The Northman returned his inspection and Breehan tried to look harmless. Indeed, his gangling awkward frame and wide-eyed gaze were anything but threatening, as Noorinya had told him contemptuously on many occasions, both before and after he had become her bedmate. The Northman obviously concurred, for after the initial frowning scrutiny, he dropped his gaze to the bulging satchel across his chest which he removed carefully and held out to Breehan. ‘I am glad to be rid of it,’ he said.
Breehan looked into the satchel and saw only an oval of what appeared to be smooth black stone. Yet it was lighter than stone. Very light. ‘What is it?’ he asked.
The Northman met his eye. ‘Child of a God.’
Breehan looked back into the satchel. ‘Is it alive?’
‘If it is not,’ the Northman said, ‘Kraal will be displeased,’ and without further explanation he walked off into the mist, towards the western fortress, Breehan guessed, having heard that it was overtaken by Northmen.
He looked again at the satchel in his hands. Yet before he could devise a plan, he felt a chill on his back. The memory stone at his throat froze.
‘You have done well, harbinger, the deep masculine voice said from behind him. Breehan did not bother to look. The Fire God could only send his voice. There would be nothing to see.
‘I have what you want.’ Breehan said, raising the satchel. ‘Is Hanjeel freed?’
‘It is done.’
Breehan nodded, but felt uneasy. He had no way to check the veracity of the Fire God’s words. And if the minion was right and he could never return, he would never know if his sacrifice had bought Hanjeel’s life. ‘I am trusting you,’ he said.
‘Because you have no choice. But fear not. I may be many things but I am not a liar.’
Breehan’s fingers tightened on the satchel. ‘Tell me how I may bring the payment to you.’
‘That is the puzzle …’ An odd, whispering breeze stirred around Breehan, swirling the mists and creating a faint buzzing in his ears. ‘I know that you can come to me, but not how.’
Breehan felt a sudden lightening of his heart. If he could not make passage, would he be allowed to stay?
‘If you do not bring my child and it dies, you will die also,’ the Fire God said, ‘as will those that you love.’
He should have known it would not be so easy to trick a God. Breehan closed the fingers of his free hand over the memory stone and willed it to take him to the Fireworld. After some moments he opened his eyes again. Still surrounded by mist. ‘Is there an incantation?’ he asked.
‘Search your memories’ the Fire God commanded. ‘Those you love depend on your ability to serve me.’
Breehan put the strap of the satchel over his head and settled the bulging burden comfortably against his chest. His two hands were free now. Instinct told him they would be needed. Breehan knew of no rite to enter the Fireworld save that of the funeral pyre, but the lore that had been handed down to him spoke of the power of belief. If Breehan believed an entry could be made, the memory stone may grant him one.
‘Wait for me in your world,’ he told the God, and the buzzing in his ears ceased. The mist around him was still.
Breehan was alone.
He raised his two hands and held them over his forehead and his heart, knowing these two produced more energy in his body than any other places. Well … when he wasn’t thinking about Noola. Memories of their joining activated more power in Breehan’s loins than was seemly — distracting thoughts which he now sought to banish, yet though he cleared the joining from his mind, the thought of Noola waiting for her son, relying on Breehan, would not go away. Frustration should have followed this failure, yet instead Breehan realised it was a strength. His love for Noola was a power he could harness. His will to see her live would propel him into the Fireworld.
On that thought Breehan closed his eyes, hands steady over his head and his heart, and spoke to the powers of his world. ‘I am a child of the earth. Yet I seek passage to the world of fire.’ Noola came into his thoughts again and he held her image sharply in his mind, his love for her burning deep in his heart. Above these two places he felt his hands warm, and at his throat the memory stone tingled softly against his skin, as though creating a sweet, low note, the sighing of a lover. ‘My feet, which have touched this earth for twenty-four years, now seek to leave. Please aid my way from this world to the next.’
