They paused beside a creek and Lae flopped to the ground, almost too exhausted to move. Yet she forced herself to crawl forward and drink. Slowly. The cool flowing water soothed her throat and she splashed some over her face, wetting the rope which bound her hands. It would rub more fiercely now but Lae cared not. Large drops of water fell from the loosened hair around her face and she watched them bounce off the dirt beneath her, sinking again to be absorbed into the parched ground, or where many fell, forming a rivulet which ran back into the creek.
The eerie dusk light filtering down through the Elder Stand reflected off those rivulets and entranced her. She thought of Magoria then, of the world Pagan had entered with his tiny charge. Water there was not-brown, but colours of otherworld hues Lae had only ever seen reflected in the Sacred Pool which opened the way between the worlds. Khatrene who was The Light of Ennae — Khatter, her friend — had told her of that distant water, how it was almost as light as air and fell easily from the sky, sometimes daily.
This was a wonder to Lae who had been sheltered from the rare rainfall of Ennae by a father who had decreed it dangerous to man. The moist air of their world kept the soil dampened, and rivers and springs provided water from beneath the earth, so why water should ever fall from the sky was a mystery, but it happened. In her lifetime it had occurred only once in the southernmost reaches of Ennae, at her own family’s Castle Be’uccdha on the cliffs overhanging the Everlasting Ocean. Fat, fierce drops had slapped onto the stones of the castle and some within had feared that the edifice would be dislodged by the onslaught and fall into the ocean below. Lae had never forgotten the sound or the smell of it, viewed from the safety of her morning room with maids nearby to prevent her from standing closer to the window.
Khatrene, by comparison, had danced in Magorian rain and that thought captivated Lae. The more so now that she was so weary of bone and muscle. To dance in the element of another world … Certainly her people danced on the element of their world — earth. And now Khatrene and Talis were in Atheyre. Was she dancing on air in that world? The thought brought a faint smile to Lae’s trembling lips, imagining her friend with her royal blonde hair swirling, dancing on air.
‘I tire now,’ Ghett said from behind her, the words coming from around a mouthful of the meagre rations Kert had brought. ‘You must carry me again.’ Lae had heard the sounds of them eating and had tried to ignore them. ‘And I must not lack for water,’ Ghett added. ‘Here, refill the flask.’
‘Refill it yourself, whore,’ Kert replied, yet he did not argue about carrying Ghett, Lae noted, nor could he lest it harm the child within her. For her part, Lae was so tired of Ghett’s petty demands she would happily see the maid rot in Haddash, or be devoured by the serpent of death who dwelt there. Yet even as this thought came to her she pushed it away. The child within Ghett, son of their dead King Mihale, must live or her father, The Dark, could legitimately take the throne.
Thanks to her father’s treachery, the White Twins had been the last of the royal line. Mihale had no other heir, and with Khatrene now trapped in the Airworld, and Glimmer’s future in Magoria uncertain, Ghett’s child was their best hope of keeping a descendant of the Ancients on the throne. The Catalyst’s birth had signalled the beginning of the Maelstrom, and though none could guess what destruction would be wrought and how many would die before the Four Worlds were joined, Lae knew that her father must not seize Ennae. For it was written that he who held Ennae would hold the One World.
The joining of the Four Worlds was foretold to bring peace to all people and an ending to the loneliness and longing that lived inside man. Lae knew better than most how that bliss would be perverted if her father was in control. But that was the future and for now she must concentrate on her own immediate survival.
She leant down and took another handful of water, hoping to still the nervous tremors in her body and clear the fuzziness from her mind.
‘Fill my flask,’ Ghett demanded, and before Lae could raise her head, the heavy metal container splashed into the water before her, drenching the front of her thin cloak.
Lae snatched at the container but her fingers slipped off it and by the time she had it in her hands, her burst of anger was spent. She held it underwater, her trembling lips pressed together tightly as the flatulence bled from the flask and it filled with cool riverwater.
‘Stand up and give it to me,’ Ghett demanded. ‘I can’t bend over my belly to reach down for it.’
