by Kate Forsyth
The Erlrune looked then at the goatherd, saying, ‘Pedrin, in the Well of Fate you could know your future, whether you are destined to be a great musician or merely a lowly goatherd, as you fear. You too could see your future, Maglen. Will you be forever an outcast, cursing the moon’s brightness, or will you ever have the home you’ve always wanted?’
Pedrin felt his ears turn red. He glanced at Mags and saw the wistful longing on her face. ‘I’m happy the way I am,’ Pedrin said loudly. ‘I don’t need to look in the pool to know what me future will be. Me father was a goatherd and so was his father, and so shall I be. You should not try a-tricking us.’ Yet even as he spoke, he thought of the joy he had felt all that long afternoon, creating sweet music alone in his room, and his whole body felt hot and uncomfortable.
‘I do not try to trick you,’ the Erlrune said sternly. ‘I just tell you that you must gaze into the Well of Fate with a clear and pure focus, else your visions will be sullied. You must all be sure of what it is you want to see.’
They were silent and fidgety, unable to meet Lisandre’s anxious eyes. Sedgely said mournfully, ‘Oh well, no need to worrit on me behalf, little missy. An old man like me knows the only thing that lies ahead for him is the long, quiet sleep. No need to be a-feared I’ll be distracted by a wish to know the future.’
The Erlrune smiled in real amusement. ‘Life is full of surprises, Sedgely. I would not be too sure it holds naught new for you.’
The river-roan hurrumphed in polite disbelief.
Lisandre said urgently, ‘Oh, please, can I not look in the pool by myself? The others can all look later and see whatever it is they want to see. Ziggy is my brother, it is me that needs to know what has happened to him.’
The Erlrune shook her head. ‘“Six brought together can the cruel bane defeat,”’ she quoted. ‘No, the six of you came together to seek my help. Often the visions in the Well are clearer if more than one mind and heart are bent upon it, and six is a good number for seeking such visions. ’Tis the number of perfection, being divisible by both two and three. It represents harmony, beauty and trust, which seems fateful indeed. Besides, the Well of Fate may be used only once a month, when the moon is full. If you do not look now, you cannot look for another month.’
Surprised, Briony glanced out the window. Only when she saw the round brightness of the moon in the sky did she realise the moon was now radiantly full. It had been only a few days past its prime when they had crossed the Evenlinn. Surely that had only been yesterday? How long had she spent reading the book?
She gazed at the Erlrune, her hands clasped close to her breast. ‘How is it that the moon is now full when yesterday it was old? How long have we been here, in your house?’
‘You were all a-weary,’ the Erlrune said. ‘You needed to rest. One needs strength and courage to gaze into the Well of Fate.’
The others cried out in consternation. Lisandre said furiously, ‘Do you mean we have been here a month? A whole month? But we do not have the time! We only have till the beginning of winter. The prophecy says—’
‘You couldn’t have looked into the Well of Fate until tonight anyway,’ the Erlrune said indifferently. ‘You could have spent the month a-fretting and a-worrying and a-getting in my way, or you could have spent it a-resting and regaining your strength. You must admit you all feel better for your rest.’
It was true, they all felt greatly invigorated. They looked at each other in chagrin, murmuring, ‘A whole month? But how can it be? It seemed only a few hours . . .’
‘Do you mean I haven’t eaten in a month?’ Pedrin cried. ‘But I’m not hungry at all!’
‘You all had sustenance,’ the Erlrune said, a smile flickering on her withered mouth. ‘And I fed you well before you went to your rooms.’
‘The food was all enchanted?’ Briony asked in amazement.
‘Of course,’ the Erlrune replied. ‘I would have thought you, of all people, would have been wary of eating such a feast, Briony. But come. We waste time. ’Tis the night of the full moon and midnight is almost upon us. Lisandre, you wish to gaze into the Well of Fate?’
‘I do,’ Lisandre answered nervously.
‘All those who come to the Well of Fate must first answer three riddles. Thus it is and thus it has always been.’
‘Very well,’ Lisandre said with a quick nod of her head and a glance at Durrik.
