In clumps, copses and lone stands, latticework pylons appeared to scratch at the sky, their arms ragged with cross-members, transoms and spars. They seemed to grow from the layered mulch of cloistered pathways and pipes at their feet. Only occasionally did something arise that resembled a building or hall, although not one of them seemed to sport windows or doors.
The only order Galgaverre appeared to have was a ring of very tall black towers some few miles away at its centre. Only they rose above the height of Galgaverre’s wall, all leaning in towards the centre of what was Baradcar, as though somehow protective of what lay there.
Without Sentinar Drax as their guide, Prescinda, Geran and Falmeard would have been lost at the outset. He led them through the wall and out into Galgaverre itself, along paths and passageways that brought them to a door by then lit only by the dying light of dusk.
A crystal globe at its lintel began to buzz. It then flickered and crackled with the newly lent light of a thousand fireflies, before settling to a soothingly gentle hum.
Drax opened the door, ushered them through and slammed it shut behind them, bringing everyone into a small vestibule of sorts. It held umpteen cupboards and shelves, all stacked with boots and sandals, slippers, shoes, odd bits of rope and a number of open boxes containing keys and various tools. Near the door ran a row of coat hooks from which hung robes and capes, waterproof hats and some heavy, gold-coloured aprons.
At the very centre, a metal spiral staircase began its ascent towards a hole in the ceiling, up which Drax now led them.
A large and warmly lit room opened out above, its wide expanse of floor cleverly broken up into various intimate pools of soft, yellow light. Each centred on different needs; a low table surrounded by comfortable armchairs here, a long sofa with footstools before it over there, a dining table with chairs drawn up, an enormous table stacked high with books.
The room drew them in to its cosy and intimate embrace, but one hung with dark, overbearing balconies above each wall. A stout, glossy and deeply-stained cherry wood parapet marked their edge, behind which ran bank upon bank of almost black wooden shelves. Each sagged beneath the weight of innumerable books, of manuscripts, scrolls and folios, aisle upon aisle glowing dimly under their own hidden lights.
Beneath it all, within the pleasantly warm and charming chamber, and standing before its great open fire, stood the figure of a tall woman.
Wearing iridescent green and blue robes, her low but modest neckline showed off broad shoulders, giving stand for an elegantly long neck and proudly held head. Long, brown hair, ornately gathered to buns and tails - tied aloft with bone pins and shining oyster shell combs - all framed a handsome face.
Between high forehead and cheekbones, and a small, almost pointed chin, grey, oval eyes rested above a long and narrow nose. Only her tense lips gave much in the way of expression.
“Falmeard...” she began but broke off, having seen the fear in his eyes.
“Please, Madam,” Geran said as she stepped forward, “if you know what’s wrong with...” only to be stayed at the elbow by Prescinda’s hand.
“Drax?” the Guardian said, tersely ignoring Geran. “Would you mind showing Master Falmeard to the servery? He looks hungry.” Her warm smile seemed to ease Falmeard enough that he gave little more than an anguished look back as Drax led him from the room.
“I’ll have something brought to us here,” the Guardian informed the sisters before leaning to a panel beside the fireplace. “I think we have the greater need for privacy.”
She led them to the armchairs and invited them to sit, although she remained standing herself. The door opened and a girl entered, offering a barely visible look of enquiry from within the doorway’s shadow.
“Some light meats for my guests if you would, Millicent, oh, and something to drink.” She looked at the two sisters. “Mead?”
They nodded.
“A couple of flagons then please, Millicent. I don’t want disturbing otherwise.”
Millicent acknowledged and was soon gone.
“So?” the Guardian addressed them. “What names do you each go by if you don’t mind my asking?”
“I’m Prescinda, and this is my sister, Geran, Falmeard’s bedfriend.”
The Guardian glanced at Geran but brought her gaze back to Prescinda and eyed her long and hard. “He’s chosen wisely perhaps,” she finally allowed. “Made good use of his grant by the look of it, and so taken well of his opportunity at long last.”
