Leiyatel's Embrace (Dica Series Book 1)

by Clive S. Johnson

  Nephril paced again, but more erratically. “Damn, damn and damn again! Shit! Why did I not see what be so plain. Leiyatel hath been devious, so damned devious!”

  It was as though all the walls in Nephril’s mind, all those holding back his memories, came crashing down as one. The roar was deafening. It left his mind ringing, but also cleared the way, levelled rough terrain and left a smooth path; so smooth and clear that his thoughts began to career along it, rapidly back through fast restored memories. Along the way he kept finding Leiyatel, her purpose coursing through his own weft and weave.

  She wasn’t everywhere by any means. She was there in his chambers, though, before they’d first spied Leadernac’s army, at his table where she’d fleetingly looked through his own eyes at Falmeard’s ring. What had it been that had brought her so far from her island lair, that had made her gaze to the very edge of her sight? She would certainly still have been aware of the grit in her wheels, of Nephril there in his distant wilderness, but something else must have drawn her, something more.

  He could see her guile now, but even more so what she had sought that day. She’d been preparing for the ring’s return, had guided his own unwitting hand to slip some foil into a pouch, and the pouch into his robe. He could even remember the foil’s eventually use, there in Galgaverre, where she’d had need of being shielded from the ring. He’d been nothing more than a manipulated marionette. So, what else had she surreptitiously done through him?

  Why the interest in Falmeard’s ring, though? What, in the face of her own demise, had Leiyatel been planning? What could she have want of? His painful meeting with Storbanther came to mind.

  The concern then had been with her who was to come in Leiyatel’s place, and their need of Nouwelm’s knowledge, but there’d also been the slip’s anachronism and its vital destruction, its… The slip! Of course, now he remembered. For the first time he saw what had all along been plainly before his eyes, and through him before Leiyatel’s own. The ring had not perished at all, hadn’t fallen with Auldus but had survived. Against all reason it and his nephew had lived on. Somehow they’d cheated the Garden of the Forgotten and had now returned.

  Suddenly everything was made plain and simple. Leiyatel had felt the ring’s hidden persistence, far beyond her embrace, where it had worried at her as it had also diminished her. She’d brought it back as the seed for her daughter, for the one who was to come after her.

  He stopped pacing and abruptly turned to Falmeard and Pettar. “Come, we have little time, little time left at all, and I know now where we should be, and without delay.”

  Before they could say a word, he strode off, back down the street towards the lane Falmeard had travelled here by. Briefly, they looked at each other before Falmeard pushed himself to his feet and raced after him. Pettar stood for a moment, mystified, but soon chased after them both.

  By the time Nephril had joined the lane, Falmeard had caught up. Nephril ordered, “Thou knowest the way better than I, Falmeard. Take the lead, mine friend, and bring us to Foundering Wall by the fleetest path.”

  Falmeard nodded and went ahead. “Swine Lane, where we now are, will take us much of the way there.”

  Swine Lane was indeed direct, although pocked and broken, but did grant them good haste, forcing Pettar to run to catch up. They all stayed silent, wary of Nephril’s intense purpose, but it wasn’t long before Falmeard darted from the lane and between two close-rearing houses that framed an ornate gateway.

  ‘Foundering Way’ was inscribed on its lintel, and beyond which a long flight of steep steps soon lifted them through a dank wood’s cool embrace. Its shaded reaches were enlivened by blankets of ghostly bluebells, a misty blue about the boles. It was a stiff climb and taxed them all, but at the top they came out onto a broad and curving pathway, rising around a large grassy mound.

  Atop was a low stone parapet around a tall statue that stared, arms missing and features weathered smooth, out across the Vale of Plenty to the distant Gray Mountains. Falmeard and Nephril both knew it to be an effigy of King Belforas, surveying his realm in all his might and glory, despite being worn almost smooth.

  The king marked the entrance to a symbolic site, a place once of reclaimed honour in lieu of sacrificed life, but Nephril now saw it for what it really was – a derelict, dishevelled domain of Dican deceit. They pressed on around its sovereign feet, the royal symbol falling behind them as the top of the Winter Tower came into view further up the mountain. Its crystal gallery peeped above the top of a stout stone wall rising massively ahead. Roughhewn and flecked with wild growth, it marked the northern end of Foundering Wall and held aloft the broad pavement of Witness Terrace.

