‘Mind how you go,’ he told Willow as she left the yard.
‘And you.’
‘Look after her,’ he told Morann.
‘I surely will.’
Gwydion lingered for a while, talking with Dimmet, then he gathered up his staff and called Will after him and they also went on their way. Will chose the south road out of Eiton. They followed it for a little while, then, as soon as they reached the place where the road and the lign of the ash tree crossed, they set off across the meadows. After a short while they came to a brook.
‘This is the north fork of the Charrel Brook,’ Gwydion said. ‘The stream wanders many leagues southward, through lands owned by the Sightless Ones. These waters join up with a greater river in the domain of the Earl of Ockhamsforth. That river, called Iesis, flows on to the great city of Trinovant. Do you see what example in the fundaments of magic this little stream holds for us?’
‘I would say the lesson it shows is that all things are connected – all places and all times, as all flowing waters are,’ Will answered.
‘Well said, indeed!’
Will waded across, confidently following the lign. By now the phase of the unrisen moon was almost at full, and so the lign was hard to lose. Even so, the influence would ebb and flow as the day progressed, and Will knew they would almost certainly wander off the true line. He hunted along the bank of the Charrel for a little way among the osiers then found what he was looking for. A hazel tree. He cut himself a nice fresh wand, and split it ready for scrying. As they walked, Will thought about Willow and her leaving.
‘You take care now, Willand,’ was all she had said as they parted, but a moment before she had squeezed him tight and hung on to him as if she might never see him again. Now he wondered what Gwydion had told Morann to do once Willow and Bethe were back in the Vale. Would he just leave her there, no matter what she wanted?
He looked at Gwydion, wondering at the fears that had plagued his sleepless night. They had faded away as soon as he had got up, and now Gwydion seemed once more to have his best interests at heart. The morning sun was bright. They were two again, two against a tide of troubles, and a dangerous journey stretched ahead of them through a land filled with endless possibilities.
‘It’s strange,’ he said, ‘how a man remembers what’s passed in his life while he’s walking the land.’
‘A man journeys through life much as he journeys upon the road,’ Gwydion said. ‘What memories have you come across?’
‘Oh, fond memories mostly. I was thinking about Wortmaster Gort. A picture of him came to me when I passed that field of meadowsweet back there. How I’d like to see him again!’
Gwydion looked at the meadows with their verges of nettle and dock leaf. ‘And who are you reminded of in this place?’
‘The beast that bit my hand.’
‘And what have you decided?’
‘I know it’s never a good plan to question a wholesome cure, but I was wondering if you could have closed up my wound quite so easily without knowledge of the creature’s true name.’
‘So you suppose I have that knowledge.’
‘Yes.’ He glanced across at the wizard. ‘What is it?’
The wizard inclined his head as if he had decided he had no choice but to vouchsafe a secret. He said, ‘It is called a ked.’
‘A ked,’ Will said, weighing the word.
‘All that was said about them by loose tongues is true – except the part about child-stealing. That is just a tale encouraged by the Sightless Ones.’
‘I knew the beast wasn’t malicious,’ he said triumphantly.
‘Of course you knew, because you have unusual fellow feeling – “affinity” as Gort calls it. Keds come from the upper regions of the Realm Below. You saw them in the chapter house at Verlamion. Many of the Fellowship’s cloisters, including the Verlamion chapter house, are built over old vents. The creatures are encouraged up to the surface by the Fellows who make promise of mushrooms to them.’
Will looked askance. ‘Mushrooms?’
‘And earth-tongues. The creatures like them very much, especially when spread with honey. They are tempted and so come up. But then the red hands trap them and make them roost among their roof beams.’
‘But why would they want to do that?’
‘They keep them for food.’
Will’s brow furrowed. ‘Who would think it right to eat such a creature? And, anyway, I thought the red hands lived only on blood.’
‘Quite so, but they regard ked blood as the sweetest. Anstin the Hermit told me long ago, it is the practice of the Fellows to shoot the captive creatures down with crossbow and line so there may be plenty of the “best wine” on the most sacred days of the Fellows’ calendar.’
