eastern Street suddenly coming between them, making her but a mere speck in the distance. About her, a fearsome army amassed, quickly closing ranks until she was swamped and hidden from sight.
His heart welled with grief and tears streamed down his face like the rain that had cascaded from her hair. He flew to her, winging across Uttagate’s rooftops, her form quickly filling his vision as a halo of spears pressed in through her sodden gown. Her pained face beseeched him, “Wake up! Wake up, Nephril! The dawn’s not far off.”
His eyes shot open and he stared, startled, this way and that, until his gaze came to rest on Penolith’s concerned face. Realisation flooded him, pushed aside alarm and left only a cold and sweat-smeared brow. Her face then showed amusement which steadily reassured him. He shot a quick look through the window and saw the dawn herald faintly lightening the sky, beyond the mist-hung castle.
Leiyatel's Embrace (Dica Series Book 1) Page 38