by Simon Kewin
She tried, once again, to recall what had happened there, how she had destroyed the winged undain. Whether she had seen the rider. But her memories remained closed. She recalled walking the coast road with Merdoc, then the sudden sense of wrongness looming over the waters of the An, coming fast at her. Then she remembered nothing until she woke at Islagray, except for a confused image of jostling along in the back of the cart, the tang of fireseed in her nose and the stars dancing above her.
She looked around, thinking how strange it was she should be here. The one place in all of Andar she thought she'd never see. She'd shunned covens all her life, hating the thought of being controlled. And Islagray was the greatest, most powerful coven of them all. How did any of them live with that? How did they allow themselves to be subsumed? She seethed at the way Hellen had manipulated her, manipulated them all, to get what she wanted. The old witch had done much good in her life, no doubt, but that didn't mean she could order them around. More than once over the past day, Fer had decided to leave. The problem was, Hellen's plans made sense. They were the right thing to do. She reassured herself, once again, that she was only going along with those plans because she, not Hellen, thought they were for the best.
She sat alone in the Wycka. She had come up early, conscious of how slowly she still walked. She studied the area while she waited. She'd expected the great stone building to oppress her, weigh down on her, hold her in. But she liked that there were no closed doors or windows. Songbirds flittered above her head. The wind scattered armfuls of leaves around her. The first drops of rain pattered on her upturned face. Despite herself, she felt a thrilling sense of being at the centre of things. The resonance of the song soothed her muscles, as if someone gently rubbed them. She shut her eyes to enjoy it all, knowing it wouldn't last long.
The others soon arrived. Ran came into the hall first. At Johnny's insistence, he had swapped his armour for simple cotton clothes, grey shirt and trousers, an off-white woollen tunic. He’d kept his stout leather boots but left behind the Penitence Stones. His hair fell loosely around his shoulders, covering up much of his tattooing. She'd been worried that Ran's skin, and indeed her and Seleena's jewellery, might mark them as strangers in the other world. But Johnny assured them no one would notice.
They'd talked about Ran's sword for some time. Johnny insisted it could not be carried, at least not openly. It seemed strange that in a world where the war was already being fought, swords and other weapons were not commonplace. In the end, they decided to hide the sword in Johnny's instrument case. Ran carried this across his back now. If it wasn't for the agile, feline way he moved, the calculating look in his eye, he might have been just another wandering minstrel.
She tried to gently touch his mind and gauge his feelings, little more intrusive than reading the expression on his face. She discerned nothing. What they said about the dragonriders' immunity to magic appeared to be true. Fer nodded to him as he padded up to her and he, towering over her, nodded silently in reply.
Johnny came next. He ambled toward them, paying more attention to the ancient walls of the hall and the birds. He wore plain, tight blue trousers, although his shirt was the same hotchpotch of golds and greens. Smoke on the Water, she knew, lay somewhere out on the lake, awaiting his return.
Johnny's mind, by contrast to Ran's, was easy to read. She saw his nervousness at what they were about to attempt, his white-hot fear of Angere. But also, in the front of his mind, his pleasure at the Song and the sights of Islagray. He was easy-going, good-natured and probably useless in a fight. Still, they would need him.
Finally, Seleena arrived, walking between Hellen and Ariane. Seleena wore clothes similar to Fer's own: boots, a black skirt, a long, black woollen tunic. Sensible travelling garb. Hellen and Ariane had not changed. Interesting. So it was true neither of the old witches was to be the mysterious fifth companion. She didn't attempt to peer into any of their minds, futile and impolite as it would be.
She knew Seleena distantly; she'd grown up in a neighbouring valley. Seleena's mother was a witch too, the fire-keeper of her village. They'd talked together recently, only a few months back, when Seleena had decided to come to Islagray. She was witty and friendly, once you got to know her. But, of course, all too ready to submit to the ways of the witches' isle.