‘That’s disgusting!’
‘The Sightless Ones must keep control over the minds of those they enslave. How could they do that if they allowed their own people to live in the ordinary way? They have rituals that take the place of every activity of life, rituals that are meant to dissolve away the individual spirit of a man until he feels he is no more than a mote floating rudderless in a powerful current. That way he is forced to belong.’
‘You think this ked escaped when Isnar had the chapter house pulled down?’
‘It is possible.’
‘No wonder it bit me. I’d have done the same in its place.’
‘It is a sad day when one of the creatures is tempted to the surface for any reason, but thankfully such days are rare. Most are lured up by the Fellowship, but occasionally they do come up into this world of light of their own accord, for they are by nature as curious as young cats. Those that escape into the open are unjustly persecuted as villains.’
‘What can be done about that?’
‘It is the task of all people to make life less unfair if they can.’
Will fell silent. Despite the hot sun on his back, the cool green grass under his feet and the sweet smell of wildflowers that was on the air, he was troubled by what Gwydion had told him. He tried to turn his mind to something else, and found a ready subject at hand.
‘I’ve been meaning to ask if Duke Richard gave you permission to enter Foderingham in the end.’
Gwydion thought for a moment then struck the ground ahead with his staff. ‘It is well that you be told how things stand among the lords, for it has a bearing on how we must proceed. When I went to Foderingham I found the castle infested with soldiers and everyone alert for war. The queen has been plotting again, this time with Henry de Bowforde, son of the late Edgar de Bowforde, Duke of Mells, the same that was slain at Verlamion.’
‘How could I forget him?’ Will said, recalling the stripped and bloodied body he had seen. It was said that Duke Edgar had secretly fathered Queen Mag’s son, and that child, now a five-year-old boy, had been officially named as heir to the throne by King Hal.
Will said, ‘Now Henry is Duke of Mells, and I imagine he’s as committed to Queen Mag as his father was. After all, she’s the mother of Henry’s half-brother.’
‘Correct.’ Gwydion stroked his beard. ‘The queen is considered by those who look no further than skin-deep to be a blemishless beauty. She has always used her looks to ensnare those whom she would use. I have no doubt she encourages Henry. And I have no doubt that is done at the behest of Maskull.’
‘I’ve heard she’s used to treating courtiers as her playthings. It’s surprising how easily she’s become a pawn herself.’
‘Maskull is hard to resist.’ Gwydion sighed. ‘He does not believe in restraint and so many have become his tools down the years. The queen and Henry de Bowforde make a formidable pair. Ever since Henry put on his father’s ducal robes he has burned to revenge himself against Richard of Ebor. Four years ago he swore to humble the man he blames for his father’s death. He is, at twenty-two years of age, the most lawless blade in Trinovant.’
Will brought down his wand and planted his feet in the grass. ‘There seems to be little enough law for nob
lemen to obey.’
Gwydion stood clear a pace. ‘Little enough now that King Hal has been found to be well again. That was announced by a committee of eminent leeches who were, I happen to know, paid very handsomely by the queen herself for their convenient decision.’
‘So the Protectorship has fallen?’
‘And worse. Once again there is a plan to call a Great Council of Lords. That does not bode well for Richard of Ebor. He fears that he will be impeached and sentenced to death all at a single stroke. Friend Richard is politicking furiously in Trinovant in an effort to save the peace, but his position is fast crumbling.’
‘What will happen?’
‘He will be forced out. My bet is that he will retreat into his heartland, go once more to his castle of Ludford. There, in the Western Marches, he will begin drawing to him forces and friends, calling Lord Sarum down from the north, and the Earl Warrewyk to come to his aid from across the Narrow Seas. I think he may be forced into a glorious last stand.’
