Of Weft and Weave (Dica Series Book 2) Page 2

  As Pettar entered further, his sandalled feet felt the warm caress of fur for the floor was awash with pelts; some longhaired, some stubble-bristled, others of a fine silken texture, but all together presenting a dizzying plethora of hues and textures. By then his eyes had adjusted to the brightness, and he realised he now stood before the inner side of those white marble pillars, the ones that so proudly fronted Nephril’s chamber.

  From within they seemed far less imposing. Their nearness, though, brought subtle delight, for Pettar saw they were flecked with glittering crystal veins and their whiteness seemed even more than snow. He couldn’t help but draw near, let his hand caress their strangely warm scapes, and so feel their almost oily smoothness.

  It was a question from Nephril that snapped Pettar from his rapt wonder, and made him turn back to the room, but what was said simply passed him by. Before him hung a huge tapestry, lit in its full glory by noonday light flooding in between the marble pillars.

  Woven in more varied colours than Pettar would ever have thought possible, it presented an imposing yet intimately warm depiction of a strange island set within a round and red lake, before which floated stately white swans. Their own virgin plumage mutely mimicked the pure lustre of the pillars now behind Pettar.

  Nephril didn’t repeat his question for he’d seen Pettar’s startled face, saw the awe that had slackened his jaw and the way his eyes were held so fast by the hanging. Nephril too turned and enjoyed that image, but afresh through proxy wonder. There, Nephril now saw, as he hadn’t for so very long, the intimation of Leiyatel’s pre-eminence.

  At the very centre of the scarlet-skirted isle towered a huge tree, its branches fanning to vanishing threads in an azure sky, not a single cloud besmirching that crystal-clear promise. At its base a vermillion serpent slithered about its bole, whilst high in its boughs, bright red fruit hung heavy. The fruit of fortune, the fruit that had so enriched the realm and brought to it its bountiful plenty. As Pettar’s awe became too much to bear, Nephril shattered it by saying, “Would thee like a goblet of wine then, Pettar?”

  Pettar turned in a bit of a daze, forcing Nephril to ask again, the eventual answer being but a nod. With Nephril suddenly gone, Pettar turned back to renew his wonder. He knew that before him was a depiction of the singular construction that sat within Baradcar, at the very heart of his childhood home.

  What true likeness it held he couldn’t guess, for he’d never been within Baradcar’s bounding wall, had seldom if ever been near. Although he’d seen many depictions of the Living Green Stone Tree, all as near alike, he’d never been certain of their intended trueness. Was Leiyatel indeed a tree with roots and bough, with branches bearing bright red fruit? As his mind failed to grasp an answer, Nephril returned, wiping dry a crystal goblet with a rather grubby towel.

  “Lord Nephril?” Nephril placed the goblet on the table and turned to look at Pettar, although he already seemed to know the question.

  Nephril looked up at the tapestry himself, his face clouding for a moment before he shook his head. “Let me fill our goblets afore owt else, eh, err … Pettar, yes, before thee ask me owt,” and then he hurried off.

  Nephril was gone a while but Pettar was too enrapt to notice. A child of Galgaverre he may have been, and not just the product of a priestly union but an actual issue of a sire of its Guardian line, yet he’d never set eyes on what lay within Baradcar. He’d never had means and certainly not right to look beyond its sixteen black digits that towered so high around its crater’s rim.

  All but one person alone were forbidden entry there, only one allowed to pass beyond its walls and down to its island charge that nestled there at its eye. Only one person now alive had seen what Pettar could only ever imagine. That thought left Pettar stilled, in both body and mind, enough to realise just how quiet the scullery had become.

  He tore his eyes from the tapestry and looked towards the scullery doorway, but could see no movement within. When he carefully stepped towards it, he thought he heard a soft murmur followed by a series of gulps. It was only when he came to the opening and looked through that he began to understand.

  Nephril sat hunched over in a low chair beside a stone trough in which a single goblet stood, partially filled with water. He held his face, shakily, in upturned hands as he gently sobbed.

