Freeze Faery, hare and mice;
When there’s no cup of esteo
For the milk’s frozen in the pail,
Give thanks for winter, sit huddled together;
There be no finer time for a tale.
— ‘The Winter Tale’, Eronth traditional song
Something terrible has happened here.
When Gwyndion and Samma walked through the familiar cobbled lanes of Faia, they were vexed by the difference in the normally exuberant village. Rubbish littered the streets, and many of the village stores were closed. There were very few signs of the normal decorations to welcome Yule. Where were the miniature altars set up around the village, decorated with pine cones and holly? There were no Yule logs scorching the aroma of pine or oak, no spicing of air, no wooden bowls of oranges and lemons placed outside shops. A few of the homes had arranged sprigs of rosemary and holly on their doors, but it was a token effort. Gwyndion was shocked by their disregard for the Turn of the Wheel. The agricultural people of Faia were normally over-zealous about acknowledging the seasons.
There were other differences, too: the normally friendly villagers, who had displayed such open-hearted generosity when they had last visited, were now unsmiling, unseeing, uncaring. The sky, as if in sympathy with the general mood of the village, was dark and grey, with the thin scythes of the triple moons scarcely visible. Although it was still early in the day, the air was dark. Gwyndion could just make out, from the covers of newspapers blowing in the street, the news that Mary, High Priestess of Faia, had not recovered from her mysterious affliction, and every Crone in Eronth had been called to her bedside to tend to her.
Gwyndion read this slowly, leaning against a stone wall. Most terrible was the scent of death that lingered in the cobbled streets and gaily painted homes of the Faiaites. It did not escape his notice that few people looked him in the eye as they passed.
As he rounded a corner, on the winding rocky road leading up to Shellhome, he came across a group of small children skipping. They looked at him with little curiosity, whereas once they would have eagerly surrounded him and Samma. Their rope turned quickly, slicing the air, as they chanted:
Skip the rope low, skip the rope high!
Skip the rope quickly before you die!
Don’t let the rope touch you, on leg or on head.
If it goes around your neck, it will slice through your head, head, head.
Where had he heard this rhyme before? He frowned, trying to remember. The words clung to him as he approached Shellhome.
‘It is good to see you, old friend!’ Ano advanced towards them across the diamond-patterned black-and-white floor of the receiving room. His smile was as warm as ever, but there were dark circles around his eyes, and he had lost weight. They made the fluttering greeting in the Webx manner, while Samma mewed a polite welcome.
‘We have been expecting you,’ Ano said. ‘Khartyn and Rosedark are both here, and the Crone keeps us informed as to what is happening on the outside. Indeed, I don’t know what we would have done if it hadn’t been for the support of Khartyn.’
‘I have heard about Mary,’ Gwyndion said, it is hard to believe that Shambzhla has managed to secure her tongue and keep her asleep for so long.’
Ano glanced around the room. ‘It is not safe to discuss these matters here,’ he whispered. ‘But rest assured, Gwyndion, that we now know how they managed to get so far. Thanks to the Goddess, however, you are here, and we are confident that you will succeed in your quest. But come, let me not forget my manners! You must both be weary and dusty after your long journey.’
‘Not so long,’ Gwyndion grimaced. ‘We came by the skymobile.’
‘Is that so? I hate that transport. I did hear that it hasn’t been the success the city elders had been hoping for. I fear they are finding out to their cost that it can be more difficult to adjust people to change than they had originally realised.’
As they talked, he was showing Gwyndion along a hallway where a series of pastel colours played musical notes, and water units bubbled along the walls. ‘We’ve put you both in the room next to the Crone and Rosedark,’ Ano said, sliding his hand over the door to open it. ‘It will open for you, but Samma will always have to be with you to enter; her paw hasn’t been entered into its memory. Server 3.2 has been allocated to this room. You need only press the button inside the door and she will attend to you. Her name is Leah, and she is very loyal and has been with us since she was first installed.’
Gwyndion wondered at the extra security, but knew his questions would not yet be answered. Like all the rooms in Shellhome, his was soothing and peaceful, with spectacular views of the landscape of Faia. Gwyndion wondered again at the ominous colour of the sky.
