“And who are you?”
“I am who you seek.”
“Be wary of such a compact, emperor of Besh-Darok,” the witchhorse said. “Especially in pursuit of a hopeless goal.”
Ghazrek only shook his head.
“If I must put myself in peril for even the slimmest chance of success, then I shall.” He looked at the dog-thing. “Do what you must, but be swift!”
Barely had he finished the sentence when the dog-thing leaped straight up at him. Tauric staggered back, expecting some kind of collision but instead he was momentarily enveloped in a dark, shadowy haze. Then it melted and faded away, leaving him standing there, breathing heavily and looking from his hands to Ghazrek and the witchhorse Shondareth.
“It just…” The Mogaun was wide-eyed. “It went at you then sank into you, like a ghost!”
That would be a fair comparison.
The voice was that of the dog-creature, yet now it was warmer and rounder. This was like the experience with the Motherseed except that this presence did not try to fill his skull and shatter his thoughts. There was stillness, too, and a great sadness.
Have you not yet guessed who I am, son of my sons?
I cannot say, he thought with a black suspicion growing in his mind. Are you one of the –
Shadowkings? No, I am both more than those poor half-gods and less. I have been a worm on the fisherman's line and the fish who took the bait. I have been a mouse burrowing in summer hay and the cat who pounced and the dog who chased. I have been the rootlet questing in the dark earth and the leaf which drank from the sun. I have been the thorn and the bloom. I have been the mother and the new-born babe. I have been the hunter and his horse and the boar he speared. I have been a proud and glittering army and the cook who filled their bellies. Once my vision and presence spanned the kingdoms from coast to coast and valley to mountain top. Once I clasped this mighty land as close as a lover holds his beloved and now I weep for all the pain and the loss I could not prevent…
“Mother's name!” he said aloud. “You're…the Fathertree?”
There was an intake of breath from Ghazrek and Shondareth took a couple of steps backwards.
I am all that remains, an echo of an echo, a fragment of a fragment of what once was.
Tauric's heart leaped. If you open a way back to Besh-Darok we could rally the city and take the fight to the enemy's own gates…
Ah, brave bold youth – such a course of action would avail you nothing. The great and dazzling power which once made the ground shake is now little more than a frail but stubborn candle flame amid the raging twilight. I would counsel you to approach the witchhorses in their sanctuary – persuade them to return with you and they will make powerful allies on the battlefield. Much more powerful than I.
Doubt assailed him. But will we have time for talk and debate and persuasion? he asked. The situation was on a knife edge when we left…”
That is not such a pressing concern for now – time has a different meaning here in the Void.
Very well, he thought, accepting finally all that had been argued. How shall this bridge be made?
Simply face the wall of mist and look straight ahead.
Should I hold out my hand, or hold it up, or make some gesture?
If it will make you feel better, then certainly do so!
In spite of himself, Tauric laughed out loud, much to Ghazrek's surprise.
“Are you well, majesty?” he said.
Smiling, Tauric nodded. “It's time that we were leaving this place, Ghazrek. Behold!”
He flung out one arm towards the mist which immediately rolled away to reveal the glittering dark of the Void, and a strange bridge of roseate stone began emerging block by block from the black nothingness.
“To the witchhorse sanctuary,” Tauric said, stepping onto the bridge, closely followed by Ghazrek and a subdued Shondareth.
* * *
Bardow sat at the head of the long scored table he had had moved into his workshop early that morning. To his right sat Nerek, to his left Alael, and between them power boiled in the air, a writhing knot of green and white energies. Directly below it lay the culvert, a narrow mould made from a single piece of agathon wood according to the descriptions in the ancient text uncovered by Hendred's Master of Parlance. Formed by the palace's master carpenter, it had been hollowed out in the form of a flat, straight broadsword which stretched more than halfway down the table. After that he had gone to the imperial forge and persuaded the weaponsmith to provide him with shavings and slivers of metal from a variety of old blades, axes and daggers that were due to be either melted down or reforged. Back in his workshop he produced an old sword hilt which had been part of a hoard of items hidden by castle servant in the last days of the old empire; this he placed in the culvert mould before scattering the fragments along its length then laying the upper half in place. Then both halves were bound together with bronze banding before the culvert itself was lashed to the table with leather straps.
