There had been no scythe of death come to cover the face of their sun since the time of The Catalyst’s birth, and therefore no need to banish it with ceremony and the sacrifice of an evil one. This had been The Dark’s chief responsibility. Before The Catalyst had come to the Volcastle, when Lae had still been married and Pagan desperate to win back her love, they had discussed this change to the cycle of their world and wondered at it. Pagan had admitted no knowledge within his Guardian heritage that could explain it, and Lae had told him of Khatrene’s assertions that on Magoria the darkness was an ‘eclipse’, the rhythmic passage of an object between themselves and the sun. Yet if that was the case on Ennae also, why had it stopped?
Pagan had no answers, and now Lae seemed not to care. Her rituals were reduced to their barest minimum: reciting the prophecies and reading auras, but these familiar traditions gave comfort to a people grappling with the daily terrors the Maelstrom produced. The elements of the Four Worlds had begun to drift across the void and now air-thin Magorian water fell from the sky on Ennae, sometimes daily. Wind tore clothes from the bodies of those caught out; the earth shook with the Maelstrom’s fury; and on some days the sun was so hot, the cook baked ort on the courtyard cobblestones.
Lae was oblivious to it all and Pagan tried to understand how she must feel, wishing he could compare her grief to something he had experienced, but, with no memory of his years on Magoria, Pagan could feel no loss for the son he had left behind there. All he had was a letter with facts. His son’s name was Vandal. The boy’s mother was Sarah, with whom Pagan had apparently shared a bed for fourteen years. The letter had also confirmed that The Catalyst, whom he had taken as a baby into exile, had been raised. His duty to the throne had been fulfilled, but the details meant nothing — flashes of faces in his mind, and a memory of tenderness towards Sarah who had borne him a son, but no grief at leaving them.
YOUR LIFE IS HERE NOW, the voice said inside his mind, and Pagan felt his agitation ease. It had taken him time to accept that the Great Guardian spoke to him directly, and had apparently done so even while he had lived in exile. But now he took heart from his God’s wisdom, reminding himself that he and Lae were meant to be together, no matter the obstacles fate put in their way.
I will marry Lae, he told the Great Guardian.
YOU MUST BE PATIENT, the voice replied, and Pagan frowned. Her grief was so deep and wide, he was unsure how to bridge it. The Great Guardian had told him once that time healed, but Pagan had lost so much time already. While Lae’s world had aged only three years in his absence, Magoria had aged five times that number, and Pagan with it. He was now thirty-three. The young apprentice warrior who had kissed her to quieten her acid tongue and then longed for more was part of another life.
Lae swore she had exchanged no kisses with Kert and that their marriage had been a front to protect Lenid. So when her grief was laid to rest there was no reason she could not wed him. Only, Pagan feared that in death, Kert had secured her love more surely than he ever had in life. He worried, too, that in time, when they had children of their own, she might compare his fathering to Kert’s and find him lacking. Already Lae did not understand how he could leave a son in Magoria, nor why he did not go back now.
There was no royal duty to hold him on Ennae. His charge, Glimmer, who was the reason he had left Magoria, was dead. Pagan had seen her fall into the Volcastle mouth with Kert, although the hissing and smell of burning flesh that had followed Lenid’s fall had not followed The Catalyst’s or Kert’s. Instead, an armful of glittering sparks had risen, reflecting off the sky-mirror like tiny snowflakes of fire. Under happier circumstances the sight would have stunned him with its beauty, but as his last vision of The Catalyst, it was merely the signal of another pointless death.
Born a warrior, Pagan felt at ease with death on the battlefield. Death by accident was unacceptable in his eyes.
‘There is no royal descendant of the Ancients in our lands at this time,’ Lae went on, her solemn voice reaching the quiet mourners around him and enveloping them in her calm comfort. ‘Thus we must look to our remaining Guardian for leadership,’ she said, and Pagan took his cue to ascend the stairs and stand at her side. As he did so, she kept her eyes steadfastly ahead, and though he longed to hold her hand, he knew her reserve would keep him at bay.