  That final rise of Foundering Way didn’t take long but left them puffing and panting as they stepped onto the top of the wall. They paused to get their breath back, but Nephril soon peered towards the Farewell Gap. There stood a lone figure, just as Nephril had seen almost two thousand years before, but this time its only witness was the three of them, the Royal Pavilion having long stood dark and empty.

  Nephril ran ahead of Pettar and Falmeard, as fast as his tired old legs would carry him, but time itself seemed to slow. The air thickened - dragging against him with the leaden weight of an age-old guilt - whilst ahead, well ahead, the figure of Auldus stood motionless at the Gap.

  Nephril’s voice fought its way across the Terrace, only to be swept away again by the easterly wind. His distraught mind heard it as the wailing howls of dread, a dread that pressed him on toward his nephew. ‘This time I wilt reach thee, Auldus. This time I wilt save thee!’ Still out of hearing, still too far, he cried out at the top of his lungs as Auldus slowly began to sway, “Auldus? Auldus? Do not forsake me again!” Unheeding, Auldus swayed one last time and once more fell from sight.

  Agony, anger and regret all crashed in, weakened his knees, stung his eyes and cruelly reproved him, bringing his exhausted body to a stand. There, it savagely smote him to the ground, where he cried out, “Oh, Auldus! Auldus, mine Auldus! I have failed thee once more. Oh, how hateful thou art, Leiyatel, that thou should abuse me so. Hath thee no pity?”

  Pettar and Falmeard both felt the air begin to tingle, to vibrate and hum. Their eyes were drawn to a long streak of misty, green light that now billowed from beyond the Scarra, down into the Garden of the Forgotten, wavering through the air like a silken ribbon. Fleetingly, the air itself turned green, leaving in its wake only Pettar and Nephril’s prone body, the two now quite alone near the Farewell Gap.

  47 Try, Try Again

  Auldus watched the green glow about him quickly fade, as it had before, long, long ago. This time, though, as his body stopped tingling, he found himself back at the Witness Gap, as though he’d never fallen. Instead of the cold, empty stare of the Royal Pavilion, now he saw it crammed full of Dican dignitaries, as befitted the occasion of his execution, all so carefully ranked upon their cushioned chairs.

  To see that ancient memory now so clear and immediate before him, so real and present, was a tangible shock, a wrench at his senses. As a maelstrom of tumbling memories crowded in, he saw - aloof from the present they formed - one that still burned brightly from his far distant future.

  It proudly shone above all others, a painstakingly cemented icon. It embodied London’s long sojourn, Nouwelm’s hidden tutorage and Falmeard’s final deliverance of the ring. Despite all that, it clung to an imperative, a promise to put all to rights. It couldn’t last, though, not when made of nothing more than an ephemeral past Auldus would now never have. It held a transient knowing, one he’d all too soon never have.

  He stood there, alone at the Farewell Gap, and found himself strangely at peace. His ancient and wearied mind had now given way to youth, his own fresh youth, but within its green mind that icon slowly dissolved to a single but persisting thread. Almost invisible now, it held at its very end a fast spinning ring.

  He couldn’t take his mind’s eye from it for it mesmerised him, held him enthralled and spoke s
oftly from deep within himself. In its voice was a suggestion, a compulsion to do one last thing. Slowly, he took one hand in the other and felt at his finger, the one encircled by weft and weave of Leiyatel, the one still wearing a strangely warm ring.

  Steadily, its counterpart in his mind slowed, dully flashing a more insistent command. It told him to remove the ring from his finger, which he did. Now he could see beyond the Scarra Face, could see the place where she hid, could see Baradcar.

  As he took the ring between his finger and thumb and held it aloft, he called out, “With this ring I do divorce thee, do rebuff thine embrace afore thou canst make it, and thereby do make of mine self a man free of thy weft afore thou canst weave it. Full circle have I come, alike the ring, to remake mine own fate, armed with knowledge now of thy nature, and from it do discharge mine oath to Nephhryl, to thee, mine uncle and Master of Ceremonies. May thee forever forgive me mine long broken promise.”

