∆∆∆
Ameliam’s nodding head snapped up. She roused from a fitful sleep. Her cunning ways told her that the sun was rising, though there was no slightest sign of it here in this damp, claustrophobic dungeon.
The cunning folk around her, had all attached little witch lights to the walls and pillars. the wan, blue light revealed their pale, drawn faces.
Then the thumping began somewhere above them, like piles being driven into the ground. None of the cunning folk knew what it was but every single one of them was filled with a grim sense of foreboding.
∆∆∆
Up in the roof beams, the heat was intense. Strong with the odours of sweat, iron, bronze and burning coal. Stifling with trapped clouds of fumes and smoke searching for a way out.
Eyes smarting, Xabre adjusted the damp cloth he had bound over his nose and mouth and ran as quickly along the high, narrow beam as if he were on the ground.
The mysterious work here was finished.
What he had seen in the number one workshop had puzzled him greatly. He did not know what to make of it. What he was seeing here in the forbidden number two workshop though, made perfect sense. These things he had seen before. Never on this scale though. The two gleaming, polished bronze cylinders, stretched the whole length of the heavily guarded workshop from wall to wall. They were immense.
So, now I know, he thought. Time to leave…
Chapter Fourteen
Ullie o’Goodford’s Legacy
The little stone room had a cosy intimacy, the limewashed walls turned to gold by the lamplight. A flickering fire roared and crackled gently in the hand carved hearth. The only other sounds to break the quiet, were Gorg’s slightly laboured breathing and the ponderous ticking of his big, silver watch.
Gorg sat alone, in an overstuffed armchair, feet buried in a brightly coloured rag rug. His eyes were strangely unfocussed, as he tipped and tilted his scrying glass, firelight running down it like water on a window pane.
Rosamie entered quietly and stood for a second or two, looking at her old friend. She spoke very softly, for she knew that at this moment he was both in the room and not...
‘What do you see?’ She said.
‘I see a great, faceless man of bronze, with fire in his belly, stoked with the blood of innocents... and the sword of Merren... I see a hand upon it.’ Firelight glinted in his eyes and sparked in the glass. 'Smoke! Thick smoke over the edge, where great, black bats flap... Is it that I scry by firelight, that I see so, much, flame?’ he said, his voice small, distant and melancholy. ‘So much... flame!’
He drew a huge, ragged breath and came to himself.
'Oh, oh, Gorg o’Priddow… never scry when full to the chin with herbs for your pain. You should know better old man,’ he muttered to himself distractedly, ruefully. Gorg took another deep breath, rubbed a hand over his face and his eyes brightened.
‘Sweet Rosamie! Lovely by daylight, lovelier by firelight!’ he proclaimed.
‘I brought you and Tammy a warm posset,’ Rosamie said, ‘Where is she?’ She put the drinks down on a low table of dark oak, next to a large book with soft leather covers. It was Ullie’s book of lore, Tamarin had presented it to her earlier.
‘It was Ullie’s dying wish that I bring it to you, Rosamie,’ she had said, very softly and with a sadness in those huge, periwinkle eyes of hers, that had cut Rosamie to the heart.
‘She wanted to try her hand at scrying,’ Gorg said with an indulgent smile. ‘As you know, it was never a talent of hers.’ He shook his head and chuckled. ‘Why, I remember her as a little girl, scowling down into Ullie’s silver bowl... seeing nothing. I used to tease her that her brows would become so knitted; it would take a seamstress to part them. ‘Relax my dear one, be calm,’ I would say. ‘you can’t force the images from your head into the water... you have to be calm and still and let them flow the other way...’
‘Anyway, she said she felt different, after the business at the river... stronger. So, I sent her down to the well. That water flows from the depths of the earth, it’s like the Mother’s own milk. If you can’t scry there, well you can’t scry anywhere.’
Rosamie nodded, she picked up the book.
‘I will go down to her,’ she said.
She emerged into the long, barrel shaped hallway without, then, footsteps echoing back from the narrow way, she walked to its very end and descended the spiral stairs, the steps of which were worn hollow with the passing of generations of feet.