Will scratched his head, realizing that he had lost the lign. He looked out across the patchwork of greens and yellows, a land that seemed so peaceful and well-ordered, yet was on the brink of terrible bloodshed. ‘You must ask Duke Richard to give us men and horses so we can go more swiftly about the country to find what must be found! With horses to ride and to draw and men to dig and to guard we’d root out the infection all the quicker!’
Gwydion bent down to look at the ground at his feet. ‘Alas, Friend Richard will afford us no such help. Perhaps he is already falling under the spell of the lorc.’
‘Then he must give us enough strength to move against the Sightless Ones at Verlamion! We must pull out the Doomstone and see if it has truly healed itself!’
‘No lord dare move in strength against the Sightless Ones.’
Will scried a little, picked up a pebble and threw it ahead of him to where the grass sprouted in unruly fashion. The bleakness of Gwydion’s words gnawed at him. ‘Then what shall we do?’
‘Work patiently,’ the wizard said. ‘And keep putting one foot in front of the other – though you presently seem to be leading us into ever more boggy ground.’
It was true. The grass was wet underfoot now, and soon Will found his feet being sucked down. He tried to press on where the hazel wand showed, but then it was as if the sun had gone behind a cloud, and he felt a sudden chill eating at his flesh. When he lifted his wand again he thought he felt a faint hint tingling in his hands, but the feeling was indistinct, as if the power had for the moment retreated deeper underground.
The flavour of it was wrong – like Indonen, yet not quite. He shivered, looking about. There were no birds flying here. It was damp underfoot, a shadowy mire where none of the trees had grown tall but had become gnarled like those that grew on a windswept moor. A ball of midges danced above a pool of fetid water. He thought it a dismal place, and felt his heart squeeze tight. More than anything he wanted to see Willow. It suddenly felt as if he would never see her again.
He began to feel his feet slowly sinking into the boggy ground. He warned Gwydion of the unpleasantness in the place, saying it would be better if they tracked around to the south. But Gwydion stood back on firm ground and leaned heavily on his staff. He began to question Will closely about his thoughts and feelings.
‘It’s like…like treading through a field of open graves with my eyes shut,’ he said, feeling a new ripple of horror pass through him. ‘No birds or animals come here. See those midges dancing madly? Look at them! Do you see how insane they are? They’re trapped. I can feel my heart faltering and my courage with it, Gwydion. It’s a cold, deadly feeling. I don’t like it here.’
When he tried to move his legs again he found that his feet had sunk under the surface. The suction was hard to break. First he tried to pull one foot free, then the other, but he only trod himself deeper. He felt coldness clutching at his calves, then black water closing over the backs of his knees.
Panic tore through him. ‘Gwydion! I can’t get out!’
‘Tread softly, Willand.’
He tried, but it was no use. ‘Gwydion, help me! I’m sinking!’
‘Are you truly unable to free yourself?’ Gwydion asked, watching him calmly, doing nothing.
‘Gwydion, please! Look at me! I’m stuck fast and it’s pulling me down!’
But the wizard only watched dispassionately as Will struggled. It was as if the meadow bog itself did not want to let him go. As his legs churned the ground a stink rose up from the filth. It was vile, like rotten eggs. And now the mud had reached almost to his waist.
‘Gwydion!’ He felt panic rising as easily as his body sank.
And then the wizard danced. He came forward lightly and laid his staff towards Will, then muttered words until the head of the staff glowed with a blue incandescence. Only then did Will find that he could begin to fight free. He staggered to firm ground and lay down.
‘Thank you, friend!’ he said accusingly as Gwydion came up.
He pulled his spare shirt out of his bundle, marched a hundred paces away to sit alone on a tussock of grass. Still angry, he wiped his legs clean then went down to the stream and washed himself and his spoiled clothes, wrung out the grey sodden mass of his shirt and laid it out to dry. His anger flashed, but then he felt the sun warm on his back once more, and his mood lifted. He knew that he had been in a place of unquiet horrors.
‘I thought you were going to leave me to go under. Why didn’t you act sooner?’
Gwydion waved his staff vaguely at the bog. ‘I wanted to see exactly where the battlestone lies.’
