Shadowgod (43 page)

“You have urgent business elsewhere?” he said.

“Blind Rina and her coterie claim to have tracked our spell-caster down to the storehouses and livestock barns near the Long Quays. I hope to be the one to capture him.”

“Then go with them,” he said with a smile. “If I need you I will send a message.”

As Nerek left, Alael came over and peered at the shining sword.

“I can almost feel its…its
swordness
,” she said. “As if it knows what it is.” She frowned. “Who will wield it?”

“I'm not sure,” Bardow said, pulling off the dusty and now slightly scorched gauntlet. “I'll have to give it some thought.”

Yet somehow I think that any choice I make will matter little to the sword itself.

* * *

In the warmth of an afternoon sun, all was idyllic at the lake's shore. Children played in the shallows, small boats fished out on the placid waters, people walked or rode along the coastal track going to or coming from the graceful, white-towered town less than a mile away. Peace, smiles, and witchhorses. Everywhere, witchhorses in tribal families and lesser groups, most with foals and yearlings, and all looked so wise and noble with shining coats and long, lustrous manes…

Tauric sighed and sat on a wooden wayfarer's stool by the hill path which he and Shondareth had just descended. At the top of the hill was a sprawling, elaborate collection of interconnected tents and awnings, all brightly, luxuriously decorated, all busy with scores of witchhorses and ordinary people. This was the court of the great witchhorse chieftain who resided at its centre, receiving visitors, dispensing wisdom, listening to sagasongs composed in his honour.

And all of it, all the people and witchhorses, lake, shore and sun, every last bit of it was a fabulous illusion woven by just one witchhorse with the mysterious connivance and powers of the Void.

“As you can see,” Shondareth said, “Like the others, Aegomarl is quite happy with his innerland.”

“I cannot believe that all of you are so uncaring and cold-hearted towards our plight,” Tauric said acidly.

“We are neither of those,” the witchhorse said. “We merely know that the enemy is too strong. There are another 186 of us who feel the same – do you wish to speak to them, too?”

Tell him 'yes'
, said the spirit of the Fathertree in his head.

Tauric smiled. “Why, certainly.”

Shondareth shook his head slowly and glanced to one side. A footpath appeared, branching off the hilltrack and winding down into a dense copse on the hillside. Following it, they entered the small wood and soon found themselves emerging into a clearing near a pool shaded by an ancient, wide-girthed agathon. Tall, pale trees reached up on all sides. As before, Ghazrek sat on a stone bench by the pool, eating from a gold platter of sweetmeats and baked delicacies. He looked up as they approached.

“How long?” he asked.

“A day and a half, perhaps,” Tauric said.

Ghazrek spat out a fruit pip and chortled. “You've not been gone more than ten minutes!”

Tauric grinned. “I wish it was me sitting there.”

“Room from another, your majesty,” the Mogaun officer said, indicating the bench.

Not yet
, said the Fathertree.
I still have to see more of them.

What are you looking for?
he thought.

A little thing called guilt.

The next two innerlands were much like those they had already seen, grand explorations of vainglory, neither of whose creators would consent to even meet Tauric much less discuss the calamities engulfing Besh-Darok. Yet while Tauric was downhearted, the spirit of the Fathertree seemed to grow more optimistic and prompted Tauric to continue.

With an air of weary resignation Shondareth took him away from the pool (and Ghazrek with his food) and along another of the many narrow paths leading through the surrounding forest. The trees soon thinned and the sky grew grey and overcast. The air was warm and humid, though, and as they approached the edge of the forest Tauric heard a far-off rumble of thunder.

They emerged on a grassy slope which stretched down to join a wide expanse of patchwork farmland with copses and orchards, lined in cart tracks and hedgerows, all receding into the pale grey onset of early evening mist. A slumbering peace held sway over this landscape, disturbed only by herders calling to each other in the distance.

“This way, young explorer,” said Shondareth.

