‘And what happened to your world?’ Estarinel asked gently. ‘Were they able to save it?’
Calorn took a deep breath and steadied her voice. ‘The Sorcerers believed they could heal it eventually. But it would be a long, hard task, and only a few possessed the skill to help. By now, the healing is underway… I hope.’
‘What became of Silvren and Arlenmia?’ Ashurek asked with a touch of impatience.
‘When the High Master realised what had happened, the tutors rushed to detain Arlenmia, but she’d already vanished. When she saw the havoc she’d wreaked, she must have used her skills to flee the world. A few weeks later, Silvren, who was distraught, vanished as suddenly. A couple of the tutors said good riddance, she’d been as foolish as Arlenmia; but most were distressed, because they’d wanted her to stay at the School and teach. Even the High Master couldn’t understand why she followed Arlenmia. And I’ve only realised why since I met you, Ashurek.’
Estarinel looked at the Gorethrian and said, ‘When Silvren spoke to me in the Glass City, she said, “Arlenmia brought another world to ruin before this, and it is my fault she came here.”‘
‘Yes, I remember,’ Ashurek said heavily. ‘I understand well enough, Calorn. In all innocence, she must have told Arlenmia about our Earth of Three Planes, and about the Serpent. In her desire for power, perhaps Arlenmia did not believe the Serpent was evil; or at least, she decided to come and see for herself. And when Silvren realised where she’d gone, she followed to find out what Arlenmia was planning to do here.’ Ashurek pondered. ‘She must have found Arlenmia and confronted her. When she discovered that she intended to serve and worship the Serpent, Silvren would have been horrified. She must have tried with all her strength to persuade Arlenmia that she was wrong; and when she failed, Silvren was forced to use sorcery against her. Therefore Arlenmia sent the demon after Silvren: to prevent her sabotaging her plans for the Worm’s supremacy.’
‘Poor Silvren,’ Estarinel exclaimed, ‘to be so cruelly betrayed by someone she thought her friend for so long.’
‘Aye,’ Ashurek agreed, gazing moodily downwards. ‘And to feel it was her fault that M’gulfn had gained such a powerful ally. Often it seems that the harder someone fights the Serpent, the more they aid it.’
‘I’m sorry this was such a revelation to you,’ Calorn put in. ‘I thought you would already have known most of it.’
‘Don’t apologise. I’m grateful to you for telling me. You’ve put much in perspective.’
‘I know it must be terrible for you, to know that the Dark Regions are on the other side of the Blue Plane, so near, and yet impossible even to consider rescuing Silvren.’
Calorn immediately wished she had not spoken. The hellish light returned to Ashurek’s eyes; he glared at her for a moment, then abruptly stood up and strode away. Calorn stared after him, feeling a sudden conflict of duties and emotions.
‘I always seem to say the wrong thing to him,’ she murmured.
‘Don’t take it to heart,’ said Estarinel. ‘It’s hard to say the right thing.’
‘I only wish…’ she said thoughtfully, ‘I wish there was something I could do to help him.’
Estarinel replied, ‘The only thing that will help any of us is for the Quest of the Serpent to be completed. And you are helping in that, Calorn.’
#
The small boat carrying Medrian and the Lady of H’tebhmella drifted through water that was as clear as liquid glass. The vessel was made of pale, smooth wood and pulled by a water-dwelling horse with arched neck and delicately tapering head. They sailed a long way before mooring and stepping onto an island of sapphire-blue crystal. As Medrian and the Lady crested a rise in the shore, they saw a long vista of weird and beautiful formations, like joyously leaping water frozen in mid-dance. There were arches and knolls and spires of rock, shimmering in every shade of blue and violet. Mist drifted between these fantastical shapes, a soft sparkling vapour that seemed sentient, purposeful.
Medrian had to swallow tightness in her throat as she saw the landscape. She could not say why she felt moved, except that the mist seemed alive, caressing the rocks as if greeting old friends with infinite tenderness. The formations appeared to return the greeting, bowing imperceptibly with love and gentleness in every line of their forms. The strange, still dance of light and stone was so unearthly, so far above and beyond her that she knew she could never touch or share their communion. All that love, she thought, and I am condemned to feel cold forever.
