The Giants' Dance

by Robert Carter

  Nothing.

  They slipped through the gardens and fled. It was a fine feeling to run barefoot in the grass. After so long cooped up in the castle it felt like true freedom, and Will thrilled to know that a virtuous circle had been forged, that the gift of release he had made to the ked had come round so soon.

  The moonlight waned as they ran, and was soon replaced by a pale summer dawn. Low mists clung to the river and Will took Willow’s hand and hurried her across the place where hundreds of tents had stood only days before. The temporary village where he had fought with Jasper was now just a memory – only heaps of rubbish and old fire pits remained. Will’s thoughts were in a whirl as he reminded himself of the invading army that was supposed to be marching south under the Duke of Ebor, and how the lords loyal to King Hal had been sent away to gather their strength. He wondered how strongly the lorc had sprung to life, and tried to estimate just how long they had to find the next stone.

  Soon they were among the mists of Afon Water and stepping towards Stonelea Woods. The summer sun rose in the north-east. Cocks began to crow. Will kept the moon over his right shoulder and continued to follow the river. In the villages which they passed through folk were already going about their early morning chores. Most paid them friendly heed but little more, for their grey-brown wayfarer’s cloaks showed them to be travellers passing through. Some folk asked what news there was. Others told what they had heard.

  ‘Have a care!’ a pedlar at a well warned them. ‘The nobles are in a hurry to raise men. They’ll not scruple to take an able young man like yourself off the road.’

  ‘Is your own lord raising fighting men?’ Will asked, feigning ignorance so as to learn more.

  ‘Aye, all the lords are! Haven’t you heard? A great invading army has landed in the west.’

  Will thanked the pedlar for his advice and urged Willow on. She looked over her shoulder, still worried about Chlu. ‘Surely he won’t be able to track us across fords and along hard roads, will he?’

  ‘Who knows? It’s not our scent he’s following, though after we fell into that compost heap he might easily be.’

  ‘Then what shall we do to keep him off?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s dangerous to imagine too little of him. He found me at the Plough, and the only time he was not drawn to me was when I was in the Vale, or in disguise, and covered by one of Gwydion’s spells.’

  ‘But how does he do it?’

  ‘He seems to feel my presence, and I light up like a stroke of lightning for him when I dance magic.’

  ‘Then don’t dance any!’

  ‘I won’t if I can help it. But he’ll ask questions along the way, and he’ll find answers, you can be sure of that.’

  They came by a stream that wound among gentle slopes. Broad grazing meadows reached down to the water, and there were dozens of fresh molehills. Further up, older, drier molehills made bald patches in the grass. These had been crazed and cracked by a week of dry weather. Gwydion had once taught him how to read molehills, for the little velvet animals who made them felt very strongly the power that lay in the land.

  ‘This way,’ he said at last. ‘I’m sure it’s this way.’

  The stream passed into the cool shade of a wood and then out again. There were forget-me-nevers where the stream joined a deeper one, and blue-bodied damsel flies danced over the water. They saw little pebbly beaches that fringed the river and muddy reaches where cattle came down to drink and where the bank was broken. Will felt the cool water lapping between his toes. He saw shoals of transparent fishlings darting and turning as one at his approach. He sang a ditty that he had learned as a child:

  ‘Fishling fry,

  All of him is eye.

  He has naught for a body,

  But how fast does he fly!’

  He took Willow’s hand in his. He felt suddenly strong and happy, and knew it was good for them to be themselves again.

  ‘I wish Bethe was with us,’ Willow said. ‘She’ll be all right, won’t she?’

  ‘She’ll be the pride of the duchess herself. No child could be safer.’

  ‘Except with her own mother.’ Willow bit her lip. ‘What if the duke’s army gets beaten? You know what would happen then – the duke and his two eldest sons would be hunted down and killed at the queen’s command, and that’s if they lasted out the battle. Then Duchess Cicely would be captured and locked up forever in some guarded castle with her daughters…or sent to serve the White Order.’