Fer stood, pulling herself up on the arm Ran offered her. She picked up her small leather backpack. Johnny ambled over to stand with them. Seleena's face was a blank as she approached. Ariane frowned and Hellen smiled broadly. No doubt the old witch had more secret plans for them all.
“So,” said Hellen. “Here we are. Now we must go into the archive to find our fifth and then we will be ready.”
“The archive?” said Ariane. “One of those spiders, is it?” The two old friends argued constantly. But it was the gentle disagreement of two people used to each other, like a loving old couple. Fer could see there was nothing vindictive in their exasperation. The problem was, of course, Hellen got her own way eventually, even with Ariane.
“No,” said Hellen. “The spiders would be completely useless outside of the caves, wouldn't they? I have in mind a different inhabitant, quite a rare one. Let us see if we can track one down.” She turned and walked toward the archive door.
Inside it was cool and quiet. A muffled sense of age filled the ancient caves. Fer liked the idea of all this writing down here, the wisdom of the dead, preserved. Hedge witches such as herself usually shunned written knowledge, passing on what they knew in song or verse, but this had always seemed an unreliable approach. Songs changed in the singing, tales in the telling. When she was no more, it would be good to know her thoughts, her ideas, were stored here for others to unearth.
Hellen led the way down the middle of the five passageways that fanned out beneath the Wycka. Fer caught up with her, walked alongside her, limping slightly and trying not to wince at the pains in her legs and stomach muscles as she kept pace with the old witch.
“Here,” said Hellen, glancing across at her. “A gift.” She handed her an ancient, battered book, pocket-sized but thick and bound in black leather. Fer took it and opened it to a random page. Dense, neat script in an alphabet she didn't recognize filled the page, interspersed with hand-drawn maps and diagrams involving spheres, triangles and arrows. She flicked to a few other pages and found more of the same, a table of figures next to a sketch of an iron doorway. Rough notes in several hands had been scribbled here and there in the pages' margins.
“You must know I am unable to read this,” said Fer.
“Oh, no matter. It's just an old book of mine. It should be of sufficient interest to suit our purposes.”
“Purposes? What exactly are your purposes? Who is this mysterious fifth?”
“Hush, best be quiet now. We don't want to alarm it, do we?”
Hellen ducked through a low doorway to her left, the symbol of an oak tree carved into the stone above it. Fer, pausing for a moment, gritting her teeth, followed.
Inside, she found a long, oblong room with several rows of leather-bound tomes set in sconces around the walls. There were hundreds of books here: their covers browny-red like dried blood, yellowy-green like fallen leaves, blue like deep water.
Hellen placed a finger over her lips to tell everyone to be silent. Then, closing her eyes, she made her way around the edge of the room, one hand held out toward the books as if trying to feel something invisible. She completed the circuit five or six times. Fer glanced at Seleena and Ariane, but they watched only Hellen.
Finally, the old witch stopped and put her hand on a red book from a shelf at shoulder-height. She pulled it out as if it were delicate and carried it carefully toward the table that stood in the centre of the room. She set it down, unopened.
“Fer, may I have that little book I gave you please?”
She thought about refusing until Hellen explained what, exactly, was going on. But clearly this was a delicate operation. She stepped forward and placed the small black book ne
xt to the larger red one. Hellen opened them both, the black book at the first page, the red book somewhere in its middle. Carefully, she began to turn pages as if looking for a particular passage. The ancient calf-skin crackled. Fer could see each leaf was beautifully illustrated with intricate drawings that glowed gold, red and purple. Columns of neat, black writing wound between the drawings. She found herself wanting to look closer, to stroke a hand over the ancient pages, even though she wouldn't be able to decipher the words. What wonders were written about there? What secrets? And who had gone to these extraordinary lengths to create such a beautiful book? What love had driven them on?
