“What is it, girl?” Ullanna asked as she crawled back to the hard bed. Then she saw the look in Munda’s eyes.
She took the girl’s face in her hands. “What is it?”
“The bird is here. The swan is here.”
She was experiencing imbas forasnai; the foresight!
Ullanna backed away, igniting a small wax candle, watching the girl by its light, noticing the arching of the back, the widening of the eyes, the half smile, the inner searching.
“Tell me more,” whispered Rianata. “Take your time. Breathe deeply.”
The High Woman came round to the girl and used her night robe to wipe the running perspiration from Munda’s face.
Munda declaimed:
“The bird is here. The swan is here.
“I see the quelling force.
“It sleeps. It will wake.
“It comes with a brother who is full of rage.”
She swung from the pallet, stood up, and ran to one of the small windows, staring through at the orchard. Two enormous eyes opened to stare at her, and the metal hound growled deeply in its throat, rising from its guarding position and stepping menacingly towards the lodge. Munda stood her ground, small eyes meeting gleaming gaze. The girl was in a trance. After a moment, the hound turned away and went back to where it had been curled up.
“A ship of shadows!” Munda whispered.
“A man who wears a cloak of forests!
“Two fathers seeking, both afraid.”
Then, breaking from the overwhelming vision, she turned and fell into Ullanna’s arms; a girl delighted by what she had understood.
“Merlin! He’s coming. He feels so close, he could almost be here now, in this old man’s house.”
Ullanna looked around at the skins and leathers, and the thin wooden shields and masks that were slung through the lodge, creating hidden areas, making a maze of the Speaker’s sanctuary.
Munda touched a gentle finger to Ullanna’s chin, as if aware of the woman’s nervousness, made a sound of quietening.
“Here’s here. He’s close. We should try to go out, try to meet him.”
“Go out?” Ullanna longed to return to the outside world. The gate was close by, but they had seemed so safe here. Thank the forest goddess Nemetona for bringing Cathabach to their aid, just when it seemed they were lost. He had dragged them into the orchard, almost pushed them into the lodge. He had returned with food and water, and others from the women’s lodge. He had sealed the door. Then he had gone, suffering who knew what fate after that.
And after that? The hounds had come, two of them, and the orchard had become a prison.
And yet it had all begun with such a surge of beautiful transformation.
Munda still dreamed of the flow of Ghostland. It had come in the evening, the twilight time. Shouts from the western wall had brought her running. Rianata, her guardian, had gone running with her, confused and anxious for the sprightly, uncaring child.
Every animal in Taurovinda was disturbed. The howling of dogs was deafening. All the young children were screaming. The sky above the fortress was spiralling, cloud formations that moved faster than she had ever seen, and which suggested a whirlpool. The land was shaking. The fires in the forges began to draw and become fierce as if the bellows were being pumped by magic.
To the west, hills rose above the horizon. They shone with unnatural light. The forests flowed. The land became silver as if water was flowing, spreading in a flood. An ocean seemed to swell and surge towards the fortress.
Munda clapped her hands and laughed with joy. Nothing in the apparition frightened her. Ghostland came to Taurovinda, and with it, the memories and mysteries of the ancient world.
She almost flew around the walls, to north and south, a terrified Rianata running behind her, anxious for the girl, consumed by fear at what was happening.
“Look there! Look there! Such a pretty island.”
Munda clung to the parapet wall, watching as islands drifted serenely across the drowned plain, much as a logjam might flow on Nantosuelta after a storm. But these were vast expanses of forested land, with pastures and hunting trails, and even as they passed Taurovinda, so she could see riders galloping headlong to the east across their open meadows. Bright riders, cloaks flowing; the denizens of past and future eager to see the new edge of their world.
She didn’t know where that edge might be, just that it was somewhere towards where the sun was still rising, and she shaded her eyes against the glare to try to imagine where the new boundary would be.
