A Blackbird In Darkness (Book 2)

by Freda Warrington

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  The Star of Filmoriel was just as they remembered her: a small, graceful ship of pale wood with a mythical beast’s face on the tall figurehead. White stars gleamed on the three slim masts as she bobbed gently in the lake. Estarinel felt tightness in his throat when he recalled how they had left her, stranded like a dead swan on the White Plane. No thanks to us that she found her own way home, he thought.

  They were approaching her across a craggy shore of blue-green rock. Behind them, a great stalk of rock rose up, spreading at its summit into a flat expanse on which crystalline trees grew and strange, lovely animals grazed. Across the clear lake, other rock formations stood rooted, some mushroom-shaped, some taking more fantastic forms. The beauty of the Blue Plane had lost none of the initial impact it had had on Estarinel, and was now more poignant because he felt sure he was seeing it for the last time.

  With him were Medrian and the Lady of H’tebhmella. Before them walked Ashurek, Calorn, and Filitha. A group of H’tebhmellians was waiting by the Star to bid them farewell. They had made her ready, and were now waiting by the lowered gangplank for the four travellers to go aboard.

  The four were all now similarly clad in travelling gear given to them by Filitha: breeches, long boots, belted jackets and heavy cloaks, all of neutral colours, fawn, russet, and slate-grey. The material was stout as linen yet as soft and warm as wool. In the hold were all the provisions they needed, including clothing and equipment suited to the Arctic weather they would eventually have to face. There was nothing to wait for, nothing to say except farewell.

  Estarinel felt he had been on the Blue Plane – which he had longed all his life to see – for an age, yet now it was slipping away from him. Time was torn from beneath his feet. He tried to return his mind to the Quest, but still the pain of loss gripped him. It startled him that, having endured so much pain, he still had the capacity to feel more. He looked at Medrian; her face, although she tried hard to let no expression appear on it, betrayed a terrible strain that immediately made him forget his own feelings.

  ‘The blessings of H’tebhmella be upon you,’ said the Lady, facing the three companions. ‘Ashurek, remember that Silvren acted always from love of the world, not from vengefulness.’ The Gorethrian’s eyes narrowed a little, but he held her gaze. His demeanour contained a distant but sincere respect. He said nothing as he bowed gravely to her, then mounted the gangplank and went aboard. Calorn followed him, having exchanged a solemn salute and a speaking look with the Lady. Both were obviously eager to be away, and Estarinel felt infected by their restlessness. To delay in the Blue Plane was pointless.

  The Lady turned to him and said, ‘E’rinel, I am so sorry about your family.’

  ‘There was a lot I wanted to ask you,’ he said softly. ‘Angry, futile questions: hasn’t the Serpent done enough to Forluin? Why did Ashurek act as he did? And Silvren – is there no limit to M’gulfn’s cruelty? But I know the answer well enough. Of course there’s no limit; it will go to every length it knows to torment and defeat us. In accepting that, I understand that rage and vengeful grief are impotent, broken weapons. The only answer is to stop it. Go forth and put an end to it.’

  ‘You have changed,’ the Lady said.

  ‘Yes – I’m beginning to sound like Medrian,’ he said with a faint smile.

  And like Medrian, he is beginning to lose himself, the Lady thought. He retains his Forluinish love and compassion. Yet how wary he has become.

  ‘Can I be right in thinking that you have lost your trust in H’tebhmella?’ she asked unexpectedly. He glanced at her as if she had hit on an uncomfortable truth. ‘I have no real trust left in anything,’ he admitted hesitantly.

  ‘Not even in me?’ she persisted.

  He thought how distant, how un-human she seemed, despite her closeness. ‘How can we be sure you want to help us – that we are not just being used to free H’tebhmella from the Dark Regions? Who or what dare I trust? You want to save the Blue Plane, not the Earth,’ he said flatly.

  ‘Estarinel, the Blue Plane is the Earth!’ she replied earnestly. ‘In what way are they separate? Do you think I do not long to rend the Serpent, to rid the Earth and universe of its abominable presence in one supreme act of cleansing? But I am powerless to do so. It was born with the Earth as we were. We fear each other yet the laws of our creation prevent us from entering each other’s domains. So, yes, in a way you are being used to achieve what we cannot. And we are being used in our turn. Perhaps the chain has no end, or circles upon itself. But there is another way of looking at it, which is that we need you as much as you need us. If not more. Are not Forluin, H’tebhmella and the Earth worth saving?’