As if reading her thoughts, the Lady placed a comforting hand on Medrian’s arm and led her down the slope into the strange landscape. There was light in her grey eyes as she said, ‘Everything, even rock, has a spirit. In places the soul of H’tebhmella shows itself in more than external beauty. Don’t be envious. No human can hope to feel such pure and un-human emotion.’ Medrian dropped her eyes, shivering.
‘I am not envious,’ she said. ‘I have had enough pure and un-human emotion to kill me – the Serpent’s hatred.’
The Lady’s hand fell from Medrian’s arm as if she had no reply, no answer for her pain. She was silent for a long moment. Then she said, ‘Medrian, forgive me.’
‘My Lady, I should not have–’ Medrian broke off, biting her lip. ‘You asked me to talk with you, but I don’t know whether I can. I’m so unused to being able to speak freely. It’s difficult.’
‘Then there’s no need, if you don’t wish it,’ the Lady responded gently. ‘Let us just walk for a while.’
They went on in silence. Soft mist swirled around them, attaching to their skin in glistening azure motes, like dew. Their hair – the Lady’s silken brown, Medrian’s black – floated in the charged air, full of blue sparks. The Lady had faith that Medrian would, eventually, find words to release the misery that she’d kept locked within her for so long.
This time on H’tebhmella may be the only happiness she will ever know, the Lady thought sorrowfully, but while she is here no consolation, no joy will be denied her.
Medrian, however, had no expectation that confiding in the Lady would help her. Kind and wise as the H’tebhmellian goddess was, she was not mortal. She glided through the weird landscape at Medrian’s side, tall, beautiful, crystalline… and so distant. There was a gulf between them, no human warmth. I cannot bear this alien beauty, Medrian thought. It can’t be real.
Without knowing it, she had discovered H’tebhmella’s paradox. The Blue Plane was viewed as a kind of paradise, enigmatic and unattainable. Some strove for years to find an Entrance Point, and the few who succeeded found it all they had dreamed of, and more. Yet no one ever stayed here for more than a few months. The H’tebhmellians never forbade anyone from living out their lives here, but perhaps the Blue Plane was too perfect, its unearthly beauty too alien. Sooner or later each visitor would feel a restless need to return to a more normal, spherical world. For that reason H’tebhmella remained literally unattainable, and so its legendary enigma was perpetuated.
As the initial relief of arriving here faded, Medrian was assailed by self-doubt and indecision. These were enemies she had never had to fight before and she was afraid. To lose the battle would destroy her. She ached to ask the Lady many things, but she could not seem to frame a question.
‘Won’t you tell me what’s in your heart?’ the Lady murmured.
‘I don’t know. I would, but–’ With sudden, heartfelt bitterness the confession burst from her, ‘Oh, I wish I had never come here.’
The Lady turned to her, a puzzled look on her clear, compassionate face. ‘Medrian, why?’
‘All my life I have dreamed of being free of the Serpent.’ Her voice was icy and flat. ‘I know it’s said that M’gulfn cannot touch the Blue Plane in any form, but I could hardly believe it when I came through the Entrance Point – and I was free. I still can’t believe it – it feels so–’ She shuddered with remembered dread and revulsion. ‘It’s heaven to me. And I can’t stand it.’
The Lady’s rain-grey eye
s were full of sorrow as Medrian went on, her voice hoarse with loss, ‘It’s heaven I can never have. I can’t afford to let it touch me, any more than I can afford to let the Serpent touch me. I must harden myself to it, so that I can bear to go back into the world and finish the Quest. If I accepted freedom, I would be finished.’
‘Medrian, you must not doubt your strength,’ the Lady said gently. ‘If you accept the small amount of comfort we can give you here, I believe it will increase your strength, not undermine it.’