When he turned he was stunned by a majestic sight. The hills behind the forest merged with bushy, bouldery slopes which turned jagged and bare as they grew steep, while further up ridges and spines of rock sprouted from the towering flanks of mountains which stretched like a gigantic wall across the land. As he followed the witchhorse the nearer mountains ahead were a little lower and behind them reared a sheer promontory upon whose highest point Tauric could just make a domed building and a cluster of slender towers.

It was Trevada on the Oshang Dakhal, which meant that this land was northwest Anghatan, a far more specific location than the other more fanciful innerlands he had seen so far.

Perhaps the creator of this will be open to persuasion,
he thought.

Too soon to tell.

Shondareth led him down into a tree-sheltered vale where a few cottages were gathered on one side of a river, beside a watermill. Smoke drifted from some of the chimneys but a quiet serenity held sway. No one was in sight. Near the mill was a large barn and as they approached Tauric could hear a woman reciting some kind of verse. Pausing at the door, he gestured at Shondareth to wait as the woman finished to the polite applause of a few hands and a male voice spoke.

“A rendition that bordered on the pit of melodrama without quite falling in! Well done, Pel. Now, Suvi – what have you brought for me to hear?”

“A burial lament from Ebro' Heth,” said another woman.

“Good, good – proceed.”

The unseen woman called Suvi began. While the poem was full of sadness and regret, the woman's voice was strong and resonant. Near the end, though, her tone softened:

“Nicely expressed, especially in the final verses,” said the male voice. “We may have time for more delights, but first we must greet our visitors.”

Tauric gave Shondareth a look of surprise but the witchhorse tilted his head at the barn and together they entered. Within, the walls were hung with paintings and tapestries and a selection of musical instruments, while gauzy lengths of pale blue and yellow material were draped between the overhead beams. Two large, bronze lamps shed soft light on three cowled figures sitting on a bench with their backs to the door. Before them a large, elderly witchhorse was reclining amid a heap of straw sprinkled with tiny red flowers.

“Joyful greetings to you Shondareth – I had heard that you were lost to us, that some cantrip out of the wastelands had snatched you away.”

“That was indeed my unhappy quandary, o noble Thoumyrax, until a strange agency and this young man provided a means of return.”

The recumbent witchhorse gave Tauric an assessing look. “Please accept my heartfelt thanks, both you and your enigmatic passenger, for bringing back my friend. From your dress and your careworn demeanour it would seem that you hail from the wastelands. Are you a slave there, or a fugutive?”

For a moment Tauric was wordless and confused.

How do I answer?
he thought.

Tell him who you are
, said the Fathertree,
and what you want. Speak plainly, directly.

“Honoured Thoumyrax,” he began. “I am Tauric tor-Galantai, emperor of Besh-Darok, and I have come to ask if you will come back to the Realm Between and aid us in our direst need.”

There was an uncomfortable silence during which the witchhorse Thoumyrax just stared at Tauric for a long moment. Even the three women made no sound. Then Shondareth spoke.

“Well, Thoumyrax? - would you be prepared to walk away from this, your innerland, and plunge back into the dark struggle?”

The older witchhorse looked at Shondareth. “Ah, I fear not, my friend. The cause was lost when we and the empire were strong – what is being played out back there is but the long-delayed final scene of the final act. Partaking of such a struggle would be a futile deed of sacrifice, so I must respectfully decline your request, emperor of Besh-Darok.

“But I grow weary so I must retire for the evening.” He looked at the three cowled women. “Thank you all for reading such illuminating verses to me, thank you Pel, you Cava, and you Suvi, thank you for your beautiful voices…”

As the women stood to make their farewells, Tauric gained a better view of them – the one called Pel had long dark hair and a calm manner, Cava had black curly hair, a darker complexion and mischievous eyes, and Suvi had shoulder-length golden hair and an open smile. Tauric and Shondareth quickly bade the older witchhorse farewell and as they left the barn with the three women Tauric contrived to be walking beside Suvi. There was something about her that kindled his curiosity and a suspicion.

“Do you live near here?” he asked as they emerged. Outside, evening was drawing in with its veils of mist and shadow.