‘I am The Dark,’ she announced and there was no demur from the crowd. They knew her father had betrayed them and was now dead. ‘I will lead our people in matters of the spirit.’ A lengthy pause issued before she added, ‘The Guardian Pagan will hold sovereignty over matters of defence.’
Pagan looked out over the faces of the lesser nobles. Most appeared relieved. Lae spoke with such authority that he expected no dissent, and indeed saw none. It was clear that the reckless, razor-tongued girl he had loved and left was now a self-assured woman, and Pagan hated that it was her marriage to Kert that had wrought the change.
She was so beautiful in her mourning white, even allowing for the austere severity of her robe and hair coil. Pagan could not help but ache for all that had been taken from them by duty.
‘I declare a day of mourning,’ she said. ‘There will be no bread baked on the morrow and no wine poured. Let our stomachs be as empty as our hearts for one day only, then we shall fill both with the life that must follow.’
Yet Lae would continue to mourn for several weeks.
She lowered her head and the nobles shuffled to their feet and began to depart, speaking in whispers among themselves.
Lae turned to Pagan and bowed formally, then stepped away before he could catch her eye. Her slow limp took her from the dais down onto the floor of the hall where two white-clad acolytes came forward to flank her as she exited, a reminder to all that The Dark would not speak except out of duty until her forty-day mourning period was at end.
Pagan tugged his thick honour cloak more tightly about his shoulders as a sudden gust of wind descended through the open ceiling of the great hall. It fanned the flames of the Volcastle mouth at his side, sending a dark bronze glow across the pale walls of the chamber. The stillness that had allowed them to perform the ceremony was at an end and the crowd now scurried to return to their homes, fearing another storm.
The Maelstrom was building, and with no Catalyst to join the Four Worlds they would soon all die. Pagan knew not when, only that the lifetime he had envisaged at Lae’s side was fading from his hopes. They could have only a handful of years, perhaps scant months, and each day she spent in mourning was one day less from their tally.
When he was in her presence he could wait, but when she was out of sight his impatience grew to an unmanageable size. It was fortunate that she had given him authority over the Volcastle forces. That, at least, would keep his mind occupied with matters other than how soon he could approach her and what he would say.
‘My Lord,’ a soft voice said behind him, and Pagan turned. It was Firde, Lae’s chief maid, an older matron with angular features and a practical nature. His heart leapt at the sight of her. Had Lae sent for him? ‘I fear for my lady,’ she said, speaking quietly though no other stood on the dais with them. Indeed, as the wind grew stronger the hall grew emptier. ‘Her burdens are too great.’
This was not news to Pagan who lay awake worrying about Lae’s burdens. He searched the maid’s eyes with his own, seeing nothing but sincerity in them. Her Verdan heritage was not only reflected in her pale skin and amber eyes, but in the frankness of her demeanour. He knew he could trust her with his heart. ‘I would ease those burdens as a husband and a father to her children,’ he said honestly. ‘If she would have me.’
Firde closed her eyes in relief, as though she had been unsure of his intent until the words were spoken. This much surprised Pagan who imagined that everyone at the Volcastle must know of his love for Lae simply by the way he looked at her. ‘My Lord, I hoped you would say as much.’
‘I would say as much to Lae herself if she would see me?’ he asked hopefully.
F
irde shook her head. ‘She will not see you with her eyes, My Lord,’ Firde declared. ‘Yet I know that in quiet moments her heart lingers over your features and recalls the sound of your voice. She loves you for true.’
Pagan nodded, unable to speak, wanting so much to believe the maid’s words.
‘Yet … she fights that love.’
He had suspected this but the pain of hearing it said aloud was like a slow-burning acid in his chest. ‘Because of Kert?’ he asked, his voice hollow.
Another gust of wind drove down into the Volcastle mouth and furnace heat rose. Firde turned her head away and it was several heartbeats before she turned back, her eyes damp, whether from the wind or emotion he wasn’t sure. ‘She has lost too much, My Lord,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Love has deserted her at every turn: her father to evil; you, her first love, to Magoria; her son and her husband to death.’ Firde’s large hand gestured to the flames below them. ‘She will not act on her love for you. She fears it will only bring her further pain.’