‘When there’s no hope, how can there be any comfort?’ Medrian exclaimed savagely. ‘I’m sorry, my Lady. It’s selfish to think only of my own hope – I forsook that many years ago. I have received healing here, and without H’tebhmella the world would have no hope at all. But no one can help me. Not even you. I’ve accepted it.’
The Lady felt inwardly stilled, almost stunned, as though the very fabric of the Blue Plane had shifted beneath her feet. What a fool I have been, she reflected. I thought I knew everything. Now, the revelation. Medrian is unhappy on H’tebhmella; even we, here, cannot really touch or ease her misery. Have I deluded her, as well as myself? Must the Serpent triumph?
Now the Lady of H’tebhmella knew: she had no power to reassure or even console Medrian. She could not even say, don’t be discouraged, because Medrian already was. Despair was all that kept her going.
The Lady could look into human souls as into crystal, and she shared deeply in their suffering, devoted all her strength to alleviating it. Yet human beings had an insubstantial quality that she could not quite touch, any more than a rock can grasp the sea that washes against it. She knew she could never cross that essential barrier, for she was H’tebhmellian, immortal. And now, faced with this Alaakian woman, whose soul was as intangible as a shadow, the Lady felt the void more acutely than ever. All her compassion, strength and wisdom failed her. She felt wordless, powerless. Diminished. I cannot heal her. M’gulfn has won.
When the Lady spoke at last, there was a quality of inner exhaustion in her voice that Medrian had never heard before.
‘I accept that you feel like this, but I wish you would tell me your story, so I can understand more clearly what has brought you to this depth of hopelessness.’
Medrian hesitated, and the Lady felt sure she would refuse. But at last she said, ‘Very well. I will tell you, my Lady, because you’re the only one to whom I’ll ever be able to speak freely. Not that relating my story can change anything, but it might restore my strength of purpose.’
Emotionless, the words falling from her lips like cold, white pebbles, Medrian began to describe her life: a nightmare such as even the Lady could not have envisaged.
Chapter Two. Medrian of Alaak
Medrian dreamed.
She dreamed that she was lying in snow under a black dome of night, and the light of stars was burning around her – stars that quivered with mocking pain, like the fragments of a shattered crystal.
She dreamed that her body was long and loathsome, a thick grey cord of knotted muscles covered in a colourless, flaky membrane like the discarded skin of a snake. She felt so heavy, as heavy as pitchblende, and at her sides leathery wings twitched feebly, impotent of flight. Yet within the core of her body a latent energy vibrated, radiating along every muscle rope, as slumberous and fierce and deadly as the power at the Earth’s heart.
The snow felt lukewarm and ice crystals grated against her skin membrane; the feeling was both irritating and deeply familiar. She rocked the weighty body from side to side, groaning faintly as she failed to lift her lead-heavy head. Unfamiliar, nightmarish sounds rent her lobeless ears. Someone was singing, though she had never heard a voice before, nor any sound except the fall of snow and the creaking of ice, and the moaning of the wind in the stars.
Medrian dreamed she was the Serpent.
Or rather, it dreamed and she was forced to share it, seeing through its eyes and experiencing its feelings and thoughts. Its thoughts were wordless images, vivid and explicit and nightmarish, redolent of age-old, unforgotten terror. For the Serpent suffered its recurring phantasm of eons ago, when it had been the only living being on Earth, and the Guardians had come to rend it of its power. And Medrian was entrapped in the nightmare, no longer knowing that she existed as herself. She was the Serpent, and to her the dream was real.
She lay upon the roof of the world, safe and inviolable in her domain of sighing, snow-filled gales. Of her origins she remembered nothing; she had always been there, past and future a grey tunnel of eternity. She – the Serpent M’gulfn – was in perpetual symbiosis with the Earth, her kingdom and home.
Until this moment.