  Auldus carefully placed the ring beside the Farewell Gap, content it was now safe, turned to the Royal Pavilion and bowed low to his witnesses. As the icon’s ring marked out its own final turn in his mind, he addressed the Farewell Gap, stepped to its edge and then, as the icon finally came to a halt, stepped out into the void for the very last time.

  As Nephhryl saw him fall, he cried out in anguish, “Oh, Auldus! Auldus! I have failed thee,” then fell to the ground exhausted, weakened by his race from the Eastern Gate and now smitten by despair. He wailed at the wind that blew so strongly from the east, that had carried away his imploring calls. He wailed and then stared, stared hard with unbelieving eyes at the empty Farewell Gap. His heart lay torn and bled its hope as he felt the loss of his nephew, as he felt the intimacy of the emptiness and the guilt it now left behind.

  There was, though, one faint and dull glimmer of hope in that heaven of torment. Nephhryl had clearly seen Auldus place the slip to one side, as clearly as daylight be clear. For some reason Auldus had broken his oath, had mercifully parted with his charge. Why that should have been Nephhryl couldn’t guess, but was thankful for it, for the surety it now gave for Leiyfiantel’s future.

  Hands were helping him up, the hands of those who’d first brought him the fateful news and had hastened him here. Their concern failed to impinge for the empty Gap still held Nephhryl, intent only on retrieving the slip Auldus had bequeathed him.

  Before Nephhryl could move, though, a dark and naked black figure appeared, as though it had walked in from the void, walked in through the Farewell Gap. It stood for a moment looking their way. It had no features, no eyes or nose or mouth, but it had fingers and thumbs - sooty silhouettes - and with them bent and took up the ring.

  Had Nature had a mind to, she might have lent her servant limb a mouth, a mouth with which to grin her satisfaction at having at last brought balance back to her own domain. She may even have thought to add eyes, eyes through which to savour the sight of the grit now finally being removed from her own wheels. A small fleck of grit it may have been in the great scheme of things, but one that would, in the fullness of time, still have been felt beyond the furthest of her stars.

  Those eyes might also have shown some sadness in their momentary glance at Nephhryl, seeing the long spread of time that now stretched out before him. A long wait upon his own far future release, aided perhaps by friends yet to come, in Leiyfiantel’s slowly waning gaze and ever weakening embrace.

  But then, who could really say, who could be sure? Even Nature herself might eventually be proven wrong. As it was, the black figure only stood there for a moment, ring held aloft, before closing its sooty hands about it and vanishing as it stepped back through the Farewell Gap.

  48 End of the Beginning

  The persistence of his sight and memory still held the image of the Witness Terrace, but it was imprinted on a flat, bright expanse of green that rapidly dimmed. As it vanished, it let him see the great oaken sideboard against the dining room wall, and the rich red, blue and gold of the carpet on which it stood. Carpet! And from wall to wall!

  He realised he was shouting but couldn’t quite see why, words cast into an otherwise quiet room, quiet but for the ponderous ticking of a grandfather clock. When he realised he was on his hands and knees, it explained the odd angle of the table and the chairs about it.

  Given that he couldn’t remember why he was screaming he abruptly stopped, and instead felt the sumptuous pile of the carpet. He noticed an errant breadcrumb by his hand. There was, though, something else about that hand, about the band of pale grey skin around the base of its finger, where a ring might have been. He couldn’t quite grasp what it might be before his attention became lost to the displacing sound of an opening door.

  “Master Francis! Whatever’s the matter? Are you alright, sir?”

  A buxom young woman stood before him, slightly overweight and with a mop of curly black hair tied into a parlour-maid’s cap. In her arms she held a neatly folded tablecloth. “Are you unwell, sir?”

  “I’m fine, Molly, not at all unwell. I ... err ... I just dropped my pencil, that’s all, and for the life of me I can’t seem to find it.”

  She looked unconvinced. “Shall I bring a lamp, sir, so we can see better?”

  Francis got to his feet, feeling somewhat embarrassed, for he couldn’t quite remember why he was in fact on all fours. “Err, no, Molly, that’ll be alright. I’ll use another.”

