Darkfall

by Isobelle Carmody

  Climbing from the carriage, she mounted the steps leading to the front door with the others. A plate fixed alongside the door announced the place as Ruinously Berry Treemountain. Gedron hammered at the door at the same moment as a loud voice inside boomed out in song. Though it sounded no better or worse to Glynn than the singing of the children, the draakira winced and grimaced at one another.

  ‘Of all the places to stay, we choose a nightshelter housing the only man on Fomhika who cannot sing!’ Bayard declared and earned a cool look from Gedron.

  Glynn turned to gaze down the slope to the bay. More than half the town was spread below them, glowing gold in the final rays of Kalinda. Even as she watched, the edge of the Keltan sun vanished into a sea of scarlet and gold and it was twilight.

  Gedron thumped at the door again, a dark flush rising up the back of his neck. Abruptly the singing stopped and the door swung open to reveal an enormously fat man, grinning widely. He bowed to Gedron and then thanked them all effusively for their custom, introducing himself as Pombo Lockblot Breer. Glynn reflected that names, like everything else on this florid island, could do with being pruned!

  ‘I think I am the only Fomhikan born tone deaf,’ Pombo said, after apologising for his singing. ‘It is lucky I can cook better than I sing, else I would have no custom. Let me show you your rooms and then I will have a meal laid out in the private dining chamber fit for Poverin himself.’

  Glynn became conscious that the Prime and the Draaka were watching her. Perhaps they expected her to make a sudden appeal for asylum.

  Gedron said, ‘The Draaka is to dine with Poverin.’

  The proprietor shook his head and addressed the Draaka directly. ‘It is a public revel to which you are invited, Lady, and the food will be sadly lacking in quality because it has been produced in large quantities. My apologies, Gedron, but you know it is so. Perhaps I might persuade your guests to try a morsel or two of my fare before they go …’

  ‘Never mind that,’ Gedron snapped. ‘The Lady has more important business here than to bother with food.’

  Pombo looked affronted, but without another word he conducted them to their rooms. Predictably, Glynn was to stay with Bayard and the feinna. She settled the slumbering animal into its cushions as the draakira began to remove scrolls from the sacks, muttering to herself.

  ‘Can I get something to eat before you go?’ Glynn asked.

  ‘You will attend the revel with me,’ Bayard said unexpectedly. ‘As that fat fellow said, the occasion is open to every rag-tag so why should you not come? I have not been here before, so your knowledge of Fomhikan society may be useful. There is no need to worry about the feinna as we will not be going far from the nightshelter.’

  Glynn felt distinctly uneasy at the thought of attending a function at which she could all too easily reveal how ill-informed she was about Fomhika. For once she would have preferred to be kept locked up.

  Going to the window, she stared through a curtain of creeper at the sea far below. The shore was a distant creamy curve, the three piers lost in shadow. The ships tied up showed as beads of light, and the road they had traversed from the pier seemed to glow in the darkness, as if emitting the light it had absorbed during the day. Moving along the road now, illuminated by the lanterns they carried, were groups of people. Most travelled on foot but some rode in carriages.

  One of the draakira called that the carriage was ready to leave.

  ‘We will go on foot,’ Bayard decided. ‘The thought of walking on ground that stays still under my feet pleases me.’

  Glynn changed her clothes at Bayard’s suggestion, glad to remove the heavy winter tunic and overdress. Clad in the skirt, white shirt and sandals she had been given on Acantha, she felt cool and light, and she reflected that the word ‘freedom’ had taken on a different dimension since her arrival on Keltor. Before, it had been a philosophical ideal and a good subject for a semantic wrangle, but now it meant something as basic as being allowed to choose when and what to eat or wear.

  A balmy breeze lifted the curtain of creepers and she heard the sound of laughter. Going again to the window she noticed that the noise came from a square of lights some way down the hill. People were milling around it and most of the travellers on the road appeared to be wending their way towards it. It was quite probably their own destination for the evening.