  ‘Yes... whatever the cost,’ he murmured. ‘It is a strange feeling to accept that you are no longer an individual but an instrument to save others. It’s another reality.’

  ‘In understanding that, you come closer to understanding Medrian,’ the Lady said, almost in a whisper. He gave her a sharp, questioning glance, but she only added, ‘Fare you well, and remember, I am never so far away as you imagine.’

  She kissed his forehead and, as if in a trance, he turned from her and walked onto the smooth, pale deck of the Star.

  Now Medrian and the Lady spoke softly together, their voices drifting up like smoke, only half-heard.

  ‘I could not have stayed here,’ Medrian said. She sounded too calm, her terror too deeply suppressed. ‘Even here, and free, the space it leaves is a gaping hole that fills my whole universe. I have one future, one only, and there can be no alternatives and no escape routes; that I have always known. I’ll take my responsibility and go.’

  ‘I wish I could be with you, but I cannot, not while – it drives me away, even me,’ murmured the Lady, her eyes filled with tears like rain.

  ‘This is now my past, and ahead is only weary night. The dark vortex. Still...’ Medrian gave the slightest shrug. ‘Thank you for allowing me a glimpse of another life.’

  The Lady, white-clad and with soft blue light glowing from her, embraced her closely. ‘There’s nothing I can say. Your misery is mine, as is the misery of E’rinel and Ashurek and Silvren... of all who suffer under the Serpent. Go on now. Bless you.’

  Medrian looked up at the ship, and as Estarinel caught her eye it was as if someone had sung a high, jarring note. From her eyes, a breath of disharmony touched the Blue Plane. She hurried up the gangplank as if desperate to remove that discord from H’tebhmella.

  Their leave-taking finished, Calorn called to the two water-dwelling horses harnessed to the ship. Their great shoulders and quarters moved, gleaming like sea-washed boulders, and the ship began to glide forward. They swam willingly, dipping their long, fine muzzles into the water as they went.

  Looking back to the shore, they saw the Lady raising her hand to bid farewell. She was as lovely and enigmatic as a pale tree silvered by moonlight. From her fingers a shaft of blue light fell on the Star’s figurehead and the ship leaped in response like a brave and willing horse.

  The Star cut through the clear waters of H’tebhmella for several minutes before they noticed the waters clouding. The pinnacles of blue rock seemed foggy and distant, the sky low and dark. Waves began to heave beneath them, tugging at the small ship. The two great sea-dwelling horses were confused for a moment but swam on.

  The open sea was all around them, a disc of grey, heaving mercury. The world seemed claustrophobic and dim, the Blue Plane untouchable, now that they had returned through the Exit Point. Estarinel clutched the rail, feeling a sudden, terrible panic; there was so much he could have said to the Lady – so much he should have said to Medrian. But time had tricked him. It was too late.

  The sea seemed to be turning upon them, growling. A storm crawled towards them, slow and violent and malicious, like the storm that had swept them into the White Plane. The clouds seemed low enough to touch, spitting Serpent-coloured lightning. The waves, like billowing, filthy silk, began to drag the ship faster and faster through the oily
atmosphere. A foul wind caught at their faces.

  Standing at the prow between Estarinel and Ashurek, Calorn was the first to speak. ‘What appalling weather! Is your Earth always as bad as this?’

  ‘Worse, usually,’ was Ashurek’s response.

  Calorn was determined to make some attempt to lighten the gloom that had descended. Before she could continue, there was a movement behind her, and Estarinel cried, ‘Medrian!’

  The dark-haired woman had stumbled forward, apparently intent on throwing herself off the ship. Only the rail had stopped her and she now hung over it as if fainting.

  Calorn rushed to help Estarinel pull her back onto the deck. Medrian was a dead weight in his arms, yet she was not unconscious. Her face was grey, her eyes wide and staring. Her breath was so slow and laboured that every exhalation was a groan. Then she blinked and her face twisted with a mixture of pain and revulsion. With a remarkable burst of strength she pulled away from Estarinel, ran blindly down the steps from the forecastle to the main deck, then fell to her knees and began to scratch at the smooth planks with her fingernails. She struggled to catch her breath and began to utter low, hoarse screams that were horrible to hear.

