Cold Angel Days (Dica Series Book 4) Page 7

  “You rest here, eh?”

  Geran nodded as she choked back her tears. “I’ll ... I’ll be fine, Prescinda. Thanks. It’s just got too much for me, ‘specially after dad...”

  “I know. Do you need a drink before I go? Water?”

  When Geran just shook her head, Prescinda got to her feet and gave her forlorn sister a reassuring smile. As she left, she couldn’t help but wonder how long the two had been sleeping apart, Geran now back in her old single room.

  From the stairs, Prescinda came into a deserted kitchen, even the oven’s fire seeming to have gone out. A quick rattle with the poker, cinders and ash sparkling through to fall as ochre dust to the pan, and flames soon feebly sought the air. She placed enough coals on to dampen it, turned the air grate low, straightened and then heard voices - muted, not at all near.

  Only when she put her head through to the hall did she find the source, Nephril and Falmeard clearly in discussion at the front door, despite the cold. Their tone made her pause - hand on the doorknob, her breath held, brow knitted. It didn’t seem at all amicable.

  “You’ve obviously got me mixed up with someone else,” Falmeard was maintaining, a little too volubly. “I don’t know anything at all about it.”

  Prescinda could hear Nephril saying something, but not exactly what. He seemed to be appealing to Falmeard but with some exasperation.

  “I’ve lived all my life in my chambers in the Upper Reaches until moving here!” Falmeard almost cried, an even quieter rejoinder from Nephril evoking, “But why should I know anything at all about Baradcar? What makes you think I’ve ever been there?”

  One of them swung the door to, muffling even Falmeard’s now raised voice.

  Prescinda moved into the hall, nearer the door with each step, but its thickness precluded hearing much more. She glanced up the darkened staircase and an idea struck.

  The landing window had been opened a crack to help clear the musty smell from the old man’s bedchamber, enough for the discussion below to drift in, clearer still when Prescinda placed an ear at the gap.

  “I’ve honestly no idea, Master Nephril,” Falmeard was saying.

  “Lord Nephril, my dear old friend, Lord Nephril if thou will? Surely thou remember me?”

  “I don’t, I’m sorry. I’ve truly never heard of you before, Master or Lord!”

  “Not even if I call thee by thy rightful name, eh, Francis? Dost that not bring thee back to thy true self?”

  “You’ve definitely got me mixed up with someone else.”

  The dogs started barking again, enough to wake the dead, so Nephril and Falmeard broke off and came back in, straight through to the kitchen. By the time Prescinda had carefully made her way back down and followed them in, she again found the kitchen empty.

  She could hear voices on the landing, though, certainly Grog’s, but only when he then marched into the kitchen did she find out why. “That Nephril’s abed, Sis. I’ve made up t’Bracken Room for ‘im as it’s the warmest we have spare. He seemed a bit miffed, though, if you ask me.”

  “And Falmeard?”

  “Not seen ‘im at all, Sis. Not wi’ Geran is he?”

  Prescinda doubted it. Dad had been right, she thought, he really is an oddity. Baradcar! she marvelled. “Falmeard in Baradcar!”

  “You what, Sis?”

  “Err, nothing, Grog. I was just wondering about Baradcar, that’s all.”

  “Leiyatel’s home? Why ever were you thinking o’ there?”

  Prescinda stared at Grog without really seeing him, but he hardly noticed.

  “Nobody can survive being in Baradcar, not so close to Leiyatel, can they Grog?”

  “Nope, not even t’Galgaverran priests - well, if you can believe t’old legends. Maybe only t’Master o’ Ceremonies, whoever that is now and if there still is one. Must be I suppose, now we’ve got t’Certain Power back running.”

  Master of Ceremonies? She rolled the idea around in her mind. No. It couldn’t be. But then maybe he really is as odd as Dad said. To Prescinda, it was certainly beginning to look that way.

  18 Not What it Used to Be

  At breakfast it soon became clear that Nephril hadn’t slept in his room, and must have slipped away not long after everyone else had retired. Odder still, Falmeard also seemed to be absent, although Prescinda doubted they’d gone together. Plainly too much for Geran, she’d raced off back to her room. Prescinda was about to follow when she remembered the previous night’s overheard conversation.

