Cold Angel Days (Dica Series Book 4)

by Clive S. Johnson

“We’d best see what they want,” Prescinda said, but Geran would have none of it.

  “Bugger the engers. I’ve more pressing concerns,” which took Prescinda aback at first, but then she saw the look on her sister’s face.

  “Alright,” Prescinda allowed and turned back to the rug. “Try take no notice of what you see, Geran. It won’t last long, although I can’t say the same for anything else you may ... well, that you may dream for want of a better word.” She smiled, as though mindful of an answer to something trivial, took a deep breath and dragged her sister after her onto the rug.

  This time for Prescinda there were no childhood memories of butterflies and broken limbs, nothing to mark the transition from starlit expanse to the musty confines of a tunnel’s dank walls. Clearly, though, Geran had not descended with the same impunity.

  Prescinda recalled the time her sister, as a young lass, had sneaked into the ale-tub with that brash nephew of old man Ditchwater. She could still see the woozy look on Geran’s face. “I hope it doesn’t linger in the same way, Sis,” she said quietly to herself as she waved her hand before Geran’s eyes.

  It seemed not. “What ... what is this place, and ... and how on earth did we get here?”

  “I haven’t the foggiest, Sis, but it’s got to be faster than using the stairs.” She smiled as she nodded towards an even darker and danker archway.

  Geran looked behind her at the teeming panoply of stars, the ones Prescinda knew swirled about the tower’s base without, the very stars Geran had probably seen through Falmeard’s eyes. Geran now spoke urgently. “How do we get out of this place, Presci?”

  She said no more as Prescinda led them up to the grey, high-arched chamber above, and from where they were soon behind the alcove’s covert door.

  “It’s somewhere here,” Prescinda said, her hand scratching around in the cobwebs. A dull click and a crack of light heralded a thunderous roar of rain.

  “Ah, good. Mind your feet, Geran, it’s a wide door,” she said as she swung it open, “but at least it’s under cover.”

  Geran almost bowled her over, the way she shot past and out into the pouring rain, ponytail already flicking water as she darted from sight. “Good grief,” Prescinda said as she hesitated before slipping out herself, leaving the door to swing to behind her.

  44 To Strike an Accord

  Although the base of the Star Tower afforded no shelter, the north-easterly driven deluge fell largely on the side furthest from the Cold Angel. The wind whipped the rain around the tower but not enough to blur Falmeard’s requisitioned eyes, nor Geran’s own where she now stood a few feet from his side.

  She shuffled nearer, one small step at a time, but the Cold Angel seemed oblivious, only staring up at what should have been to him an invisible Star Chamber more than a thousand feet above. Only Geran heard Prescinda’s hurried splash of sodden feet as she came to stand, bedraggled, beside her.

  A ribbon of rainwater slid from somewhere above the tower’s swirling base of stars and fell across the Cold Angel, drenching him, making him stagger back. Instinctively, Geran closed and averted her own eyes but then yelped, turned and stared wide-eyed at the Cold Angel’s upturned face.

  “I ... I saw...” She spat rainwater. “I saw Leiyatel’s hand!” Her mouth had slackened, rain now trickling in from her cheeks. She turned to Prescinda, a sudden squall obscuring her words but not her startled face.

  “Are you alright?” Prescinda shouted, her voice coming loudly in a lull of the wind.

  Geran didn’t answer but shot a reassuring hand out to Prescinda’s arm. Geran now stared blankly at the spotted puddles drifting across the flags at the Cold Angel’s back, a drain’s loud gurgling filling their ears.

  She let go of Prescinda’s arm and almost slid between the Cold Angel and the swirling mass of stars before which he stood. The rain started to ease as she stared at him; wide-eyed, unblinking, thin-lipped.

  Slowly, she twisted and swung her arm well back. The gurgling drain choked, the wind gusted and Geran’s arm flew forward with such might against his face that it sounded like a breaking bone.

  He staggered back, Geran following, her eyes now tight shut yet seeing still through his. When he stopped, she struck again, as powerfully, and once more he staggered back, splashing through the puddles as Geran followed on.