Bardow sat with his hands flat on the table, staring at a bevelled slot which gaped beneath the radiant, roiling knot of powers. But his mind was consumed with maintaining the cantos Tract and Constrict to create a funnelling effect that would draw the melded powers down into the culvert.
With eyes closed and a frown on her face, Nerek had both her hands clasped tightly before her. Across the table Alael's posture was relaxed, almost slumped, her hand resting palms up on her dress-garbed thighs as she stared at the mingling glows with glazed eyes. Bardow hoped that both of them were remembering his directions, that each was focussing her power on the other and keeping them in balance until the coalescence took place. His use of the Lesser Power to guide these raging energies depended on such a contained harmony. Any unchecked imbalance could lead to a tremendous backlash and his own demise.
The colours of each power swirled around and through each other, shining silver, harsh emerald, rippling, flowing, coiling. Several minutes dragged by with no discernible change and Bardow began to wonder how long the ritual would take when swathes of hazy grey suddenly swept around the restless orb like a smoky veil unfurling. A moment later dark patches flickered across the surface and grew darker. When Bardow glanced at Nerek, he saw that her eyes were open and staring at the veiled orb without any apparent anxiety. The same was true for Alael.
“Do either of you know what is happening?” he muttered through gritted teeth.
“I was concentrating very hard on the Sourcefire,” Nerek said, “and what you told us. And some part of my thoughts seemed to relax somehow, and I found myself thinking about…”
“So did I,” said Alael. “I miss her.”
The darkness deepened upon the misty sphere, took on definite lines and shapes, colour, shade, and texture. With a start, Bardow realised that he was looking down into some kind of pillared chamber, half-lit by small golden lamps, its walls covered with exotic carvings, niches, figurines, and dramatic story friezes. The lone figure of a woman was bathing her face in a bowl on a marble plinth and once she had dried her face on a square of linen she looked up and gasped. It was Keren.
“…Bardow!….and Nerek and Alael…how…”
“We were thinking about you,” Alael said.
Keren glanced behind her then looked up, smiling. “It is so good to see you and Bardow – and you, sister.”
A hesitant smile crossed Nerek's face. “It gladdens me to see you well.”
“Thank the Mother you're alive,” Bardow said. “What happened after the attack on Scallow? And where are you?”
“There was a sea battle out in the Bay of Horns and I was in the middle of it,” Keren said. “I later made it to the Honjir coast where rebel outriders found me…they brought me north to the fortress Untollan high in the Druandag mountains.”
“I know of it,” Bardow said. “Who leads these rebels?”
Keren gave a sardonic smile. “An old friend, Domas, is in charge yet he also take counsel from two mysterious ad
visers whom I've not seen. I know little else, apart from the fact that the Jefren Theocracy is bent on seizing this stronghold – they've moved large numbers of troops into the foothills nearby.”
“How many – “ Bardow began.
“Bardow, you're beginning to fade and there's something I have to tell you while I can. Gilly was captured by Coireg Mazaret, or rather whatever is possessing him…I don't understand what happened but I know what I saw – “ Keren's face was full of anguish and a remembered horror, “ – Bardow, I saw five Gillys…they were carrying Gilly between them….and Coireg….into the water….”
Grey tendrils were emerging and spreading around the orb of powers. Bardow and the two women said goodbye to a fading cloudy figure before it was obscured. Bardow struggle to stay in control of the two thought-cantos as Keren's news sank in – the sorcerer possessing Coireg Mazaret had used Gilly to create five rivenshades!