The passage of islands continued for some time. She was thrilled to recognise them: there, the Isle of Youth; there the Isle of Stone; and there, she was sure, the Isle of the Stalking Birds. Later came the Isle of Dancing, and the Isle of the Silent Cliffs, behind whose summits the greatest of adventures lay.
She identified them all, even though she had heard of them only in stories.
Rianata stood beside her, trembling, agreeing with everything her young charge whispered, cooed, and shouted.
The ocean receded into the east. The land dried out. It became barren, bleak, lifeless; but not for long.
Now the forest came, a great swathe of wildwood that surrounded the fortress. It grew and shrank before the eyes of the startled girl; gigantic trees stretched above the sea of canopy, then fell majestically, to be swallowed by the green. Towers and turrets sometimes probed above the woods, crumbling as quickly as they had risen.
The forest flowed away.
Then came fire. The land blazed. It gave off smoke and flame, but strangely, no heat.
The fire died and the snows came. And when the snows themselves receded east, the land began to swell and roll, changing in colour, becoming fragrant and hot. This heat embraced Taurovinda, warmth like no summer Munda had ever experienced; smells of herbs that she vaguely recognised from Cathabach’s lodge, lavender among them, the heady, warming perfume of lavender.
With the fall of dusk came the men and beasts of bronze, striding from the west, passing across the land, hounds baying, the strange warriors making liquid cries in the night. There was the sound of wings. The stars were blocked by creatures that flew, circling low over the fortress before striking in the direction of the land of the Coritani.
Now Munda felt impelled to follow. Rianata tried to stop her, but the girl shrieked and shook off the older woman’s grasp.
“Don’t be afraid,” she urged the High Woman. “There is nothing to be afraid of.”
She found her pony and whipped it to the eastern gate. Ullanna saw her, shouted out, realised that her words were lost on the girl and raced for her own horse, summoning her retinue. Munda rode like a night wind, like a storm surge, and the Scythian, despite her skills in horsemanship, was hard-pressed to keep up with her.
She had expected to arrive at lines of encampment, an army that she had felt moving through the land as she had watched from the high walls of her father’s stronghold. Instead, with Ullanna now riding beside her, she came to the snow, then the fire, then the forest, then a river that she seemed to recognise, even though no river had existed here before.
She passed through the corridors and halls of a hostel. The place rang with life and laughter. A hound stalked ahead of her, glancing back, metal muzzle grim, eyes searching, but a beast that was leading her to a place it wished her to go.
She stood, at length, in the entrance to the hostel, and stared across the river at the flare of torches on the other side, and at the wan faces of the men and women who crouched there, returning her gaze.
Prominent among them was her father, and as she stepped through the door of the hostel, her heart surged with pleasure. She raised a hand to wave at him, then realised something was not right.
Why did he look so sad? Why in such despair? The river would not have stopped him crossing back.
Again she waved to him. Then she shouted, “Your land has become wonderful. Don’t be afraid! Come back to us.”
Perhaps
it was the full flood of the river that frightened him. Nantosuelta had certainly swelled. But she would calm down.
And then her father had risen to his feet, head bowed, forlorn. Why so forlorn? Merlin was close behind him, watching. Surely Merlin would understand what was happening; how safe it was; how beautiful the transformation.
And then they had moved away. She felt such sadness. Behind her, the sounds of celebration were loud, raucous. It was not the din of triumph, but the dancing-cry of marriage. The marriage of lands, of kingdoms.
Across the river, in those bleak, dark woods, there seemed to be only chaos. Horses and men struggled away from the Winding One. She soon lost sight of her father and that great bull of a man, his shield-guardian and sword-healer, Bollullos. The brute. She had seen him point his sword at the hostel. Then, later, he had almost seemed to carry his king north.
“Why has he abandoned me?” she asked sadly. The woman who stood behind her rested an easy hand on her shoulder. She was comforted by that touch.
“He’ll come back. And when he does, we shall be waiting for him. We’ll be ready for him.”
“A feast of a welcome home,” the girl said happily.
“A feast of a welcome home,” Ullanna agreed.