  Although a large and bluff man, Pettar had a soft heart, and so soon bent and placed his hands on Nephril’s shuddering shoulders. Pettar couldn’t, though, think of anything to say, and so Nephril just continued to sob.

  Pettar's back increasingly ached from bending over him, and a dull throb came from his knuckles, where they'd been struck by the frame's flailing handle. It wasn’t distraction enough to stop him wondering just what need Storbanther could really have of Nephril. Did Storbanther realise how broken he seemed to be, how much of a shadow of his former self?

  Pettar was beginning to fear failing in his mission when Nephril gulped a couple of times and craned his face up. Although his eyes were tinged red they were still largely dark and heavy, as though a great weariness had weighed them down over countless years.

  His voice, when it came, was actually stronger than Pettar expected. “I do remember thee now, Pettar. Aye. ‘Tis stark what memories have been dredged up with thy name and place, the more so when I did see thee in awe before her.”

  Pettar stepped around him and sat on the edge of the stone trough, which creaked, worryingly. Nephril seemed to be searching Pettar’s face for something, but all Pettar could do was sit and quietly wait. Nephril was clearly engrossed in things that passed across his own inner vision, things given life by the Galgaverran now sitting so solidly before him.

  Eventually, Nephril’s gaze left Pettar’s face, and sank to the lone goblet where his hand soon followed, took it up and carefully emptied it. As the water gurgled away down the drain, Nephril rose and deftly caught the towel that had lain all that time in his lap.

  He slowly dried the goblet and then held it out to Pettar. “Here thee are. Take this through to the table and I wilt join thee there with the wine.” When Pettar looked uncertain, Nephril waved the goblet towards the door, and so Pettar took it.

  After placing it on the table with its partner, he avoided the tapestry, and instead looked out through the pillars into the grey and misty day. He could only just make out the white horses now flecking the sea’s cold swell, and the occasional gull gliding silently by. He moved nearer the opening, seeing through it the terrace’s balustrade, damp with windblown mist, and speckled with slugs and snails tracing their silvery trails.

  Nephril’s voice surprised him. “Here thee are, Pettar, thy wine.” Pettar turned to find the proffered goblet slightly shaking, and so quickly took it. Again he wondered what Storbanther could want with such a frail, old man, but also remembered how vigorous he’d seemed when drawing in his catch.

  Nephril sank into a chair against the wall, beside the table, and took up his own goblet, from which he drank deeply. The huge bowl was half empty before he placed it back and reached for the cask. There was another chair at the other side of the table, into which Pettar eased himself, one that felt reassuringly more solid than the sink.

  For a quiet while they both drank and recharged their goblets until the cask was emptied, at which point Nephril rose and brought another from the scullery. Pettar was beginning to worry they’d soon be too far gone to discharge his task when Nephril quietly spoke, as he stared absently across the room. “Age be a poor companion. Dost thou knowest that, Pettar? It should bring with it great wisdom, but ‘tis not so. What it doth truly bring I canst ne’er be certain for it surely brings but forgetfulness, the one thing upon which wisdom withers.”

  He seemed somewhat stronger now, and it showed in his voice. “I have a cosy and quiet life here, Pettar, one that troubles me little, one that lets me see each day out with impunity. A great salve it is for one of mine own far-sweeping age - a valued and defended salve.” Pettar began to feel a little guilty, wary th
at his visit might indeed take that one thing from him, and so saw in Nephril’s comment, perhaps, a guarded warning.

  Pettar had not known Nephril that well, although he valued and respected him. Nephril had certainly been of great help when Pettar first came to those northern regions to attend the Ambecs. Pettar had been young then and, it had to be said, somewhat green, but Nephril had set him right. He’d given Pettar insights into Ambec nature that had almost certainly preserved him, for they were an ill-tempered and vicious lot.

  That had been some years before, when Nephril had been more active about Dica and still in occasional attendance at the Royal Court. He’d been a good and useful go-between then, smoothing ruffled noble feathers disturbed by Pettar’s innocent blundering. In fact, Pettar now realised there was more of Storbanther behind that mission than he’d ever realised before. His current day’s duty to his old mentor seemed strangely enough to promise far more, but would it upset what little peace an old man had found? Was it right?