  ‘Medrian! Medrian, what’s wrong?’ Estarinel cried. He followed and tried to pull her to her feet. She writhed in his aims like a mad puppet fighting itself, and her fingers were bloody.

  ‘Leave me! Leave me! Leave me!’ she shrieked.

  ‘We must get her below – Calorn, help me!’ said the Forluinishman, holding grimly onto her.

  They carried her to one of the aft cabins and laid her on the bunk. Calorn lit a lamp. It swung wildly from the ceiling as the ship tossed in the storm, casting mad shadows. The Alaakian woman’s face was ghastly, and she writhed on the bunk in some terrible, private distress that Estarinel felt powerless to comfort.

  ‘Has this happened to her before?’ Calorn asked, observing his helplessness and anxiety.

  ‘No. But I suspect she knew it was going to happen. That’s why she was so on edge before we left H’tebhmella,’ Estarinel held Medrian’s hands and watched her, his own face drained of blood.

  ‘Stay with her. I’ll bring some wine, it will restore her. Don’t look so worried!’ Calorn left the cabin. Estarinel was grateful for her practicality, but it did nothing to reassure him. Medrian wrenched her hands away from his and began to claw at her hair, drawing it in a black tangle over her grey, distorted face.

  Now there was rage in her expression, battling with the horror.

  ‘Damn you! Damn you! Don’t try me, you’ll lose!’ she cried out. ‘It will be as it was before. I am not yours!’

  Estarinel recoiled at these words, yet she did not seem to be addressing him. ‘Medrian – Medrian, it’s all right, I’m with you,’ he said. Locked in her private hell, she could not hear him.

  The cabin door opened. Ashurek entered and looked down at her prostrate form. ‘She’s not ill,’ he said. ‘She’s fighting something.’

  ‘That’s obvious,’ retorted Estarinel, glaring up at him. ‘Well, is there anything we can do for her?’

  ‘Alas no, my friend,’ the Gorethrian answered, sitting on the end of the bunk. ‘She can only help herself.’

  ‘A knife, a knife,’ Medrian muttered. Then, her face livid as if she were furious at Estarinel’s lack of response, she propped herself on her elbows and stared at him. ‘A knife, give me a knife.’

  ‘I haven’t got one. Why, Medrian?’ he said, startled.

  ‘A dagger, a blade, anything,’ she hissed.

  ‘The H’tebhmellians gave us no weapons. There were none on the Blue Plane, if you remember,’ Ashurek said coolly.

  ‘Something sharp – anything. It’s essential,’ she said, her voice weak but insistent

  ‘Lie down – try to rest,’ Estarinel implored her without success. Then, alarmed, ‘Ashurek, what in the name of all the gods are you doing?’

  He was removing from around his neck the chain on which the Egg-Stone had once hung. The clasp was an ingenious Gorethrian device designed to prevent theft; anyone attempting to remove the chain without knowing the correct method of undoing it would find a poisoned blade in his thumb. Death followed in seconds.

  Ashurek carefully sprang the tiny blade and handed it to Medrian. Estarinel stared at him aghast.

  ‘It has held no poison for many years,’ Ashurek told her.

  She took the chain with its vicious clasp gratefully; the risk of poisoning meant nothing to her. Then she pulled back her sleeve and began methodically to inflict shallow cuts on her inner forearm.

  Estarinel leaped forward to stop her with a cry of horror. Ashurek stayed him, his hands on the Forluinishman’s shoulders.

  ‘Have you gone mad?’ Estarinel snapped. ‘Don’t you know she tried to throw herself off the ship? She’s trying to kill herself!’

  ‘No – not now,’ Ashurek replied calmly. ‘She needs the pain to regain her self-control. Leave her alone. She knows what she’s doing.’

  Estarinel saw, horribly, that his companion was right. ‘I can’t watch,’ he muttered.

  ‘Then go on deck – I’ll stay with her.’ But neither could Estarinel leave her. He slumped on a seat in the corner of the cabin, barely noticing when Calorn brought a flask of reviving H’tebhmellian wine.