* * *
The hound pressed against the window, baleful eye staring into the silent lodge. The women backed away, drew furs to cover themselves. A moment later the door was pushed open and a second hound pushed through the narrow opening. The sound of its breath was the sound of bellows, blowing the fires of a furnace. It stepped cautiously into the lodge, as if expecting a trap. It sniffed the air, then squeezed its metal body into the rough space, and nosed up to Rianata, who sat her ground as the bronze maw drank in her fear and sweat.
There was a brute intelligence behind the eyes. It found Munda and approached her, one careful step at a time, in the manner of a hunting dog, a dog stalking a quiet prey.
It had hardly reached her before it took a backwards step, leaving the house, a last glance around, then back into the night. Rianata ran to close the door.
This was their seventh night of incarceration. None of the women, not even Munda with her insight, could understand what had happened to have made the hill—until seven days ago a place of welcome—into this prison.
* * *
Munda turned suddenly, staring towards the back of the lodge, where a breeze ruffled the skins and hangings, and the light, wooden masks clattered gently together. “My brother is here,” she whispered, and Rianata walked boldly forward and peered into the dark corner.
“And Merlin, too,” the girl said, her face brightening. “They’re here. They’re in the house.”
“I can’t see them,” the High Woman said, but Ullanna laughed, tugging her hair into a high tail and knotting it. “Don’t argue with the girl,” she said. “If she says the boys are here, then the boys are here. Show yourselves!”
I stepped out of the shadows. The shock nearly caused Rianata to collapse. She clutched her chest, stepped back, uncertain and confused. Ghosts don’t usually appear with such alacrity.
I pushed Kymon forward. He stared at his sister, and Munda returned the gaze from her brief time of anger.
“How long have you been watching?” she asked.
“Not long.”
Then, to my surprise, the young man dropped to one knee and bowed his head.
Munda knelt before him and embraced him, puzzled and slightly tearful. “Why? Why are you kneeling?”
“Because I was wrong.”
“You weren’t wrong! I was the one who was wrong.”
“You don’t understand,” Kymon said. Together they stood, smiled, reached for each other’s hands. “I doubted you, yes. But I abandoned you. I should not have abandoned you. We were and are in this together.”
“I was wrong,” the girl said in a voice that was close to a growl of self-anger. “I was blinded.”
“All our eyes are open now.”
“I had the foresight. My foresight was mistaken.”
“Merlin told me about your foresight. The foresight was as clear as a winter pool. You interpreted it wrongly, that’s all. Value the talent you have. I’ll be here from now on to help with the interpretation!”
She mocked him with a laugh, squeezing his nose between thumb and forefinger. “Yes. And I’ll be here to help with your arrogance!”
Then she frowned, looking at his chest. “Was your amulet stolen, too?”
“No. It tore from my neck as I clambered aboard Argo, the last time; as we were preparing to sail back here. It fell in the river. I dread to think what my father will say. Yours was stolen?”
Munda’s look was dark. “One of the hounds. It pinned me down and took it in its jaws. I thought it was going to kill me, but it let me live. It ripped the amulet from the cord, though.”
“I wonder why?” He folded his arms. “Do you have a solution?”
“No. Do you?”
“No. But Merlin does. I expect.”
They looked at me as one. I was amused and impressed by them. Ullanna was watching me, too, her eyes hooded with a deeper wisdom, a greater understanding of the task ahead. Her steady gaze was as clear a question as any she could have voiced. Do you have a solution?
I said to them, “There is a way down into this hill, down to where Durandond has his chamber. Does anyone here know its entrance?”
“It opens in the centre of the orchard,” Rianata said in a quiet voice. “I know the pattern of the paths that will lead you to it. Cathabach taught them to me. But what does a dead man have to do with anything?”
I almost laughed. A dead man had everything to do with everything! “Durandond may hold the final answers to a question that’s puzzled me. If I can find a way to talk to him.…”
“We all know you can find a way to talk to the dead,” Ullanna murmured.
“I’m sure I can.”