The line of her mouth broke to a smile. “And so welcome to my home, Prescinda and Geran, welcome to The Land of the Guardian Priests, to Galgaverre. And thank you for bringing Falmeard back to us.”
Her face clouded for a moment but she soon smiled again. “I’d prefer you didn’t stand on ceremony, though, so please simply address me by my name if you would? Just call me Penolith.”
As she sat opposite them, she briefly placed a hand reassuringly, each on their knees. “I’m sure we can sort this out and find what it is that clearly ails Falmeard. I suspect my husband will know. We’ll find out soon enough for Nephril’s due back a little later this evening. I’m sure he’ll know better what to do.”
29 Frying Pan or Fire
When the Guardian pressed them further about Falmeard’s condition, Geran was quick to unfold everything that had happened over the past few months, irrespective of relevance. Fortunately, it gave Prescinda time to think whilst keeping half an ear to what little Penolith gave away. Something about it all just didn’t make sense, but Prescinda couldn’t see what.
“So, why bring him here then?” It took a while for Prescinda to realise that the question had been directed at her, but the silence and Geran’s vacant expression finally confirmed it well enough.
“Guardian?” Prescinda at last replied. “Why are you asking us all this? Surely you know already.”
“Know already? But why should I?”
Prescinda screwed up her courage. “But you said you were Lord Nephril’s wife.”
“I am, although he doesn’t use the honorific nowadays, but yes, Nephril is my husband. But what of it?”
Prescinda had never been a winning gambler, but she took a chance this day. “Is your husband in the habit of keeping stuff from you then?”
Penolith’s eyes narrowed, although it was Geran who spoke. “Presci? That’s not a nice thing to say. I know you don’t trust men much, but Penolith’s already been so kind to us - and to Falmeard.”
“But why, Geran? Eh? Why should the might of Galgaverre worry itself over our dear old Falmeard? Why?”
By then Penolith had both sisters staring at her. For the first time she looked uncertain. When she didn’t answer, Prescinda tried again.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t believe you don’t already know, Guardian. You’re the supreme head of Galgaverre and so you must do, especially as he’s your own husband.”
Fear suddenly filled Prescinda, like ice crystals chasing through freezing water. It made the unearthly remoteness of the place seem so starkly real in her mind. Had she overstepped the mark? I should’ve learnt long ago not to gamble, she thought as she dropped her gaze.
The Guardian’s voice surprised her, though, by its quietness, its soft seduction and close familiarity, but also its almost vanishing distance.
“Ah, well, left and right, eh! And which hand be I?” Her voice seemed to drift in from beneath a long locked door.
“I am Guardian of Galgaverre, born to it, cherished throughout my childhood to fulfil Leiyatel’s need, sole purpose of my own so sheltered life, yes. But supreme head? No, that I am not.”
When Prescinda managed to look up, she recognised the honesty, the kind only one woman can see in another. In its turn it brought a genuine smile from Penolith.
“Galgaverre’s true head is this realm’s own Master of Ceremonies, aligned to the many Kings of Dica, although they be no more. My superior, and a lord of this realm, is no other than my own husband, strange as it may seem. B
ut therein lies another, far longer tale.”
“Aw, stuff!” Prescinda spat. “Then I can’t trust anything here, nothing at all.” She turned to Geran. “Sorry, Sis, but I think all I’ve done is bring us the long way round to dropping us in the shit.”
Penolith frowned but reached forward for Prescinda’s hand and took it gently in her own. “But you can trust all here, Prescinda, where Falmeard’s concerned, for the whole realm owes him its very existence.”
“The ... the whole realm?” Geran gasped.
“If it wasn’t for him, we wouldn’t be sitting here today, believe me. Everyone sleeps easy in their beds because of Falmeard, although perhaps I’ve said too much already. And so, do you now see how precious he is to us all?”
“To Lord Nephril as well?” Prescinda asked.
“Of course. Of course to Nephril. Why not? To him more than any. They’re very old and faithful friends you know, from a time long, long ago.”