Lae looked up the length of Ghett’s dusty gown at her small stomach and lush breasts, at her haughty face surrounded by ridiculously ornate black ringlets. She thought of the things she might say; that a year ago Ghett had been a lowly servant at Be’uccdha and Lae the young lady of the house; that she would sooner rot in Haddash herself than offer any service to this demanding, manipulative …
‘Hurry up or the king’s child will sicken.’
The wind picked up and blew Lae’s tangled hair into her eyes.
‘Do it,’ Kert ordered and Lae stumbled to her feet, handing over the flask.
She had heard the irritation in his voice, knew where that irritation would lead: to anger and punishment. Never for Ghett who carried the precious heir to the throne. All for Lae who carried nothing but the bruises and cuts Kert’s vicious tugging of the rope had bought her. A year ago, perhaps even a month ago, she would have dissolved into tears at the sorry state she’d been reduced to.
But not now. Not while Pagan’s fate was unknown to her. His was the greater danger, yet within herself Lae felt a strong connection to him and believed him still alive. She had never felt that bond in her betrothal to Talis. There had only been friendship, trust and a young maid’s natural excitement wondering what the marriage bed would bring.
Her pride had been hurt when Talis had fallen in love with Khatrene, but had he not, she might have continued trading barbs with Pagan instead of sharing the kiss, her first, which had woken her to womanhood and desire. Though Pagan had not been transformed into any less of a dolting braggart, she loved him now and could see the qualities of courage and loyalty that in her previous frustration with him she had always overlooked.
They would meet again, and when they did, the promise of their newfound love would be fulfilled. That destiny was worth living for, and she ached for Pagan’s strong arms to carry her, to ease her lot as she stumbled obediently behind Kert at the first tug on her rope. No matter what occurred, she must stay alive, though in the company of Kert Sh’hale that might prove harder than she would hope.
CHAPTER FIVE
Pagan stood at the window gazing down at his benefactor, his knuckles white on the sill. On waking, the hues of Magoria has threatened to overwhelm him again, yet he had found a way to control his intemperate stomach. If he concentrated on a single item, the vast canvas of vibrant colours, now harshly lit by the noon sun, became background and he could exclude them from his thoughts. One day he would be able to gaze upon the wonders of this world without fear of drowning in them, yet that day was not today.
Thus he focused his attention solely on the woman who swung back and forth on a rope construct hung beneath a large tree, her short hair rising and falling with each movement, shining gold in the dappled sunlight. Her eyes were closed and she appeared calm, yet he sensed agitation within her. Even from this distance he could see her knuckles were as white as his own.
He must go to her, speak to her. Yet as he turned from the window, the bed beckoned him. To lose himself again in the blessed relief of a healing sleep … would not be obeying his duty. He sat on its edge only to lace his boots then stood to buckle his sword-belt. ‘I am a Champion,’ he said aloud. Yet rather than bringing courage to his heart, this proclamation merely reminded him that he was not a Champion. He had been trained as a warrior, for excitement and battle and also, because of his birthright as a Guardian, to heal. Championing required patience and tolerance, qualities Pagan had never laid claim to.
His cousin Talis was born to be a
Champion and how Pagan wished their fates could be exchanged.
IT MUST BE YOU.
Pagan stilled, his hand on the sword hilt at his side.
‘Who speaks within my mind?’ he said aloud, wondering what magic was being wrought. The Light had not spoken of magic on this world, only of physical danger.
I AM A GUIDE, the voice replied. I WILL HELP YOU PROTECT THE CHILD.
‘I am her Champion,’ Pagan said, claiming the role which a moment earlier he had bemoaned. He turned a circle in the room, fighting the dizziness that sudden movement caused. He was alone.
DO NOT SEARCH FOR ME IN THE ILLUSIVE SHADOWS OF THIS WORLD.
‘Is Magoria illusion?’ he asked, wondering if The Light had been wrong. For surely the colours of this strange world were too startling to be real.
LIFE IS AN ILLUSION, the voice replied and again Pagan stilled.
‘Yet you are not,’ he said and found no breath within his breast to ease the pounding of his blood. By the powers, it was the Great Guardian. Speaking to him.
