by Ember Lane
“Come on,” he said. “Your dune dog grows impatient. I can tell, his snores are becoming more and more erratic.”
Those words were all Merl needed to burst upward with renewed vigor. All tiredness fled from him. His lips formed a nervous grin. By the time he’d reached the top, the man had vanished, and as he stood at the summit of his climb Merl blinked to settle his eyes and soak in what he saw. The impossible, he found, took a little getting used to.
30
A rectangular spread of grass led away. It was perfectly flat, and cropped close and exact, like fastidious sheep had grazed it neatly. Regimentally straight hedgerows marched away on either side of him turning after a few hundred yards and forming the rectangle’s long edges, but at its end, peeking out from between a row of fine topiaries, sat a simple white building, with a deep blue roof that arced down from a straight ridge, rather like old, curling ends of paper. The man walked away, marching up the lawn’s center. He was dressed in a flowing white robe and had hair that matched, dead straight and halfway down his back. Merl hurried on, narrowing the gap to him. The man wasn’t so tall. His silhouette had lied. He was about Frank’s size and was broad shouldered and sure of foot.
Merl dithered for but a moment, but that was only to let his eyes adjust and his brain to tell him all that he was seeing and experiencing was true. He glanced at Quaiyl, but the construct offered no opinion, so Merl followed his gut and ran after the man, who in turn raised one hand to slow him.
“There is no need for haste. Take note of the giants. They rarely rush but travel farther than most.” The seer, assuming the man was the seer, stopped, waited for Merl and Quaiyl to catch up, and then walked on. “You can call your dog if you want. A magnificent beast, if I have ever met one. Tell me, where did you find him? Was he at the thrust of an army attack, bounding forth into danger? Or was it in some dire dungeon battling some evil creation like a paragon of goodness?”
“Had his foot stuck in a hole,” Merl replied, wondering if they were talking about the same dog.
“Oh,” said the seer, clearly disappointed. “No hero, then?”
“Even heroes can get their feet stuck in holes.” Merl spat his defense of Gloomy Joe.
The seer nodded. “And isn’t that a lesson that you should carry with you as you grow more powerful?”
Merl glanced at the man from the corner of his eye, wondering if he hadn’t just tumbled into the man’s trap, but thought his words good. “If someone became powerful, they should. A poisonous prick from an exploding daggerberry can end even the greatest of warriors.”
The seer smiled and continued up to the house. Now they were closer, Merl could see it was on one level, and set within ornate gardens that lurked behind the parade of topiaries. He raised his thumb and forefinger to his lips and blew a shrill whistle in the hope Gloomy might come to him.
“The greatest warriors, Merl, employ the best storytellers, no more than that. A truly great one has no need of reminder. The thick of a battle needs to be forgotten else it will drive the victor mad.”
“Frank is a great warrior,” Merl said, full of pride for the Wizard of Quintz.
“He is, but alas, Frank can’t forget. Some moments are so ingrained within the mind that no amount of rinsing can wash their stain away.”
Merl knew the seer was correct. Frank sometimes had a faraway look, and when he had it, his crow’s feet creased and his lip twitched, as if he was fighting a battle all over again. Butcher of Malingar Cross, those words spoken in Erreden’s throne room still played in the back of Merl’s mind.
“Perhaps we need to unravel Frank’s past, not mine?”
“Is that why you’re here?” the seer said, then harrumphed. “Perhaps you should look forward, not back.”
“That’s what I told them,” Merl said, exasperated. “I said, ‘What does it matter,’ or summit like that.”
“Hmmm.” The seer skipped a step, but quickly continued. “With Frank, his past is there. It is set in stone in his mind, whether he likes it or not. From the foundation of his history, he can either grow or fall, and that is his choice. You, Merl, are not aware of your heritage. You are like a house built on sand; one good storm could sweep you down the valley. Or…”
“Or?”
“Or can a hero be fashioned from nothing?” the seer asked, though Merl didn’t think the question was for him to answer. Indeed, as Merl hesitated, so the seer replied to his own question. “The answer is that nobody knows, so I’ll assure you of one thing, unless you wish to know, you won’t, and it’s exactly that simple.”