“Tell me this then,” Prescinda levelled at the Guardian, “if they’re such good friends, why on earth would your husband openly deny him. Why would he then offer the gift of a pipe, in way of an apology for ever having suggested they ever did know one another?”
“What?”
Prescinda's interrogation of Grog now came sharply to mind. “And then to destroy that gift as soon as it looked to be in danger of falling into someone else’s hands - or mouth to be precise? Why? Why, when you yourself readily saw it was Falmeard, without a shadow of a doubt, as soon as he walked into this room?”
Prescinda pulled away from Penolith’s hand, the warmth of her own soon leaving behind nothing more than cold comfort, but then the door opened and Millicent came in.
“On the table please,” Penolith instructed, “we’ll sort it out ourselves, and I’d like you to get the gate to inform me when my husband comes through. You can also get someone to the servery. I’d like Sentinar Drax back here with our guest, Falmeard, and without delay.”
“Yes, Madam. Anything else?”
“No, thank you, Millicent. That’s all for now.”
The Guardian paused, her gaze absently on the sisters until Millicent had left. As the door softly closed to, she quietly invited them to eat, but warned, “Please try not to dally. I’d feel far happier if you were all out of the way for what I need do next, when my husband gets back.”
With that, she poured them each some mead then offered a toast to their very good health and fortune. Stunned, Prescinda wondered if she had at last won out over the vagaries of chance.
30 A Cold and Clammy Hand
The library would have made the drop of a pin seem cacophonous. Its dimly lit and now well cluttered spaces not only gave guidance for Leiyatel’s day to day wellbeing but also provided a refuge for Penolith, somewhere to sit quietly and think. She’d taken an old tome down which now rested on the desk stand before her, although as yet unread.
Eventually, the air seemed to change, almost imperceptibly, and so she sharpened her hearing. She could just make out the soft fall of age-worn sandals scuffling across the chamber below. She even heard the swish of Nephril’s robes before he called up.
“Penolith, mine dear? Be thou up there?”
When she didn’t answer, his sandals scuffed their way up the steps, his sparsely covered head soon appearing, sharp eyes seeking her out.
“Ah, there thou art.” He squeezed between piles of books and boxes yet to be sorted. “Not a problem with Leiyatel I hope?” He nodded towards the volume before her but then noticed its finely tooled leather binding. “Ah, a bit of thine own reading I see.”
“I’m very well, thank you for asking! And how are you, my darling husband?”
Nephril’s eyes briefly narrowed. “Err ... I am well, indeed I am.”
“Sort out your business did you, at the Star Tower ... Dear?”
Nephril took another look at the volume but couldn’t quite make out the title. “I have. Sorry it kept me from returning earlier. Hast ... hast thou eaten yet by any chance?”
The book snapped shut and she looked up at him, the grey of her eyes now like steel. “Seen your old friend Falmeard recently by any chance?”
For a moment Nephril didn’t breath.
“Falmeard? Err, why should I have seen Falmeard?”
Penolith stood, carefully gathered the book up and returned it to its place. She smoothed its spine, flicked non-existent dust from its top and then turned to face Nephril.
“I know you’re technically my superior, despite there being no royal line left, but I’m also your wife, Nephril. Not only your wife, but also a woman, a free woman at that!”
Nephril appeared to have forgotten to close his mouth.
“I wish you’d remember I’m no longer just a wheel in Leiyatel’s machine. I passed full-term years ago now.” She turned away from him. “And close your mouth, you’re dribbling.”
“That ... that woman, she hast been here, that ... that Prescinda, hast she not? What lies hast she been telling thee?”
Penolith turned on him. “You have seen him haven’t you? Don’t deny it!”
“That meddlesome woman. I should have...”
“Why didn’t you tell me, eh? Come on, Nephril, I want the truth now, not some anodyne excuse.”
Nephril slumped to a chair, mouth at last closed but firmly set to a grim line, one that lay seeds of doubt in Penolith’s mind.
“I need to know, Nephril ... I should be told ... you ought to trust me by now!” She began to bite her lower lip. “Is it true? Did you try to ... did you really try to...”