I AM BUT A GUIDE, the voice said, DRAWN TO THE CHILD. SHE WHO IS A SHADOW THROUGH TIME.
‘And what else is a God save a guide to his people?’ Pagan asked, yet the voice did not reply, and in that moment of quiet, his duty was suddenly very clear to him. Though Pagan had known that The Catalyst’s life was more important than any who had ever lived, the responsibility of safeguarding that life had weighed only on his mind. Now, with the Great Guardian’s involvement, that responsibility clutched Pagan’s heart like a fist.
Yet within that fear lived exaltation. His God was real. Pagan had never doubted the teachings of The Dark, even after discovering his treachery, but to actually converse with a deity was so startling it seemed almost sacrilegious. Yet having done so, Pagan was grateful that his cause was just, and that it was the Great Guardian who guided him and not the Serpent of Haddash the Northerners and the Plainsman worshipped.
Quiet stretched in the room. He wondered if his God was done with him, or whether more could be learned. ‘How long must I stay in Magoria?’ he asked, hoping for some crumb of information on which to plan his life.
THE CHILD WILL REACH HER WOMANHOOD HERE, the voice replied.
Her womanhood? That would be close to Lae’s years. Fourteen. Fourteen years on Magoria! Pagan took the words as a blow. He sat heavily on the bed and his head dropped, his gaze falling to his hand whereon the golden symbol of his house, three drops of blood, was stamped into his Guardian ring.
‘Are you okay?’ Sarah said from the door. ‘I saw movement in the window.’ She came closer. ‘Still sick.’
Of body and heart. Pagan could say nothing.
‘Were you talking?’ She crouched in front of him and glanced at the sword he had belted to his side, then flicked a glance around the room. ‘I thought I heard a voice?’
‘’Twas I,’ he said, his voice dull.
‘Talking to …?’
‘My God.’
Her eyebrows rose. ‘Praying. Okay.’ She continued to look at him. After a moment she said, ‘Scared?’
He simply gazed back.
She nodded again. ‘Me too. But if you promise not to hurt me, I promise I won’t hurt you.’
The idea was ludicrous. A head shorter and half his weight, Sarah could offer no danger to a warrior of his strength. Well, of the strength he would soon regain. ‘’Tis not you I fear,’ Pagan said, loathe to admit any weakness and yet compelled to be honest with this woman who had offered them sanctuary.
‘But you haven’t met anyone else,’ she said, then frowned. ‘Or have you? Have you been here before?’
He shook his head.
‘Of course, or you would have anticipated the sickness. Then what do you fear?’ She conjured a coaxing smile. ‘The unknown?’
Was that what he feared? An unknown foe who would take the life of his charge? No, Pagan felt no terror at that thought. He had confidence in his abilities to protect the child, and contrary to his earlier aversion to the idea, he now set his mind to the task of teaching Glimmer the dance of swords as soon as she was able to learn. On this world, he had no one to relieve him of his duty. He must ensure that when Glimmer was not with him she could defend herself.
‘You’re safe here,’ Sarah said, and her eyes, a darker colour of the sky outside his window, gazed up into his own with such reassurance that Pagan felt the aching loneliness inside himself ease.
He looked back at her. ‘I cannot think of fear while you look at me thus,’ he said and found a smile within himself to give her. ‘Had we fallen into hands other than your own, we may not have lived. Yet here you offer us your home and hearth.’ He took the risk of offending her and gently grasped her hand, raising it to his lips to press a grateful kiss against it. ‘I shall not bemoan the years I am away from my kin, yet rather thank the Great Guardian for the chance to spend that time repaying your generosity’
He looked into her eyes again and although he saw no offence at his presumption in touching her, she looked pained. A gentle tug and he realised he’d held her hand too long, and quickly released it. Sarah swallowed loudly and then stood, backing towards the door.
‘Well,’ she said, her gaze blank, as though she could not remember what she’d intended to say. ‘I’m …’ She pointed down the hallway, again as though words slipped away from her.
Was she hiding something? ‘Have you chores to attend?’ He stood and swayed. ‘How may I help? Is there wood to be cut?’