  “Grog?”

  “Yes, Sis.”

  “Do you know where Falmeard’s old chambers are?”

  “Course I do! Been there often enough as a kid, running errands like. Was forever up and down fetching stuff for him.”

  “Could you take me there then, this morning?”

  “Err...” He tried to square his morning’s chores with this new demand.

  Kirsten came to his aid. “It’s alright, Grog, I can look after the eggs on my own. You get off with Presci, though try be back before dinnertime, eh?”

  Although an overcast and chill day, their stiff climb up the steep, stepped lane kept them warm enough. The old road, when they got to it, had only wheel marks to show where the thrijhil had been, the slip and slide of a hurried turn still clear to see. It seemed Nephril had returned to the Star Tower, or at least gone that way.

  At the other side of the road, through another cut in the walls, the lane continued its stepped climb towards the Upper Reaches. It began to ease a little - not quite as steep – as it came before the deserted gardens of a row of tumbled-down houses, their gaunt and empty faces staring west to a far off hint of grey sea.

  It was high enough for the wind to howl through missing slates as Grog led Prescinda along what had become an eerie and waterlogged lane, until it rose clear, steeply once more. The houses gave way to old farm buildings either side of what had now become no more than a walled path.

  Nearing the top, just before the path became lost to the dark embrace of stunted mayflower trees, Prescinda had to stop to get her breath back. Her nose filled with the flat but fading scent of their now yellowing rosettes of flowers as she turned and looked back down the hill.

  Certainly grey and a little misty, the view still impressed. Far below, a slanted plume of grey-white smoke rose from a chimney, marking out an innocuous rectangle of roof against the scar of patchwork fields about. Blisteraising spoke of a hearth’s homely warmth, making the cold air seem to strike more cuttingly through the wrap of Prescinda’s coat.

  “Not far to go, Sis.” Words that gave her wearied legs some hope.

  “Lead on, O conquering climber,” she called as she grinned, but Grog clearly missed the childhood allusion. He’d been young then, she allowed, as she turned back to the mayflower’s forbidding arch and soon exchanged the aroma of fading blossom for the dank odour of exposed earth and decaying leaves.

  Dark and slippery, the path became little more than the bed of a rain gulley, loose rocks and slimy mud making for poor footing. Her hands were well muddied by the time they came through and back into the light, free of the trees and bushes and out into a narrow street.

  “I don’t remember it being that overgrown,” Grog said, looking back the way they’d come.

  There did seem to be more than just a few year’s growth, Prescinda thought. “Maybe you came a slightly different way before,” but Grog didn’t answer, his fingers still scratching his head.

  “This way is it?” she called, standing now by a stile on the other side of the road, beyond which a narrow, bramble-strangled path continued up the hill.

  Grog joined her and looked over the wall. “It’s definitely the right way, just not how I’d expected it to be.”

  “It does look long unused, I have to agree.”

  “But someone’s been this way recently. Look,” Grog said, pointing to a roughly trampled path.

  He climbed over the stile and squeezed his huge frame between the reaching thorns and
examined the snapped end of a stem. “Today and all I reckon.” He lifted his head and peered up the line of the path, following the zigzag of flattened undergrowth.

  They followed as best they could, but only when Prescinda stubbed a toe and fell forward - taking a thorn to her palm - did they realise there were steps beneath their feet. It made sense, for the path had become even steeper.

  Still rubbing her hand, she and Grog came out onto a long stone terrace, shallow and overgrown with weeds. On the far side at their end, a broad flight of steps carried on up to a parapet wall - one Grog recognised as fronting Falmeard’s old chambers.

  He looked bemused when they reached it, his eyes narrowed and brow puckered in disbelief as he picked his way through the weeds. He led Prescinda past an old stone privy to an open archway into a pitch black room, cut into the cliff behind. It smelt of damp, the kind that should have had bracken and bog-grass growing in it, home to those small black flies that get into your ears and nose and mouth.

