Читать книгу The Giants’ Dance - Robert Goldthwaite Carter, Robert Carter - Страница 10

Gwydion led Will some way back eastward, heading towards the Four-shire Stone before the light died. This was no battlestone, but a benign landmark that showed the place where four earldoms met. On the way they spoke of the strife that was growing among the lords at Trinovant. The trouble, Gwydion explained, had not come solely out of the queen’s viciousness. Richard of Ebor had also played his part.

‘That is not what I required of the man whom I chose to be Lord Protector,’ Gwydion said ruefully. ‘He is by nature a ruler, and usually dedicated to good governance, but as long as a year ago I began to look for reasons why his nature might have been turned. I now ask myself whether leakage of harm from the Dragon Stone might not be to blame, for when I told him I wished to visit Foderingham Castle to inspect the Dragon Stone, he denied me out of hand. “No one,” said he, “is to go near that stone.”’

Will listened with mounting alarm, and also a pang of guilt. He already knew, from having lived among the duke’s family, that Richard of Ebor was a man who treated his duties seriously. He was not a crudely ambitious man. He did regard himself as the rightful king of the Realm, but that was more out of respect for the laws of blood than any personal desire for power. Following the battle at Verlamion he had been prepared to agree to Gwydion’s compromise, which was to content himself with the modest title of Lord Protector and to take on the day-to-day running of the Realm. For the sake of peace, he had allowed the weak usurper-king, Hal, to continue on the throne as figurehead despite his having fallen twice into further bouts of incapacity and madness.

But things must have soured a great deal, Will told himself, if Duke Richard won’t allow Gwydion to see the Dragon Stone.

As for Will’s uncomfortable pang of guilt, that came because he had never admitted an incident when one night he and Edward, the duke’s eldest son, had led the other Ebor children down to look at what Edward had called ‘the magic stone’.

‘Duke Richard has not been quite himself lately,’ Gwydion said.

‘Do you think he’s hiding something? About the Dragon Stone, I mean.’

‘It may be nothing more than Friend Richard’s woebegotten attempt to haggle with me. He is inclined to treat everything as if it might become part of a political bargain. He often says: “I will do something for you, Master Gwydion, if you will do something for me.” Though he must know well enough by now that magic cannot be traded that way.’

‘That would be a hard lesson for any lord to learn,’ Will said. ‘It seems to me that Duke Richard is not a man who’ll ever understand magic.’

Gwydion grunted. ‘You are right, for the trading of favours is how men of power try to gain advantage over one another. What self-seeking fools they are, when trust and selflessness are what is truly needed. So little magic is left in the world that men have lost their taste for it. Even the greatest exercise of magic does not stick for long in the memory. It fades from men’s minds – speak today with anyone who fought at Verlamion and they will keenly remember arrow and sword, but they will have little recollection of the beams of fire that burst so scorchingly over their heads as the fighting raged below.’

Will thought about that, hearing a note of regret in the wizard’s voice, and realizing that his own memories were vivid enough. A sudden suspicion prickled him. ‘Were you by any chance on your way to Foderingham when I conjured you?’

‘In truth I was already there – passing through the inner bailey and about to reclaim my wayward charge.’

Will blinked. ‘You were going to take the Dragon Stone away without the duke’s permission?’

The wizard made a dismissive gesture. ‘I had not yet made my decision.’

Will wondered at what Gwydion knew and what he needed to know concerning the Dragon Stone. He had always said there was no such thing as coincidence, that every weft thread in the great tapestry of fate touched every warp thread and vice-versa, and from all those touches was made the great picture of existence.

Will’s thoughts returned to what had happened that night at Foderingham when he had last clapped eyes on the Dragon Stone. ‘Gwydion, I think there’s something I ought to tell you…’

He explained how he and Edward, and all the Ebor children, had got more than their curiosities had bargained for. The stone’s writhing surface had terrified them. It had begun by posing a morbid riddle for Edward, and had finished by attacking Edmund, the duke’s second son, sending him into a swoon from which he had never fully recovered. He told of how he had wrestled with the stone and how it had almost overcome him, before cringing back at the mention of its true name.

When Will had finished explaining, the wizard leaned heavily on his staff and said, ‘Let us overnight here. We shall talk more on this after supper, though it would have been better for all concerned if you had told me about this sooner.’

‘I couldn’t break a confidence,’ Will said lamely.

‘You are breaking it now.’

‘That’s because Edward is boastful and very close to his father. He may have told tales about the powers that dwell in the stone. That might be the reason the duke is behaving this way.’

Gwydion turned sharply. ‘You think Friend Richard seeks to use the battlestone’s power for himself?’

Will knit his brows over the suggestion. ‘I don’t think he would ever be that foolhardy.’

‘Hmmm. It would depend on how desperate he became.’

