Again, silence.
“But the Goodwives…” Faraday said.
“They touched what can only be called a ten thousandth of their heritage,” Urbeth said. “And Goodwife Renkin was so powerful only because the Mother chose her as a conduit.”
“As I,” Faraday said, nodding slowly. “The power I had as Faraday Tree Friend was the Mother’s power.”
“Yes,” Urbeth said. “And now both of you enjoy power, your own power, via death and then rebirth.”
Drago thought of Noah, and thought of the power of the craft. “Over the hundreds of thousands of years the craft have lain in the ground,” he said in a voice so low the others could barely hear him, “they have infused their power into the land. Noah infused that same power into the child he and you made. Thus the Acharites—potentially—wield the power of the craft and the land itself.”
“Aye,” Urbeth said quietly. “You understand.”
“What about the Sceptre?” Drago said in a slightly louder voice. He glanced towards the staff leaning against the wall by the bed.
“The Sceptre,” she continued, “was a way by which the Acharite power could be used by those who denied their heritage. Axis wielded some of that power when he destroyed Gorgrael—and part of the reason he was able to do that was because he combined Acharite power with Icarii and Avar power—but he was able to do so only because of the Sceptre.”
“Thus the symbols of StarSon and Sceptre intertwine,” Faraday said. “The power of the Sceptre, the power of the land, has been infused into the StarSon. Not via the Sceptre, but via death.”
“Aye,” Urbeth said, pleased with the woman. Then she shifted her sharp black eyes to Drago.
“You remind me of my eldest son,” she said. As Urbeth continued to speak her tone rose until she was almost shouting. “Denying your heritage. Fool! Don’t you realise that you must be the one to meet Qeteb? Only you have the power to do so?”
“But Caelum must meet Qeteb…” Drago said. No! He could not seize Caelum’s heritage again. He couldn’t.
Urbeth looked at him pityingly. “Drago, you know the answer to that. Caelum relies exclusively on Icarii power, and to defeat the TimeKeeper Demons you need—”
“You need Acharite power!” Faraday shouted, jumping up and startling both Urbeth and Drago. “Because Noah is one of the Enemy who originally trapped Qeteb, and because Noah fathered the Acharites, and thus we bear his blood—and power. And thus the Acharite race are the Enemy!”
She whipped back to Drago, taking his face between her hands, and he caught his breath at the beauty in her excited face.
“Drago! That’s what you said after you’d come back through the Star Gate. You said you were the Enemy. And you literally are! You,” she thumped his chest with her hand, then hit her own chest, and turned back to Urbeth, “and I, as all Acharites who eventually manage to worm their way through death and accept their heritage, are the Enemy!”
“And thus you all have the ability to turn against the Demons,” Urbeth said. “Although you, Drago, as StarSon, are the one who must face the final confrontation. But, yes, the Acharites all carry within them the seed of the power that initially trapped Qeteb.”
“StarSon,” Drago said tonelessly.
Faraday knelt before him and again took his face between gentle hands. “Ah, Drago,” she said. “Surely you must understand. You were born StarSon. The Maze Gate named the Crusader as the StarSon at your birth, not Caelum’s. As an infant, you knew instinctively that you were the StarSon. And Azhure, caught in fate, did the one thing to ensure your inheritance…she stripped you of your Icarii blood and made your Acharite blood dominant. Don’t you see? Don’t you understand? The StarSon is the Enemy reborn, and you are the StarSon. You have always, always been.”
Urbeth watched silently as Drago hung his head. Faraday leaned closer, cradling his face against her shoulder.
“Stop denying it, please,” she whispered. “Stop denying your heritage, stop trying to foist the title of StarSon on Caelum. What good will that do anyone? Don’t you want to save this land?”
“How can I do this to him again?” Drago said, and leaned back a little so he could look Faraday in the eye. “How can I deny Caelum his—”
“It is not his heritage, you stupid man,” Faraday hissed. “It is yours. And if you don’t have the courage to take it in both hands, then…then…oh!”