  Not a dozen feet from the tower, she swung her arm back for the third time but held it there, head to one side, eyes still tight shut, still seeing. The swaying Cold Angel steadily settled and stared back at her. His face flicked to one side - cheeks twitching - before a grin slowly spread across his face.

  Geran opened her eyes, looked up into Falmeard’s own and smiled. “And about bloody time,” she said quietly as she leant closer, until their noses almost touched. “But why should I believe a word of what you've been saying?”

  “Because!” smiled Falmeard.

  “Don’t give me that, Lover.”

  “Because ... because I now understand and reckon we don’t have much time left.”

  They kissed, delicately, tentatively, but briefly for Falmeard’s head jerked forward, nutting her on the brow. He staggered away, sneezing, eyes tight shut.

  “S’truth, Falmeard. That damned well hurt!”

  Prescinda leapt to her side.

  “I’m alright, Sis,” Geran said, rubbing her forehead.

  By the time Falmeard could open his eyes again he’d staggered another couple of yards, nose held against another sneeze.

  “You sure you’re alright, Geran?” Prescinda pressed, only to be waved away.

  Geran now stormed up to Falmeard. “Convince me then. And quickly!”

  He looked across his hand at her, eyes watering. “Right,” he said, nasally, before snorting and blowing blood from his nose. “My past ... our past here hasn’t been a lie. I did live in the Upper Reaches, and those chambers you found me in were really mine ... once, but ... well, not quite in this particular world.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I saw much in the Four Towers, Geran, much that my damaged weft and weave somehow let me see. I saw so much and brought back enough of it to know that it really did happen to us, no shadow of a doubt.”

  He stood before her and took her firmly by the arms. “I didn’t create a lie, my love, I just borrowed a past we’d both once shared, but in a different world, one only a hair’s breadth away if we’d but known.”

  Geran reached up and wiped a trickle of blood from Falmeard’s upper lip but he blinked, as though about to sneeze again.

  “It brought enough memories back, Geran, enough for me to see my proper place here, to know what needs to be done. But I'm so weak beside the Cold Angel, so trapped, my hold fast slipping even as we speak. You have to believe me, Geran, believe how much I ... how much I love you, how long I’ve had to ... had to wait for ... for...”

  His eyes clouded over as he began to shake, but through their shared weft and weave Geran had seen enough to know he spoke true. She’d seen something that gave so much more depth to an already deep-seated ache. It made her hold her breath and stare for what seemed far too long.

  “Come on then,” she finally chided, and to Prescinda, “Quick, Sis, get us back inside. Now!”

  They got Falmeard into the alcove and before its hidden door, but with difficulty, and there Prescinda fumbled for the release. Without quite knowing how she’d done it, the door gave way, spilling them into the passageway’s musty but dry embrace.

  By the time they were in the tunnel beneath, standing before the breathing stars, Falmeard had already begun to resist. Geran’s arm once again swung back - the hand now bruised red - but it froze, held there by the change in the Cold Angel’s face. He too stood rigid, head cocked back, his eyes wide but rolling up, up to a place far above.

  “What’s he seen?” Prescinda hissed, urging Geran to close her eyes and look.

  “I don’t know. I can’t see anything.”

  The Cold Angel suddenly twisted, leant to
wards the stars and leapt as powerfully as he could, upwards into the draw of the rising celestial breath.

  45 Dusk’s Inky Choir

  One of the Jaguar’s offside wheels and part of its wing - in that evocative British Racing Green - rolled and slid past the driver’s window. Falmeard couldn’t remember any noise, but surely there must have been some at the time.

  He distinctly recalled frost, though, lots of it, on the limbs of the trees beside the road, glittering in the headlights of the oncoming car with which he again knew he was about to collide. The frost looked like diamond dust sprinkled on the arms of black barathea jackets, ones well-tailored to the hedgerow’s limbs.

  Black ice - the devil’s ice - unseen and lethal. It had caught him out. An easy mistake for one with such a weakness for speed.

  Black ice! Autonomy’s decisive thief, bringing the helplessness of childhood to stir fear in the man. Spinning the wheel, stabbing the brake, it all went unheeded by the careening car, much like Falmeard’s own body right now, in the Cold Angel’s control.