  Prescinda joined him and she too peered in but could see no more than Grog. “You sure this is it?” she asked, her voice sounding hollow.

  “I’m certain. Know it like the back of me hand ... well, I once did. Can’t say I’ve had much cause to come up this way these past few years, not since...”

  “Shush!” Prescinda hissed, leaning her head further into the stale, black air. “I can hear something ... or someone.”

  From somewhere within, beyond the reach of daylight, the murmured sounds of sobbing drifted to her ears. Clearly it was a private grief, one that gathered to itself its own damp-ridden echoes. They whispered of a close sorrow, a sorrow tight against a lonely heart, the heart of a forlorn but familiar voice.

  19 Home Sweet Home

  “Falmeard? Is that you in there, my love? It’s only Prescinda.” The sobs stopped, but the darkness now seemed more real. “Grog’s outside, but I’ve asked he waits by the steps, so it’s just the two of us.”

  A doubt whispered down her back. What if it isn’t him?

  She could see nothing, despite her eyes fast adjusting.

  “I only want to...”

  Something loomed at her; large, panting, limbs outstretched. Before she could move, it thrust her aside, where she sprawled on the cold, damp floor as the poor light dimmed for a moment to blackness. She rolled to catch sight of light re-entering, but it only revealed droplets of water now splashing back to the puddle across the doorway’s threshold.

  A thump, a groan, the scrape of feet, and then a vibration came back to her through the ground, followed by wheezing.

  “You alright, Sis?” Grog shouted.

  “Yes, I’m fine. Just got knocked over. Nothing broken.”

  When she came to the doorway, she saw Grog had Falmeard up against the parapet wall - cowering. His eyes darted between them like a startled deer’s then stared purposely over the parapet.

  “FALMEARD! NO! DON’T MOVE!”

  He’d got as far as prising himself up on one arm, grabbing at the wall, before Grog understood, but Prescinda's call had made Falmeard pause long enough for her brother to grab him.

  She was soon beside Falmeard, trying to calm his panic. He only squealed, though, and stared, but now with a kernel of recognition keeping him still. A blink, a dart of the eyes, the darks shrinking to the growing whites, and he sighed as he fell back to the ground - exhausted.

  “Whatever’s the matter, Falmeard? What’s got into you? What demon’s filled your mind?” She stroked his hair, but it was her smile that worked the better magic.

  When Falmeard again stared at her, his eyes were calmer, as though he’d begun to know who they were.

  “Is thee alright, Falmeard?” Grog anxiously asked, absently rubbing the knuckles of his right hand. “Nowt broke ‘ave thee?”

  So that’s where the bruise had come from, Prescinda realised, her hand slipping to the red mark already turning blue on Falmeard’s cheek. He winced and pulled away when she touched it.

  “Sorry,” Grog offered, “but I weren’t to know. Just thought someone ‘ad attacked you, Sis. Spur o’ t’moment, like.” He looked guilty. “Should’ve done what thee said I suppose, kept by t’steps.”

  Grog had already moved away a little - flexing his hand - by the time Falmeard at last found the courage to hold Prescinda’s eyes. A slip of unguarded affection flashed across her face, lifted the corners of her mouth to a smile, enough to settle Falmeard thoughts and so give a small voice its freedom.

  “I don’t understand anymore ... I truly don’t!” He seemed close to tears. “What’s happened to my ... happened to ... to my past, Prescinda? Where’s it all gone?” Despair filled his voice.

  She fought to hold her smile but it quivered, threatened to fall apart and let flood her own tears. She swallowed, gritted her teeth, but could only tilt her head in sympathy.

  “I just wanted to start afresh,” he said, “just wanted to come back ... come back home, you know, to where I’d always felt ... safe.” He looked about him. “But I can’t find any of it, Prescinda. It not here anymore It’s ... it’s ... oh, for Leiyatel’s sake, it’s never been here!”

  She didn’t say it, but had to agree. The place had plainly not been lived in for centuries, maybe even longer. The hum of any ancient dwellers had long since died away, drained by the persistent cold of its lonely walls.