Rosamie emerged into a dimly lit cave, hung with lamps, suspended like stars above the pale, milky waters of the well, that cast back rippling, flickering waves of light that danced and quivered upon the dark walls.
Silhouetted against the light, Tamarin sat on the wells lip, statue still, one knee drawn up, chin on her hand, gazing down into the softly shining water. Rosamie sat down beside her, placing the book carefully between them.
Tamarin turned her head very slowly to look at Rosamie. For a moment, she was not present in the room, her eyes echoing the blank, still water. Then she blinked and her soul looked out at Rosamie once more from her calm, azure eyes.
‘Rosamie...’ she said softly and she smiled.
‘What did you see?’ Rosamie asked.
‘At first, only pictures from my own head, worries given shape, as in a dream... I saw a forest path and the path forked but all ahead was mist. Then I remembered Uncle Gorg’s advice, he was always telling me not to put pictures in the water but to let the water put the pictures in my head. Suddenly, I felt so very calm and visions began to form.
‘As I looked down the first path, I saw things... terrible things...’
‘At first, I saw myself, robed in white, I stood on high, like a goddess and the wind blew my hair out in a shining cloud. My clothes were pressed against me and billowed out behind me like wings. At my feet, a great mob surged and bayed and I was reminded of a pack of howling wolves...’
‘Then, I saw myself all dressed in bright armour, that shone in the sunlight like a blinding mirror. I sat upon a pale horse and in my hand, I held a tall, white banner, that snapped and cracked in the wind like a sail. Behind me, followed a great host of men and women, some little more than children, others as old as to be barely able to walk. Each had a weapon in their hand but for most it was a stick, a stone, or a kitchen knife tied to a broom handle...’
‘Before me, lay a black, burning desolation of shattered trees and twisted corpses, all in poses of anguished death, shrivelled lips pulled back from their soot blackened gums. Their eyeless sockets looked at me accusingly… I knew that I had done this … I! Rosamie, oh Rosamie, I cannot begin to describe the smell, the stench of death and burning...’ Tamarin began to cry, gently and soundlessly.
Rosamie slipped an arm around Tamarin’s shoulders and rocked her gently back and forth.
‘What did you see upon the other path?’ she asked.
‘The other was a far stranger and more confusing way,’ Tamarin said, pressing her head into Rosamie’s neck,
‘It was a dark way, a lightless path, that stretched away for many days, with only the sound of running water for company and the guiding light of a lantern to follow, as I might have followed the north star. At length, light burst upon my eyes and I was high above a huge, green pool, where water foamed and boiled. A great mist rose up. A rainbow ran through the mist and in the spray below its arc, there was the shadow of a woman, tree tall and willow gentle...’
‘I was cold and alone and afraid, my hair hung limp and wet upon my back and my dithering hands fought to direct a tiny golden key into a small lock... I felt the weight of the past and the future grinding me between them, like millstones.’
Rosamie squeezed Tamarin’s shoulder, then she reached behind her head and unhooked a thin, golden chain, on the end of which was a tiny key. She handed the key to Tamarin, who looked at it wordlessly; it was clearly the key from her vision.
‘Tammy, what is in the back part of Ullie’s b
ook,’ Rosamie asked, ‘the part strapped down and locked?’
‘Lore too advanced for me, that I am not ready to study yet,’ Tamarin answered, hesitantly, because she felt a greater truth coming.
‘No, my darling,’ Rosamie said, with a sad smile. ‘Ullie taught you everything she knew and with the exception of scrying, she told me that she had never known anyone become so adept so quickly... And I think scrying was somehow withheld from you until now, for a reason?’
‘Locked in the back of this book, are the secrets of your heritage. Not who you are, for you are who Ullie made you, you are Ullie o’Goodford’s legacy to the world. No, this book will tell you where you came from...’
‘But I do not open it yet it seems?’ Tamarin said. ‘Where then? Do you know?’
‘I think so,’ Rosamie said. ‘Do you remember, when you were little, you came on a visit and I said if you promised to keep it a secret, I would show you a special place?’