  At the end of the passageway into which that body had only now turned, a brilliant shaft of white light thrashed about an open chamber. Trails glowed from where it struck the walls or traced across cabinets and cupboards, but the crystal dome enclosing it confirmed where they were.

  The nearer they got to the Star Chamber, the more erratic the beam became, darting about like lightning. It took on a pained look, Falmeard thought, but with a brilliance suggesting anger, suggesting dawn’s own ire.

  As soon as the Cold Angel stepped into the chamber, the beam snapped rigid then leant away, striking through the crystal dome at the far side, out into the heavens once more.

  Fear, Falmeard realised. Escape, but Leiyatel couldn’t, could only feint from attack - her hand held to where it rose through the floor.

  A step closer by the Cold Angel brought panic, the beam - her hand - quivering with fear. A hand that couldn’t strike back at its own weft and weave.

  A third step and Leiyatel screamed, shrill enough to break glass, to ring loudly in Falmeard’s ears, to blur his vision. The Cold Angel never flinched but kept on until Falmeard could see no more than Leiyatel’s thrusting limb of light fill their vision. The Cold Angel came to a halt - his presence alone chasing Leiyatel to the stars.

  Her wail fair rent the air, a strident scream to pierce, a plaintive cry to scrape the nerves and wreck all reason. Falmeard tried to draw back, to steer away, anything to save Leiyatel this torture - to ward off the end. He spun the steering wheel, stamped on the brakes, but all to no avail for the Cold Angel had kept black ice beneath his wheels.

  Clearly they were all now set upon an ordained path, one of Nature’s own. Entropy would be their rightful destiny. All it took was time.

  Eventually even a mite such as the Cold Angel would bring down the greater might of Leiyatel, of the Certain Power, of the Living Green Stone Tree - of the Sun Angel itself. All in the fullness of time of course, in the fullness of Falmeard’s long imprisoned life!

  What was it Geran had said when she’d finally broken her way through and briefly freed him, when he’d felt her strike his face? Something Sconner had once told Nephril that he in his turn had told her. Where on earth could the old steermaster have found such an ancient verse, and did it truly seal Falmeard’s fate?

  Although Leiyatel’s bright agony filled his sight, Falmeard felt dusk descend about him and knew the sun had set. It seemed dawn’s ire had indeed now fled aloft as dusk’s own inky choir, the Cold Angel itself lending its chasing refrain.

  Death must certainly be carried abroad from this day on. The thought, though, of so many wasted millennia should have destroyed Falmeard there and then had the Cold Angel’s amber not encased him so.

  “Strange the tricks the mind can play,” Falmeard sighed, “to hear a verse once whispered in my thoughts alone now seem to fill my ear.” But he was wrong for the verse in truth came clearly upon the air.

  “Death is carried abroad,” Geran had shouted from somewhere behind him, and then, “In cold angel days,” from much nearer. “Chasing aloft dawn’s ire, As dusk’s inky choir,” she finally cried right by his ear.

  Pain now seared through Falmeard’s shoulders as Geran ploughed into him, the impact jerking his head back, lifting his eyes to Leiyatel’s quivering hand, there, where it reached for the stars.

  Geran’s momentum pushed him to his knees, into Leiyatel’s emerging beam. Its glare burst through his chest like rods of white-hot steel, searing his flesh, burning his heart, clawing at his body. It ripped away all that had been left him of his weft and weave – his own remaining cold hand.

  Pain! Excruciating pain! So much so it felt as though his breath and blood and very being were torn from his flesh, flung to be flailed amongst the stars. Through his agony, Falmeard saw Leiyatel’s white beam turn blue, almost to black as it tore the Cold Angel away, as it tore it away and threw it high into the heavens above.

  A choir of a thousand voices seemed to rise in its wake, wisdom and wonder soon falling as a storm of words, almost as inky letters driven down onto the pristine snow of virgin pages. Like tome upon tome, volume upon volume, drifts soon piled high - deep enough to drown all ignorance.

  Falmeard would have been buried had Geran not returned what she'd long kept safe of his weft and weave, as she lifted him on a kiss. She drew him up with loving lips, so soft and sweet and full of life.