  Ashurek was proved right. With every cut, Medrian’s dreadful struggle diminished. When her whole forearm was bloody and her face white with pain, she became calm at last and gave the clasp back to Ashurek.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said stiffly. Then Estarinel came forward with bandages that Calorn had brought, and she allowed him to bind her arm. But she would not look at him, and he knew that it was Ashurek, not he, who had given her the help she needed. She sipped some wine then lay back on the bunk, as pale as death.

  ‘She will recover,’ said Ashurek, seeing how ashen Estarinel was. ‘I’ll sit with her.’

  Sighing bitterly, Estarinel left the cabin, and wandered across the deck. Calorn, who was waiting outside, approached and asked concernedly, ‘What’s wrong with Medrian?’

  ‘I don’t know. For some reason she can’t tell us,’ he replied, his voice strained with anxiety. ‘Ashurek seems to have more perception of what she’s enduring than I, and so is better able to help her... I think it’s something–’ he shook his head. Calorn was moved by his pain. ‘Something that doesn’t bear thinking about.’

  ‘You love her very much, don’t you?’ she asked gently.

  ‘It doesn’t make any difference. I would still care about her.’

  Calorn was silent for a while. Then she said, ‘When I saw the evil of the Dark Regions, how effortlessly it corrupts all that it touches, I was filled with anger, determination to do anything that will help recompense you and destroy it.’

  ‘Do you always keep your concern for others – never for yourself?’

  She shrugged. ‘I am a mercenary, a soldier who serves others. I have nothing left for myself. But this is the way I’ve chosen to live, therefore I am content. Does that make sense?’

  ‘Yes, I think so.’

  ‘I also know that people can be destroyed by caring too much... but nothing I say will stop you, will it?’

  ‘No. I am not free to make that choice.’

  ‘Come on,’ she said, smiling. ‘I must take up my duties; someone has to navigate. You can assist me. I think night is drawing on and this storm won’t help us find our bearings.’

  Estarinel helped her to set up navigational equipment. The deck tipped beneath their feet and waves broke over them, but the H’tebhmellian cloaks were sturdy and waterproof. As it grew darker, the diamond radiance shining from the masts gave them light to work by.

  ‘Now, all we need is a sight of the stars. Meanwhile, I think we should retreat to a cabin and eat,’ Calorn suggested cheerfully.

  They were making their way across the deck when the door of Medrian’s cabin opened and she emerged. The wind swept her hair back from her face and she looked very
pale under The Star of Filmoriel’s lights. She made to walk straight past them, but Estarinel stopped her and said, ‘Medrian? Are you feeling better?’

  She looked at him, perfectly composed.

  ‘Yes. It won’t happen again, I assure you.’ She was as cold as the distant stranger he had first met at the House of Rede. It was as if all they had been through together was obliterated. The darkness had returned to her eyes, making them seem grey and black caverns full of shadow.

  He felt like shouting in protest, No! I won’t let this happen to you! At the same time he felt so chilled that he could not say anything at all.

  ‘Estarinel,’ she added, ‘remember what I told you. I meant it. It must be as it was before.’ Then she went on her way and stood alone at the prow, staring out into the bitter storm. Estarinel tried to swallow his unbearable emotions for her sake; he knew that even those few words were more than she could afford to offer him.

  Chapter Six. The Domain of the Silver Staff

  The storm abated during the night. The travellers emerged from their cabins at dawn and saw that the clouds had curled back to reveal patches of colourless, rain-washed sky. The ship’s violent pitching of the night before had subsided to a gentle rolling motion as she glided with the swell of the waves. On the horizon before them, the sun was rising like a giant pearl behind gauzy layers of cloud.

  Calorn climbed up to the forecastle deck, tying her cloak and disentangling her long chestnut hair from the hood as she went. She took a deep breath of cold, salty air, and leaned over by the figurehead to check that the sea-horses were well. They were swimming with unrelenting strength, unaffected by the storm. She gave them a shout of encouragement and they shook their delicate, tapering heads in response.

  Making a check of her navigational equipment, she found that only a slight adjustment to their course was necessary. This done, she stood looking out across the milky grey ocean, one hand on the figurehead’s slim neck.