‘The first riddle is a simple one. I shall ask you a question, and if you answer correctly, you may step to the pool and gaze into its waters. If you answer incorrectly, you shall die.’
That made them all shuffle and sigh and look at each other in consternation.
‘What, all of us?’ Mags cried.
‘All of you,’ the Erlrune said implacably.
‘How?’ Pedrin asked in very real dread, remembering the gibgoblin’s smug smile.
She ignored him. ‘Are you ready for the first riddle?’
‘Wait!’ Lisandre cried. They huddled together, conferring rapidly. Though all were angry and troubled by the cost of the test, everyone but Sedgely was sure Durrik would be able to answer any riddle the Erlrune could throw at them. The river-roan just sighed and said, ‘Well, I’ve had a long life and most of it pleasurable. If I must be a-dying, it might as well be now as later.’
Lisandre rolled her eyes at him, and turned back to the Erlrune, saying anxiously, ‘Very well then. Ask us the riddle.’
The old woman said, very gently, ‘You understand ’tis you who must answer this riddle, Lisandre, since ’tis you who wish to question the pool?’
The colour slowly drained out of Lisandre’s face. ‘But . . . that’s not fair . . .’
‘You are not the first to come to the Well of Fate and face this quandary,’ the Erlrune said. ‘Time hurries on, though. ’Tis almost midnight. Do you wish to gaze into the Well of Fate or not?’
‘Yes, yes, I do,’ Lisandre faltered. ‘But . . .’ She looked at the others and though they had gone as pale as she had, they gave little shrugs and nods of encouragement.
‘All this time in Durrik’s company, you must a-learnt summat about riddles,’ Mags said in a high, strained voice.
‘Let us hope so,’ Sedgely said mournfully.
Lisandre looked sick. She steadied herself with a hand on Pedrin’s arm and said shakily, ‘What’s the riddle then?’
‘What is it that trembles with each breath of air, and yet can the heaviest loads bear?’ the Erlrune asked.
Lisandre was baffled. She repeated the question once, twice, looked at the others pleadingly, looked back at the Erlrune.
‘Lisandre!’ Durrik said. The Erlrune looked at him sharply but did not speak, as he continued, ‘Here’s a riddle for you! Why is a riddle like a sword?’ He paused for a moment and then said with clear and heavy emphasis, ‘They’re no good unless they have a point.’
Lisandre looked thoughtful. Pedrin gripped his hands into fists, willing her to understand. As the silence grew longer, he felt his tension grow until he was sweating and trembling. The same strain showed on everyone’s faces, except for that of Sedgely, who simply had too much facial hair to ever show much expression. The old man was clutching his pipe tightly, though, putting it in his mouth and taking it out again, showing how dearly he wished he dared smoke. Durrik was staring at Lisandre as intently as if he was trying to send her the answer telepathically, and Mags was biting her lip, her hazel eyes hard and bright, her hands clenched into fists. Briony was playing with her cat’s cradle, her eyes lowered.
Lisandre looked up quickly, glanced at the others apologetically, and said, ‘I think I know. I hope . . . I hope I’m right.’
‘So do we all,’ Sedgely said gruffly.
‘Very well. Answer me this then. What is it that trembles with each breath of air, and yet can the heaviest loads bear?’
‘Is the answer . . . water?’
‘Is that your answer?’
Lisandre hesitated, then nodded her head. ‘Yes. It is.’
‘An inspired guess,’ Durrik said and she smiled at him brilliantly.
Their relieved babble died away as the Erlrune rose stiffly. At once tense and wary again, they all turned to face her. The old woman came slowly down the steps. She suddenly seemed very tall, her white hair shining in the candlelight. The glimmering silk flowed about her like water. Briony longed to stroke it and feel the texture of its weave. She did not dare, however, and so only gazed at it wonderingly, knowing it was the finest craftsmanship she had ever seen.
The Erlrune stood before them, regarding them with dark, hooded eyes. She said in a commanding voice, ‘You may gaze into the Well of Fate now, but if you do not decipher the second riddle, you will see naught but your own faces staring back at you.’