Nephril shot her an icy stare before asking, “Dost thou remember the verse I asked thee for when I spoke with thee from the Tower?”
“Err, well, no, not word for word. Why?”
“Only after seeing those words again did I fully understand who our friend Falmeard really is, but only after much digging for ancient words and memories.”
His haunted look made her feel weak and so she sat down herself, across the desk from him.
“It was the timing that first made me wonder,” Nephril began. “Weysget market day she said, the very day the Star Tower stopped working. Did thou know that when the ancient engers first wrought Leiyatel they called her the Sun Angel, like a .. like a pet name?”
“I didn’t know that, Nephril, no.”
“Well they did, a long time ago now. Wrought to bring good fortune she was, with her beneficial hand, with her sun hand, the warm one, the one kept free to sooth the world about her whilst its deleterious partner, the cold hand, was kept safely tethered to Baradcar.
“But, Nephril, what’s this got to do with Falmeard?”
“Ah, yes, Falmeard! An old friend now returned from his own true world, from a time long, long ago, long before Leiyatel be made, but brought here by her. Brought back for a purpose of her own, mind - to gain victory over Nature. Our good old friend Falmeard, eh? Succour to Leiyatel, and so Dica’s own true saviour!”
Nephril looked saddened. “Ha! Pity poor Leiyatel for being naught but a machine, for she knew not what she did do when forging our friend’s own weft and weave. She made of him but a mere Master of Time, so to fight fire with fire against Nature’s own sole weapon. For ‘tis true, that time alone doth always tell of time.”
Penolith feared she’d not only become lost but lost to a wholly dreadful place. “If Falmeard’s been wrought in Leiyatel’s own image, but not tethered like she is, then what happens to his own cold hand?”
“Aha, and there thou hath it,” Nephril almost cried.
“So, he’s been walking around with both hands free all this time, both good and bad - warm and cold?”
“Leiyatel’s warm hand, her only free one, Penolith - amongst its many tasks - has also long been brought to bear through the Star Tower, forever to punch star holes in the sky.”
“And Falmeard then went and stood beside it, with his own cold and clammy hand, didn’t he?”
“He did, but his cold and c
lammy hand - as thou put it - was not the problem, no, his warm hand was, and the one to do the damage!”
Penolith looked even more confused, and so Nephril explained, “When Leiyatel felt Falmeard’s good hand so near - unbalancing her - she assumed it to be a loss of her own, and so grabbed and drew it in, sucked it back to where it had come from in the very first place.”
“Leaving Falmeard only his cold hand.”
“On that day, Penolith, on Weysget market day, Leiyatel turned ancient enger’s postulate into the most frightening of realities. Inadvertently, she created the first ever Cold Angel, something destined to destroy her and the whole of the realm of Dica, and by it all life in all true worlds. If we do not act now, mine dear, then Nature will soon win out at last. She will get her own yearned-for chaos, her own entropy, as our Cold Angel himself once called it in his own inimitable ancient tongue.”
“Nephril?” Penolith began in a very small voice, her face turning ashen. “So, about the worst place for a Cold Angel to be would have to be right here, wouldn’t it, in Galgaverre, right next to Leiyatel’s very lair in Baradcar?”
They both fell to the library’s habitual silence, guilt rising as quickly in Penolith as suspicion now flooded Nephril, as quickly as it then brought anguish to his voice.
“Oh no! Tell me he’s not! Penolith? Tell me he’s not here,” but Penolith couldn’t bring herself to speak.
31 To Learn of Dissemblance
“Please, Geran, please calm yourself.” The Guardian looked unusually flustered, clear necessity at odds with her guilt-laden expression. Only when she mentioned that, “Falmeard’s safe enough, he just had to be removed quickly to somewhere better suited,” did Geran stop screaming. She began to sob, though, and shake.
Sentinar Drax now eased his hold a little on Prescinda, no doubt leaving bruises where he’d had to grasp her arms. She resorted to fuming at Nephril, although he seemed oblivious, only staring resolutely at Geran until she’d quietened.
Cold Angel Days (Dica Series Book 4) Page 11