by Tim Stead
Felice did not dream again, did not see the large eyed girl with wings, but slept the black sleep of the truly weary, a sleep that did not refresh, but simply blotted out exhaustion for a few hours. She woke when the sun was already up, and hunger was a taste in her mouth. She could even smell food. She could smell food.
Sitting up she saw Tann crouched over the fire, which was alive and blazing cheerfully in the mist. Pasha was there, too, bright eyed again. She saw that Felice was awake and touched Tann’s arm. He turned and grinned at her.
“Eel,” he said. “A big one.”
She scrambled to their side, and saw that it was true. Tann had caught an eel, a beast of a fish about two feet in length and nearly as thick as the boy’s wrist. He had already gutted it, spitted it on a damp stick, and was turning it carefully over the fire. The smell was astonishing, like the best food in the world. It seemed a long time until Tann deemed the fish cooked through, and then they found that it was too hot to hold, so Felice cut three leaves from the broad leafed grasses that grew all around them, and they used these as plates, picking at the hot white meat with their fingers.
The food lifted their spirits, and not long after they had finished it, they set out again, following where the knife pointed, but it was another long day, and after only a few hours the feeling of satisfaction dissipated and they were hungry again. They rested at midday, and Tann sat by a pool with his spear, looking for another prize. He took this seriously now. It was his job to provide food. He was the hunter.
His luck did not return, however, and Felice insisted that they continue walking after an hour’s rest. Tann would have spent the rest of the day hunting in pools, but she guessed that the morning’s eel had been a rare piece of luck, and pressed on, not knowing how far the knife might lead them.
They stopped early again, because they were tired, and because Tann had agitated all day to be allowed to fish for eels, and now he did, crouching by the largest of the pools nearby, spear in hand, while Felice built the fire again and Pasha gathered twigs and grasses for fuel. It was becoming a routine, and she knew that they could last quite a few days like this, slowly getting weaker, covering shorter and shorter distances each day until they stopped, too weak to go on, and died.
With the fire blazing and the cup filled and set to boil she sat back and looked at her knife again. It was such a small thing to hold so great a secret, but it had given them hope, and a direction. It had promised them a way through the swamp when there was no way. She was still fairly sure that if they lasted long enough they would get through it. She thought the magic an honest magic.
She gave the first cup to Pasha, and the girl sipped it until it was cool enough to drink. She thanked Felice and went to watch Tann while the cup was filled again and placed on the fire. She imagined the map in her head, the one that Ella had shown her. They could not be heading for the road. Even if they were travelling towards the second bridge – the furthest point on the road that would constitute some form of safety – they would surely have reached it by now. It could not have been more than five miles from where they had been attacked. Two days’ walking should have taken them between twenty and forty miles, depending on how well they had done, and how twisted the path they followed. How long, she wondered, would this go on?
She looked up and for a moment she thought that she was asleep and dreaming again. Three men stood at the edge of the circle of firelight, staring at her. They were dressed as guardsmen, and all three had their swords drawn.
She stared back at them. What were guardsmen doing in the middle of the swamp? She stood up and faced them. They were real enough. One of them spoke.
“Who are you?” he asked. “What are you doing here?”
“I am trader Felice Caledon,” she replied,” and these,” she pointed to the children, “are Tann and Pasha.”
“It is them,” one of the other men said, and there was naked amazement in his tone. The swords were sheathed.
“How did you get here?” the first asked.
“We walked,” she glanced at Tann, who had come up beside her, and he seemed to understand. She didn’t want the knife mentioned.
The man shook his head. “That’s quite a walk, Ima Caledon,” he said.
“Where are we?” she asked.
“Stone Island.”
“How far?”
“Eight hundred yards. The watchmen on the walls saw your fire and we were sent out to see. You walked all the way from the White Rock road?”
Felice nodded. “I don’t like to abuse your hospitality,” she said, “but we haven’t had much to eat or drink in three days.”
“Of course. I apologise, Ima,” the one who spoke seemed to be in charge. “Please follow us and we will take you back at once.”
The guardsmen led the way, and they walked. Slowly the mist transformed into a huge, dark shadow, and then the shadow became a wall, rising out of the marsh to a height of twenty yards.
“One of your men said: ‘it is them’. You were looking for us?”
“For the children, Ima,” the man shrugged apologetically. “We hoped, of course that you would be with them, but their father is one of the Mage Lord’s own, and he asked for help.”
“He could not find them himself?”
“He could not, or not in so short a time. The mist hides everything, and we cannot search far. The ways of the marsh are secrets kept even from us.”
She remained silent as they circled the fortress walls. She would have found her way out anyway, with the knife, but it was sobering to think that she was less important than the children. They were known. They had friends at White Rock. She did not feel resentment at this, just a sharp moment of clarity, of understanding.
They came to the gate. This, too, was of massive stone, and they passed beneath its vast arch like ants, and out of the great marsh. The mist did not choose to follow them within the walls.