  Nephril’s words broke his thoughts. “Better get that fish on its way or we will both go hungry.” He rose, quaffed the last of his wine and vanished back out to the scullery, where a mundane series of culinary noises soon began to erupt.

  Content that Nephril seemed once more at ease, Pettar wandered aimlessly about the room, intrigued by the odd things he found scattered about. Old war implements hung on one wall, some pennants and pieces of armour, each emblazoned with the Dican crest of island tree and serpent. There were cupboards and shelves thronged with the weird and wonderful, few of which Pettar recognised.

  When he wandered beyond the pillars, out onto the terrace, he found something there that stood beneath a shroud of oilskins, something supported on three long and pointed legs. Peering beneath, he saw a long tube but couldn’t for the life of him guess its purpose.

  When he wandered back into the room, it was to find Nephril brightly serving two platters of fried fish, laid carefully at two already set places, freshly charged goblets of deep red wine in attendance. On the table were bowls of boiled potatoes, steamed broccoli and some buttered parsnips.

  There was, though, little real conversation as they ate. Nephril seemed to have fallen to an habitual silence, whilst Pettar fretted about his as yet guiltily unfulfilled duty.

  The sky had taken an early turn to dusk, by virtue of the persisting mist, and so after they’d eaten, they remained indoors, sipping at yet more of Nephril’s cellar. Pettar was certainly feeling its heady effect but Nephril seemed oblivious, gazing silently and contentedly about the room.

  Perhaps it was the wine, but Pettar began to feel the silence grow heavier, weighing his limbs down and suffusing his face with a warm, golden glow. Although the mocking gulls had long left empty the still evening air, the silence and mist made the sea’s crashing waves sound that bit nearer. A slow, deep and distant, rhythmic and rumbling assault, chased on by the hush of foam and shingle, steadily lulled him into a floating contentment.

  So detached had he become that Nephril’s furrowed brow and inquisitive eyes remained unseen, just as his soft words remained unheard. Nephril slowly smiled to himself, took another large gulp of wine and repeated, “So, young fellow of the Garradish line, he who hath been named Pettar, and he who I do now verily remember first coming hereabouts, what could it hath been that did bring thee here today, eh? What would thee be needing of an old man, I wonder.”

  Pettar slowly realised the silence had been stirred, that the tide’s surging song had gained an harmonious accompaniment, and so half opened his eyes to meet Nephril’s strangely bright ones. In that one short look, Pettar saw Nephril as he’d been when first they’d met, saw the same sharp wit and knowing well from those same crystal-clear depths, and with that, finally heard Nephril’s words.

  “What trouble hath thee become mired in now, I wonder. I do hope ‘tis not too bothersome for I am want of much influence at Court these days. Eh, Pettar?” That last he directed more forcibly, and by it, at last broke Pettar’s briny enchantment.

  “I’m sorry, Nephril, what did you say?”

  Pettar’s words were only slightly slurred, but enough to make Nephril grin before he again asked, “I have found memories with thine name writ upon and do now remember well our previous dealings. I think I can see purpose to thy visit. Would I be right, eh, Pettar? Are thee in search of calming oils for yet more troubled waters?”

  By now Pettar was more or less fully awake; wits sharper, mind applied, alert. When he saw the direction Nephril’s mind was taking, it instantly brought his errand to the fore. Pettar found himself explaining, now strangely without reticence, “No, Nephril, though you know me to be forever in your debt in that respect. No, I’m here on an errand for another. I’ve been sent with a message, and to lend what aid I can upon its being read.”

  “A message? For me? And from whom, may I ask? Who would wish to send me a missive?”

  Pettar decided it were best to lay it in Nephril’s hand before revealing its sender, though why he felt so hesitant he couldn’t quite fathom. He reached into the fold of his robe and brought out an envelope. Even whilst still in his hand, Nephril’s name was plain to see. When handed to him, he turned it over, finding the back blank, and so slid his finger under its flap and tore it open.