Yet another of us turned into instruments of the enemy, he thought despairingly. To have to fight such a pitiless enemy is one thing, but to have to fight enemies wearing the faces of our friends…
A bright flicker of light came from the ashen-grey sphere, then another then there were a dozen shifting spikes of light, a score or more. The grey shroud tore to rags that dissolved away to reveal an orb of perfect wonder, its silvery green surface reflecting their faces in undulations as slow concentric ripples radiated out here and there. Nerek and Alael sat back, eyes wide in delighted surprise. Bardow let the Tract and Constrict cantos exert their influence and the mirroring sphere began to elongate, drawing downwards in a smooth taper to the culvert, pouring gradually in through the bevelled slot.
Before long the gleaming last of it slipped into the mould and Bardow quickly closed it off with a small wood plug then fitted a bronze cover which he bolted into the mould itself. Standing he went to the nearby windows and pushed them open to admit the coldness of the day, then moved away from the table and beckoned the women to do so as well. As they watched, pale wisps of vapour began to seep out of the culvert's rough outer surface, curling and dissipating.
“What happens now?” Alael said.
“The mingled powers are now transforming,” he said. “Becoming a blade which is between power and iron. The transformation gives off a lot of heat which is why we are standing over here.”
Vapour was now rising from the mould in white rivulets as the moisture and juice in the wood began to boil. The air in the chamber grew heavy with the pungent odour of sap, despite the open windows. Then through it came a more acrid taint as dark tendrils of smoke started jetting from between the mould's two halves. The smoke's caress marked the pale wood with grey swirls even as the line that divided the halves of the mould grew black and scorched.
Charred smoking patches emerged on the mould surface then spread. The heat from within was such that parts of the charred wood became glowing embers then collapsed inwards. The leather straps smouldered and parted, while the brass bands warped and buckled. The sword's blade was now visible, glowing silver green as it settled down amid the ashen debris of the culvert. Bardow opened a nearby tall cabinet and from a shelf of dusty clutter took a bulky armoured gauntlet which he pulled onto his right hand. Then from behind the cabinet he dragged a cooling rack borrowed from the forge, an upright triangular box open down its long sloping side.
With his gauntleted hand he fumbled among the crumbling fragments of char and ember and lifted the melded sword out by its hilt. When he tapped it lightly on the table to dislodge cinders and ash, it rang with a pure double voice. He then turned to the triangular cooling rack and began fitting the sword's hilt into the metal hooks that would hold it safely clear of any surface. When it was done, he straightened to find Nerek looking at him.
“Am I done here, Archmage?” she said.
“You have urgent business elsewhere?” he said.
“Blind Rina and her coterie claim to have tracked our spell-caster down to the storehouses and livestock barns near the Long Quays. I hope to be the one to capture him.”
“Then go with them,” he said with a smile. “If I need you I will send a message.”
As Nerek left, Alael came over and peered at the shining sword.
“I can almost feel its…its swordness,” she said. “As if it knows what it is.” She frowned. “Who will wield it?”
“I'm not sure,” Bardow said, pulling off the dusty and now slightly scorched gauntlet. “I'll have to give it some thought.”
Yet somehow I think that any choice I make will matter little to the sword itself.
* * *
In the warmth of an afternoon sun, all was idyllic at the lake's shore. Children played in the shallows, small boats fished out on the placid waters, people walked or rode along the coastal track going to or coming from the graceful, white-towered town less than a mile away. Peace, smiles, and witchhorses. Everywhere, witchhorses in tribal families and lesser groups, most with foals and yearlings, and all looked so wise and noble with shining coats and long, lustrous manes…
Tauric sighed and sat on a wooden wayfarer's stool by the hill path which he and Shondareth had just descended. At the top of the hill was a sprawling, elaborate collection of interconnected tents and awnings, all brightly, luxuriously decorated, all busy with scores of witchhorses and ordinary people. This was the court of the great witchhorse chieftain who resided at its centre, receiving visitors, dispensing wisdom, listening to sagasongs composed in his honour.