Will shook his head ruefully. ‘This is no work for a grown man. We’ve found a battlestone, though we’ve come barely two leagues from Eiton. At this rate we’ll have stopped the war before it’s begun!’
‘It is the way of young men to fall prey to optimism. To prevent the battle we must first uproot the stone. And that will prove difficult here. Alas, this blighted land!’
Will looked at the black, boggy ground near the Charrel Brook and saw that Gwydion’s words were undeniable. The ground Will had churned up was already glassy with water. He wondered how two men could ever hope to dig a battlestone free.
‘I fear the Charrel must have altered its course since the battlestone was buried.’
‘Maybe it was the stone that caused its course to change.’
The wizard nodded. ‘Maybe.’
Will frowned. ‘What do you think we should do?’
‘Nothing for the moment.’
‘Nothing? Not even wrap it in holding spells?’
The wizard cast him a disappointed glance. ‘With the stone still in the ground and able to draw readily on the power of the lorc? I think that would be very dangerous. My spells would not be hidden out here in the open. They would attract the wrong sort of magician.’
‘Then what?’
‘That depends on whether you think this is a stone of the greater or lesser kind.’
Will gestured uncertainly. ‘In this case I can’t be sure. The moon and sun are not making the right angle with the stone for me to tell.’
The most potent time for the earth power to peak was at what Gwydion called ‘syzygy’ – when the moon was full or new – or to a less extent at the time of ‘quadrature’, when its disc was exactly half lit.
‘We can do nothing to alter the phase of the moon,’ Gwydion said, sighing. ‘It will be best if we continue on along Indonen. Do you think you will be able to keep to its path as you have?’
‘I think so – at least for a few hours.’
‘Then point out your best guess as to where this battlestone might be. I shall fix the place in my mind.’ Gwydion looked around then and his eyes fixed on the woods beyond the meadow. ‘The nearest village to this place is called Arebury. You should remember that name, for one day you shall have to return here.’
CHAPTER NINE
STONEHUNTERS
They halted on a rise soon after Will lost the li
gn. Gwydion took them to higher ground to read the land for signs, looking for notched ridges, hidden wells and sacred groves, but also for the towers and spires of the Sightless Ones which he expected to see desecrating the ligns. He suggested Will turn his attention this way and then that, and so he did. Then Will picked up a faint clue and once more it had the sense of Indonen about it.
By now the afternoon had worn through and the evening sun was sinking red in the western skies behind a great veil of mist. The Middle Shires stretched out before them – fat, productive, comfortable. The land seemed empty of men now, through the spells that Gwydion laid to fend off inquisitive eyes, but Will saw the work of their many hands upon it. Long centuries of careful keeping had made the Realm what it was, and its form was beautiful in Will’s estimation. The recent years of Duke Richard’s Protectorship had allowed the land and the people to recover, and it broke his heart to think that all their gains must soon be despoiled by war.
To the south he could see a distant dark grey smudge: the town of Baneburgh. He led the wizard on during the long twilight, vaguely following the lign, avoiding hill and hamlet, crop and cowfield. Interested sheep came to them as they passed, animals innocent of eye, friendly and more than usually expectant. They knew something was amiss with the strange power that ran under their meadow. Sheep often came to Gwydion when he appeared among them, and they did so now perhaps because the wizard carried an aura about him that seemed to them benign. It looked like love, but perhaps they had been made anxious too.
Will stared now into the reddening west, wondering at how much the lign had strengthened in so short a space of time. When they came to a hill that overlooked the village of Tysoe, they paused, then climbed it in vanishing daylight. Will went ahead up the slope. He found that two rough wooden stakes had been hammered into the ground. Each was almost as tall as he was and set twice as far apart. One was limed by the droppings of a sparrowhawk. Gwydion took an unusual interest in that, and as Will sat cross-legged and gazed into the sunset the wizard did not come to join him as Will had expected, but instead danced quiet spells around the hilltop.
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