The Last Stitch (The Chronicles of Eirie: 2) (7 page)

Chapter Eleven

The terrible chase scattered foam and wave before it. At the centre of the swirling cloud mass, at the hub from whence came deafening thunder and crashing lightning, at the source of the gigantic swell that battered the little boat, Huon the Hunter galloped through the skies.

Phelim sailed with mortal desperation. Whatever might have been Other in his blood was subsumed by twenty-eight years of living as Ebba
had raised him - a mortal who feared death. The mainsail had shredded to ribbons and all he could do was hold onto the tiller as hard as possible to keep the wind behind. He had laid out most of his ropes in lines at the stern to anchor the vessel to the swell to prevent it yawing. But the waves threatened the craft; mountainous peaks which the doughty boat climbed to view the ocean ahead as if from the top of the Goti Range and then a slippery slide to the trough, where to look up at what was coming was to face death and damnation.

But crashing now upon him, breaking like a wave from above, was the realization he must let his Other instinct guide him. He must open himself up to it, allow it to take hold, quash anything mortal. For it was Other against Other and he would not be beaten. The tiller ripped in his hands and he yanked with all his strength as the waves conspired to turn the dory broadside and as he pulled, his eyes, wet and stinging, opened wide.

Looming out of the rain and spray, dark and huge as the waves, was a landmass threatening to smash him against its rocky shores. Waves hit its northern end, crashing the length of shore as if the landmass itself was sliding broadside to the storm.
It’s moving, the land is moving!
Phelim almost lost hold of the tiller.
What is it?
His mind reeled until he remembered another of Ebba’s mysterious revelations from his childhood.
The twin islets, the Sacred Isles - Hy-Breasil
.

His mind working fast, he reached for a gaff hook from the watery morass in the bottom of the boat and wafted a hand over the helm, the tiller growing, unfurling like the branches of the strongest tree to fix in position and free Phelim’s hands for other life-saving tasks. Tying a rope to the shaft of the gaff, he hefted the whole to his shoulder, mesmering the weapon and swinging back and then forward to loose it like the athletes from the ancient legends. He lost sight of it as the boat sped down into the trough of a wave but knew by the rope’s slack that his glamour was weak. He dragged it in as fast as the storm swell would allow.

The boat wallowed in the trough and then climbed again. At the peak, Phelim glimpsed the landfall with a black hole that yawned like a mouth opened wide and he aimed again. The gaff flew, the rope trailing behind, along with a vehement mesmer. Just as the dory began to slide down the slope, the boat gave a slight tug and Phelim whooped and started to pull. He continued to drag and felt the vessel turn slightly to nudge across the waves in pursuit of its anchorage. Faster he pulled, using every bit of his strength.

Huon roared as he observed his prey slicing away from his grasp but Phelim, arm over arm, hardly dared face his nemesis. The distance between the boat, Hy-Breasil and what was patently a cave narrowed. That entrance, the door to safety, lay on the southern tip of the island and as the rope grew shorter, Phelim noticed the twin isle slipping back behind its partner, so that his own craft would have to slide between the two. A glance over his aching shoulder revealed Huon within striking distance, the hounds filling the sky with their baying, the whip snaking forward to grab the mast.

Phelim could smell the dank air of the cave, as breath after exhausted breath, ribs aching, chest and arms pumping beyond any sort of mortal endurance, the rope shortened. In seconds, the bow touched the cave entrance.

Huon and the hounds flung themselves after him, faster than the wind and waves. Unintelligible yowls of frustration vied with the crack of thunder and a whip snaked out, wrapping its pliant length around the mast like a basilisk coiling around its prey, the plaited whiplash stretching taut as the dory was flung inside the cave by a wave surge. The twin island shifted towards the rocky entrance, slamming viciously against the cliff walls - breaking the whip leather, sealing the entrance of the cave and flattening the few of those red-eyed hounds who had tried to enter the sacred confines behind the dory as clods of dirt, shards of stone and pieces of seaweed fell into the boat.