‘What’s the second riddle?’ Pedrin asked apprehensively.
‘To make whole what was torn,
Kith must be as kin.
For kith to be as kin,
What is whole must be torn.’
THIRTY-TWO
They stared at her in puzzlement.
‘But . . . that’s a paradox,’ Durrik protested. ‘’Tis impossible.’
She did not answer, just stared at them with those impenetrable dark eyes.
‘To make whole what was torn,
Kith must be as kin.
For kith to be as kin,
What is whole must be torn,’ Durrik repeated slowly. ‘It must make sense somehow. “Kith” means friends. “Kin” means family. So it means that friends must be as family.’
‘So, “To make whole what was torn”—does that mean healing Ziggy?’ Lisandre asked blankly.
‘And the land,’ Briony added quickly.
‘And everyone in it,’ Mags said passionately.
‘So if we want to heal Ziggy . . .’
‘And the land . . .’
‘And everyone in it,’ Mags cried, laughing.
‘. . . friends need to be as family. Does that mean us? The friends, I mean.’
‘Of course it does,’ Briony said. ‘Have you ever had better?’
Lisandre shook her head, her face crumpling.
‘So the six of us . . . we have to be like a family,’ Mags said, her laughter dying and replaced by something scared and solemn. ‘But we are, sort of. After all we’ve been through . . .’
There was a long pause, broken only by mutters: ‘To make whole . . . kith must be as kin . . . For kith to be as kin . . . What is whole must be torn.’
‘Durrik?’ Pedrin asked hopefully.
Durrik clutched his head and muttered some more. Then he looked up, his eyes shining, and said in a ringing voice, ‘What is it that binds family together?’
‘Oh, please, not more riddles!’ Lisandre said in disgust.
‘Blood!’ Durrik cried. ‘Blood binds family together.’
‘Yes,’ Lisandre said uncomprehendingly. ‘Ties of blood.’
‘Blood is thicker than water,’ Mags contributed with a return of her impudent grin. ‘Me own flesh and blood. It runs in the blood. Blood brothers . . .’
Durrik returned her grin with a sparkling one of his own. ‘Exactly. So to make us family, to make us blood brothers and blood sisters, we need to mingle our blood. We have to cut—or tear—our flesh, our whole, unmarred flesh, to make the blood flow so that we can bind ourselves together as family! Is that right?’ He turned to the Erlrune triumphantly. ‘It has to be right!’
The Erlrune smiled at him enigmatically and pulled a long, wickedly sharp dagger from a sheath at her waist. ‘’Tis midnight. Time to gaze in the pool. Mingle your blood, with full knowledge of the sacredness of the ritual, and see if you have guessed a-right.’
The Erlrune gave them all a candle and then they followed her round and round the circling path of blue mosaic, back to the Well of Fate in the eye of the storm. She instructed them to place their candles in a circle around it. They obeyed.
‘Now, mingle your blood and let it fall into the water,’ the Erlrune said. ‘Then you must sit, a-holding hands and a-gazing into the pool. You must all focus your thoughts upon what it is you wish to see. Be very clear in what you wish for. Do not allow your thoughts to wander, for the visions will follow your thoughts. You shall receive three visions, of the past, the present and the future. Understand this. The visions you see in the pool are the third riddle. You must decipher what you see to understand the meaning hidden behind. The visions are not always clear, particularly the visions of the future, for they show what may be, not what shall be. Do you understand?’
They nodded and murmured in response, feeling a sudden quickening of their blood. The Erlrune bowed her head and walked swiftly away, following the spiral shape of the path. Her form was soon swallowed by shadows.
‘We want to know the truth of this sickness that has befallen my brother Zygmunt, the Count of Estelliana,’ Lisandre said rather tremulously, ‘and to discover the cure, so that we may save his life.’
She held out her hand and swiftly slashed the palm with the dagger. Blood welled up, thick and dark. Cupping her hand so the blood did not drip, she jerked her head furiously at the others. One by one they reluctantly held out their hands. The pain of the knife was sharp but quick. Standing in a circle about the pool, all six of the companions held up their bleeding palms and clasped each other’s hands above the water. Blood ran down their wrists and dripped into the pool, sending out ever widening ripples of red-gold flame and shadow.