A figure dressed in a dark cloak, an older man with a stern face and grey hair, stood in the middle of the courtyard. He wore a sword, but otherwise did not have the appearance of a guardsman. She was led up to him. He smiled.
“Felice Caledon?” he enquired. His voice was soft, but used to command. It was the sort of voice that people listened to.
“Yes,” she said.
“I am the lord Christo Milan of Stone Island, and my heart is gladdened by your improbable arrival in my domain. I am sure that you are hungry and tired, and so we will go directly to my chambers where you and the children will eat. After that there are rooms set aside, and facilities where you may all bathe and be restored.”
She bowed – a respectful bow. “Thank you, my lord,” she said.
Milan gestured and men ran off. She heard the great gates closing, and they followed him up a flight of stairs to his own chambers. These were sparely furnished, simple almost to the point of self denial, but no sooner had they arrived than men began to pile the table with plates of food. Bottles, too, appeared, and glasses were filled.
Felice was given a plate, and did not hesitate. She had dreamed of food like this, of wine and a great fire to dry her clothes. It was the same, though, the same as the dream with the winged child. The fire looked identical. Somehow the enchantment within the knife had known this chamber, had shown her the room in which she was destined to sit. She shivered.
“You are cold?”
“It is the damp, my lord. It will pass in a moment. Such warmth as we have found here cannot be denied.”
Milan smiled and sipped a glass of his own, though he did not eat.
“I am curious about your route through the swamp,” the lord said. “Did you follow any principle to guide you, or was it just luck?”
“Luck, my lord,” she replied. She ignored a look from Tann, but she did not doubt that Christo had seen it.
“You made very good time. It is a full day’s march in a straight line from where you were last seen, and you took only three through the maze of the marsh. That is amaz
ing.”
“I am amazed myself,” she said, not meeting his eyes.
Christo chuckled. “I will not pry further, Ima,” he said. “If there is a secret that you wish to keep, then that sits well with me.”
Felice blushed, and felt like a foolish girl, but she did not confess the secret of the knife. It was a valuable thing, and many men might covet it. Best, perhaps, they should think she had some power in herself, as the Pekkan sailors had done.
The conversation continued, but along other lines, and Felice told her story again, and heard tales of times before Serhan’s victory over the Faer Karan, of the creature that had ruled here in solitude. Most other Faer Karan lords had lesser creatures that served them, but not this one. Its name had been Kalnistine, and it had chosen Stone Island, it seemed, because it was isolated. There were no nearby farms or villages within its domains. It was a hermit’s castle, a secret place at the heart of the marsh maze.
When they had finished, and sleep threatened to claim them as they sat at table, the Lord Milan gave them leave to go to their rooms, and as they left told them one last thing.
“Sleep well,” he said. “In the morning there will be someone here to see you, and the children will go on to White Rock. You, Ima, are also required to travel to White Rock. It seems that you are needed there.”
“I have other business,” she protested. “I have told you that I must be in Woodside as soon as possible.”
“White Rock is closer to your goal,” Christo reassured her, “and I do not think they will keep you more than a day or so. It is a simple matter.”
“Can you tell me what it is?”
“In the morning, Ima. Another will tell you in the morning.”
Felice was worried. It would take time to get to White Rock, time that might let Karnack escape justice yet again, and she doubted that she would sleep, but the wine and the food worked their pedestrian magic, and she slept almost as soon as her head touched the very soft pillows.
* * * *
Morning came, and she was woken by a knocking on the door of her room. There was no sun here. The mist blotted it from the sky, but she felt almost herself again, and swiftly bathed and dressed. Fresh clothes had been laid out for her, and although they were loose fitting it was a pleasure to wear something clean.
A man guided her down to a great hall where many people were eating the first meal of the day. She was shown what was available, and ate a good meal, washed down with jaro and the juice of southern fruits – a luxury that she had not expected. The others in the hall glanced at her from time to time, and she was reminded of what she had almost forgotten in the swamp – her face was scarred.
It did not disturb her as much as it once had. She was alive, safe, and a day ago she had doubted that such things lay in her future.
When the meal was finished a man showed her to Lord Milan’s chambers, and bid her wait there until someone came. The room was empty and the fire was dead, so she sat at the table and studied the walls. What kind of man was this lord, she wondered, who lived in the middle of a marsh, caged in a place without sun? The rooms told their own story. There was no sign of luxury or self indulgence on display. The chairs were simple and well made, as was the table. There were no tapestries or other decorations, and the walls were white and clean. A jug of water and several cups stood on a side table, but these, too, were simple and made plainly to serve their purpose.
In the absence of clues she imagined him a man driven by duty. What else could compel a man to stay here? Grateful though she was for the rescue, the food, the comfort, this had to be the worst place in the world. If it had been up to her the place would have been abandoned and left for the marsh to reclaim.
The door opened. When she saw what came through the door she dropped instinctively to her knees, not knowing how else to respond.
“Obeisance is no longer required,” the Faer Karani said. “You may stand.”
She stood and looked. Its form was almost human, but there was something strange about the way it stood, the way it moved, and the eyes were plain white with no pupil or iris.