  “It’s not a good idea to leave it there, sir. You never know who might stand on it. It’d make a fine mess of the carpet, that it would. I’ll go and get a lamp and find it for you, sir. Won’t be a minute.”

  She put the tablecloth down on the dining table and started to leave, but stopped in the doorway and turned back to Francis. “Begging yer pardon, sir, but I was sure I heard shouting from in here. That’s what brought me in so sudden like. Are you sure you’re alright?”

  Francis smiled at her. “I’m afraid I let my exasperation get the better of me, Molly, and I was…” He checked they weren’t being overheard from the hall. “I was swearing at my own clumsiness, that was all. Didn’t mean it to be overheard, so I’d ask your pardon if you wouldn’t mind, eh, Molly?” She blushed and affirmed she understood, but still looked unconvinced as she closed the door behind her.

  Sure enough, within a few minutes there was a knock at the door and Margaret, his housekeeper, entered at his beckoning. “If you’ll excuse the interruption, sir, but Molly seems a wee bit concerned that you mayn’t be well, so I thought I’d just check with you myself, sir, if that’s alright?”

  He sighed and then sat on the couch by the unlit fire, asking her to come in and shut the door. She stood before him, trying to see the colour in his face or whether or not he seemed hot, or cold, or any of a multitude of possible conditions. He actually felt quite well in himself.

  “Molly’s not to worry, Margaret, and you can tell her that from me. It’s just the impact of my recent loss, that’s all, simply Mister Cunningham’s passing. It’s frayed my nerves a little you see, made me prone to dropping things and … and swearing at my own clumsiness.”

  “Mister Cunningham, sir?”

  “Yes, Mister Cunningham, Aldous, my old friend.” When she still looked confused, he added, “From Richmond, Margaret, on Fife Road? You know, overlooking the park? Where I’ve spent … where I’ve…” Oddly, he couldn’t quite remember Aldous’ house anymore, nor his face come to that.

  “Should I call for the doctor, sir? You do seem, well, as though you’re ailing for something. Are you sure you’re not unwell?”

  Francis sat back and stared across the room, through the window at the cloud flecked evening sky. He tried to remember who he’d been talking about. He could see a leaden-haired old gentleman and a ring that matched the colour of his hair. He could also plainly see the place where four huge towers reared high above a mass of mountainous stone. Try as he might, though, as he grasped at each remaining image in turn, it slipped through his fingers like the imaginary pencil had done earlier, le
aving behind about as much.

  “I’m sorry, Margaret, I’ve not been sleeping well these past few nights and I think I must’ve dozed off and been dreaming. You’re not to worry, now, do you hear, I’m fine.” She didn’t immediately answer. “I tell you what, if you’d bring me a little brandy, and leave me with it for a while, then you can come back later and check I’ve fully woken from my daydream, eh? Does that sound fair?” Grudgingly, she agreed, but wasn’t long gone before returning with a generous measure.

  “There you are, sir, a bit more than you usually have, but seems to me, it’ll do you more good, and I’ll get Molly to arrange for some coal to be brought in, so a fire can be laid and lit. It’s getting a bit chill in here, what with the wind coming from the north today. Seems like the best of the summer’s been and gone now, sir. Well, I’ll leave you awhile and look in later.” As she left the room, she threw him a concerned look, but as the door closed softly behind her, he just raised the glass to his nose and sniffed appreciatively.

  He rested on the couch, trying to still his mind. He took a sip of his brandy and it warmed his throat, but did little more. A fuller swig, however, brought it coursing through his body and finally lifting his spirits on its rising fumes. He let his eyes close for a moment, but when he opened them again, the room had darkened. Through the window now, the sky had turned a cerulean blue with its horizon tinged crimson, all heralding a fine sunset.

  As tiredness began to overtake him, he thought of Geran; heard her sing-song lilt, saw her broad set eyes, her smiling lips, her gaily swinging ponytail. He wished he’d remembered to recite that old verse for her, the one from Lake Dica’s pavilion, the one he’d so lovingly translated. ‘Now, how did it go?’ he wondered, but soon heard the words softly drift into the darkened room as Geran’s face slowly returned to never having been.