  When Bayard was ready, they locked the feinna into the room, and made their way down the hall and into the foyer. A young man wearing an apron around his waist burst out of a door in front of them carrying a tray of food and some huge clay tankards of steaming liquid. He hurried across into the foyer and went through another door. Glynn caught a glimpse of people singing and clapping, before the door swung shut behind him.

  It was dark outside after the brightness of the nightshelter and they stopped on the top steps for a moment, blinking and waiting for their eyes to adjust. Strains of music seemed to come from all directions in the night. Beyond the piers the dark sea stretched away to merge seamlessly with the night sky. Two stars pricked the velvet blackness, but as yet neither of the moons had risen.

  Walking slowly, they passed between the leafy columns and onto the road. They took several downward sets of steps, gradually working their way to a lower section of the road a little left of the square Glynn had seen from the nightshelter window.

  There were poles all around the square, linked by a chain of creeper from which hung paper lanterns lit up by tapers. It was these that had marked the square out from above. A group of musicians seated on a woven mat to one side were playing vigorously, their faces sheened by sweat.

  ‘Over there,’ Bayard said, pointing beyond them.

  Glynn followed her gaze to a gazebo constructed entirely of white blossoms. Around it was a waist-high hedge of greenery threaded with violet flowers. Two men in brown uniforms embroidered in green and slashed with gold stood on either side of the entrance to the gazebo. Glynn guessed they were Fomhikan legionnaires. People clad in glittering, scanty draperies milled around the outside of the hedge. Inside under the canopy of blossoms was a long table draped in white cloth, lit by a bank of long white candles. Those few seated at it were universally clad in white or green. Only the Draaka, dressed in a shimmering red tunic over a grey dress, stood out from the rest. Her head-dress was a mass of crimson blossoms shaped into the flaring-sun design around a frame, and her tunic was embroidered with gold thread that caught the candlelight, and was slashed with a darker red. She looked so dramatically different from everyone else that she could only have intended it.

  Flanking her were the Acanthan Prime, and the chieftain’s son, Gedron. Beside him sat a young boy so much like him it had to be a brother. Glynn realised this must be a fourth brother, for surely he was not old enough to be the next in line to chieftainship; and the mermod, she knew, dwelt on Ramidan. Beside them were an older man and a woman with a child on her lap.

  Someone began to beat loudly on a gong, and everyone in the square turned to the flowery gazebo. Bayard shrugged and whispered that they would now have to wait to join the Draaka. The older man at the table under the canopy rose and lifted up his glass in a toast. He had an air of authority as he did this, that marked him as the chieftain of Fomhika even before he spoke. Like Gedron, he wore his hair loose except for two gold-threaded plaits either side of his face.

  ‘I am Poverin, chieftain of Fomhika,’ he said in a booming rumble. ‘By me is my mate and heartsong whom you know; my Lady Maeve.’ He gestured to the woman seated beside him. She was a severe-looking woman wearing a plain, dark-green shift, and no jewellery. Her hair was pure white and hung loose over her shoulders. On her lap was a girl of about ten, also clad in green. ‘Here, too, is my daughter, Rilka, and my sons, Gedron and Torrid. My other sons are otherwise occupied, as you know.’

  There was a ripple of laughter from the crowd.

  ‘We dine with you and among you so that you will know we do not raise ourselves above you, and so that, together, we
may do honour to the wealth of our vines and our fair green isle.’

  Despite the casual tone, there was a formality about his words that suggested this was a ritual phrasing.

  ‘I have a question!’ someone shouted.

  ‘Speak freely, but first come forward so that we may see you,’ Poverin invited.

  The man pushed his way to the front. ‘I am Vakan and your loyal subject, Poverin. I ask why you share your table with this woman who attacks Darkfall and would have us worship the Chaos spirit!’

  There was an aggressive murmur from the crowd, but it was hard to tell if it was directed at the speaker or at Poverin or the Draaka.

  ‘You know it is my policy to rule lightly and trust you to think for yourselves,’ Poverin said easily. ‘I have never been one to suppress knowledge or command beliefs and I shall not begin to do so now. If I would be free, I must bestow freedom. You all know I support Darkfall, but one cannot remain rigid, for times change and we must be flexible within our beliefs. We must listen to one another and be prepared to grow. Did not Lanalor himself say that all voices should be heard?’