Hellen stopped at a particular page. The representation of a small dragon, its body all curving, intertwined lines like the knotted shoots of a bramble, or the silverwork of a master jeweller, filled half of a page. It had been painted with breath-taking care, each tiny scale painted in gold or silver. Its eyes were shut, as if asleep, but the features on its face were so vivid it could have been alive. It curved around the words as if guarding treasure.
Hellen placed the black book directly next to the picture, then passed a hand across the dragon, touching it gently. The drawing moved. The creature opened one eye, seeming to lift its head off the page. Fer could see its tiny gilded rib cage moving in and out as it breathed. It looked around at them, sniffing in the air with its long, gold and red snout. It stopped when it saw the black book. Slowly, it uncurled itself.
It was incredible to see. She knew it was merely a drawing, however exquisite. Just paint and ink on the pages of a book. At the same time, its legs moved as it walked, the words visible through its body. The illuminated dragon flowed across the gap to the black book. It shrank in size as it crossed onto the smaller pages. It stopped, turned around once, then burrowed down through the pages into its new home. In a moment, it was gone.
Hellen carefully closed both books and handed the black one back to Fer.
“There. Now we are ready,” she whispered, half to herself, a slight smile on her wrinkled face. She turned to walk past them, through the doorway.
Fer caught up with her, holding the black book more carefully now.
“What was that?”
“An archaeon. A bookwyrm, if you prefer. Very rare. Very ancient. There are a few still inhabiting the archive.”
“I have never heard of such a being.”
“They are creatures of spirit, of thought. Not flesh and blood. They eat and sleep ideas. They don't really live in our world at all. What few there are have found their way to libraries like ours. They love words; it's the perfect habitat for them. This one will have been roaming around in our scrolls and tomes for centuries.”
“So we need it because of what it knows?”
The old witch nodded, smiling appreciatively as if Fer were a bright child.
“I've read perhaps a hundredth of what is written down here. I remember perhaps a hundredth of what I've read. The archaeon, on the other hand, will be able to recall almost every word of every work. Its knowledge is vast. Maybe you won't need it, but we don't know what you're going to face. It seemed a good idea to invite it along.”
“It was hardly invited.”
“True. You'll have to explain to it what is happening. Placate it as best you can, Fer. I'm sure you'll find a way.”
“Oh, you are?”
“I have every confidence in you. But, be polite with it. Respectful, yes? It won't like to be bothered and the very old are often irritable. Or so I'm told.”
“And how do I do that? What tongue does it speak?”
“It speaks all of them, of course. Ah, we're here.”
They reached another doorway, this one marked with a skull. This had to be the room where the Grimoire had been kept. The room where the undain had slain Thena before walking the shadow path to the other world.
“Are you frightened?” asked Hellen, staring at her, the words quiet, intended only for Fer.
She thought about denying it, but refused to play any of the old witch's games.
“I am,” said Fer.
“That's good,” replied Hellen. “So am I. I don't need to tell you what we face. Andar's long summer is coming to an end. We can only hope there is a spring to follow the winter.”
“Spring always follows winter,” said Fer.
“True. But the winter doesn't care who lives through it and who dies.”
Inside, apart from the low plinth upon which the book must have rested, the room was bare. She had expected something sinister, a pool of blood perhaps, but there were only stalactites and stalagmites and the muddy red of the walls.
“There is one more thing to tell you before you go,” said Hellen, loudly now so everyone could hear. She closed her eyes for a moment and held out her left arm. The wince of pain on her face was brief but clear. A bat flitted down from somewhere on the roof and flew around Hellen several times, closer and closer on each circuit. Fer could hear its high-pitched chirp. It landed on Hellen and hung upside-down from her outstretched wrist, instantly asleep. The smell of burning metal, faint but distinct, came to her.
“This is the gateway,” said Hellen. “Let it bite you and you will leave Andar. But the way no longer leads directly to the other world. For anyone to pass between the worlds they also must find a way through the Tanglewood I set upon the shadow path twenty years ago. I will tell you the secret of how to do this now.”
“A Tanglewood from twenty years ago?” said Ariane. “This can not be.”