She let go his face and got to her feet, standing to stare into the fire for a heartbeat, then swivelling to face Drago again.
“Stop playing the remorseful penitent. It doesn’t suit you. You swore to me that you would do your utmost to save this land…will you now do it?”
“It is not only that I feel I am betraying Caelum all over again,” Drago said. “That is bad enough. But Noah also said…he also said that Caelum…”
“Caelum was born first for a very good reason,” Urbeth put in, “and all of us here in this room know what it is.”
There a silence. Drago stared at Urbeth, and then dropped his head again.
Faraday stared between the two of them, her thoughts racing, and then suddenly realised what they were talking about. Caelum…Caelum was born as a decoy, a false StarSon. While Drago wandered the land, learning the secrets of both the land and his soul, the Demons concentrated on Caelum. No wonder Drago felt so guilty.
And guilt at her own treatment of the man abruptly infused her. She sank to her knees in front of him, and took one of his hands between both of hers.
“I think you will find,” Urbeth said very gently, “that Caelum is a fine man and a worthy brother. This will not be as difficult as you think.”
“I want to go north to Star Finger from here to see him,” Drago said.
“Yes,” Urbeth said. “That would be good. And I think that he will be more than ready to speak with you. A peace needs to be made between you. Caelum needs to come to terms with his own nightmares.”
“The girl?” Faraday said, abruptly reminded of her when Urbeth mentioned nightmares. “Do you know who she—”
“Hush!” Urbeth cried. “Does no-one relish the adventure any more? Does no-one revel in the delight of finding out for themselves any more? It is not the quest, but the questing that is important.”
She heaved a great, theatrical sigh and waved a paw languidly in the air. “Go to Star Finger. Speak with Caelum. Find that which is lost.”
“And when I do find her, she need never fear again!” Faraday said in a low but vehement tone.
Urbeth stared at her, concerned, then shared that concern in a glance to Drago.
“You cannot be the protective mother to every lost child,” Urbeth said, and touched the hem of Faraday’s gown with one of her paws. “Sometimes, that which is lost…returns to loss.”
“What do you mean?” Faraday asked, her tone sharp.
Urbeth shrugged. “I speak in the riddles of the ice-pack, girl. I cannot help it.”
“And from Star Finger?” Drago asked. “Where from there? What do I do, Urbeth? I am wandering the land and watching it sicken about me. Each hour the Demons stretch their grey miasma across Tencendor more creatures fall under their influence and lose their souls! What do I do? How do I confront—”
“Hush!” Urbeth cried again. “What did happen to all the adventurers of history? Ah!”
She took a deep breath and calmed herself. “Journeying in itself is learning, Drago. Go where you feel driven.”
“Go where I feel driven,” Drago muttered. “All fine and good!”
“You do remind me of my eldest,” Urbeth said, “for you are certainly as annoying.” She sighed. “From Star Finger take your staff to Sigholt. Learn the heritage of the Enemy that lives in you. And once you have learned that, learn to trust instinct. One more thing, seeing as I have fallen in the habit of spilling secrets, Drago…I have spoken of how the Acharite magic is released only through death. Use that knowledge to create your allies and the magic that will destroy Qeteb. Destruction
through death, resurrection into magic.”
Drago nodded, thinking he understood, and they sat for a long while without speaking. In that silence Drago finally came to an acceptance of Caelum’s fate…the fate Drago had to send him to.
I was ever the treacherous brother, Drago thought, but the thought was tinged only with sadness, not with resentment.
Eventually, when the fire had burned down to hot coals, Urbeth spoke. “I would that you leave the stallion here in Gorkenfort.”
Drago, dozing in the warmth and comfort of the chamber, jerked his head up. “Why?”
“I have need of company, and for the moment you will have no need of him.”
Drago shrugged. “Very well.”
Urbeth’s words made Faraday ponder on the lonely life the Enchantress must have led. “It must have been very sad for you,” she said, “to lose all your children to the world. Three sons, and they all left home eventually.”