‘I will leave you here to relax,’ Ano said, attempting to smile. ‘No doubt, Khartyn and Rosedark will visit you soon.’
When Ano had left, Gwyndion wandered to the window. He knew he should plant himself in the large tub of soil that had been thoughtfully provided for him, but he felt restless, disturbed by the fears he saw in Ano’s eyes. He also shared these fears, worrying he would fail Samma. She mewed, reading his mind. it’s all right,’ he said, sweeping her into his arms and burying his face in her soft fur. ‘It’s just that you be my closest friend in the known worlds, and I am terrified of letting you down.’
The meerwog mewed again, pushing her face against him, licking him with her raspy tongue. As always, he wished he could speak meerwog. There was no doubt in his mind that Samma could speak his language and understand his thoughts. She was always so perceptive when it came to his thoughts and emotions. His reverie was disturbed by a soft knock, and he was overjoyed to see in the view-glass the wrinkled face of the Crone.
*
‘So, that’s all we know,’ Khartyn concluded the tale, as they sat on chairs facing the views of Faia, watching the sky darken. ‘The Sea Hags have infiltrated the castle, and somehow they managed to work their charm with Mary, so Shambzhla was able to make contact with her. From all the scrying and guidance I have been given, it has become obvious you are the best person for the task to face the old Warrior Queen.’
Gwyndion felt his heart contract. ‘I’m so worried about Samma,’ he confided softly to Khartyn, while Samma mewed her protest. ‘I know she wants me to take the gamble, but what if I’m wrong? I would be condemning her to a lifetime with no soul!’
Khartyn smiled, stroking his hand gently. ‘I think the decision is already made,’ she said softly. ‘You are now the only hope for Mary’s recovery. My winged messengers have been reporting that the Circle of Nine are advancing towards Faia. I also know that the Ghormho is no longer in possession of the Eom. The crystal has returned to the Web-Kondoell with Seleza, the Azephim High Priestess.’
Gwyndion flinched. ‘What of my Hostlings?’ he demanded.
Khartyn shrugged. ‘That I have not yet been able to see. I would suspect they were taken along with the Eom. I will scry for more information, although the triple moons are not in the ideal position.’
Rosedark leaned forward. As always, she had been content to listen and learn, rather than talk. ‘Never mind, Gwyndion,’ she said softly. ‘You’re doing the right thing to trust your instincts when it comes to Samma.’
Fear and confusion echoed through Gwyndion; he hoped Rosedark was correct. He felt close to tears, for the first time seriously thinking his quest was hopeless. The Eom was gone, he was pursuing something that was no longer in reach. Very few travellers had ventured to the Web-Kondoell and had returned alive to describe the founding world of the Azephim. His aim of penetrating the Wastelands had been ambitious enough, but at least he had had the knowledge that Khartyn and Rosedark had managed to do so.
All his old doubts returned about whether he was capable of performing any of the tasks, and whether he should even bother. The Eom had been a sinister presence to the Webx race, to his thinking. He had never been able to comprehend why the Webx placed so much importance upon it. Th
e thought of his captive Hostlings, however, filled him with despair and rage. He needed to reach them, and somehow release them from the nightmare that the Azephim had woven around them. Now he had the added burden of Samma if he failed in his quest.
His stomach clenched into knots, and he could feel a throbbing in his temples. The meerwog was all he had from his time in Zeglanada. If she were taken from him now, he didn’t know if his life would be worth living. Knowing his fears, Samma jumped onto his lap and fastened her bright shining eyes upon him. He knew she was trying to communicate, and he patted her.
‘Ye have no choice,’ Khartyn repeated. ‘Don’t worry, Gwyndion, we will begin tonight after dinner to attempt to place you in the kingdom of Shambzhla. Try not to listen to your fears, they have louder and uglier mouths than truth. Keep your mind in the now as much as you can.’
Gwyndion nodded miserably. A large part of him longed to flee, to take the meerwog, run from Faia and pretend he had never heard of Mary and her stolen tongue. He wished Samma had no other form, that she was his meerwog and content to be so. One look at the excitement that raged within her, however, and he knew it was impossible. It was disturbing how much Khartyn and Samma and Rosedark expected. They were all acting as if his mission would not fail, as though he were some mythical hero who could perform seven impossible tasks before breakfast. When he tried to verbalise his dread that he was not equal to the task, they would deflect his comments.