Grey figures stood before her, their shapes both vague and chillingly real through her three Serpent’s eyes. They stood upright; each had a torso and a head and four limbs but each was shrouded in an ashen robe. She had never seen – never seen anything but snow. One of them was singing. She had never heard –
The song seemed to pinion her long Worm-body to the ground as if each word was a lead arrow. All the appalling power of the Serpent was rendered impotent by the song; she could not fly – could not even raise her head – could do nothing but groan.
She saw them flinch back at the terrible sound of M’gulfn’s voice, but the song grew stronger and she weaker. They advanced upon her. The words of the song made no sense, for she had never heard words before, but still they purged her every sinew of its strength. Now a throbbing, sick sensation filled her dim consciousness, terrifying in its very unfamiliarity.
For the first time, the Serpent felt fear.
To the Serpent, fear was not a word; it was a feeling. An image of bones crushed to dust, skin flayed from nerveless muscles. Medrian thrashed in the prison of her dream, rocked her Serpent body and groaned as the figures glided closer, filling her trinary vision.
Her three eyes twitched and rolled in their sockets, muscles in spasm as if trying to draw the orbs back into the recesses of her skull, there to hold them safe. The effort speared her with pain, but her eyes remained vulnerable –
Pain!
M’gulfn-Medrian saw the flash of metal before it cut under her centre eye, continued to see it even as the eye was dragged from its socket. And when the nerves and muscles were severed, the flash continued as a scream of white fire shafting through her head. Through that blazing agony, her two remaining eyes saw the figure step back, clutching the small blue orb as if it were a deadly creature that would inflict a fatal bite if he did not hold it firm. No flesh-fibres hung from it. It did not bleed.
My eye!
The white sword of pain rent her skull with impossible pressure. Her struggles were useless. A long, long age passed before she knew that the hurt was not caused by metal struck through her head, but by nothingness. The socket was empty, there was no knife. No eye.
Now there was no dread song to pinion her against the snow. The Serpent’s vast energy was returning. Soon pain was forgotten, fear a blurred, hollow memory. And Medrian-M’gulfn felt rage. With a roar, she lifted the thick body into the sky on trembling, primeval wings. But beneath her, the only witness to her ponderous, dreadful circling was the wind sighing across the ice-plains like the weeping of the world.
The figures had gone. And with them, her precious eye. The Serpent screamed its torture, its frustration and rage; screamed until even the wind dared not challenge its voice. Images exploded across its primitive mind.
They have taken my eye, the thought-pictures said. Men will come to the Earth. The world will teem with their small, frail bodies that are made in the image of the Guardians – head and limbs and torso. I have always known that men will come, I have always waited for their coming and I can still wait – what is a million years to me but the drifting down of a single snowflake? They have taken the eye with which I could have looked into the hearts and minds of men, bent their petty wills to mine and made them see that I am supreme on Earth; I am the Earth.
They have tried to take my power. Th
e next time they come, they will try to slay me.
They shall not slay me, not me!
Emotion tore apart the Serpent’s mind then. It sparked and ran like fire along every sinew of its body, as if the fibres were tinder poised for the ignition of insult and pain. Its body thrashed, scored and engulfed by the flames.
The emotion was hate.
Hate. Medrian writhed in the dream, the cosmic intensity of the Serpent’s malice filling her lungs with burning pain. The Guardians, I hate. Men, in their image, I loathe also. When they come into existence, I shall despise them doubly. The image of hatred was more terrible than that of fear. It was blood and rage and violence, and worse; it was grief, despair and desolation; and overlaying all, the grey of escapeless eternity.
Men will come to the Earth and because the Guardians have taken my eye I cannot see into their hearts and they will not worship me. But I have other powers. With my two remaining eyes I shall keep watch over the hideously dry, warm lands where they will live. I can hold sway over the elements.
I have boundless power. I can make for myself helpers who will instill chaos into their existence. And – grim triumph shook the Worm’s body like an earthquake as the idea came to it.
I can take for myself a human in which to hide my mind, so that I can move unseen among men, learning their words and ways and weaknesses. In the second body I can hide when they try to slay me. And then I can still – even without my eye – see into their hearts!
A Blackbird In Darkness (Book 2) Page 3
