Seaward

  The sound grew no less, but rose unbelievably higher, louder; suddenly it seemed terrifyingly close behind her in the empty room. Cally could bear it no longer, she could think of nothing but that she must get away before it drove her mad. Without thought, she thrust her hands out to the mirror, pressing her rough-skinned palms against the cool flat glass.

  And the glass seemed to melt under her hands as if it were water, and took her in, and she stepped through the mirror, out of the room.

  CHAPTER 3

  Westerly paused and looked about him; all around, the hills rolled to the horizon, purple and brown and green, curving one upon the other like lines of great sleeping animals. He was on the roof of the high country. Before him the faint grassy path rose higher still, through scrubby heather and gold-starred bushes of gorse, to the line where land met sky.

  He forced himself on, feeling his pack heavy on his shoulders. The sun blazed down; he heard the swish of his feet over the grass, and the small song of the wind. Then gradually he thought he began to hear other sounds, bizarre, improbable: distant voices calling, and the clash of metal, and once the muffled neighing of a horse.

  He swung round and looked behind him, over the rolling hills, but saw no movement, no one following.

  At last he reached the crest, and suddenly facing him in the flaring sunlight was a great sweep of sky, the land falling away steeply at his feet. For a mile or more below him, the moorland lay flat, like a huge plate set into the hills —and the new sounds were loud in his ears, rising from a strange pattern spread down there, bright against the brown land.

  He stared, disbelieving. All over the plateau, spread in the shape of an immense square, he saw gleaming clusters of men in blue or gold: swaying, hovering in their places. He saw a crowd of golden foot-soldiers, waving swords, shouting behind the blazing reflections from their shields; among them he saw a group of horsemen in blue robes, blue banners flying, spears held for the charge but the horses held in check, waiting.

  He saw towers so like castles that it was a shock to look again and realise that they were mounted on wheels, to be tugged and pushed by other groups of foot-soldiers in blue or gold. In another cluster of horsemen he saw a single mounted figure in black, holding a tall glistening cross high on a pole. Each small crowd seemed full of a fierce energy—and yet none moved. A shout rose from the far corner of the patterned throng, where most of the clustering figures shimmered sky-blue, and all at once a group of golden horsemen cantered forward through the motionless, menacing figures around them, turned abruptly to one side and reined in, their horses whinnying with impatience.

  The movement seemed oddly, bafflingly familiar. Then above his head Westerly heard a voice, soft and musical and yet seeming to fill the whole sky. It said with amusement, “Knight to king’s pawn four. But that will do you no good at all.”

  Westerly looked up. He had thought himself on the crest, but on a slope above him, two figures stood. He could not see them clearly against the bright sky, but they seemed far taller than human height: one a hooded form wrapped in a gleaming golden cloak; the other a woman, blue-robed, her hood flung back to show a mass of waving hair so fair it seemed to be white.

  She turned to him, and he could not distinguish her face but knew that the eyes suddenly holding his gaze were a strange bright blue. She looked at him for a long time, and at last she said, “You should not be here in this country, Westerly.”

  He said huskily, “I came through a door.”

  “And who showed you how?”

  “My mother,” he said. “Before they—killed her.” His voice shook, and he dug his fingernails into his palms.

  She showed no emotion. She glanced once at the figure in gold, but his back was turned. Then she looked coolly back at Westerly, the blue eyes flickering past him to the hills over which he had come. “And you think yourself pursued,” she said. “You are running.”

  Westerly said nothing. The strap of his pack was cutting into his neck, but he dared not move.

  She turned away from him, back to the frozen blue-gold armies spread on the land below, and raised her arm. “Bishop to king’s pawn four,” she said, and laughed.

  Far below, the ordered lines erupted; cutting through in a sudden sweep of speed the figure in black came galloping, cross held high, blue-clad horsemen moving close beside him. They charged full tilt at the golden knights who had moved before, and the knights stood waiting, watching, unmoving. Westerly stared in horrified fascination, tensing for the clash.

  But none came. As the blue reached the gold, there was a flicker of light rapid as the blink of an eye, and suddenly the golden knights were not there.

  Westerly heard himself gasp.

  The woman laughed again, and again he felt her eyes on him. “Running,” she said. “But where will you run to?”

  It was a question filled with his own fears, making him feel small and lost, and he would not look at it. He turned to look down at the living chessmen on the plain, and he said suddenly, irrelevantly, “Why aren’t they black and white?”

  The answering voice was not hers. It came from the other tall figure, hooded in its heavy gold robe: a deep voice, catching oddly at some memory he could not find.

  “Nothing is black and white, Westerly, in this long game we play.”

  “They are coming, Westerly,” the woman said. She leaned towards him. “They are coming, and the white bones will not help you. You must run, and the way ahead lies across the plain—and you cannot cross it before they reach this hilltop. They will see you.”

  There was no escape from the fear. Westerly looked desperately out at the long sweep of the plateau, stretching far beyond the living chessboard to a distant misted skyline where the hills rose again. “Yes,” he said miserably. “They will.”