He sat watching the triple moons illuminate the shadows and valleys of Faia. He began to long for his home and a simpler time. The cry of an owl sounded, and he watched the glow of fire torches in Faia as the villagers prepared for bed. Samma did not once take her eyes of hope from him.
He had been shocked when Khartyn had taken him to Mary’s bedside. The High Priestess looked dead but for the steady rise and fall of her chest. Crones and their apprentices stood silently around her bed, veils drawn over their heads, lines of fatigue and worry etched into their faces. Khartyn scanned her body, and she sighed deeply.
‘I do not like the grey tinge in her face,’ she confided to Ano. ‘If Gwyndion succeeds in his task, we still don’t know what effect this sleep will have had on her when she comes back.’ If. The word scorched the air, slicing Gwyndion like a knife. He closed his eyes, attempting to attune himself to the Priestess, but all he received was a fleeting impression of peace, of cool water and seaweed, an endless sleep of the undead. Mocking bursts of laughter punctuated the green water.
Samma wanted to be lifted up to the High Priestess, and Rosedark held the meerwog so that she could lick her face. Mary had shown Gwyndion and Samma a lot of kindness when they had arrived in Faia. The Webx was aware of the good works she had long performed in the village. For a Bluite, she was an extraordinary being and he could understand the effect of her malady on the people who had known her for many seasons. Khartyn mopped her face with a lavender compress. ‘The Dark Ones of the sea have you now,’ she said. ‘But you will be back with me soon, my child.’
Rosedark opened her mouth and sang.
Deep, so deep down beneath the ancient wave;
Your face reflected, your heart beats,
So endless our love, so eternal our devotion;
No tide will withstand
All our demands to set you free.
Her voice, so pure and true, hung in the air. Gwyndion noted Ano wiping away tears from his four eyes. ‘Hold fast, Mary!’ Khartyn urged. ‘Not much longer, my strong beautiful girl. Gwyndion has arrived!’
She couldn’t tell them. Mary longed to open her mouth and release the words, but she couldn’t. She was frozen, fear beat within her with frantic wings. She could smell the odour of familiar loved beings. Ano, with the musky, spicy cinnamon cologne that he favoured, Khartyn smelling of lavender and herbs, and Rosedark, who smelt like lemons and freshly cut flowers. Then the woody, fresh smell of the Webx. Through it all, among those smells, wafted the odour of dead fish, of rotting guts, of drowned flesh; she knew the Sea Hags moved among them. Ano’s suspicion of them flashed like lightning strikes, but his anger was kept in check as he tried to assess the best form of action. She could feel his rage, red and hot, simmering in his belly.
Mary could sense the Sea Hags, linked telepathically to their ocean friends. They were like two bloated spiders, spinning their deadly web around everyone, waiting to make their move. Their murderous plans against Ano could be clearly read, lying thick and slug-like in great cords from their brains. She couldn’t open her eyes. She felt the type of creeping terror that she had not felt since she was a child when forced to endure the sight of her family butchered in front of her. The murderers had never died. She understood that now. They had opened cracks between worlds, they had crossed with her, in the shadows and corners of her mind, and there they had remained, lurking silently. They had waited with blood-splattered hands and souls for their chance to reappear. Now they had made their move, in the body of these two cackling Sea Hags.
Mary had taken them in, fed them and housed them; she had welcomed the beast into her home. Now the beast wanted to feed, and would feed on Mary and all the inhabitants of Shellhome. She could feel the raspy soft tongue of the meerwog as it licked her face. She tried vainly to open her eyes, to move. Inside her swelled what she needed to release and could not. A scream. She couldn’t tell them.
*
Ano was exhausted. He had refused to leave Mary’s bedside and had not slept, only dozed intermittently. There were deep lines etched into his face, and his voice was shaky. Khartyn longed to order him to his quarters, so he could rest and restore himself, but she knew the Janusite would refuse to cooperate. She had managed to convince him not to reveal his knowledge of the Sea Hags’ true identities until she had had a chance to understand the game they were playing. Bambi and Kryssti were separated, instead, given to different supervisors and banished to light duties in the gardens, while the small army of Crones that had been summoned were charged with caring and protecting the High Priestess.