“My lord,” she said.
“I am Borbonil of Ocean’s Gate,” the creature said. “I serve the Mage Lord Serhan, and he has directed me to bring you to White Rock, and to speak with you.”
“On what matter, my lord?”
“I confess that I did not understand his words until I entered this room, but now I see his wisdom is revealed. May I see the knife?”
She felt the shock of discovery, and a dread of what this thing might do next. For all her life she had feared the Faer Karan, and with good reason, and yet she had never seen one, even from a distance, until this day. Now she stood no more than a few feet from a monster that had ruled a good portion of the world, and she possessed something that was forbidden. Borbonil could destroy her in a moment, she knew.
She saw it notice her hesitation.
“There is no cause for fear, Felice Caledon,” it said. “Magic is permitted to all, to high and low. It is the Mage Lord’s rule. I am simply curious, as I have been instructed.”
She drew the knife and held it out. Borbonil made no move to take it from her, but simply looked. She reminded herself that this was the same Borbonil that had saved a thousand lives in Pek, had rebuilt the city.
“I know this blade,” it said. “It was a possession of the Lady Amarina, cousin to the King of Blaye. It was made by Corderan to find the way. It is named Pathfinder. It contains a part of a young girl.”
Each sentence was like a blow. All her secret revealed, and more than she had ever dreamed to discover about the knife. But the last sentence troubled her most of all.
“Part of a girl?” she asked.
“Yes. It was a device that the Mage Corderan sometimes used to give personality to artefacts that he created. The Faer Karan did not think such tricks or trinkets proper.”
“Will you take the blade from me?” she asked.
“Take it? No. It is of no use to me, and as I understand it the blade is yours.”
She put the knife away, feeling foolish, and yet also emboldened.
“You are the Lord Protector of Pek, are you not?”
“I have been given this title, and I do not object to its use,” Borbonil said.
“May I ask a favour of you?”
The Faer Karani was silent for a moment, its eyes turned towards her. Hard as she tried she could read no hint of what it was thinking in its expression.
“What is a favour?” it asked. Again she could not tell why it was asking. Surely Borbonil would know the word?
“A favour is a gift, a deed, perhaps. It is something done as an act of good will towards another. There is an implication of debt, but it is not a debt that one necessarily expects to be paid.”
“Do you expect to be able to repay me?”
“No.”
“Then why would I do this favour?”
“That is up to you, my lord. The supplicant can only ask. It is the prerogative of the other to decline.”
“Very well; you may ask your favour.”
“There is a child in Pek,” she said. “When you visited she was not in the city, and was not cured by your magic. She lacks the ability to see, but otherwise is sound of mind and body, and is as worthy as any other to receive your gifts. Her father blames himself for her absence, and they are good people. The favour that I would ask is the gift of sight for this girl.”
“You ask nothing for yourself?”
“Not unless you can raise the dead, my lord.”
“I know your tale, Felice Caledon. Lord Milan has revealed it to me, and I am surprised that you would not ask for another thing, for revenge upon the man Karnack.”
“I seek justice, my lord, not vengeance.”
“So it would seem, and I will consider your ‘favour’ if you give me the child’s name, but now it is time to travel to White Rock. It may reassure you to know that we have been able to retrieve your bagg
age, and that it awaits you there.”
Without further explanation he opened the door, and revealed the children standing outside with the Lord Milan. He ushered them in. The children were visibly troubled by his presence, and Borbonil took the trouble to reassure them in his uniquely unreassuring way.
“I have been told that you may be distressed by magic,” he said to them. “Do not be. No harm will come to you, and you will soon be with your father in White Rock.”
Mention of their father seemed to help, but the Faer Karani had already turned from them and begun the words of a spell. As he spoke a black mist seemed to rise from the floor and gradually coalesce into a square mirror, black as night, which reflected nothing at all.
He stooped and picked up the children as though they were feathers, and turning to Felice, told her to follow, and with that he stepped through the blackness. Felice hesitated. She knew what this was, or thought that she did, and if she stepped through it she would be at White Rock – a hundred miles with a single step.
She shrugged. It was just one more miracle, after all. She stepped into the black door.
10. White Rock
She wished that she had arrived at White Rock for the first time in the usual manner, by the road across the plain. As it was she stepped from the black door into a windowless chamber somewhere deep within the walls, and she had no sense of the place at all. They could have been in a room ten feet from where they had started.
The room was quite dull; stone walls and stone floors, lit by an assortment of oil lamps; and was dominated by a large oak table with several chairs around it. At the table sat two figures. One was a youngish guard officer, and it was immediately apparent from his reaction that he was the children’s father. He jumped to his feet and ran to embrace them, a gesture that they returned with enthusiasm. There was love there, and it reminded her of her own family back in the Scar. For a moment she was overwhelmed by homesickness, but she pushed it away and the moment passed. She studied the other figure, which now stood and approached her.
“You are Felice Caledon,” she said. She was not young, but her face was more stern than old. She had strong features and clear, clever eyes.