  ‘The duchess would never suffer herself to be locked up by the Sightless Ones.’

  ‘She used to let them into her husband’s castle at Foderingham.’

  ‘But she doesn’t like them. Nor does the duke. They have to play the game with the Fellowship, of course. All the lords do.’ He turned and saw tears in Willow’s eyes. ‘Hey, don’t cry…’

  ‘I can’t help it. Oh, where is she, Will? Where’s my baby?’

  He held her and hugged her tight. ‘She’s better off where she is. You know that. And if I know Duke Richard, he’s far too wily for the queen. The duchess is no fool either – she’ll stay in the Blessed Isle until there’s news of the battle either way. I’m sure of that.’

  She sniffed and dabbed at her eyes. ‘Do you really think so?’

  ‘I really think so.’

  Will led her onward, cutting quickly across the land, following the flows just as Gwydion had taught him. He wanted to lay good words here and there, as he had seen Gwydion do so many times, but he knew he must keep their pace up and make their passing as unmarked as he could. When they finally stopped to eat breakfast, Will judged by the sun that it was already the middle of the morning. As he looked up he was assailed by a violent prickling in his skin, and so he began to scry the land around. He felt what he knew must be the Tanne lign, but it vanished within a few paces of the spot where he first found it.

  They crossed the River Afon at the next suitable place, which was a ford at a village called Lawe. There they came upon a flock of honking geese.

  ‘Beware the east road,’ the gozzard told them as he saw them trying to choose the best way. ‘Unless you have business in the town of Rucke, it’s best left out of your plans.’

  ‘Rucke, you say? The famous Rucke?’

  ‘Ah, you’ve heard tell of the Towers, then?’

  ‘That I have. But I thank you for the warning all the same.’

  When they had gone on a way, Willow asked, ‘What did you mean by the Towers?’

  ‘You’ll soon see.’

  They went on further, following the river. It was partly to put Chlu off their trail, and partly for fear of the Towers that they went the longer way around. Yet as they passed by the walls and ditches of the town, they saw the Towers of Time.

  ‘It’s said there are a dozen needlewomen living there,’ Will said. ‘They’ve worked for two thousand years, making the tapestry called “The History of the World”. Gwydion once told me about them. He said they were set to their task by King Gorboduc, who was the twenty-first king to reign in the Realm after the Age of Giants.’

  ‘Do you mean the same women have been working there all that time?’ Willow asked.

  ‘I don’t know about that, but Gwydion said they record all that happens in the Realm. He told me that if ever their stitching stopped, time would end, and all things would stand still forever.’

  ‘Master Gwydion said that to you?’

  ‘He did. He says that’s Why, whatever else may pass in the Realm, the town of Rucke is left to govern itself. It has a sheriff who makes the law, and no one from outside molests it.’

  After that they followed the south bank of the Afon, giving as wide a berth as they could to the strange town. Will wondered about Gwydion, and what to do about him. How would they ever find him now? Or he them? Events were moving along too swiftly, and it was so long since they had heard from the wizard. Outlandish possibilities began to flit through Will’s mind. Sight of the Towers of Rucke make him think of the far-
famed Castle of Sundials – a fortress in the north that belonged to the Duke of Ebor, where many different machines of time were kept. Perhaps Gwydion was waiting there even now, poised to halt time and set everything to rights – but that was surely too much to wish for.

  ‘I’d be very grateful,’ he told Willow, ‘if time did stop, at least for a little while.’

  ‘How long for?’ she asked.

  ‘Just an hour. My feet hurt.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, how can time stop for an hour? An hour has to go by for that to happen.’

  ‘Hmmm.’

  ‘That’s why if time ever stopped, there’d be no getting it started again.’

  ‘I guess so.’ Will hunted about distractedly – the power of the lorc rose at noon, and if he missed scrying for the lign then no better chance would come until midnight.

  ‘Wait,’ Willow said as they came to a great, dusty road that ran to the east of Rucke. ‘Think about the verse: “He who seeks the flaxen thread, shall ravens find beside the road.” I think this might be the road.’