Urbeth smiled, her eyes dreamy. “Yes, it was sad to lose my sons, but I had my daughters to keep me company.”
Faraday and Drago sat up in interest.
“Daughters?” Drago said.
“Yes. Two daughters. They travelled with you for many, many months. Do you know them?”
“Oh gods!” Faraday breathed, and looked at Drago and laughed.
The Crimson Chamber of the ancient Icarii palace in Carlon was one of the fairest rooms the palace contained, but now it reeked with the stink of madness—and worse.
The beautiful crimson dome reigned over a chamber that was entirely bare, save for the stake driven into the very centre of the floor, and the single wooden chair placed next to the locked and barred door.
On that chair sat Zared, King of the Acharites. His grey eyes were absent of all expression, save hopelessness. His face was ashen, his hair uncombed, his cheeks and chin stubbled with days-old beard.
He stared, and as he stared, he was caught yet again in the recurring guilt he had about his first wife, Isabeau.
He should never have let her ride to the hunt. He should never have given her the horse that killed her. He should never have let her near a horse, for the gods’ sakes, when she was five months gone with their child.
Now she was dead, crushed beneath the horse that failed a single stone fence.
Their child, never given the chance of life, was dead.
As was the woman before him, and the child she carried.
Both dead, or as good as.
From the stake in the heart of the chamber snaked a chain that almost—but not quite—extended as far as the surrounding circular walls.
At the end of that chain was bolted a woman. Naked. Smeared with filth, for she would allow none near to clean her.
And savage. She snarled and spat at Zared, her eyes clouded with insanity and demonic rage. Her fingernails had been torn free in her desperate attempt to claw across the floor to reach him.
Blood smeared the tiles and her pale skin.
Zared’s eyes flitted down to the faint swelling of her belly. Her body lived, but Leagh was dead to him.
As was the child.
Zared’s eyes filled with tears. It was his fault. He should never have let her ride with Askam. He should never have trusted Askam!
Leagh—or what had once been her—snarled and jerked at the chain that had been bolted to her left ankle. She spat, trying every way her mad mind knew to reach him…to hurt him.
Her only purpose in life now was to destroy the man who sat weeping on the chair just out of her reach.
“I love you,” he said.
40
Murkle Mines
The Sea Worms had decimated the twenty-strong fleet. Most of the ships had been attacked and crippled or sunk in the initial attack, and in the cold late afternoon air, as the survivors huddled on the gritty beach, the Worms attacked the remaining floating vessels from the safety of the bay’s depths. In one moment a ship floated peacefully, the next it would rock violently as teeth sunk into its keel, ripping away timbers and exposing the belly of the ship to the invading icy waters.
Theod, as all those who survived the sinking of their ships, had swum to shore with only bare minutes to spare before the onset of the mid-afternoon despair. They’d frantically dug themselves holes in the loose shale of the beach with limbs shaking with cold and exhaustion and fear, burying themselves even as the grey corruption rolled over the mountains.
Many had not covered themselves in time, and they and the horses which had managed to escape the holds of the sinking ships, had succumbed to the madness.
Now the horses floated in the water, useless hulks of skin, flesh and bone. Maddened, they had forgotten to swim, and had died drowning in despair.
The men, either those in the water or those who’d found the beach, but not the safety of shelter, had scuttled away into the first gullies of the Murkle Mountains, although not before a few had stabbed down into the mounds of shale with their swords.
More men dead.
The Strike Force had escaped with no casualties at all—if you did not consider the wounding of their spirits as they watched, horrified, the fate of their wingless companions. The Icarii could do little, for they could not bear the weight of a man to safety of either shore or shadowed gullies, and in the end they were reduced to sheltering in the caves of the first line of mountains, watching and listening as horses and men went mad.
As despair passed, and the afternoon once again became relatively safe, DareWing FullHeart sent a farflight scout back to the fleet of ships still at sea.
“Tell them to turn for the safety of ports in the south,” he ordered, “for it would be death to venture into Murkle Bay.”