Waves smacked noisily against the walls, back and forth. Of Huon and the Hunt there was no sign. With each run across the cave, the undulations lessened until they whispered. Phelim collapsed on the seat breathing harshly, his head hanging in his blistered and raw hands.
So that is how it is done? One mesmers in anger and fear?
But there was no answer to his confusion. All he could sense was moist darkness and wondered if he had merely exchanged one fraught danger for another.

***

Don’t sit like Phelim, I haven’t time for you to rest! You must hasten on to the next books for there is yet more of this story. Phelim begins to discover another side to himself and I… perhaps I am yet to discover an alternate side to my own. It scares me; I feel as if I stand on the edge of some phantom crevasse, one step in one direction to safety, the other way to doom.

You will notice that I have placed a red-shaded dragonfly high on the centre back seam, between the shoulder blades. If you very gently ease the organza wings up you will find a flimsy tissue pamphlet there. And
there are six other dragonflies; remember I told you I had designed seven stumpwork models of the real thing? With each of the dragonflies, you will find a similar leaflet. Read them in the exact order of the colours of the spectrum. Order is implicit in the revelation of this story, simply the difference between life and death. You shall see…

Chapter Twelve

Severine departed Mevagavinney on horseback just before the storm had hurtled across the fishing village. The house she left was in order, the embroiderer quiet. Luther was more than capable of handling anything untoward.

Her fingers tightened on the reins as she dragged her mount to a stop at the edge of the Styx, close by Huon’s Tor. Turning her head toward the coast, she sought the streaming pack of hounds far over the ocean, their howling intrinsic to the gale’s roar. Her hair escaped from its net cawl in the slipstream wafting behind the dreadful horde and her skin rose in excited bumps in the crackling atmosphere. Her mare danced fractiously, unnerved, feeling the rider’s excessive arousal. It gave a half rear and Severine laughed as she whacked the mare on the neck with her whip.

Yes! The beauty of it all was
this
– dominion. Dominion over beasts like Huon or the Ravens was the least she was due. She turned the mare toward the darkling forest, its shadows undelineated in the blackness of that awful afternoon.
Oh, I am due. I invested my life in searching for my dreams. I was undaunted by the sheer heights I was forced to climb. They say the depths I plumbed but so what? The end result is the same so how does the method matter? I have dominion. I have the four shreds of paper with their spider scrawls of lore and I have dominion. And when I have that thieving little chit with my souls, then I can tread the final steps to greatness. Is it not the apogee of greatness to be immortal?

Severine’s mind began to quicken.
But then I must find the Gates to Faeran, for what is the point of everlasting life if one must surround one’s self with the ugliness of the mortal world?
She thought of the cobweb man towards whom she now sped and of Luther.
Dispose of them for they are not lovely and shall despoil my domain, and it
shall
be my domain to do with what I will.

She felt no guilt or wracked emotions at the thought of ridding herself of those on whose backs and shoulders she had climbed to reach such heady heights. Why keep something one no longer needs? Ugly clutter is unseemly and the sheer awfulness of Luther and the cobweb man had no place in the life she envisaged. The world of the Faeran lured her with its beauteous bait and she belonged there, more than this tawdry world of mortals.

She had a hunting lodge in the Styx; a secret place built of interlocking wooden beams and draped and covered by ivy and wild clematis. It was lost in amongst the tall timbers - so easy to pass by. Her cobweb man lived there when she had cause for him to be close, manifesting from as far as Veniche or further by her summons - the rubbing together of coins. But such are goblins; obsessed with gold and gems of all sorts. What they did with it she didn’t know or care. But glittering stuff to them was like air to a mortal. She had heard the old wives’ tales that even a witch wouldn’t allow a goblin by the fireside so disreputable were they - prone to nightmare weaving and luck-spoiling. But she had never had a nightmare in her dealings with the goblin and in truth her luck improved by the hour, for was it not fortuitous she had found the cantrips? Nothing, not a thing was beyond her reach.

She slowed her chestnut mare to a trot as she eased along a forest defile. At a blackened stump, she turned into another lesser-marked track and presently entered a glade illuminated by the weak light that had followed on the thunderstorm’s heels. A trow came forward to take the horse’s reins and led the animal off to a small barn behind the lodge.

Severine strode through the door, flinging her whip onto a table. It was an unassuming place with antlers clinging to walls, horns and walking sticks by the door and a vast fireplace. The large room housed a stair that led to the floor above and a ground floor passage hastened hungry feet to the kitchen.

She slammed the door behind her and within seconds the cobweb man had sidled down the stair to meet his mistress.

‘Madame’, he mouthed, his unctuous hands folding over and over as if he was forever washing them. Sly downcast eyes examined the floor and his odd brown robes fluttered and waved like the torn filaments a spider leaves behind when it quits its web. His wrinkled face had more to do with the kind of malicious and secret life he led than his age, for when Severine left him to his own devices he would track unwary mortals and without the necessary greasing of palms with groats and gelt, he would indeed whisper nightmares that could send a man mad or cause luck to change.

‘Ah Gertus, you are here.’ She had no urge to address his face, merely walked round the room straightening things, picking up objects. ‘Huon is even now fetching the souls. But this you have no doubt surmised.’

The goblin nodded his head, his expression obsequious.

‘So... I want the locations we have talked of. Show me what you have found.’

The hand washing became frenetic. He licked his lips and shifted from one foot to another, a lock of greasy hair falling from behind his ears. ‘Madame, I have spent days and nights examining the lore and travelling hither and yon. Hours and days.’

‘And?’ The single word cracked into the air.

‘Madame, I found a series of clues that contain neither word nor map. They were much deeper in that same crevass where we found the ring and the cantrips.’ He giggled, a sycophantic chunter. ‘The Faeran thought to hide their lore for posterity when they buried it but the earth will always spew out what it doesn’t want, goblins know this better than anyone. I found this,’ he pulled a small box from deep within the folds of the cobwebs. ‘It was under the mouldering body of a Raji trader who had gone wide of the Stairway and fallen to his doom; deep deep, so deep.’

‘Yes, yes,’ Severine grabbed it in anxious fingers and turned it over, looking for the opening. ‘How does one open the thing?’

‘A word, milady, a word.’

He folded his hands and stared
at her, but his self-congratulation shattered her patience. ‘AND?’

‘
Oscailt amach.
’ His gutteral voice shook as he cowered in front of her, the box in her hands flipping up its lid. She took it to the window to examine the contents, Gertus staying well back, cogniscent that sunlight is the bane of all goblins.

‘What in damnation is this?’ She pulled each object out and slammed it on the table, underlined by her livid words. ‘A stone from a fruit... a grey stone... a brown stone... a yellow stone. What? Someone’s pathetic mineral collection mixed up with the detritus of meal? What use is this, what use?’ She threw the pebbles to the floor. ‘I want specifics
, Gertus, and I want them before I leave.’ She lowered her voice so that it was cold and measured.  ‘You have tonight only. I want to know where the Gates are by tomorrow morning.’ She swept up the stair, her hunting coat rustling as it streamed behind her, the goblin wincing as her chamber door slammed.

His wrinkled brow produced a new array of folds and sweat began to bead. He had read everything he could find and could not interpret the pebbles. So well protected were the Gates by the Faeran, he had never heard a whisper of where they could be. Never. No one, mortal or Other, had ever been able to find or penetrate their retreat. But the answer lay in the stones, of that he was sure and he had no intention of failing in this task. Too much to lose and everything to gain, he thought, fondling one of Severine’s shiny geegaws in his pocket. Picking the stones up and replacing the lid of the box, he crept to his room.