  Inside was a single and small piece of paper, of the finest quality and not at all old, folded once so the words could be seen but faintly through it. Nephril unfolded it and slowly read.

  Nephhryl, Meowyh Caegheorda,

  Ichr eom grevlic yfel en af eow hayben neodh.

  Cuman aer tar meowyh clypnes. Ablissian.

  Eowerh Treowe Lufa, Leiyfiantel

  There was an undisguised expectancy in Pettar’s expression, but however brightly it shone, Nephril didn’t seem to notice. His eyes were fixed on the words alone, darting back and forth as he reread them. His silence was too much for Pettar. “Good news, I hope?” although he strongly suspected not.

  When Nephril’s gaze again found Pettar, his eyes showed confusion. Nephril placed the message on the battered arm of his chair and patted it a few times to settle it. “I have not the foggiest idea, Pettar, mine herald, for its contents are a mystery to me.”

  Disappointment sluiced through Pettar, an irresistible surge, like the relentless waves still crashing against the rocks below. Nephril eventually asked, “Pettar? Who did send thee on thine errand?”

  “Err, doesn’t it say in the message, Nephril?”

  “I have already told thee I cannot read it, and the one name it doth seem to hold cannot be its true author. So, who asked thee to deliver it to me?”

  Pettar felt embarrassed at his own reticence. “It was my old childhood mentor, Storbanther, he who pressed me into this.”

  Nephril still looked confused, but having read the message once more, asked, “Where doth this Storbanther abide, what be his position and did he pen this himself?” He stabbed lightly at the paper.

  Pettar explained that Storbanther lived in Galgaverre and had seemingly done so forever, that he was the Guardian’s Second and a most learned and knowledgeable man. Pettar looked confused himself for he found it hard to imagine anybody not knowing of Storbanther.

  “It hath been so long since I have been in Galgaverre that I would fain know any names there now.”

  Pettar began to understand, and added, “As to whether or not he wrote it, well, I’m afraid I don’t know. He handed it to me already as you see it, before I sealed it myself. I was expecting you to have some further use of me, having read it, so I’m at a bit of a loss now. I thought there’d be a reply or maybe you’d need taking somewhere, but if you can’t decipher its meaning then … well … I suppose…”

  “From what little I remember, Pettar, I would say that thy message be writ in the tongue of Bazarral, the ancient and original tongue. There be scarce knowledge of it these days, certainly none at large. But then, I do seem to remember there was one versed in it many years ago. Not too many I hope. Although I have a
strange feeling I once had skill in it mine self, but any fluency hath long since withered on the vines of mine memory.”

  “Who’re you thinking of, Nephril? Are they nearby?”

  The old man’s eyes clouded a little. “Aye, it hath come back to me in part, in large enough part to be of use. Melkin Mudark it were. Now that I recollect, I can see him full in face and in time enough to reckon he be young yet for life to be in him still. Hopefully accompanied by his own full wits.”

  For the first time since meeting on the Graywyse Defence Wall, Pettar saw some real joy course through Nephril, saw the sparkle in his eyes that now shone out and made the years seemingly fall away. As though lit by a renewed fire, Nephril beamed at Pettar.

  “Thou knowest, I do think it time to put aside sloth and contentment. There be a promised joy at setting grateful eyes once more upon Bazarral. Perhaps it be time, aye, time again to bathe mine spirit in its radiance, for I have had too many years of austere northern living. Thou see, the answer to both our riddles lies there, if anywhere. Eh, Pettar? Would thee fancy a trip to Bazarral, to meet an old acquaintance I have been wont of holding to for such a very long time?”

  2 A New Day

  There was a clattering of what sounded like a pail being put down before, silence returned. It left plenty of space for aching muscles to vie for attention. One of Pettar’s legs felt numb and, a wrist stung with cramped neglect. When he opened his eyes, his first sight was that of the seven white marble pillars, but instead of encroaching dusk filling the space between them, bright morning light flooded in.

  The pillars certainly weren’t vertical, so he could only assume his head to be at a slant. It was his painful wrist, when married to stretched nostrils, that really confirmed he was indeed resting his sleep-ridden head against a pillowing hand.