“Those metal hounds won’t let us pass,” Rianata said, glancing to where a huge, baleful eye watched us through the narrow window.
“The hounds are subdued. It doesn’t take much to subdue mechanisms like that.”
Niiv slipped a teasing arm through mine. “Merlin’s been working very hard for us. Haven’t you, Merlin? Such a strain on him. He’ll soon need a stick to walk with.”
I gently disengaged myself from the girl, then reached for Rianata’s hand. We left the lodge, watched by the growling and uneasy guardians, and slipped into the heart of the orchard. Rianata led me in a winding pattern along paths that she had memorised. They were now overgrown and difficult to walk. One of the hounds followed behind us, curious, but keeping a cautious distance. And quite shortly we came to a huge grey stone, lying flat, split vertically, the gap wider at the base. The cleft was narrow and signified nothing of the passage below. “It’s a tight squeeze to begin with,” the High Woman said unnecessarily. “I’ve never done it, but Cathabach has entered as far as the first chamber. I have no idea why he spent so long here, listening to the breeze from below. Part of the mystery of the man, I suppose. Communing with the old king.”
“I imagine he was. Or at least thinking about the old kings, and reminding himself of how to speak of them. This was probably a very special place to all Speakers for Kings.”
In the short time that I had been in Rianata’s presence, she had shown no sign of grief. She and Cathabach had been both guardians and lovers. The relationship had been strong. Speaker for Kings and the High Woman were the surrogate parents of the royal children, and though they had kept their presence as discreet and underinfluencing as was necessary, they had been constant protectors of Urtha’s brood. They had not been able to save his youngest son, Urien; but that terrible time had occurred during the abandonment of the fortress.
No grief, no tears. I wondered if she knew that the man was dead. How to ask her?
We were crouching by the narrow cleft, listening to the whisper from below. I put my hand on hers. “Cathabach…”
> She smiled and met my gaze, turning her hand in mine to grasp my fingers. “Is dead. Yes. I know. And there will be an appropriate time to think of that, and to find him, and lay him quietly down.”
“Kymon met him in the evergroves, and will be asking questions: who killed him, how, why. He is determined to avenge his father’s brother’s death.”
Rianata sighed. “There is nothing to avenge. Cathabach was using what skills he possessed to hold back those creatures. He held them long enough for us to slip into the orchard, and into the lodge. He was convinced that we would be safe in the lodge. He had put up some sort of barrier, he said. Once inside we’d be prisoners, but safe from Shaper.”
He had used all his strength, all his small talent. He must have worked himself to death. That’s all I could think of. And Rianata proved me right.
She said, “The brightness suddenly went from him. The lightness suddenly went from him. He looked at me and frowned. When I touched him he was cold. He shook his head, then turned away and walked away. Something inside him had stopped. Whatever he was doing to protect us, it was too much. It broke him. Go on, Merlin, go down and find your answers. The time to remember Cathabach will be later. And I must wait for Urtha, and for what happens next.”
She touched a finger to her lips, the finger to mine, then turned and ran quickly back along the path.
* * *
I followed the whisper through the crack in the stone, along the earth channel that ran deep into the hill. In the first chamber were the bones of horses and weapons stacked against the stone-lined walls. Their blades were the colour of blood. There was no light here, but I was now beyond caring: I used light-of-image to see clearly. Just a trick, really. Swords, spears, shields, a thin horn-and-leather breastplate of exquisite design; five horses; five human heads. A trophy room.
The second chamber was so small, I had to stoop. It was an empty place, reeking of rot and ruin, open only because of the careful use of timeless stone, creating the chamber, shaping the chamber, maintaining this hollow space. There was nothing here but masks, four masks, slung from the ceiling on cords of leather and beaten metal. To touch them would be to shatter them. The masks were wood, covered with painted mud, and when I looked at them, I recognised the older men that I had once met as youths in a narrow valley. Cailum was there, and Vercindond, and Orogoth. But the fourth mask, though shaped for a face, had no features. This would have been Radagos.