  Her voice softened, gentling him like music. “We will give you a chance,” she said. “It is only a chance—you must remember that. But if you choose to gamble, we will give you a chance for freedom by putting you into our game.”

  He looked hard at her, but the sun was sinking lower now, shining into his eyes, and still he could not make out her face. And inside the hood of the gold-robed figure beside her, he could see nothing but shadow. He thought wildly: into our game?

  “All right,” he said.

  The gold-robed man stood still as an owl, facing him.

  “Remember, you take the chance,” the woman said, clear and loud, with a note of triumph. She laughed. “Well then—will you be the gold, or the blue?”

  Westerly felt a great sense of release, all his tense watchfulness dropping away from him like ropes cut from a prisoner. He was safe; gratitude flooded warm through his mind. But just as he would have given himself to her blue-clad army of followers, the deep voice of the other said with curt authority, “He will go to the gold.”

  She turned, almost petulantly. The voice from inside the hood said, more amiably, “You are winning, after all.”

  “Very well,” she said.

  And in an instant Westerly found himself among men and boys dressed in the same glinting gold as the robe of their master, and his ears were full of shout and clatter. The air was warmer. He was down on the plain; the hill rose above him. An arm shoved him, a voice said, “Hey you—what’s y’r name again?”

  Westerly said, bemused, “West—Westerly.”

  “Well watch it, West—keep position.”

  “Position?”

  “Five feet each of us from the other, the man said—you deaf ? Have to be, to miss him.”

  He grinned, a pleasant battered face creasing under the golden cap, and jerked his head at a chunky red-faced man bellowing orders at all around him. Red Face caught sight of Westerly.

  “Get back, that man there! Whatta you think you’re doin’? Havin’ a little chinwag, eh? This ain’t no picnic!”

  Westerly moved hastily sideways, and Red Face turned his attention to another disorganised soldier. “Get in position, get in position! You’r
e in the army, son. . . .”

  Gradually over all the vast field sounds died away, until there was a long hush broken only by the distant whinny of a horse, and the clash of a dropped shield. Down here, Westerly could see nothing of the pattern that had seemed so clear from above; there was only his group of men scattered obediently at their five-foot intervals, and fifty yards away another identical gold-clothed platoon. He could smell sweat, and dung, and the dirt of the field. He realised belatedly that he held a sword in his right hand, and that the other arm and hand were thrust through the leather thongs of a heavy round shield; he felt the weight of the strange golden tunic and trousers he wore.

  There was no weight on his shoulders. He thought in panic of his pack, and spun round, searching, anxious.

  His neighbour hissed, “Stand still!”

  “But I’ve lost—”

  “Shut up!”

  Red Face was turning. Westerly froze, staring rigidly ahead. The big man looked at him suspiciously, but turned away again. The field was still, prickling with tension. Somewhere far off, a lark’s bubbling song rose into the air.

  Westerly whispered, “What are we waiting for?”

  “Their next move, of course. Keep watch—all around you. You never know what’ll come.”

  “And what if it comes?”

  “Stand.”

  Westerly glanced at him. The weatherbeaten face was grim, the eyes darting nervously round, straining to see any movement on the field.

  “Stand?”

  Sing-song, the man said, “Stand. Whatever happens, stand fast.”

  “And there’s nothing you can do to escape,” Westerly said.

  “No.”

  “Then what’s the point of watching?”

  The man frowned, intent, and shook his head impatiently.

  Westerly looked up and saw the two tall figures, one gold, one blue, standing high above them on the slope. He said, “But it’s his move.”

  “What?”

  “The players —up there. It’s his turn—and we’re his men.”

  The man glanced up at the slope, and then back at Westerly, frowning. “You crazy? What players? There’s no one up there. There’s only this, here. Just wait, and be ready.”

  Faintly from the nearest group of golden soldiers a shout rose: “Charge!” All together, in neat formation, they ran another fifty yards further from Westerly’s troop; pausing then, only dimly visible, in the same stillness as before.

  Looking up, Westerly saw the arm of the gold-robed figure raised, pointing at the move it had made; then it dropped. He watched the blue. There was a pause; he could just see the light of the dying sun glinting on the woman’s bright hair. Then, slowly, she in turn raised her arm.

  In the moment of stillness he tried desperately to remember the pattern of the living pieces on the great chessboard as he had seen them from above, but he could not find the image. All around him were the grim, dogged faces, waiting, unquestioning. He heard shouts and a huge rumbling, and towards them over the field one of the moving towers came inexorably bearing down, blue-clad soldiers all around it, heaving, yelling.

  Red Face bellowed, “Stand firm! Stand!”

  A rebellious fury flooded Westerly’s mind: why should he stand and wait to be destroyed? What was the matter with them all, blindly obeying the whim of someone they couldn’t even see?

  He ran. He heard the furious voice raised: “Come back that man!” Stumbling through the grass and scrub he looked over his shoulder and saw the great blue tower reach his own motionless gold group of soldiers —and saw that suddenly the soldiers were no longer there.