And all of it, all the people and witchhorses, lake, shore and sun, every last bit of it was a fabulous illusion woven by just one witchhorse with the mysterious connivance and powers of the Void.
“As you can see,” Shondareth said, “Like the others, Aegomarl is quite happy with his innerland.”
“I cannot believe that all of you are so uncaring and cold-hearted towards our plight,” Tauric said acidly.
“We are neither of those,” the witchhorse said. “We merely know that the enemy is too strong. There are another 186 of us who feel the same – do you wish to speak to them, too?”
Tell him 'yes', said the spirit of the Fathertree in his head.
Tauric smiled. “Why, certainly.”
Shondareth shook his head slowly and glanced to one side. A footpath appeared, branching off the hilltrack and winding down into a dense copse on the hillside. Following it, they entered the small wood and soon found themselves emerging into a clearing near a pool shaded by an ancient, wide-girthed agathon. Tall, pale trees reached up on all sides. As before, Ghazrek sat on a stone bench by the pool, eating from a gold platter of sweetmeats and baked delicacies. He looked up as they approached.
“How long?” he asked.
“A day and a half, perhaps,” Tauric said.
Ghazrek spat out a fruit pip and chortled. “You've not been gone more than ten minutes!”
Tauric grinned. “I wish it was me sitting there.”
“Room from another, your majesty,” the Mogaun officer said, indicating the bench.
Not yet, said the Fathertree. I still have to see more of them.
What are you looking for? he thought.
A little thing called guilt.
The next two innerlands were much like those they had already seen, grand explorations of vainglory, neither of whose creators would consent to even meet Tauric much less discuss the calamities engulfing Besh-Darok. Yet while Tauric was downhearted, the spirit of the Fathertree seemed to grow more optimistic and prompted Tauric to continue.
With an air of weary resignation Shondareth took him away from the pool (and Ghazrek with his food) and along another of the many narrow paths leading through the surrounding forest. The trees soon thinned and the sky grew grey and overcast. The air was warm and humid, though, and as they approached the edge of the forest Tauric heard a far-off rumble of thunder.
They emerged on a grassy slope which stretched down to join a wide expanse of patchwork farmland with copses and orchards, lined in cart tracks and hedgerows,
all receding into the pale grey onset of early evening mist. A slumbering peace held sway over this landscape, disturbed only by herders calling to each other in the distance.
“This way, young explorer,” said Shondareth.
When he turned he was stunned by a majestic sight. The hills behind the forest merged with bushy, bouldery slopes which turned jagged and bare as they grew steep, while further up ridges and spines of rock sprouted from the towering flanks of mountains which stretched like a gigantic wall across the land. As he followed the witchhorse the nearer mountains ahead were a little lower and behind them reared a sheer promontory upon whose highest point Tauric could just make a domed building and a cluster of slender towers.
It was Trevada on the Oshang Dakhal, which meant that this land was northwest Anghatan, a far more specific location than the other more fanciful innerlands he had seen so far.
Perhaps the creator of this will be open to persuasion, he thought.
Too soon to tell.
Shondareth led him down into a tree-sheltered vale where a few cottages were gathered on one side of a river, beside a watermill. Smoke drifted from some of the chimneys but a quiet serenity held sway. No one was in sight. Near the mill was a large barn and as they approached Tauric could hear a woman reciting some kind of verse. Pausing at the door, he gestured at Shondareth to wait as the woman finished to the polite applause of a few hands and a male voice spoke.
“A rendition that bordered on the pit of melodrama without quite falling in! Well done, Pel. Now, Suvi – what have you brought for me to hear?”
“A burial lament from Ebro' Heth,” said another woman.
“Good, good – proceed.”
The unseen woman called Suvi began. While the poem was full of sadness and regret, the woman's voice was strong and resonant. Near the end, though, her tone softened:
“Beneath the secrets of the sun,
Beyond the sorrow of eternity,
Lies the sweet heart of all things.
There shall I find rest,
Entwined in songs and stars,
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