  ‘Then let us hear the woman speak of why she is here!’ someone else cried, and the cry was taken up by others.

  Poverin turned a look of query upon the Draaka and she rose. Glynn realised she had expected this, and it was, no doubt, why she had dressed so flamboyantly. The mere sight of her, glowing like a flame amidst all the greenery, was as daunting as it was spectacular.

  ‘I am the Draaka, as you may know, and I am on my way to Ramidan at the invitation of Tarsin. I attend this celebration at the request of your chieftain and his son, Gedron, and I am honoured to do so. I am also happy to speak of my beliefs, though I would never force them on to anyone. Any kind of force is abhorrent to me. Including the forces of fear and ignorance.’ Her voice, when it was projected in this way, was rich and resonated beautifully. There was no doubt the crowd were entranced by it. Though she had lied when she said Tarsin had invited her to Ramidan, Glynn thought. According to Bayard, it was Coralyn who had issued the invitation, in her son’s name.

  ‘What does Tarsin want with you?’ asked Poverin’s young daughter Rilka. She spoke with surprising aplomb, considering that she was sitting on her mother’s lap.

  The Draaka smiled at her. ‘I think he desires to understand why Darkfall has failed him.’ There was a roar at that and she waited until it faded. ‘I will say to him that it failed him because it did not allow him to rule freely. He, like all Holders since Lanalor, has been held ransom to the mysticism of Darkfall. His rule has been seen as nothing but an interim event leading to the coming of the Unraveller. The rule of Keltor has nothing to do with the Unraveller, yet the soulweavers have married one to the other. Why should it be so? What has the Holder to do with the Unraveller after all? Tarsin refused to accept the stranglehold that Darkfall has always had over the ruler of Keltor. The effort of it has all but broken him. Yet maybe out of ill comes good, for people all over Keltor now ask questions where before there was mindless obedience.’

  ‘If Darkfall is disbanded, who shall choose the mermod?’ a woman cried.

  The Draaka smiled, showing white even teeth. ‘Why you, good woman, and your brother and your father. The common people together shall choose a mermod, who will come to rule the present rather than being rendered impotent by the past.’

  There was a babble of talk from the crowd and Gedron and his young sister, Rilka, seemed to be arguing fiercely.

  Poverin made a slight gesture and the gong was sounded. Silence fell again. ‘This is not an occasion for acrimony but for the seeking of knowledge.’

  ‘You have no business on Fomhika then?’ someone else asked of the Draaka.

  ‘None other than a courtesy call to those here who would subscribe to my beliefs.’ The Draaka said.

  The chieftain’s wife pushed her daughter from her lap and rose. ‘You preach the destruction of Darkfall, claiming it will enable the Holder to deal with the present, but what of the past you dismiss as if it were nothing?’ she asked in a flat, dry tone that made no attempt to seduce or enchant.

  ‘I do not dismiss the past. But it is the future that matters,’ the Draaka said.

  ‘The past is the mother of the present and of the future,’ Maeve said coldly. ‘This dark time is not the result of a single Holder’s misrule, nor of petty political upheavals, but of a greater darkness that came upon Keltor when the Firstmade was lost to us, and therefore hope was lost. Look about you and open your eyes. Men beat and rape and steal and lie, children mutilate pets and despise their elders, women are cruel and cold, there is madness and hatred and anger and corruption – all born of despair without hope. Once there were visionweaving exhibitions, but how many weavings now come from Sheanna? Where are the displays of beauty and courage from the myrmidons? The oils and perfumes from Iridom? The jewels from Acantha? We are sinking into the mire and we will not rise until we learn hope. Darkness will reign until the Unraveller comes and the Firstmade is restored to the world to lift our gazes and our souls.’

  A deep silence met her words. Glynn was moved, because didn’t this description fit her world, too, with its violent crimes, its wars born of lies and political expediency, pollution and nuclear tests that destroyed the environment, the extinction of animals for their coats and for imagined aphrodisiacs, terrorism and cruelty in which the weak were crushed as a matter of course by the strong, the proliferation of pornography and mindless romance that had nothing to do with love?