‘Oh yes,’ Tamarin said, smiling, ‘We went down deep into the rock, far below the well and there was a great cavern, that sparkled and glittered as if it were frosted with fairy dust. In the cavern there was a still, pale, lake, overhung by a great stalactite, like a sword... it was a magical place.’
‘Do you remember the way?’ Rosamie asked.
‘Yes of course, I will never forget it,’ Tamarin said.
‘If you go there now, you will find a little skiff upon the shore, all provisioned for a journey, a lamp at the prow, ready to be lit. We always keep one there, ready for an emergency,’ Rosamie said. ‘If you cross the lake, keeping the sword always ahead of you, you will find upon the opposite side, a low arch and flowing through that arch, a river. This river flows beneath the earth for mile after mile. If you follow it to its end, you will find that it is the source of the Spirit Falls in the Veranesi Uplands.’
Tamarin cocked her head inquisitively.
‘The ‘Spirit Falls,’ or as it is often known, ‘the Lady Pool,’ is so called, because, when the light and the wind is just right, you can sometimes see what seems to be the gigantic shadow of a woman moving in the mist.’
‘Then my strange vision is no longer strange,’ Tamarin said, with a sad sigh, ‘My way is clear... Oh Rosamie, if only it were all different? I wish with every part of me, that I could just go back to Elder Cottage and to Ullie… have everything as it was...’
The two women hugged each other for a long time without words, Tamarin was completely limp in Rosamie’s arms. Slowly, Rosamie felt Tamarin’s courage return in the way she held herself, then Tamarin sat up and said firmly,
‘What is, is... I cannot be weak,’ and she dried her eyes upon her sleeve.
‘I have the healing ways only and not the cunning ways,’ Rosamie said, ‘and yet, I somehow feel that you must go now, not even stopping to farewell Gorg.’ There was an unaccustomed hesitancy in her voice.
‘I am certain of it,’ Tamarin agreed, her composure fully restored. Rosamie took Tamarin’s narrow face between her hands and kissed her forehead.
‘Go now Rosamie and do not say goodbye, go while I am still strong and when you have gone, so shall I go,’ Tamarin said.
Rosamie gave Tamarin one last hug, then stood silently and climbed back up the way she had come. The ball of light from her lantern receded and dimmed, then, as she turned a corner, disappeared. The cave was silent, except for Tamarin’s breathing and the steady drip of water. At length, Tamarin said,
‘You can come out now Avaric.’
The leatherjack emerged from the shadows, pistol in his hand.
‘How did you know I was there?’ he asked.
‘That’s for me to know and you to wonder that I know,’ she said.
‘I cannot let you leave,’ he said, cocking the pistol. ‘It’s true no army can take the Edge but a lone soldier can sneak in, at least that was Billy’s thinking.’
‘So, you volunteered to come and shoot me?’ Tamarin said coldly.
‘No!’ Avaric said, brow furrowed, hair falling forward over his black eyes. ‘To protect you!’ His hand shook slightly, ‘Still, I cannot let you leave...’
Tamarin looked at him sadly, with her great, blue eyes, and then she began to sing. She had quite a small voice, true and pleasant but slight. The acoustics of the cave thickened it, as she crooned what seemed like a lullaby, in a language Avaric did not know. He thought it odd, that she should start to sing now, in the face of danger.
He opened his mouth, he wanted to say, ‘stop that, stop that now, we are going down to Abillie,’ but he just puffed out a little air and worked his lips ineffectually. Too late, he remembered the dog, when they had first met, how she had turned a snarling beast, into a passive statue.
Tamarin stopped singing and walked over to him; she took the weapon from his unresisting grasp and placed it on the floor a safe distance away.
‘Don’t worry, you will take no harm, Rosamie will find you bye and bye and Uncle Gorg will release you,’ she said. She stood solemnly in front of him.
‘Avaric, do you see why I must go? You are a good man and yet you were prepared to do me harm. You would not have killed me, I know that but you would have put a ball in my leg, that I would not run away...’
‘Avaric, you are a good man, I see it with my cunning ways and so I say this. Hold King Billy in check, curb him from his worst, only you have that kind of influence upon him, for he sees you as a son.’