  But the rolling, lumbering tower did not pause. Veering round, seeing through huge hidden eyes of its own, it made straight for Westerly; and as if this were a signal, both armies as one turned and charged in its wake. From all sides they came rushing at Westerly: blue-clad horsemen yelling and whooping, golden infantrymen grimly waving their swords. He stared in horror for an instant, all his fear of pursuit re-awakened and roaring in his ears; then flung himself forward, running for his life. He tossed away his sword; tore the shield loose from his arm and threw that too. It bounced clanging on the hard ground, and within a terrifyingly short moment clanged again to tell him a galloping pursuing horse had kicked it aside. Gasping for breath, Westerly ran and ran, despair fogging his mind as the tumult of shouts and yells grew louder, nearer, nearer—

  Then suddenly behind him there was total silence. He could hear only his own long rasping breaths, and the thudding of his blood in his ears. He glanced back, and astonishment caught his stride and sent him sprawling on the grass. No one was there. Over all the plain no trace remained of that crowded mingling of blue and gold; every horse, every man was gone. Westerly crouched on hands and knees, panting, staring at the empty grass, hearing only the small whine of the wind.

  Confused words and images darted through his head. “They are coming, Westerly,” she had said. “They will see you.” And it was true; he knew himself pursued. “We will give you a chance for safety by putting you in our game.” But she had not given him safety, she had given him a still more desperate pursuit; each time he ran from one danger, he ran into one that was worse. . . .

  Then he understood. “In our game.” His running had saved him after all; it had carried him out of her perilous game, over the edge of the chessboard, back into the world. And he was wearing his own clothes now, and the weight of his pack was on his shoulders again.

  Stumbling to his feet, he saw a small hawk hanging high in the blue sky.

  Ahead, on the far side of the plateau, a dark line of trees marked the beginning of wooded, rising land. The horizon was gold-rimmed where the sun was going down; the light was reddening in the sky. Westerly shivered, as the breeze chilled the sweat on his face. He began to walk, swinging once more into the familiar long-distance lope; travelling.

  CHAPTER 4

  The light was almost gone when he reached the edge of the trees. Westerly hesitated. He looked back across the plain; lightning flickered silently over the hills from which he had come, and he could just make out a long mounded line of dark cloud. Turning to the scattered pines edging the forest ahead, he saw a faint glow of light somewhere within the trees. Cautiously he moved towards it, and saw that the light beamed out from the window of a small log house. He hung back in the shadows, watching.

  The door of the house opened and a tall figure came out, bending his head to duck under the lintel. He stood there for a moment, a dark silhouette in the bright doorway. Then he moved, so that the light pouring out past him from the house glinted golden over his body, and Westerly saw that it was the chess-player from the hill.

  The tall man said softly, to the trees, “Come in, Westerly. You must travel no more tonight.”

  Westerly stood silent for a long time, caught between wonder and doubt, while the man waited patient and unmoving in his golden doorway. At last the weight of his pack made Westerly shift his feet, and a twig cracked loudly. The man’s head turned, but he did not move.

  Westerly said, clear and deliberate, “What would have happened to me, if I hadn’t run?”

  “She offered you a chance, and you took it,” the man said. “You knew that it was only a chance.” His voice was deep and mild, but every word distinct.

  “I’d have been . . . nothing. Like them.”

  “Yes,” said the man in gold. “Very likely. Particularly if you had found yourself in her livery. There are things I must tell you about the Lady Taranis.” He turned in Westerly’s direction, holding out his hand. “Come in, out of the night.”

  Darkness had filled the air; Westerly could see nothing around him but the dim outline of the nearest trees. He hated the nights in this land, hated the chill that his blanket could only just keep at bay; the small menacing sounds from every direction, hissing, crackling, breathing; the nervous shallow sleep, the half-sleep of an animal, that was all he could ever allow himself. But still he paused warily, wat
ching the man in gold.

  The man shifted impatiently. “Listen, then,” he said. “I will tell you about yourself. You come from another country. You are Westerly, travelling, and you fear those who perhaps follow you, and would kill you if they caught you. You are searching for your father.”

  Westerly stood very still, listening.

  “You travel seaward,” said the man in gold, “because your mother told you that it was the sea which would take you to him, though she did not tell you where, or when, or how.” He paused for a moment, looking round restlessly at the trees. “The nights are not your friend in this country, boy—you must come in. There are three things of which your mother did tell you. Have you forgotten them?”

  Westerly heard in his mind his mother’s voice, low and urgent, in the last moment that he had seen her. “You will meet three that you can trust: a man with eyes like an owl, a girl with selkie hands, and a creature in a high place. Go bravely. I love you.”

  He felt for the knife in his pack, to be sure that it was in easy reach. Then he went forward into the light, up to the doorway. The man in the golden robe stood there unmoving; Westerly looked up at him. He saw a lean, lively face under a tousle of gold-brown hair; the mouth had lines of laughter round it, and the eyes dancing at him were bright and strange, a tawny brown flecked with gold.