As he said it, Gloomy burst from the white building and bounded toward Merl. The dog’s back side, as usual, was completely out of time with its front. His tongue poked out one side of his mouth and then the other, and he squealed as he closed on them, crunching along a gravel path.
“I thought he wasn’t coming,” the seer said, curling his long white moustache around his finger.
“It takes a while for the whistle to wake him up,” Merl explained.
Merl crouched down right as Gloomy jumped. He caught the dune dog squarely, but Gloomy bowled him over and pinned him to the lawn, licking Merl’s face with his eager, slobbery tongue. Merl lay on the grass, and it suddenly dawned on him that Gloomy was now found, but the rest of his party was lost.
“Where are the others?” Merl asked.
“They’re coming. Theirs was a longer path than yours.” He offered his hand to Merl, who took it and let the seer pull him up. “I wanted a chance to talk to you. I wanted to see how your new position, your elevation, has affected you.”
“What what?” Merl asked, not quite understanding what the seer was talking about.
“Aren’t you Lord of Erreden, with a whole load of other fearsome titles to boot?”
“Ah,” said Merl. “I forgot about that. I suppose I’ll have to think about it sometime, but at the minute it’s just a lump of stone surrounded by zombays, and that’s about it.”
The seer choked back a laugh. “Erreden has been many things, but just a lump of stone is not one of them. Erreden was the jewel of the north—the tip of the Land of the Crescent Moon. All lands have, since time began, shone and faded. Such is the way of things. Your aim should be to make it shine.”
“But that’s just it,” said Merl. “It’s all those things to you, but it’s nothing to me. It’s less than Three Valleys, less than Buttercup Valley, Secret Brook, or Bucket Lake, and that’s that. Ain’t nothing I can do ‘bout it.”
The seer began to walk toward what Merl assumed was his dwelling. He strode slow as slow could be as if all that he had to consider at that exact moment was weighing each stride down.
“What if,” the seer started to asked, “no, not what if… Imagine. Imagine that Morgan Mount is the center of your kingdom, and that Harrison Reach was its belly. Tell me, if Erreden is the northernmost tip, and it protects Morgan Mount from everything that might come its way, would it be important to you then?”
“If it protected Morgan Mount, then…” Merl tried to imagine anything radiating from Morgan Mount. He’d always seen it as the end of the valley, not the beginning. Yet now he thought about it, the valley began between Three Face and No Face Mountain. That was where it was born, from where its river flowed. “If it protected Morgan Mount, then yes, it would be important to me,” he answered.
They walked between large, sculpted bushes and into the seer’s gardens, swapping the lawn for the fine gravel path. Either side was awash with flower. Heady scents made Merl blink. Broad leaves scraped at his boots. The gardens had no order, and yet looked neat and tidy. The dwelling ahead appeared cradled by the gardens. A long, timber dais lined it, bringing dread reminders of the zombay wharf into Merl’s bemused mind. He wondered when he’d become important enough that folk like the seer gave him so much time. He wondered why they bothered too.
“All empires begin at home. There is no point in protecting anything else. That is where you must start,
and where you must build your foundation once you have met the Wizards of Quintz.”
“What if I don’t want an empire?” Merl asked.
“What if I don’t want to live on an island stuck at the top of a tower?”
“Then climb down,” Merl answered easily.
“But my home’s here,” the seer said, and stepped up onto the dais. It spread the length of the home, and at one end sat a table and chairs. “Please,” said the seer, and he swept his hand toward it.
Merl crouched and stroked Gloomy Joe, then ambled over and took a seat at the table. Quaiyl stood impassively beside him. The seer had lingered by the steps, but now approached the table. Merl noticed the man had no eyes, just empty, black sockets. His blindness didn’t appear to affect him in any way, and he took a seat opposite Merl then clapped his hands, sharply.
“Where are my friends?” Merl asked.