She gave him an amused look. “In a manner of speaking,” she said, pointing up at the mountains, at the raised promontory of the Oshang Dakhal where the lights of Trevada now glowed. “
That
is where I work, live, eat, pray and study, which I should really only tell you
after
we've been introduced.”

What…?

Thoumyrax will have kept her from hearing you earlier.

“I...see…” He cleared his throat. “Very well – I am Tauric dor-Barleth.”

“Barleth?” Suvi said with a small frown. “Isn't that part of the ducal lands in Patrein?”

“I have the honour of being the son of his grace, the Duke,” he said, giving a slight bow.

“And I am Suviel Hantika of the town of Kessio in Cabringa.” She laughed and curtseyed, then turned when her friends called from the open doors of a stable a little way upstream. “I must go or I'll be late,” she said. “Safe journey, Tauric dor-Barleth.”

He watched her run off through the knee-high grass, young and energetic, and remembered the kindly but weary woman who had helped Keren get him to Krusivel then tended him after he lost his arm.

Why is she here?
he thought.

Thoumyrax must have known her in her youth
, said the Fathertree spirit.
And in his intense need to create a comforting innerland illusion, he's revived a portion of north Anghatan with great accuracy of detail and atmosphere. However, I suspect that every day here is the same day in late summer…

As Tauric watched the three women ride north through the trees he felt a sharp yearning for peace, happiness and no more struggle.

That you could have very easily – peace and happiness, success and accomplishment, the love and devoted regard of admirers. All that and more, a castle, a domain or even a kingdom of your own. You could be king, emperor, anything that you could want or dream about could be yours - just ask Shondareth.

He paused, his thoughts arrested by the possibilities laid out by the Fathertree spirit, all his desires made real and solid. He reached out to touch the rough bark of a nearby tree and tugged a handful of leaves from a low branch, imagining creating such things from his own memories….then he looked up at the clouded sky and wondered how real such a place could be.

It would be real for you.

And unreal for everyone else
, he thought, letting the leaves fall.
While I surrounded myself with my desires, all else would fall into chaos. No, it would be a lie and I am too much my father's son to forgo my duty – I know that now.

Yes
, the Fathertree said as the witchhorse Shondareth came walking through the grass.
Whatever the lineage of your blood, you were always the son of the duke.

* * *

In the coolness of the glade, where shafts of sunlight fell upon a small pool and a white stone monument, she waited patiently, just as the goddess had instructed. There was a large round rock jutting from the ground near the pool so on it she sat, staring down into the waters at the tiny fish and the tinier insects darting across the surface. After a time she looked up and let her wandering gaze come to rest on the monument and she was peering closely at the detailed carvings along its side when the densely intertwined screen of foliage rustled slightly. Then it bulged, sprig and tendrils writhing, and the tall figure of a woman garbed in a long cloak of leaves stepped forth. As the foliage closed behind her, the goddess walked barefoot and unhurried across the soft, mossy ground to pause by the monument and regard the waiting woman. A feeling of tense expectancy filled the air, and a gem-like light seemed to shift around her.

“Suviel,” the goddess said. “Come here.”

The woman felt a muffled stab of panic on hearing that name, her own name, which seemed to want to own her rather than her owning it. But she had to obey so she rose and went over, eyes downcast.

“Look up.”

Suviel did so. The Earthmother towered over her, long dark hair interwoven with blue flowers, her face strongly featured, her eyes a pale, copper green that shone into Suviel's thoughts. For a moment the goddess regarded her with that numinous regard, then crossed to the impenetrable wall of vine and leaves on the other side of the glade. Suviel could only follow.

“I have several tasks for you,” the goddess said. “Firstly, it would be advantageous to restore a few of your memories and abilities…”

One moment she was empty as a shell with only a name rattling around inside of her. The next, the knowledge and history of the lands of the empire that was came cramming into her thoughts, names, places, meanings, all those things that Suviel had shrugged off in the Vale of Unburdening. She almost wanted to weep.