  Will rubbed his chin, and looked up and down it. It seemed ordinary enough. ‘Why?’

  ‘Could the bird in the verse have been translated “rook” instead of “raven”?’

  Will tried to recall his lessons. ‘The true word “bran” can mean either bird, depending on how you speak it. I think it can mean crow too. But I can’t see any rooks. Can you?’

  ‘No, but that sounds like “Rucke”. It’s possible, don’t you think?’

  Will looked back in the direction of the town, but then shook his head. ‘But every battlestone we’ve found so far has been on a lign, and the most dangerous ones seem to be placed where two or even three ligns cross. There’s no lign running through Rucke.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Not completely. But look at the fields far over that way. Do you see what’s growing in them?’

  A patchwork of land stretched away eastward into the summer haze and many different crops grew there. Will meant the fields that had a pale blue sheen, a blue made by countless little flowers.

  When Willow saw them, she said, ‘Is that what I think it is? Flax?’

  ‘It looks like it to me.’

  They decided to press on again, and soon they came by the village of Elventoft. Will looked to north and south again and had another inkling about the way the land lay. Shifting power, and a sense of drifting to the south. A little further along the road they met a Wise Woman, whose back was bowed and whose stick was gnarled. They asked after the village that had planted the flax.

  ‘By my warts!’ she said. ‘In Harleston they spin left-handed! It is sung of in these parts in a children’s rhyme:

  ‘Four-eyed folk weave the finest linen,

  The whitest linen there ever has been!

  For they use no flax to spin their linen,

  The softest linen that ever was seen!

  They pluck the locks from off their heads,

  And use white hair to make their threads,

  For the spreading over of kingly beds,

  Harleston linen, I ween!

  ‘The needlewomen of Rucke may make the history of the world, but it is stitched upon cloth woven in Harleston!’

  ‘Thank you for your words, Wise Woman,’ Will said. ‘But before you go on I must ask a favour of you. If you should meet with another traveller coming along this road, one who enquires after us, what will you say to him?’

  ‘I will tell him only to mind the crows, for they will peck his eyes out! Hurry on! Hurry on, my sweets, for it is near to the midday hour!’ The Wise Woman laughed to herself again, and sang,

  ‘Waxing, waning, fat full moon,

  Stormy weather coming soon!

  Make it wane, make it wax,

  Use his hair instead of flax!’

  The Sister of Elventoft’s grating laugh made Will uneasy. He cut himself a switch from the nearest hazel and fashioned a wand from it, then he composed himself. At first the meadows yielded nothing to his probing. He felt no sense of what ran beneath the grass, but as the sun mounted higher towards noon his feet led him up a slight rise and the feelings he had hoped for began to tingle in his arms.

  ‘I don’t think it’s just wishfulness on my part,’ he said, walking a spiral. ‘It’s quite faint, but it seems to me this rise marks the Mulart lign. That’s one of the three ligns that cross at Verlamion. Having touched the Doomstone I think I’d know that feeling anywhere, no matter how faint.’

  ‘Which way should we go?’ Willow asked, shading her eyes. ‘North or south? Good sense says Duke Richard must have landed to the north and west of Corben.’

  Will turned. ‘When was good sense ever the best guide in matters touching the lorc? It controls men’s wills. We ought to heed what’s written on the stones first. It’s south.’

  ‘All the same…’ He saw what was bothering her. Every step that took her further from their daughter was proving to be torturesome.

  ‘We need to ask where Harleston village lies,’ he said gently. ‘I have an idea that we’re now not so many leagues north of Eiton and the lign of the ash. It may be that the stone we seek lies at the crossing of Mulart and Indonen – if I can find that place.’

  Judging by the sun, the lign led them a little south of south-east. They followed the road which wound along beside it, but now it seemed there was no one travelling except themselves. Will scanned the rolling lands anxiously. He had seen such things before, and an ominous feeling had begun to grow in the pit of his stomach. Even so, they pressed on and an hour or so later they saw an ox-cart coming in the other direction. They hailed the two carriers who sat beside one another, and asked what village they would come to next.