“I’ve already told you. If you are that worried, look and you will see. Friend-sight is available to you, yet you haven’t looked inside its box. That is how you think of them, isn’t it? Boxes?”
“Think of what? The strange places in my bonce I can’t go?”
The seer nodded. “Indeed. Imagine that one opened. Peer in and you will see. It’s the little blue box just under your left ear.”
He barked a laugh that nearly blew Merl from his seat. It sounded like a whole bunch of tree trunks snapping. He stopped abruptly, resuming his tranquil state. Merl stiffened and dropped his jaw, but soon recovered and went rummaging in his brain. Sure enough, just under his ear he saw the box, or imagined the box. He couldn’t tell which. But it was there, just like the seer had said it would be; he prized its lid open, and then peered inside. A rush of brilliance flooded through him. It was like sniffing a heady scent. It bounced all around his mind and then settled everywhere. Merl thought he was a little bit shinier, and that was the only way he could describe the feeling.
He narrowed his eyes, trying to squeeze out the vision of his friends approaching, but the seer merely held up his hands.
“You don’t need to see them with those. Shut your eyes and imagine them in your mind.”
Wondering if the seer wasn’t daft, Merl shut his eyes and thought of Billy. A spreading vista instantly opened before him. It quickly narrowed as his vision sped across a blue sea, through a thick storm, and over a smattering of islands. It came to a single isle, then he sped through a lush jungle and toward a great tower. Narrowing his field of vision farther, Merl saw Billy. He was about three quarters of the way up the steps, brushing his brow and taking a breath before doggedly carrying on up. Frank was in front of him, Desmelda was at the rear.
“Why are they so far behind?” Merl asked.
“Questions are precious, Merl, and I’ve already answered that one. They will arrive as the sun settles, not a moment on either side of that. It gives us time to talk.”
As Merl opened his eyes, a train of white-robed servants walked along the dais. They each carried a steaming dish, which they placed in a line along the table’s middle. Another followed with plates and knives and forks, and a last brought two mugs and a bottle of spring wine.
“Eat,” the seer told him. “Eat your fill. All foundations begin in your stomach.”
The food was as colorful as the seer’s garden, and twice fragrant. Merl scarfed it down, soon forgetting any guilt pangs from picturing Billy, Frank, and Desmelda ongoing climb.
“What do you think I should do?” Merl asked the seer.
“Eat the food. In times like these, you never know where your next meal will come from.”
“No, with everything else?”
The seer raised his snow-white eyebrows. “Do you think you’ll be happy sitting on your rock and tending your sheep? Do you think you could go back to that?” He wagged a bone at Merl. “And not as shelter in a storm, but as something you do day in and day out.”
Merl thought long and hard about it, and as he did, sadness welled in him. He was atop the figurehead, standing within the mermaid’s coronet and watching Wave Walker cut through the sea. It was his new favorite spot, and it was that which told him he was in love with adventure. Could he go back to tending sheep?
“No. No I don’t think so.”
“Could you rule?”
Merl only had to think about that one briefly. “I wouldn’t know how.” He spooned more food onto his plate. His belly growled and mouth watered. The seer’s food melted on his tongue.
“The how is simple, you win, Merl. You win at everything you do. That is the art of ruling. If there’s a war to be had, you win. If there’s a local dispute, you win. If you need a bumper crop, you win. By winning, you get what you want. If you lose, you fail. That’s all there is to ruling—that and having good friends around you, and I think you already have that.”
“Frank would be better at it, or Desmelda,” Merl blurted. He thought Billy too, but didn’t think Billy would want the chore.
“Frank doesn’t have The Origin, nor does Desmelda, or Billy Muckspreader for that matter. You, Merl, you have Quaiyl at your beck and call, and that says something about your destiny more than anything else.”
“What is Quaiyl, and why has he got two names?”
“Quaiyl has one name, Quaiyl, and Quaiyl is The Origin. He is The Law. Quaiyl holds the knowledge of the old lords. He contains the key to every power of Arthur14579.”