Now Theod, with DareWing, Goldman, the Strike Force and what remained of the two thousand men—some nine hundred—sat on the beach watching the Sea Worms eating the remaining planks floating in the sea.
“Enough!” Theod said, and rose wearily to his feet. “DareWing, send a Wing into the mountains to make contact, if they can, with those who shelter in the mines. Keep the rest of the Strike Force in the air for…for whatever protection you can give us.”
“And us?” Goldman asked, gesturing to the white-faced, sodden soldiers standing about in listless ranks.
“Us? Why, we walk into the mountains,” Theod said. “I do not fancy spending this night breathing shale.”
And without waiting for an answer, Theod turned his back to the sea and walked towards the first of the gullies leading into the mountains as the Strike Force rose into the air about him.
No-one wanted to think about what kind of journey home awaited them.
A league out to sea, the farflight scout winged his way towards the distant masts.
Relieved that he would reach them in time, the scout increased his efforts, but then slowed, horrified. The mast of the leading ship was keeling over, and before the scout’s appalled eyes, hit the water with a great splash.
The ship rolled over, showing a massive hole in its side.
The farflight scout descended, desperate to try and help the men struggling in the water.
As he skimmed the waves, not thinking about the danger, a huge purple head reared out of the sea and snatched him from the air, disappearing beneath the waves again.
The water roiled, and then resumed its heavy rolling motion, the only reminder of the farflight scout’s foolhardy bravery being a few white feathers scattered across the flowing waves.
Another ship, and then another, and then yet another rolled over and sank, and by the time Raspu settled his pestilence over the grey sea there was only the odd sailor left clinging to a plank to seize for his own.
Tencendor, as its people, was on its own.
Theod trudged up the gully. His outer clothes were drying off, but his underclothes clung damply to his skin, and the leather of his boots was soaked through, chafing at his frozen feet.
He’d lost the ships, dammit, but he had some nine hundred men, and the Strike Force, and that
would have to be enough. Get the people to the Western Ranges…they could travel east-south-east through the lower reaches of the Murkles and then into the Western Ranges, sheltering through the unlivable hours under overhangs and in caves and the shadows of cliffs. It would have to be enough.
From the Western Ranges, DareWing could send farflight scouts to Zared, and Zared could meet them with enough of a force to get them safely to Carlon.
“We could stay in the mines,” Goldman said quietly as he strode beside Theod. He could see the younger man’s face, the determination in his mind, and he knew what he must be thinking.
“For how long?” Theod’s voice was hard, and he did not look at Goldman. “For how long? We must trust in a man whom no-one has ever trusted before, and trust him to find us this unknowable called Sanctuary.” Theod abruptly halted and faced Goldman. “And no doubt if all the unknowables resolve in our favour, do you know what will happen? This Sanctuary will be found in a delightful little glade in the furthest corner of the Avarinheim, and what hope, what bloody hope, would we have of getting to it?”
Goldman said nothing, just returned Theod’s look with all the sympathy he could manage.
“Besides…” Theod turned his eyes to the nearest cliffs of the Murkles. “I do not want to spend what is left of my life lurking in the depths of these abominations.”
His voice softened almost to a whisper. “Look at them. They are so bare, so lifeless. No vegetation. Not even a lizard left to crawl over them. Just grey peaks and shale-covered slopes. No beauty. Nothing. Are my people in there, Goldman? Gods’ be damned, that all the hope and beauty of Aldeni should have come to this!”
Goldman did not follow Theod’s eyes, but merely looked at the Duke. He wondered if the man knew how much of his grandfather shone out of him at this moment. Not his looks, for, luckily, Theod took after his maternal side in litheness and blond colouring, but in the sheer humanity shining from his face. Roland had been a man who had suffered with every one of his people when Gorgrael’s ice and loathsome minions had crawled over his province, and the man had died before he could see it restored to its former beauty. Goldman hoped that Theod would live to see Aldeni released from its current horror.