  “Thank Leiyatel you heard me, my love,” Falmeard almost cried as he sought her eyes, “heard my screams, heard me shout what the Four Towers had taught me. I feared your weft and weave would be deaf to my pleas, but I should have known better.”

  There, in her eyes - now so close to his - he saw the light of a million stars, all once more held safe in Leiyatel’s warm hand.

  Falmeard saw in those eyes why Leiyatel would ever have need of man, for there he saw a single tear of joy adding its sparkle to their loving gaze. He smiled, and with a finger, reached up and gently wiped away that tear.

  His own finger, one he alone did now command. A hand also, to slip behind her neck and so gently draw her lips to his own, to a long and lingering kiss, the first of many more as yet to come.

  46 To Wish Upon a Star

  The crystal was still surprisingly warm from the long, hot Summer’s day. Not too hot to the touch but a surprise all the same when Prescinda came to rest her forehead against it.

  The day had been unusually clammy, a westerly bringing warm, moist air in from the ocean. It had lent a strangely cold, blue stain to the hazy view down to the mausoleum on Grayden Head, and out across the estuary to the River Braithgang’s almost invisible mouth.

  Now, though, against the midnight-blackened land below, only Utter Shevling on this side of the estuary and Ufflangcoss on the other revealed themselves. Their twinkling lights reaffirmed Dica’s permanence, spoke of a long assured future.

  The northern sky too was lit, holding a midsummer stain of palest yellow-green, canopied by the darkest of dark blue skies. It revealed the long silhouette of the Gray Mountains’ seemingly endless march.

  “Thou seem to have conquered thy fear, mine dear,” Nephril noted, drawing behind her, mugs in hand.

  Prescinda turned and smiled. “Something imparted by Geran I suppose, but you’re right, my stomach no longer sinks at the sight.”

  She glanced down at the thin spread of lights now bordering the Upper Reaches, within which Blisteraising’s own yard lamps distantly twinkled. “And you remembered I preferred red!” She smiled, having peeped into the offered mug of wine, which she took and carefully sipped. “You’ve good taste, though, Nephril.”

  “I owe thee much more than mine knowledge of wine, Prescinda, far more so than I think thou knowest.” He leant forward and pecked her on the cheek. “Thank thee. Not just on mine own behalf, nor on Geran and Falmeard’s, nor even on our still perplexed Drainspoiler’s, but importantly on Dica’s own.”

  “More thanks my sister, see
ing she did the deed ... seeing she knew to do it in the first place.”

  “Ah, yes, indeed. The wonders of Leiyatel’s weft and weave. Little did I suspect it could be carried so well to another, and in such a pleasant way, but we live and learn. Something we can always do, eh, Prescinda, however many millennia have passed us by. Pity Leiyatel be nothing more than a mechanicking engine for she too may have seen such a simple solution. But she is no more than that, for that be her own true nature.”

  He reached for her arm, outstretching his other to offer the way. “Mine promise be still outstanding and I see no better time than the present.”

  Nephril led her into the Star Chamber, to a seat at the only lit desk.

  “Thank you, Nephril,” she said as he slid the chair in behind for her to sit. Before her, within a frame upon the sloping box at the rear of the desk, a picture had been drawn. Nephril sat in the chair beside her, pulled it up to the desk, picked up a pencil and pointed.

  “This be a record of the path, over a period of two years, of an unnamed star.” He used the pencil as a pointer to trace along a pear-like shape, faint but discernible against a background of white specks. “As seen by this tower, Prescinda, with the aid of Leiyatel’s deep and highly stable stare.”

  Prescinda looked at it for a while, blankly, before asking, “Why should Leiyatel see this one star amongst so many, an unnamed point of light? Surely no one of Dica, other than you, would be wishing this of her. What guides her to do it, Nephril, for it can’t be the will of the many?”

  He looked taken aback, then somewhat sheepish, his eyes leaving hers in preference for the desktop.

  “Of course,” she said. “The college, the Royal College, the meaning of its mural. That’s why Yuhlm are looking to move their own college there, to where it had all once been controlled from. That’s why there’s a link from Baradcar to the college and the four towers, and all the way here. And why I saw Drainspoiler there the other day when I was back studying the murals.”