Merl glanced around at the construct. “Doesn’t look much, but I know he’s a lot.”
“He’s more than you could imagine. He is your guide, and he watches everything you do. He interferes only when needed. His has a fine line to walk, and the success of his task is always in the balance.”
Merl tossed Gloomy a bone. “Oh,” he said, finally stuffed from the meal.
“So, do you think you can be a king?”
Merl shook his head. “Had enough trouble bein’ a shepherd.”
“Do you think you could protect Portius?”
“With my life, yes,” he replied, without a shadow of a doubt.
“And Gwen and Sarah Ann?”
“With Billy and Frank and Desmelda, we could defend the whole of Morgan Mount.”
The seer nodded, pushing his own plate away. He clapped his hands and the line of servants emerged back onto the dais. They cleared the table and set down a steaming jug and two cups.
“Tea?” the seer asked.
Merl had never had tea before, but he’d enjoyed all the food and so said: “Please.”
The seer poured them each a cup, and then continued. “Wouldn’t it be better to defend Morgan Mount from the vantage of Three Valleys? If you were going to put a construct army anywhere, surely Three Valleys is a better place than bringing war to your own threshold?”
Merl scoffed. “The farther away the better.”
The seer smiled. “Perhaps you should fight them at Harrison’s Reach and Tzeyon Bay then. That’s farther away.”
“Or burn their ships on The Sea of the Stranded Fool,” Merl added.
“Or burn them there,” the seer agreed. “What about either side of the sea? What about the lands to the north and the south?”
Merl looked at the cup filled with tea. It was still steaming hot and would almost certainly scald his mouth. Why anyone would want to drink boiling water was beyond him. He reached for the cup, but pulled his hand back, deciding to wait until the seer took a sip of his. “I see what you’re doing. I need all the lands of the Crescent Moon, just to defend Morgan Mount.”
The seer inclined his head. “From what?”
“From evil.”
“And who is evil?”
“Daemon Mercer,” Merl spat. “We think it was Daemon Mercer that spread the zombay disease. It was Daemon Mercer that sent the dreadnail, that maddened the elves, and gave the goblins courage.”
“Yes, Daemon Mercer is the face of evil. He heralds from beyond Darlencia, and has turned his roving eye on you, Merl. Why? You have to ask why.”
Merl shru
gged, still staring at the tea. “I’d rather ask how.”
“How?”
“How he knew about me—about the words I could see. Frank knew someone could see the words but didn’t know who. Desmelda said she knew it was me, but I don’t think she actually did, just knew it was someone in Morgan Mount. So, those two knew where I was, but not who I was. Daemon Mercer knew less. He just knew I was in the Land of the Crescent Moon, so he sent the zombay madness there. But…”
“But?” The seer finally lifted his cup, blowing the steam from his tea and taking a sip.
“Who told him?”
“Go on.”
“Well, if Frank couldn’t tell who I was, and he was near enough on top of me, and Desmelda knew I was somewhere in Morgan Mount…”
“And…”
“And Daemon Mercer lives in a different land. How could he know I was up the valley from Tzeyon Bay? How could he know that I would end up at Harrison Reach? Or, fer that matter, send the rage t’Alaria when I landed there?”
“But didn’t Ricklefess bring the plague to Harrison’s Reach? Wasn’t he carrying a message for Frank?”
“So, the zombays…” Merl’s brain began pounding. “No, that’s not my point. Don’t muddle it. Daemon Mercer knew where I lived, or close, yet he couldn’t.”
“Unless…”
Merl was beginning to despise the seer. He was all questions and no answers, and Merl had climbed the tower for answers, not questions. “Unless someone told him!” Merl growled.
“Unless who told him?”
“Well, it would have to be someone Daemon Mercer met—Ricklefess, it would have to be Ricklefess. He must have met Daemon Mercer and got the disease. He must have spread it as he ventured to find Frank.”
“There,” the seer took a sip of his tea. “A rotten apple hangs from even the finest tree. But, take care, Merl, these are very ragged conclusions. The truth might be very different.”