‘No. No wood.’ She held up a hand which clearly indicated she wanted him no closer. Pagan feared then that he had insulted her. ‘I’ll get you some dry clothes,’ she said, ‘and you can clean up. Don’t want you catching a cold.’
‘Guardian’s do not succumb to illness,’ Pagan said, then added, ‘usually.’
Some of her agitation settled. ‘I’ll get the clothes. Wait.’
She disappeared from the doorway and he sat back down. Wearing wet clothes was no hardship for a warrior used to river crossings, or bathing the blood of battle from himself. Pagan had done it often. Yet Sarah felt compelled to make him comfortable and he saw this as yet another sign that she would be a good mother to Glimmer.
‘Is this why you brought us to Sarah?’ he asked the Great Guardian, then waited but there was no reply. He wondered if the silence was a form of reply.
‘These will be too big,’ Sarah said, back in the doorway. ‘They’re my dad’s.’ She held out an armful of clothes and he rose unsteadily. ‘I’ll show you the bathroom.’
Pagan took the clothes gingerly from her, careful not to touch her again, then followed her down the hallway.
‘Here’s Glimmer,’ she said, pausing in a doorway. ‘I gave her a bottle two hours ago and she’s been dead to the world ever since.’
Pagan grabbed Sarah’s arm and wrenched her around. ‘Poison?’ he shouted, the clothes tumbling to the ground. Blind panic welled in his chest as he shoved her against the door. ‘I trusted you and you —’
‘She’s asleep!’ Sarah shouted in his face and Pagan caught his breath and focused his attention on her face. ‘I gave her a bottle of milk and she’s asleep.’ Sarah’s breathing was ragged and Pagan found that his own was also. ‘It’s a figure of speech — dead to the world — it means sound asleep.’
Pagan let her go and went to the bed, sat gently on its side and put a hand on the babe’s forehead. Her eyes came open instantly and Pagan closed his own, searching with his mind for signs of her vitality, which he should have done immediately after they arrived. Yet no sooner had he felt the tingling connection of Guardian power, but his entry was gently and firmly refused.
He removed his hand and rubbed the two together, tried again — palm to her forehead, reach out with his powers — no. There came again the firm push, rejecting his foray and disconnecting his powers.
‘You hurt me,’ Sarah said from the doorway.
Pagan looked at Glimmer, told himself that his first responsibility was to his
charge, yet he could not escape guilt at the thought of how readily he had forgotten his vow to trust Sarah.
‘And you frightened me,’ she added.
He gathered breath and humility to himself and turned to face her. ‘I know I have done you ill and you would be wise to reject us, and yet I beg you to reconsider —’
‘No.’ She held up a hand, shook her head. ‘Don’t … beg. That’s not fair. You scared me but I understand why. You’re in a bad position here. Strange world, on the run, no one to trust. I just —’
‘I have someone to trust,’ he said, and looked her in the eye, knowing he had been a fool to doubt her. ‘I will not hurt you again.’
Sarah gazed at him a moment, then bent to pick up the clothes. She straightened but didn’t look at him. ‘I’ll put them in the bathroom. Just give me a minute and I’ll run you a bath. Do you have baths where you come from?’
‘We do,’ Pagan replied softly.
She nodded and walked away, quickly.
‘I am a fool,’ he told the baby, but she simply stared up at him with her large solemn eyes. ‘I must win back Sarah’s trust.’ If indeed he had ever possessed it. Many times during lessons on Guardian practice, Talis had told him that trust must be earned to be of any value. Yet little had he understood, nor listened, and now when counsel would be eagerly welcomed he had no one in whom to confide.
‘Do they have cats where you come from …?’ Sarah’s voice drifted to him from a distance away.
He stood and made for the door, pleased to discover that his equilibrium was returning. ‘The Light of Ennae, Glimmer’s mother, had a cat while in exile here,’ he said, raising his voice so that she might hear him as he followed the direction of hers down the hallway. ‘Spike she named it to me. Yet I could not picture it in my mind and my cousin would not let me use my powers to see it in hers. We have only plants and people on our world.’
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