Breehan had no expectations. He knew only that he must believe. ‘I will go,’ he said, and knew it was not a matter of waiting but of willing. ‘I know it can be done.’
His shoulders sagged, and simultaneously Breehan felt pressure on his chest. The satchel. It seemed to be growing heavier, yet he would not move his hands, and nor would he lose his concentration. ‘My passage is assured,’ he said. ‘I have the memory stone. I will go.’
No doubt entered his voice and none crept into his heart. But the weighing on his chest grew unbearable and Breehan was forced to drop to his knees, his hands still positioned before his head and heart. At his throat the memory stone vibrated, and though it was not audible, Breehan felt as though a silent shriek was building, a subverbal sound that would shatter his mind and lay his body waste. The satchel was so heavy now that Breehan’s shoulders strained. He could no longer balance and his eyes snapped open as his hands slapped onto the ground. Yet still the satchel sunk, into the very earth beneath him as though it had become suddenly so heavy it could sink through the ground like a falling stone through water.
Startled by this, Breehan grabbed the fabric strap at his neck and tried to break it, but it would not be torn and soon his head was pulled into the hole the God’s child had made. He was forced to stop struggling and tuck in his elbows as it bore him down, into the depths of the earth. As the darkness closed around him Breehan felt a clutching terror he had never known in the open Plains. Each breath was a gasp and he feared he would soon exhaust his supply of air, yet still deeper he went with no end to the journey in sight.
Dizziness spread at the edges of his mind and Breehan had difficulty swallowing. He was not sure now if he was being dragged down or up. The strap bit into the back of his neck whenever his hold on the bag loosened. The rock around him seemed to be growing warmer and presently his shoulders were quite hot. The traces of air he gasped were thin and sulphurous and Breehan felt sure then that he would die. He wondered if the Fire God would kill his tribesmen for this failure, or whether the child would be delivered with or without his physical intervention. Fear faded into blackness. The strap pulled on his neck and then Breehan knew nothing.
A moment later, or so it seemed, he awoke with a gasping breath, his eyes parting to find fire dancing on his lashes, a blur of vibrant colour. He tried to raise a hand and found he couldn’t. He flicked the lashes instead, open and closed, several times, but the fire would not go out. Sick horror welled within him until Breehan realised there was no pain accompanying the fire. He stilled the swirling dread in his chest and held his breath. The flames danced on and he continued to feel no pain. Yet he could feel. He tapped his teeth together and felt the vibration echo up to his ears. He winked and felt the pull of it on his cheek. Yet when he tried to move his head or arms there was no sensation.
‘Welcome to Haddash,’ said a deep, familiar voice from his side.
Breehan, who appeared to be standing, waited until the God was before him. A man. An ordinary man. Moving in shadows that appeared no different to night on the Plains.
His surprise at this revelation was great yet he held that from his voice. ‘How did I come here? I was travelling in the earth —’
‘The ways between the worlds are many’ the God said. ‘Your stone is of your world, its path would be through Ennae’s element.’
‘But my eyes …’
The man raised his arm and flicked open his fingers as though to throw sand. Breehan’s eyes instinctively closed, and when he opened them again, the flames were gone. He blinked. Before him now there was only darkness.
‘And I cannot take it from you.’ The disembodied voice came from the darkness before him. ‘I have tried to approach you but the stone… wards against my presence. It creates a barrier between us. An interesting surprise.’
If the memory stone protected him from the God, perhaps his life would not be forfeited after all. ‘I am happy to wait until my arms are again my own,’ he said.
‘Then we shall wait.’
Breehan tried to nod his agreement but had no mobility. Instead, he listened and then grew afraid. Around him the Fire God’s world, Haddash, was not silent and empty as he had first suspected. When Breehan strained his ears he heard skittering and snickers, as though a great many creatures waited in that darkness. He tried to tell himself that the memory stone would ward away evil, but no thoughts of Noola or Hanjeel, whom his duty here had saved, could tear his mind from the growing dread that encompassed him.