They let go, sitting down and joining hands, bloody palm to intact palm, all round the circle. The palm that had been cut was sticky and wet, and stung. They hung on grimly, though, staring down into the pool, trying to think only of the sleeping Count of Estelliana.
Slowly the water in the pool began to rotate, swirling round and round in an anti-clockwise direction. Faster and faster the water swirled, and then suddenly it cleared and steadied, becoming as still and bright as a mirror. They did not see their faces, however, in the still surface of the pool. Instead they saw a moving scene, a scene with colour but without sound.
It was winter at the Castle of Estelliana. Snow lay heaped about the courtyard and icicles hung from the pointed roofs of the towers. The pool in the centre of the courtyard was frozen over. Above the pool, the starthorn tree lifted green, leafy branches to the steely dawn sky. Peeping out from the shiny green leaves were large, golden apples. A few apples lay scattered through the snow.
A cloaked and hooded figure came furtively out of the castle, carrying a large covered basket. The figure came to the foot of the starthorn tree and searched through the snow, picking up the fallen apples with a gloved hand and stowing them in the basket. There were evidently not enough, for after a while the search grew more frenzied. Then the figure stood looking up at the tree. It grasped the trunk with both hands and shook the trunk vigorously. The starthorn tree was a tall and ancient tree, however, and not easily shaken. Only a few apples fell down and were hastily collected. The figure shook the tree again, but no more fruit fell. The figure went back into the castle, clearly displeased.
The picture blurred, then resolved itself once more into clarity. Lady Donella, the chief lady-in-waiting, was beckoning a small hearthkin boy to her side. Pedrin and Durrik both widened their eyes in surprise. They knew the boy. Named Garvin, he had been a pot-boy up at the castle. He had fallen ill with a mysterious ailment the previous winter and died.
Lady Donella spoke to the boy with a sweet smile, and he nodded. She pressed a copper coin into his palm and he scampered away, looking pleased. Once again the scene bl
urred. When the vision cleared, it was to show Garvin shivering and stamping his bare feet in the snow piled high under the starthorn tree. It was dawn. He rubbed his numb fingers together, looked about him furtively, and then began to climb the tree. He reached the fruit-laden branches and began to pick the star-apples, dropping them down into the snow below. Suddenly he seemed to cry out and wince. He looked down at his arm. The sleeve was torn and there was a long, bloody cut in the flesh beneath. He had scratched himself on one of the cruel-looking thorns. Garvin sucked the cut tenderly, plucked a few more star-apples, then slid down the tree.
A wave of dizziness seemed to overcome him, for he stood holding on to the trunk, his head bowed. When he raised his face, it looked pinched and white. Unsteadily he bent and picked up all the star-apples, stowing them away in a basket. He made his way through the heavy drifts of snow, leaving a few scarlet drops of blood behind him like rubies scattered on white velvet.
Lady Donella waited at the side door for him, a hood drawn up over her silvery-fair hair. Now the boy was sweating and trembling. He gave the basket to Lady Donella and showed her the long cut, bleeding profusely. She smiled and made some gesture of reassurance, giving him another small coin. He took it and turned away, making his unsteady way back towards the kitchens.
The vision accelerated, blurring in whirls of smoke, blood and shadow. When it steadied, they saw Garvin lying on a pile of blankets in a huge, dark, smoky kitchen, moaning a little, moving his head restlessly as if it pained him. His face was slick with sweat, and the bandage on his arm was dripping with blood. Through his half-closed eyelids they saw the white of his eyes, twitching horribly. An enormously fat woman knelt beside him, blotting the sweat from his face with a damp cloth and dribbling water into his mouth. He did not swallow, his throat muscles standing up rigidly, quivering with strain. Gradually the twitching of his eyeballs, the spasms in his arms and legs, the working of his throat, all slowed until he was still and lax. The fat woman sighed and shook her head, perplexed, drawing up the ragged blanket to cover the white slits of his eyes.