  “The thing is, Falmeard, it’s not just you, now is it? How do you think we found this place?”

  “Found it?”

  “Yes. How do you think we knew where to come looking for you? Why should Grog have the self-same memories do you wonder? Why should his memories of coming here be as real to him as yours are to you?” The two men stared at each other, but only Grog grinned.

  “Come on,” Prescinda chivvied. “This is not the best place to consider these things, so, let’s get back to the world we all seem to agree on, eh?”

  20 Cold Angel Days

  A stack of papers and folders obscured the cupboard at the back of Nephril’s desk, its few blinking lamps clearly of no great importance. Somewhere, a feeble hum periodically stirred the air, although little else did. The crinkle of a few documents perhaps, as Nephril handled them, their paper clearly of a high and ancient quality, unusually smooth, white and stiff.

  Having carefully read to the bottom of his current page, Nephril as carefully placed the sheet back and took another. This time he squinted, drew his eyes nearer, but then shook his head and turned the sheet the right way up.

  It wasn’t long before his head went still, and then his eyes as the paper slowly lowered to the table top. It was left there by a hand that rose and cupped his mouth, the fingertips soon running back and forth across the stubble of a three day growth.

  Although he looked out from the tower through the pristine crystal dome towards the west, towards Blisteraising Farm, he likely saw naught, nor heard the Star Chamber’s clock softly chime the third noon-hour.

  “Hmm.” He clicked his tongue, then again before drawing a deep breath through his teeth. “Not removal, no, more likely ... annulment.”

  He cast a bright but wary eye at the weather and sighed, “I wonder.”

  Out from his study and onto the viewing deck, he began the long walk around its shallow curve, the vast castle realm of Dica slowly turning about below him. Marbled grey clouds billowed past not far above, still a high sky, still a dry one.

  As the Southern Hills came into view, Nephril looked down towards them, then nearer at the flat square of fragmented shapes that appeared tamped in place within Galgaverre’s squat and leaden walls.

  Bolted to the broad sill now beside him, a large mottled, grey box jutted incongruously into the walkway, a great brass handle sticking out from one side. Nephril stopped, bent to a small tube affixed to the top of the box and peered into it. He soon pulled away and frowned, looking up at the sky.

  When he looked through the tube a second time, he twisted a nearby dial back and forth, occasionally bringing his eye
away and rubbing it before looking down again at Galgaverre. A sudden twinge in his back and he straightened, massaging the small of it until he finally took hold of the brass handle and turned it slowly in a large circle.

  A sound not unlike a rod of amber being forcibly dragged around a disc of felt came from the box until the whole thing took on the air of a mangle, finely crushing tinder-dry leaves. When bright-white, erratic hairs began writhing from the box - clinging to nearby surfaces - Nephril stopped winding and gingerly pressed a small, raised panel. He placed his ear at one of two small openings and waited.

  Nothing seemed to happen for a while, but just as he started to move away, a loud hiss drew him back, one eye squinting as he sharpened his hearing.

  “Hello?” a thin voice crackled. “Is that you, your Lordship?”

  Nephril spoke into the other opening. “Is the Guardian there, Cresmol?”

  “She is, mi Lord, shall I get her?”

  The voice had tailed off, becoming thinner as Nephril noticed a particularly low cloud skirt past, the view to Galgaverre fading in and out. He turned the handle a few more times until the cloud passed by, firmly restocking the hairs.

  “Hello, Nephril. How are you?”

  He returned to the opening. “I am well enough, Dear, well enough in mine self. And thee?”

  “Mustn’t grumble. Are you coming home today as planned?”

  “Sorry, Penolith, but something hast occurred I need attend to. I will be here a few more days yet. I have a favour, though.”

  “Yes, and...” Another cloud intervened, thicker this time, presaging rain before nightfall. It took a while to clear, during which Nephril wound the handle some more.

  “Can thee hear me now?” he asked when the way again seemed clear.

  “I can. What was it you wanted?”

  “That verse, the one from Sconner’s library, you remember? The one that begins, Death ist carried abroad?”

  “I remember it.”

  “Can thee read it out to me, so I may take it down.”