Fer knew the Tanglewood spell well. She had crafted one on several occasions, when being pursued by some large wild beast she did not wish to confront. It made a small section of woodland confusing, its paths knotty and impossible to follow, making you walk in circles or reach dead ends. It was easier with some woods than others: there were ancient places near where she had grown up that were more or less like that already. If you didn't know their ways, you could wander around all day in them, never knowing where you were going.
“I made a permanent one,” said Hellen.
“Such a thing isn't possible,” said Ariane.
“That's what I thought until I tried. It was a lot of work, but easier in the spaces between the worlds than it would have been here.”
The display of artistry and strength was considerable. Fer was, briefly, impressed. But more than that, it worried her. Great displays of power were an imbalance. There was always a price to pay: something lost, perhaps, or some greater power needed to counteract what had been done. Still, again, she could see the sense in Hellen's actions. It was what had to be done. And perhaps she had paid the price already, twenty years ago when she'd nearly died with the effort of it.
“By now the wood will have grown,” continued Hellen. “You will become lost easily unless you know the secret. Be very careful. The undain will probably be lurking in there. Or it may have found the path out. I do not know.
“But look for a great oak: tall, ancient, as wide as this room but lightning-blasted, its centre hollow and black. Climb inside it and you will find an opening at the top. Go out and there will be two great boughs. One, the left, goes over a small pool. Walk along this until you get to a knot in the wood that looks like the face of an owl. Jump into the pool and you will land in the other world. To come back here, take the other bough and find the knot that looks like the crescent moon. From there jump into a patch of thistles, nettles and brambles. You will return here.”
She held out the arm from which the bat dangled.
“That is all the help I can give. Find the book. Bring it here if you can. Destroy it if you have to. Luck be with you.”
They said no more. Ran went first. He took his sword from the case on his back and stepped toward Hellen, his spare hand stretched toward the bat. The creature looked up, sniffed the air with its tiny, whiffling nose, then sank its teeth into Ran's wrist. The dragonrider disappeared instantly. Johnny shrugged and went next, followed by Seleena.
Fer looked at Hellen one more ti
me, questions she could not quite identify filling her mind, anger at everything that had happened still burning. The old witch simply smiled. Fer, too, stepped forward, clutching the black book in one hand, holding her free wrist out to the bat.
She felt the briefest spike of pain and Islagray disappeared.
11. Tanglewood
The Aether
They stood in a small clearing. Fer saw no sign of the gateway they had come through. Dew pearled the grass under their feet; the air smelled rich and earthy. Trees huge and apparently ancient, great broadleaves, surrounded them. Their leaves glowed green in the clear sunlight, but darkness gathered underneath them, as though they carried great bundles of it under their outstretched arms.
Fer reached with her mind but felt nothing; an utter lack of life save for Seleena, Ran and Johnny. The wood was clearly unnatural. And silent, apart from the gentle roar of countless leaves brushing together in the breeze.
Paths led in all directions. They reminded her of the carved sun above one of the doors in the archive: the central circle, the rays winding off that seemed, through some artifice of the carver, to move as you walked by. The paths too, when you turned back to them, had shifted. They had disappeared completely, or led uphill instead of down, or divided into two paths.
Which way should they go? It probably didn't matter.
Johnny gazed around, admiring the scene, sucking in deep breaths of air. Seleena and Ran both stared at her. Ran, especially, seemed to expect her to make a decision. She found it uncomfortable. Of course, the dragonriders were utterly devoted to protecting Andar and its people. And so Ran had chosen to throw himself into this quest, to follow and protect them. But this appeared to mean specifically her. It was understandable, she supposed, but she didn't relish the idea. It felt too much like subservience. Many mistrusted the dragonriders, calling them wyrm lords and muttering about their ancient ties to Angere. She didn't believe any of that for a moment. But she'd find them easier to deal with if they were a little less fanatical in their defence of Andar.