‘If there was some way I could advance our betrothal,’ he said, knowing his words were impetuous but feeling desperation move within him. ‘I’m sure I could woo her from grief. If she would only grant me an audience —’
But Firde was shaking her head. ‘My Lord, she will not see you, and there is no power above her to instruct her obedience.’
‘But she must …’ he said softly, glancing away, unable to believe that Lae would not be his. ‘Her love is all I live for.’
‘Your duty to the throne,’ Firde reminded him. ‘You have that.’
‘A starving man may have a bowl. It does not feed him.’
Firde touched his arm but Pagan barely noticed. ‘I will do what I can to soften her heart towards you, My Lord,’ she whispered, and turned away.
Pagan saw his own darkened reflection in the sky-mirror that rose from the Volcastle mouth. Wind whipped his long hair. raising even the heavy warrior plaits. His cloak slapped his legs. I am the same Pagan she once loved, he told himself, valiantly struggling to retain hope. I have not lost her yet.
‘My Lord.’
Pagan saw the Captain of the Volcastle House Guard coming up behind him, a timely reminder that he must not allow his love for Lae to hamper his duty. The protection of the Volcastle rested in his hands. ‘Captain?’ he said, turning to face the battle-scarred old warrior who had been a friend of his father.
‘Our sentries have spied a thin trail of smoke rising from the woods to the south-west. Last night and this morning.’
A campfire for sure. ‘Northmen?’ Pagan asked.
‘I know not, My Lord,’ the captain replied. ‘But it was closer this morning.’
‘Verdan?’ Pagan suggested hopefully.
‘After all this time, My Lord?’
The Guard Captain was right, of course. The royal Volcastle had been under siege for three years. If the House of Verdan had survived the Northman invasion, they would surely have come to their king’s aid sooner. And the clan of Northmen who had taken up residence in the forest outside the castle gates would hardly be expecting reinforcements after all this time, though their number had been halved by starvation and lack of adequate shelter.
Those inside the Volcastle’s impregnable walls had suffered only the boredom of eating stockpiled grain and the limited variety of vegetables grown in the castle precincts. The Northmen outside had been forced to subsist on forest berries, bark and leaves. Kert, who had controlled the royal forces before his death, had watched the Northmen weaken, stubbornly refusing to abandon their siege. Comfortably supplied within the Volcastle, Kert had merely waited on an opportunity to conquer their enemies without loss to his own forces.
Pagan had only been the Volcastle commander these past two days, but he felt confident that objective could now be achieved. Dark clouds, seen through the great hall’s open ceiling, jostled above. ‘This storm could rid us of the Northmen at last,’ he said, keen for a military distraction. ‘If we attack in its wake, we may finally break the siege and win freedom for our castle.’
‘And those who approach us, My Lord?’
Pagan’s enthusiasm faltered. He knew he must use prudence. ‘How much smoke is there?’ he asked.
‘A thin trail soon extinguished. My Lord,’ the Guard Captain said. ‘A small party, I would surmise.’
‘Or a larger force intent on misleading us,’ Pagan replied. His concern was that his men risked being caught outside. ‘Alert me if the ground party reaches the clearing before the storm breaks.’ They could not hide their number there. And if it was Northman reinforcements, Pagan would consider his options then.
‘My Lord, I shall ready the men.’ The Guard Captain strode from the dais and Pagan followed, preparing his mind for battle as he made for his rooms, damping the surge of hot blood that rose with the thought of steel striking steel. To spend his eagerness before the battle was a waste every apprentice warrior was warned to avoid. ‘Prepare the mind and the body will follow,’ his father had taught him, and so, as Pagan strode the pale stone corridors, shadowed now by the storm building outside, he prepared his mind for the conflict to come, seeing himself pierce the flesh of his enemies again and again.
‘It will be done,’ he said, but then into his mind came the vision of Lae running to give him a triumphant kiss. She was laughing at his victory, teasing him as she had been wont to do in the days before love had gentled their sparring ways. Then she kissed him and he felt her slender frame melt against him, stirring …
Pagan stood in his own rooms, listening to the thundering of his heart.
This was fatal.