  It seemed to Glynn, now, that the fierce old woman, with her plain clothes and face and flat voice, was beautiful because she had spoken the truth so plainly.

  ‘Lady, you are firm in your beliefs.’ The Draaka’s voice trickled like honey into the stillness. ‘I only wish this strength were not being poured into these empty myths. If there ever was a Firstmade, it is no more. As to the Unraveller, I only pray it does not ever free itself from the Void, lest all we love perish in balefire. You believe this time is dark, but if Darkfall continues its erosion of the Void, you will discover what true darkness is.’

  The older woman’s expression was frigid. ‘I will not have blasphemy spoken at my table.’

  Glynn had the impression they were both flames – one bright and glowing as Kalinda, and the other cold and pure as the heart of a star.

  ‘My Lady, I did no more than answer your question,’ the Draaka protested. ‘Would you have me lie?’

  ‘How fares our mermod?’ someone shouted.

  Poverin looked relieved and rested his hand on his wife’s shoulder. ‘He is well because he is well-protected. But as Maeve says, these are dark times.’

  ‘The sooner he is Holder the better for all of Keltor,’ someone yelled, and there was a roar of approval.

  Maeve resumed her seat but Glynn saw that these words did not please her.

  ‘Keltor is not a gentle world,’ the Draaka said in a sorrowful tone, which suggested this grieved her personally. She had remained standing and the power of her voice was such that people fell silent again.

  ‘You must revel in that since you worship the Chaos spirit,’ Maeve snapped from her seat.

  ‘I accept that Chaos exists,’ the Draaka said. ‘Your own words show you know it to be so, Lady. It is part of the nature of our kind for it to be so. I allow myself to be guided by the Void guardian, who restrains the worst of Chaos within the walls of the Void. With its aid, we strive to understand how to control the Chaos that is part of our natures, and heal the rifts that Lanalor and Darkfall have made in the Void wall, lest the Unraveller demon escape …’

  The chieftain’s wife became as utterly still as if she had been transformed into stone. ‘Obscenities rise from you as maggots rise from foul meat,’ she said icily. ‘Rest assured, that we who are faithful to Darkfall look for the coming of the Unraveller and the freeing of the Firstmade. We do not heed the lies you plant so cleverly and slyly in the mouths of balladeers and in your blasphemous public chits. You
and your followers would consign the Firstmade to eternal binding, but Darkfall will never permit it.’

  ‘The Firstmade is a madman’s dream. You think all the darkness would vanish like the night mists if this Firstmade were released? Is not this Firstmade as a toy one gives to a frightened child at bedtime? A world is not so easily soothed.’

  ‘The Unraveller shall come and when the Unykorn is released all those who worship Chaos will fall because we will see the light,’ Maeve said harshly.

  ‘And all will live happily evermore. If you wait for the Unykorn to fly, Lady, you will die waiting and so will your children and their children. And while you wait, the Darkfall sisterhood will rule this world with their perverted mysticism until there is nothing left to rule …’

  Poverin cut in determinedly, his tone mild. ‘What then do you think of Lanalor’s Charter and the Legendsong? Do you call them lies?’

  ‘Lanalor was a madman …’

  ‘How dare you!’ Maeve gasped.

  ‘Do you deny that Lanalor was mad?’

  ‘Until he saw Shenavyre before him, dead of grief by her own hand, the Chaos spirit lay hidden within his soul and so he was mad. It tricked him into bringing Chaos into a world that had before been nothing but harmony,’ Maeve snapped. ‘But after Shenavyre died, his madness was washed away by grief and Lanalor repented his binding of the Unykorn. He spent his life repairing the ill he had done.’

  ‘And how do you know he was no longer mad?’ the Draaka asked, candlelight leaping in her eyes. ‘Because the Legendsong said so, which his sister wrote from his notes and her researches?’

  Poverin said, ‘It is true that there may have been errors but the substance of …’

  ‘Poverin …’ Maeve said warningly.

  The chieftain nodded impatiently. ‘I speak no treason, love. My words rise out of ordinary human reason.’