When at last the God spoke again, Breehan shuddered at the sound.
‘You will not be harmed here. Indeed, quite the opposite.’ The God made a sound in his throat, a low rumble of pleasure. ‘And you will keep me amused while I wait for my child to hatch.’
‘Then I am to live?’ Breehan said, holding his breath, unaware until that moment that he had truly expected to die.
‘Do not rejoice,’ the God told him. ‘On Haddash, pleasures can be worse than death. And you will not be allowed to leave.’
‘I will never give up the stone,’ Breehan said, though he felt far from brave.
‘And I cannot take it, but in time you may change your mind …’
Around Breehan the sounds of many pattering feet drew closer and breath was suddenly hard to find. He willed his arms to work so the could at least divest himself of the Fire God’s child. ‘I will not fear the unknown,’ he said, reciting another of Noorinya’s favourite proverbs. ‘Only a real enemy can harm me.’
Silence fell around him, as though the approaching minions had stilled. Then came again the rumbling sound of the God’s amusement.
‘You are not on Ennae now.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Pagan woke with no air in his chest and he gasped as though drowning, jerking up in the bed he shared with Sarah, disturbing her slumber.
‘Mmm … y’alright?’ she mumbled, her hands moving feebly as though seeking him out in a dream.
He took one and clasped it firmly, despite the trembling of his own fingers. He swallowed several times, then whispered, ‘Just a dream.’ She murmured again and her body relaxed into sleep. Pagan watched her a moment then leant down to kiss her brow, brushing back the ragged fringe so he could see her lashes resting gently on her cheek. How peaceful she looked. How tender. Yet once woken, Sarah’s impression of tenderness would disappear. She was gentle with Glimmer, but far too practical to be called tender. Still, Pagan imagined that while she slept the tenderness inside her heart slid past her defences to rest on those dusky lashes and that dew-soft cheek.
He kissed her there again, then glanced at the bedside clock. Four twenty-two. Nearly time to rise. He reached across and turned the alarm off before it could wake her, trying not to remember his dream but feeling the consequences of it in his jaw, stiff from clenching, and his fingers which ached from straining towards Lae. Always in the dreams she was just out of his reach, and because of his inability to grasp her fingers she would fall down a dark tunnel, her cries echoing in his mind like a punishment.
The dreams were of guilt, yet Pagan knew he was discharging his duty as events had decreed. Lae herself had ordered him into exile, and if he did not protect The Light’s child and prepare her for her destiny, the Four Worlds may never become one. These momentous concerns had easily banished his guilt about abandoning Lae, and he had even reconciled himself to the fact that she may be dead.
Until Sarah had become his lover.
Now Pagan was dreaming of Lae, and his guilt at this betrayal of their love was like a slow-working poison.
He quietly gathered clothes and shoes and padded down the hallway to the bathroom where a scalding shower woke his tired muscles. Another long day of ditch digging loomed ahead of him but he was determined to get the new drainage system finished before the latest cyclone veered any closer. It was their third cyclone this season and the eighteenth to form in Queensland waters. Pagan could tell from the news broadcasts that such a proliferation of tempests was unusual in this section of Magoria and Glimmer had confirmed that the Maelstrom was waking to life.
He looked into the children’s bedrooms on his way to the kitchen and found Glimmer tucked in neatly, her blonde hair smooth beneath her head as though she hadn’t moved all night. Claude lay curled at her feet.
The accoutrements of schooling had been purchased and soon that section of Glimmer’s education about humans would begin. Pagan had surprised himself with his calm acceptance of this new threat to her safety. The years they had spent on Magoria without serious incident must have reassured him.
Whenever a strange behaviour had been noted by a neighbour or friend, Sarah had said, ‘Russians’ with a derogatory shake of her head. Now everything from their uncommon names to Glimmer’s extraordinary agility were put down to them being ‘foreigners’. Pagan doubted that real Russians practised swordplay every day, or spoke with the other sentient beings on this world, as Glimmer did, but it was remarkable what people could be influenced to believe.