He raised a hand to dismiss his attendant then went to a couch and lay upon it, settling himself into a cleansing ritual to purge his mind of distractions. He loved Lae. No amount of denial could erase that fact. But if she entered his mind in the heat of battle, he might not return to fight for her love.
As his blood slowed to a steady deep pulse and quiet settled over his mind. Pagan wondered which battle would prove the more wounding.
CHAPTER NINE
Vandal clung to the skinny wrist in his hand, knowing it was part of Magoria. Home. He had to find his way back. But even with his eyes open, his world was not as he’d left it. Colours he’d taken for granted jarred and clashed and hurt his brain. Was this how his father had felt on first entering their world?
‘Petra,’ he groaned, swivelling his head, trying to track down the thin face he’d glimpsed, hoping to find the body attached to the arm he clung to. ‘I’m lost.’
There was a second’s pause before she said, ‘I’m here. I’m right here beside you. Why can’t you see me?’
He shook his head, struggled to make sense of the jumble his sight had become. ‘Between worlds. Can’t …’
‘You’re frightening me,’ she said, and he felt a wrench on his hand, but that only made him squeeze her wrist tighter, desperate not to lose his one link to home. ‘Are you on drugs?’ she asked.
‘Not … No.’ It was too hard to speak, too hard to see. Even with his eyes opened widely. Then suddenly it was dark. He gasped, as though drowning. Again.
‘I’ve covered your eyes,’ she whispered, close to his face. The scent of her girlie perfume dazzled him. It was probably faint, but like the bright colours that had tortured his brain, it overwhelmed him. ‘Can you close them?’ she asked.
He tried to obey, felt muscles move in his face but couldn’t be sure the right ones had obeyed.
‘Are they closed?’ she asked.
‘Aaah.’ His powers of speech were disintegrating. Vandal felt her breath on his face and the mintiness stung his nose. There was a caramel chocolate underneath it, though, as if she’d eaten a Mars Bar and then brushed her teeth. ‘Uhhhh.’ The guttural sound came from deep in his belly where something weird was happening. Pulling. Pressure. He didn’t want to throw up again. But his stomach didn’t feel sick. Just … odd.
Brightness returned. ‘My face is right in front
of you,’ she said softly and the tone of it, like velvety orchid petals sliding into his mind, intensified the pulling sensation. What was happening to him? ‘Open your eyes. Only a slit,’ she instructed.
He tried to comply. His cheeks tensed and then twitched. He could feel that. And he could still feel her thin wrist in his sweaty palm. Her pulse had quickened into an epileptic drumbeat. She inhaled deeply and a loud thought jarred into his mind. God help me, he smells like a thunderstorm. If I never get to kiss him conscious, I’ll die from aching.
He shook his head, felt it rattle. Was this madness? Deadness? Lostness? Was there such a word as lostness? The idea took hold of him and he drifted with it. His body went slack.
‘Vandal, stay with me,’ she said, so loudly his cars hurt. But he was still going. Losing himself. He couldn’t feel his fingers on her arm any more and that frightened him. He didn’t want to be lost in the limbo between worlds. He tried to tell her that but his lips wouldn’t work. Yet they must have moved because he heard her say, ‘Are you trying to talk? I can’t understand you. Try again.’
He struggled. This time really struggled. ‘Can’t … feel,’ he managed, but the swirling inside his mind was sucking him away from her.
‘You have to …’ She sounded so young. So frightened. But she also sounded like Petra and he clung to that. He’d heard her voice in the debating class, passionate about the poetry of some dead guy, raving about the plight of penguins, something. Activist. Lunatic in her own lunchtime. But he knew that voice, and she was here. He struggled not to lose it, not to lose Magoria. ‘If you die,’ she was saying, ‘like this in my arms, it’s like … I’m not Juliet. I couldn’t …’
The idiocy of her babbling touched something inside him that spread calm focus to the furthest corners of his body. The distancing sensation evaporated and he felt the return of his bodily sensations. The void where he’d been lost began to recede and he felt the hard ground beneath his back. If he could, he would have smiled. ‘Didn’t …’ He swallowed and tried again, ‘… bring your happy dagger?’ he whispered.
Glimmer in the Maelstrom: Shadow Through Time 3 Page 6