  ‘Ravenstrop,’ the elder of the two men called down.

  They exchanged a meaningful glance. ‘And beyond?’

  The carrier eyed Will closely, but he was unwilling to call his oxen to a halt. ‘Beyond lies Corde.’

  ‘Do you mean Cordewan?’

  ‘Arh. Corde’s what the local folks call it. We’ve just come up past the cloister at Delamprey. The lands around are running with soldiers. There’s big things going on down there, right enough. It’s said the red hands have been fixing to receive the king for more than a week now, and there’re strange noises come out of that cloister at night.’

  The younger man gave a lewd smile. ‘Them red hands at Delamprey has got women.’

  ‘Women?’ Willow repeated.

  ‘Aye, bequines – you know, noblewomen who’re lost to the world. Folks say the queen’s sorcerer has been seen there working spells on them.’

  Will tried not to show his dismay. He asked, ‘Do you know of a village called Harleston that lies this way?’

  ‘Hardingstones, did you say? They’re down by Delamprey.’

  ‘No. Harleston, I said. Harleston.’

  ‘What business you got there?’ the older man said, his eyes narrowing. ‘Whatever it is, I’d turn around if I was you. There’s trouble brewing down in them parts, and no mistake about it.’

  ‘We have to go that way.’

  ‘Then you’re a bigger fool than you look.’

  Will watched the cart rumble on, and called after it. ‘At least tell us how far it is to Ravenstrop!’

  ‘Two leagues, no more,’ the younger man called back, then he pointed at Will’s bare feet and grinned. ‘Two leagues, but in shoes like yours you should do it in three.’

  As soon as the cart was out of sight, Willow said, ‘Well, at least we know we’re going the right way.’

  ‘This is exactly what happened after Gwydion took the battlestone out of Aston Oddingley. Soldiers began gathering about us like wasps around a pot of honey. Before we could do anything about it the fight had already started.’

  ‘What did he mean by “bequines”?’ Willow asked, shading her eyes.

  ‘When men of title die, inconvenient wives are sometimes left behind. They’re often given into the care of the Fellowshi
p and become bequines. It happened to Queen Kat, the king’s mother. Jasper told me all about it.’

  ‘That’s horrible.’ Willow looked up at the sky mistrustfully. ‘But they said the red hands had been preparing royal lodgings for a week. How can that be?’

  ‘Doubtless Maskull was looking ahead, beyond his Great Council. The royal victuallers will have been sent on to fix everything. But why Delamprey?’

  ‘Now that they’ve eaten everyone in the district of Corben out of hearth and home, I expect the victuallers have to go a long way to find new supplies.’

  ‘But Maskull is not the prime mover here. Don’t forget what’s really controlling events. If the king’s soldiery is gathering at Delamprey the stone must be quite close.’

  She tossed her head. ‘A day’s march anyway. But that’s still a lot of ground.’

  ‘Yes. It doesn’t help us all that much.’

  ‘Still, it seems strange that Maskull has sent the court to a cloister of the Fellowship,’ Willow said glumly. ‘He has no more regard for them than Master Gwydion does. Everything’s strange about the way the stones work – no one can tell which of them will start trouble next, but the stones themselves must know, for their own verses foretell it.’

  ‘The lorc warps men’s fates so they are forced to fall in with its grand plan.’

  ‘Was there never a way to control the lorc?’

  ‘Gwydion said the fae left much of their knowledge with the First Men, but when the last of them died those secrets died also. Most of what the First Men did was revealed at Doward’s Cave when King Cherin had his visions and the scribes wrote them down, but I don’t think Cherin said anything about the stones.’

  ‘Cherin – how long ago did he live?’

  ‘Twelve hundred years ago. But Gwydion said the coming of the First Men into these parts of the world happened above twelve thousand years ago, and the fae went into the Realm Below a thousand years after that. He said the First Men dwelt peaceably here and lived according to the ways of the fae for thousands of years, and in those days there was more magic in the world.’