In the next room, Vandal had kicked off quilts and poked his pillow and a cloth dog between the cot rails before sprawling into sleep. Pagan smiled at this mischief and felt an echo of the choking emotions that had gripped him at his son’s birth, the wonder of what he had created with Sarah, and the love that had poured out of his soul for this small, noisy child.
Later he had felt sadness that his son was not Lae’s, but at the time his feelings for Sarah had overwhelmed him, and he’d felt more than tenderness towards her, more than gratitude. Much more. And that had frightened him.
One day his son’s wispy dark hair would be long, and he would wear the warrior plaits his father would train him for. Sarah did not know, but despite the traces of Magorian pink colouring he had inherited from Sarah, Vandal carried the Guardian blood. When he came into his manhood he would possess all the powers of a Guardian: healing, warding, and the high magic that opened the way between the worlds.
It was Pagan’s duty to ensure that the Guardian blood did not die with him, and he knew that his father would have been pleased to learn that he had born a child with a woman as sensible as Sarah. Pagan was pleased. But one day he must return to Ennae, and Lae would not be pleased.
This was the source of his guilt. Duty had brought him to Magoria and kept him here, but no one had forced him to take pleasure from the situation. He had done that himself. And when he thought of Lae now, wondering if she had remained faithful to their vow, he felt sick with remorse.
Yet neither was he being fair to Sarah who coveted his love for Lae and deserved so much more than a man who would give her his child but not his heart.
YOU SERVE DESTINY, the voice within his mind said, and Pagan tried to take comfort from the Great Guardian’s wisdom.
Yet always the question came into his mind, Why must I hurt those I love?
BECAUSE YOU ARE HUMAN.
Perhaps it was foolish to wish for more from himself than was humanly possible. Surely only a God was capable of perfect love. But he wanted that for Lae. The Great Guardian had once told him that a child would come between them. He had thought that child was Glimmer, but now he knew otherwise. Yet despite that he cared for Sarah deeply and lay in her bed every night enjoying the pleasures they could find with each other, his feelings for Lae were undiminished. He loved her desperately. More, if it was possible, than he had when he’d left her.
It was unfair to both women, yet he could not change his heart.
LIFE IS NOT FAIR, the Gre
at Guardian said, and Pagan could only agree. Khatrene had been separated from her child, Lae was estranged from the father she had foolishly loved. Pagan had lost his own father and their king had been killed, the Plainsmen were all but decimated, and for all Pagan knew, The Dark could be sitting on the throne of Ennae. Life was certainly not fair.
YET THIS IS THE EXPERIENCE OF HUMANITY, YOUR DESTINY AS A PEOPLE.
Pagan pulled the quilt back over his son and went into the kitchen to make a coffee which he took to his favourite spot on the back steps. There he watched the rising sun blush morning clouds with gold and pink. The beauty of it left him breathless. Yet he knew that in moments the Maelstrom’s awakening power could steal that beauty and replace it with a tempest’s fury. Their lives had become attuned to the subtlest changes in the wind: a shift in direction, a damp scent, hoping to predict the violence and find time to prepare. Yet in Sarah’s arms he found solace from the storms, even those inside himself.
‘I will not always live here,’ he said softly to himself. ‘But while I am here I will live.’ And acknowledging his decision brought some peace to his troubled heart.
At least until the next nightmare came.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
‘I will kill Sh’hale myself,’ Barrion whispered, his gaze resting on the form of his beautiful sister Ellega sinking into the welcoming waters of the Verdan Loch, her hair swirling about her head like the finest oceanweed. Barrion watched until the distance of water between them darkened her image, and then there was only water and Ellega was gone from him forever ‘I should have killed him years ago.’
‘My Lord,’ his Guard Captain said, taking Barrion’s arm and helping him to rise from where he had knelt on the platform.
Daughter of the Dark: Shadow Through Time 2 Page 29