‘He is not yet a truly bad man Avaric but he could become one, because he is a driven man. One who feels he has found a purpose bigger than himself, one who might do terrible things in the name of the greater good.’
‘Avaric, If I stay here, Billy will do as the Father/Sons before him and stop the sick from coming up to the Healing House. Oh, he will do it with regret and it will haunt his sleep at night but he will do it, to force me out. He will believe you as no other, when you tell him I am gone and so that will not happen.’
‘Avaric, I also want you to look after Jasadir. She has something of the cunning ways, that’s why she finds the defenders and the cunning folk fascinating. I am not sure how much she has about her; because she keeps it hidden, even from herself. She is afraid that the cunning ways will separate her from her sister.’
‘If she chooses that path, bring her to Gorg, I know he has showy ways but beneath them, the Cunning Man o’Priddow is wise and strong.’
She reached out to touch his face.
‘I will tell you one more thing now and it is not something I say lightly. I tell you, because I want you to truly understand why I must leave and because I don’t want you to tell King Billy where I am going, even though I know that you overheard it. I understand what it is, to ask you to withhold something from Abillie...’
She clasped her hands lightly in front of her and looked him straight in the eyes.
‘Avaric, I know what happened at Bell Hill, I feel it as a certainty, as if I had been there with the Defenders on that day.’ she said. ‘The Twin God did not take their powers. No, it is my feeling that the Two-Faced God is a sham, that it has no power, beyond the fear generated by those willing to do anything in his name.’
‘The Defenders of the Faith gave up, Avaric, they simply stopped fighting.’
‘If you could speak, I know that you would ask me, why? So, here is why. They realised that you cannot defend a faith that prizes life, by dealing death, that to do so, will destroy that faith from within.’
‘You cannot defend tolerance with intolerance, life with death. The Righteous Flame is not righteous if it kills. You cannot burn goodness into a man’s heart, you can only burn the heart. That is why they lost at Bell Hill, because they realised that they must not fight on. Better to lose, than to destroy yourself.’
Tamarin wrapped her arms around him and kissed him, full on the lips, then she stepped back.
‘The wheel must balance and the wheel must turn,’ she said. Then she took down one of the lamps and descended from the well, down into the
darkness.
∆∆∆
Odemar scowled, he held the lantern high but it failed to illuminate any but the nearest few benches of the huge, dark and almost silent workshop. Almost silent, because there was that odd little sound that had drawn him here.
Plip, plop. There it was again.
Odemar knew every sound his ‘kingdom’ made. It did not make this one.
Plip, plop.
He moved cautiously forward. Tides of darkness swirled outside the lantern’s meagre ball of light.
Plip, plop.
Long shadows fidgeted and twisted at the edges of his sight.
Plip, plop.
The sound grew louder, he was getting closer to the source.
Plip, Plop!
On a workbench, just in front of him, an old bucket hung, a rusty old bucket with a hole in the bottom. Just below it was a tin cup, a water cup. The water from the bucket was slowly dripping into the cup.
Plip, plop!
Odemar leaned in, there was something behind the cup… A scrap of discarded wood swam into view, someone had sketched a little face onto it, with a piece of charcoal. It was a grinning monkey.
I could not leave without a farewell Odemar… I did promise you one… Xabre thought, as he dropped silently onto Odemar’s shoulders and slit his throat from ear to ear with practised ease. He casually tossed down the sharp, shining, scrap of metal swarf he had used to do the deed,
Plip, plop! But this time it was blood dripping down, to stain the water red.
∆∆∆
Oroc slept and it seemed a troubled sleep. Wisps of blue smoke puffed and curled from his nostrils, looped and swirled about his teeth. Pivy looked on in some trepidation, nightmares it seemed, could have nightmares after all.
The great beast’s eyes snapped open, red/gold and burning. Slowly, he seemed to realise where he was, intelligence came back into his gaze. The dragon languidly stretched out a forelimb and clawed the ground ahead of it. Then the vast, wedge shaped head drifted around on its long neck to look back at the human.
After Bell Hill Page 11