Here, east of the Slaver road, the air was cleaner and the grass greener. At their backs a slim crescent moon was following the sun down over the western horizon. Their camp was made on a rise close by the manor of Swell. Once again Gwydion had avoided the villages and farms that nestled nearby. He chose the best ground and then carefully cut away the turf to make a fire pit and piled up enough dry sticks to give them good cheer until they should fall asleep. Will was very hungry, and glad of old dry bread and a delicious soup of dried roots and morels that Gwydion cooked up from ingredients he took from his crane bag.

Will’s eyes drooped as, with a full belly, he listened to the crackle of burning wood and the calls of night creatures. The ground was hard under his elbow and hip bone. He smelled the drowsy perfume of cow parsley and meadowsweet and bruised grass, and felt pleased to be back in the wider world.

‘My First in the West shall Marry…’ he said, stirring himself to recite the riddle that had appeared in the skin of the Dragon Stone.

‘My first in the West shall marry,

My second a king shall be.

My third upon a bridge lies dead.

My fourth far in the East shall wed.

My fifth over the seas shall send.

My sixth in wine shall meet his end.

My seventh, whom none now fears,

Shall be reviled five hundred years.’

‘What are we to make of that?’ Gwydion asked.

Will looked into the night. ‘If the Black Book said there were many battlestones, maybe it’s the Dragon Stone’s way of giving clues about its brothers. Maybe one of the stones is fated to be reunited with its sister-stone in the West – that might fit with the piece you sailed over to your friend Cormac in the Blessed Isle. Or maybe that’s the second stone mentioned, because it stood in the shadow of the King’s Stone. It could be that the third will be found, or drained, on a bridge. Or maybe it lies near a place called Deadbridge – oh, you know better than I how riddles go.’

Gwydion settled back, watching the last rosy blink of moonset. He said distantly, ‘It may be that the Dragon Stone is more important than we have so far supposed.’

‘Why did you choose to lodge it with Duke Richard?’ Will asked, unable to keep the criticism from his voice.

‘You think that was a mistake. In truth, it was no choice of mine, but a course forced on me by events. There was nowhere better to lodge a battlestone at the time. Do you know that time itself has a most curious character? I have discussed it much with the loremaster who lives at the Castle of Sundials. Though he speaks of “time’s arrow”, its nature, he says, is not straight so much as turning ever and again upon itself – wheels within wheels, like the cogs that turn within his confounded engines. As the rede of time says, “History repeateth.” Thus, if we are wise, we may learn from the past—’

‘Gwydion,’ Will knew when he was being distracted, ‘what are we going to do?’

The wizard stirred restlessly. ‘Rather than return to Foderingham, let us find out first if it has been put back in its original resting place. That is my greatest fear. And in any case we must go by Nadderstone if we would go to Foderingham by the shortest way.’

‘Who would want to re-bury the stone at Nadderstone?’

‘Who do you think? If it has come to Maskull’s notice, and if he is making it his business to tamper with the lorc, then we should know about that.’

‘What if we find it’s been put back?’

‘Then the time will have come for me to drain it. For, whatever the other merits of your midnight visit to the Dragon Stone, you have certainly given us a great advantage by discovering its true name.’

‘Oh, no, Gwydion,’ Will said, feeling dismay blow through him. ‘Please promise me you won’t try another draining.’

‘I must do what I must do,’ Gwydion said, then added with a note of finality, ‘Do not worry about it yet. It may never come to that.’

Will blew out a long breath. He watched the flames of their little camp fire and wished himself back at the Blazing, but the coils of intrigue seemed to have wound themselves more tightly about him than any serpent. He said doggedly, ‘Gwydion, before I set off anywhere else, I must get a message to Willow.’

‘As a matter of fact, Willand,’ the wizard said archly, ‘I have already sent word to her explaining your absence. Good night.’

After three days’ walk along highways and byways they came at last to the village of Eiton. There were many harvest carts about the lanes and straw was blowing everywhere along the dusty road that led to the Plough Inn. Gwydion looked for signs that the Sightless Ones were out overseeing the tithe, but he saw nothing.

The Plough was a much-praised alehouse and inn, and one that Will knew well. It was a long, low building set to the side of the road, with a walled yard, a great spreading thatch and a big square sign swinging between two stout posts. It glowed now in the mellow golden light of an August evening. A straw cockerel stood guard on the rooftree and seemed to tell the world that all were welcome, except troublemakers.

The inn was frequented by travellers and local folk alike. It was far bigger and busier than the Green Man, and had not changed at all since Will had come here last. A dozen churlish folk were slaking harvest thirsts in the homely, rush-scattered room.

The man who kept house was called Dimmet. He was a big man, very busy and jolly, the sort who folk took care not to upset. When he looked up his welcome could not have been warmer. ‘Now then, if it ain’t my lucky day! Master Gwydion! How nice! How nice!’ He roared with delight as he came to greet them. ‘Duffred! Come down here and see who’s paid us the honour of yet another visit!’

The innkeeper’s grown son poked his curly, ginger head in at the door and grinned broadly. ