Aranepa nodded thoughtfully. ‘I am aware of the Dragon Heir’s path,’ he said, ‘but it changes nothing. No man is fit to be the light of the land if he has not looked into the darkness. It has always been this way. The True King is beyond ordinary human considerations, he is beyond good and evil, this is why he can bring the silence, for the conflict of right and wrong is surpassed. In silence, he is both good and evil, but also neither of them. He must be larger in spirit than any other man and know all of creation. Like the gods themselves, he must be capable of the ultimate in cruelty and compassion. He should not seek to rule to gain power but to embody the divine, its tension and its flow. That is a lesson learned through only the hardest trials. The man of silence sacrifices himself to the land. It is his duty and his purpose.’
Taropat sighed through his nose, and seemed about to say more, but Varencienne butted in, ‘What if the Dragon Heir is afraid?’ she asked.
‘Only a fool would not be at first,’ Aranepa replied, ‘a fool or a person seeking vainglory, power over others and riches. The Lord of Caradore does not seek these things, and never has done, not in his darkest moments of isolation and ignorance. That is why he is the one.’
‘You do not know him,’ Taropat said. ‘In visions, you see a possible future, a possible perfection, but that future has been spoiled.’
‘Look within,’ said Aranepa. ‘Once, you were driven by your passions and terror. Now they have become ingrained, a habit. In the light of dawn, free of all fear, there is no reason to hate. Hatred fades away like the dew.’
Varencienne glanced at Taropat’s frowning face. She could not believe he was ready to relinquish his hatred of Valraven. It would be too easy.
‘What must we do, Lord Aranepa?’ she asked, breaking the silence. ‘Can you tell us how to proceed from here?’
Aranepa turned to her. ‘I cannot see the whole design. When you leave this land, you are beyond the influence of its spirits and gods, except for one. All I can tell you is that I have consulted the guardians of Hamagara and that a gift will be imparted to you, a gift that will be a great responsibility.’
‘What is it?’ she asked.
Aranepa reached into the neck of his robe and removed from his throat a pendant hanging on a golden chain. It was the seal of the Palindrakes that Varencienne had given to him on the mountainside. ‘I have worn this since I received it,’ Aranepa said. ‘I learned much from its memories. Khanak and I will take you to the Mountain of the Night through the underground path. You must take the amulet with you, for at the holy lake the essence of Paraga will return to Foy. He will go with you to the land beyond. This is our gift to you, for the elemental dragons must be reunited by the man of silence.’
‘I will do as you suggest,’ Varencienne said.
Shan reached for her hand, squeezed it. She turned to look into his face, wondering what he thought about Aranepa’s words, but all she saw in Shan’s expression was devotion. He might well end up loyal to Valraven simply because of her. If so, she could not see that as a bad thing.
‘Aranepa,’ Taropat said. ‘If Valraven Palindrake must be king, how can he be healed?’
‘In the same way you will be,’ Aranepa replied. ‘It has already begun.’
Varencienne would carry the image of Taropat as he was then for the rest of her life. He knelt upon one knee, the other raised, upon which he rested an arm. With the other hand, he cupped his chin, shaking his head. He considered, for the first time, whether Tayven and Merlan were right after all. It was an historic moment.
The underground tunnel to the mountain top had at one time been used intensively as a ritual road, but since the days when Foy had brought her influence to Hamagara, some of the old ways had been abandoned, and the veneration of Paraga had been superseded by that of Venotishi, who was regarded as equal to Foy in both fierceness and power, and therefore able to keep the Dragon Queen under control. The walls of the tunnels had been carved and painted in antiquity and, owing to the subterranean conditions, had been preserved almost in their entirety. Aranepa and Khanak did not appear to be in any hurry. They allowed their guests to stroll slowly through the passages, examining the images of dragons, spirits and deities. The inscrutable mask of the mountain leopard was represented often.
Varencienne told Aranepa what had happened to her and Taropat the previous evening. ‘Did you send the leopard to us?’ she asked.
‘Not consciously,’ he replied. ‘I have been aware of your presence in Hanana, and knew a certain event had to take place before we could meet.’
‘Then it was one of many such events,’ Varencienne said. ‘Taropat should tell you about his quest for the Crown of Silence.’
‘It’s a long story,’ Taropat said.
‘I do not know it,’ Aranepa replied. ‘Please tell me.’
By the time Taropat had finished his narrative, they had come to the end of the tunnel and emerged into the crater at the summit of the mountain. All was still and the surface of the lake reflected the stars like a gigantic scrying bowl.
Aranepa came to stand beside Varencienne. ‘You must not worry about your husband,’ he said. ‘He will wear this crown.’
‘He does not want to,’ Varencienne said. ‘That is the problem.’
‘You cannot convince him. Foy will do that. I can tell you little, but I know that beyond this land, events are in progress. When you return, all will have changed.’
‘I hope so,’ Varencienne said. She glanced at Taropat. ‘There may be other difficulties to face.’
Aranepa made no response to this, but Khanak came forward and placed a hand on Varencienne’s shoulder. ‘Are you prepared to undertake the responsibility now facing you?’ he asked.
Varencienne frowned. ‘Mine alone? I thought it belonged to all of us.’
‘You, as the passive avatar of Foy must be the one to channel Paraga,’ Aranepa said.
Varencienne studied him for a moment. ‘What must I do to achieve that?’
‘I will call upon the winds, who are the servants of Paraga,’ Aranepa replied. ‘Paraga will ride them and enter the talisman at your neck, but he must be conducted in the correct manner, through the migra.’
‘What’s that?’ Varencienne asked.
Aranepa gestured to Khanak who produced a pouch of dark cloth from the belt of his robe. This he unwrapped and held the contents out for display. Varencienne saw a few pale objects in the dim light.
‘What are they?’
‘Fragments of bone, said to have come from a wind drake,’ Khanak said. ‘However, we now regard all spirit beings as etheric in nature and do not believe they have physical bodies as such. These bones undoubtedly are avian in origin. They are very ancient.’
Varencienne shivered. The bones, though small, were sinister. ‘And what must I do with them?’
‘To conduct the essence of Paraga, they must be inserted into your skin, at the neck,’ Khanak said.
Varencienne laughed nervously. ‘I don’t like the sound of that.’
Aranepa touched her reassuringly with light fingers. ‘There is nothing to fear. The bones are sharp and Khanak is skilled at inserting them. You will feel hardly anything.’
Varencienne rubbed her upper arms. ‘Even soc’
‘The shards are kept scrupulously clean,’ Khanak said. ‘They are wrapped permanently in antiseptic leaves. There will be no risk of infection.’
Varencienne uttered a sound of discomfort.
‘I will do it,’ Ellony said suddenly in a determined voice.
Varencienne glanced down at her daughter. ‘No, Elly. If anyone has to do this, it will be me.’
‘But you don’t want to.’
‘I’m just nervous,’ Varencienne said. ‘I don’t want you to be burdened with this heritage until later in life.’
‘I already am, and it is not a burden,’ Ellony said. ‘I’m not afraid of having the shards in me.’
Varencienne detecte
d a slight note of criticism in Ellony’s voice. ‘I will do it, Elly,’ she said, severely. ‘Say nothing more.’
Ellony opened her mouth to protest, but Varencienne gave her a stern glance, which was enough to keep her silent.
Khanak said everyone should arrange themselves in a circle, but for Varencienne, whom he placed in the centre, facing Aranepa. Once this was done, the vana positioned Varencienne’s arms away from her body, bent at the elbow, the palms facing upwards.
‘Now, we must meditate together,’ Khanak said, ‘and enter the realms of the unseen.’
Softly, he began to speak, instructing the company to regulate their breathing and become aware of the life essence coursing through their bodies.
Halfway through, Varencienne opened her eyes and looked around. Everyone else still had their eyes closed. Taropat and Shan stood to either side of Aranepa, Shan with his head bowed. He had been uncharacteristically quiet for some time. Varencienne sensed he was unhappy that she had become closer to Taropat. Perhaps she should reassure him later. Would that be dishonest?
She gazed beyond the group to the walls of the crater, where ancient, wind-sculpted temples glowed faintly in the darkness. She imagined silver-pelted leopards prowling among the intricate carvings, their hot breath steaming, their eyes shining.
Now Khanak and Aranepa became to chant softly in an ancient tongue, and a gentle breeze lifted Varencienne’s hair from her back.
Gradually, the chant became louder, more aggressive. Their voices seemed to gust from their bodies like an approaching storm. A wind had started up to stir the still air.
While Aranepa continued to chant, Khanak stepped forward, the shards of bone in his hands. Varencienne, extremely squeamish, instinctively closed her eyes again. Khanak touched her shoulders briefly, then pulled the neck of her robe apart. Varencienne swallowed convulsively, wondering whether she would faint. She felt the prick of sharpness against the soft skin of her throat and braced herself for pain, but all she could feel was a slight pressure. This was repeated in three other places. Her flesh tingled, but pain still did not come.
Now, Khanak placed his hands gently against her neck, filling her with a burning heat. She felt light-headed, sure she would lose consciousness.
After a few moments, the vana stepped away from her. The wind rushed around her in a circle, as if she stood in the eye of a tornado. Its voice was becoming louder and it was now difficult to hear the Hamagarids through it.
Varencienne opened her eyes and thought she could actually see the hurtling element of air. Shapes writhed within the wind, creatures of dust and flying leaves. The Palindrake crest was hot against her skin: a necklace of fire.
Aranepa and Khanak were shouting now, commanding the spirits of air to manifest. Even though they still chanted in an ancient Hamagaran tongue, Varencienne could understand it. Aranepa and Khanak were ordering Paraga to come to them. It was unlike anything she’d heard before. These were not prayers or gentle entreaties. There was no sense of abasement or respect in the invocations. The Hamagarids were powerful magicians, to whom the elemental beings were subservient. If Paraga did not come, they would send torments to him. They would bind his creatures to the earth and torture them. If he did not come, they would silence the voice of the wind for eternity.
The maelstrom was so strong now, Varencienne could barely stand within it. Its voice was an angry scream. The chanting whirled in a circle around her, an elemental shout upon the maddened air. Then, the Hamagarids screamed out a wordless climax to the chant. The wind dropped abruptly, so completely, it was as if it had never existed.
Varencienne fell back, as if she’d been struck hard by a heavy flying object. The breath was punched from her and she lay on her back, on the lake’s gravel shore, gasping and spluttering. Her neck pained her greatly now. She was conscious of the sharp bones stuck into her. She could feel the wet warmth of blood on her skin.
Varencienne drew in a long, racking breath, blinking at the sky. She saw Taropat standing over her, staring down in a kind of morbid curiosity. Shan was there too, gazing in concern and love. Yet it was Taropat’s eyes she met. He held out a hand. She took it and he hauled her to her feet.
‘What do you feel?’ he asked.
‘Beaten to within an inch of my life,’ she said.
Chapter Twenty-Two: Return to the Old Domain
Many centuries before, the grandfather of Valraven I, Lord Katerfel Palindrake the Third, had begun work on the great thoroughfare, which he named Palindrake Way. Later, Valraven the First had finished the project and renamed it The Lord’s Road. The idea behind it was to link the northern parts of Caradore with the south, to encourage trade from Magravandias and also countries across the sea, for ocean passage was far easier further south.
Ironically, it was this road that had facilitated Cassilin Malagash’s march to Old Caradore, where he had directed his army to smash through the walls of Caradore Castle, slaughter any opposing male Palindrakes and take the survivors captive. If the Magravandian horde had had to traipse through tangled forest, they would have taken longer to reach the castle, and the Palindrakes might have been more prepared. Local allies could have been summoned, resources gathered. But, in trying to make Caradore more accessible, Valraven I had unwittingly created an easy passage for his enemies. Since then, when the surviving Palindrakes had been herded away from their ancestral home to the newer castle further south, The Lord’s Road had fallen into disrepair. Over the centuries, locals had heaved up entire sections of flags for personal use, and a stone that bore an imprint of horses’ hooves ridden by forgotten warrior heroes might now serve as a lintel over a farmer’s cottage door.
This was only the second time Valraven had journeyed to the old domain. Some dark and unspoken superstition had kept both him and Pharinet away from it as children, even though both of them had been inordinately curious about everything, and had loved secrets and intrigue. The family curse, though never mentioned, had hung over them; a vaguely threatening ghost.
Valraven the First had once been made to swear that if he, or his line, should ever attempt to rekindle the Palindrakes’ relationship with the sea dragons, their entire domain would be consumed by flame. Four years previously, Valraven had dared to challenge that oath, but he had not realigned himself with the dragons. Far from it: he had found the dragon queen, Foy, to be a disempowered and withered entity, who craved only release from human concerns. He had given her that peace. But now, he must go against his earlier decision and perhaps invoke the curse into the bargain. Niska seemed unconcerned. Valraven could not be so sanguine.
Pharinet had, of course, wanted to join the party to Old Caradore, and a heated argument had ensued between her and her brother. Niska had made it clear to Valraven that the experience that lay ahead for him was far from easy. He must undergo certain spiritual trials. He must venture into the mystical underworld of Caradore, find and reawaken Foy. The curse must be invoked but also negated. Valraven must purge himself of all past conflicts. These would be perilous tasks. The Dragon Lord would inevitably be changed by them, and the risks involved were great. And he must face the trials alone. Niska could not go into the dark with him. Her only function was to guide him to the portal that led to it and be there for him when he re-emerged. Pharinet questioned why any of what Niska proposed was necessary at all, then completely went against her own arguments and insisted that she, as a Palindrake, should be the one to lead Valraven back to Foy.
‘You are risking everything,’ she said to him. ‘If you make a mistake, then Caradore might be lost. You should not do this alone.’
‘Niska feels that I should.’
‘Niska?’ Pharinet snapped. ‘What does she know that I do not? She is not a Palindrake. It is not her place to guide you.’
Privately, Valraven had more faith in Niska as a guide than Pharinet. Niska was cool, centred, and had a certain distance from the proceedings. Pharinet, on the other hand, was passionatel
y entwined with them. ‘Niska is your Merante,’ he said. ‘You must trust her.’
Pharinet uttered a snort of sarcastic laughter. ‘Trust her? It seems to me she’s all too eager to get you alone out in the wilderness.’
Valraven felt his whole body slump in an inward sigh. He lacked both the patience and vocabulary to sooth Pharinet’s insecurities. ‘I must go alone,’ he insisted, and so a second assault from Pharinet began.
Valraven went to his bed feeling as if he’d been interrogated by a host of Jessapurian torturers. He’d eventually shouted an order for Pharinet to stay at home in the morning, which was victory of a kind, but he knew he would be made to suffer for it in numerous small ways thereafter.
Now, the further he rode away from Castle Caradore, the fainter the memory of his sister’s voice became in his mind. Niska drove a covered wagon, which she had filled with supplies. The journey would take the best part of a day, as the wagon would slow them down, but Valraven would have time to appreciate the landscape: he might never ride through it again. Niska had not actually said what he was about to do would be life threatening, but Valraven guessed that it would be. He also knew that the Merante of the Sisterhood would not put his life in jeopardy unless it was essential. How different he was now from the man to whom Khaster Leckery had appealed for help on the battlefield in Cos, when Bayard had taken Tayven prisoner. That Valraven was nothing more than the memory of a stranger, who had been possessed by the dragon daughter, Misk. Foy’s daughters were dangerous, capricious entities, but Valraven was aware that he must eventually tame, master and use them, as they had used him. Only through their co-operation and might could he dare to challenge the ancient oath, reclaim his heritage and negate the curse of the priests of fire.