The Janusite was nearly beside himself with fear and worry. He had already seen views of possible futures that had chilled him to the bone, and made him long to give in to the temptation to sit in a corner and weep, but he knew he had to keep going. He was a Janusite, and thus could never afford the luxury of listening to the visions that whispered their sly pictures to him. Along that path, madness lay. He was grateful for the calm, healing energy of Khartyn. She had managed to quench the murderous urge in him to kill both the Sea Hags with his bare hands. Now he sat, hugging his knees, his eyes never leaving Mary’s face, willing her to not give up, to not lose sight of who she truly was.
The night was still. Outside in the streets of Faia the villagers remained behind closed doors. Yule would not be celebrated on this night, although the fronts of cottages had oil lamps that would burn all night. Instead, every villager lit a candle and waited, meditating upon the Bluite, willing her senses to be restored to her. With darkness came silence. The air elementals held their voices. The night birds waited, huddled together in large groups, sensing the great invocation.
The Stag Man threw himself into the night, becoming blazing light and dancing among the three moons, illuminating the landscape. Shadows and memories merged into one. The earth softly breathed. Through everything, the Tremite Scribes could be felt, listening and recording the events. All the known worlds were momentarily stilled. The silence was split by the cry of a messenger bird flapping over the hushed village at midnight. ‘The light is waxing!’
‘It is time,’ Khartyn announced solemnly. A small ripple of anticipation went through the assembled group. Gwyndion protectively moved towards Samma and held her in his lap. A part of him longed to take her and make a run for it, forget he had ever been assigned this massive task, but the excitement he felt in his meerwog’s body stopped him.
The Crone stood. Pointing her index finger in the air and walking slowly deosil, she began to chant. ‘I conjure you, circle, so that you may b
e a sacred boundary between the realm of the everyday and the eternal planes.’
Light flowed from the end of her finger, forming a pulsating circle of energy around them all. Holding her finger high in the air, Khartyn said, ‘This circle is bound and blessed, so mote it be.’
Then she faced north, and with her finger, traced a pentagram into the air while the Crones all chanted as one: ‘Come! Guardians of the North! Home of Fire. I bid you to guard this circle set outside of time, and give your aid to my rite.’
The Webx watched as a portal opened in the air above them. Beings of flame and fire materialised in front of them, their bright orange eyes blazing with excitement as they danced wildly. The heat from their bodies forced everyone present to stand back.
Now Khartyn and the Crones faced west and, as before, Khartyn traced a pentagram into the air while they all chanted: ‘Come! Guardians of the West, home of Water. I bid you to guard this circle set outside of time, and give your aid to my rite.’
Again a portal opened and, with a loud sucking groan, glimmering ocean beings shone before them. Elongated green and blue eyes stared coldly at them, and sheets of gleaming water radiated from the beings. Rainbow colours clung to them, caught in the billions of drops of water that made up their bodies. They shimmied next to the fire guardians.
Now the Crones faced south, Khartyn made the pentagram into the air, and they chanted, ‘Come! Guardians of the South, home of Earth. I bid you to guard this circle set outside of time, and give your aid to our rite.’
Dark, elongated shapes hurled themselves through the portal. Leaves and twigs fell from their bodies as they writhed on the ground below the other guardians. The Webx could feel their eyes upon him as they danced.
Finally, the Crones faced east, and Khartyn made the pentagram in the air. Her finger was now red-hot and sliced through the air. ‘Come! Guardians of the East, home of Air. We bid you to guard this circle set outside of time and place, and give your aid to our rite.’
A tiny portal emerged, and wraith-like figures appeared, wearing cloaks of wisps of smoke. Their colourless eyes appeared to melt into their faces. They danced seductively in the air, parts of their form intermittently vanishing. Rosedark now rang a small bell and Khartyn stood, arms upraised. ‘Welcome, Lady and Lord of all! I bid you to witness and bless our rite, held in the realms of your eternal magick!’
Bride of the Stone: Circle of Nine Trilogy 2 Page 31
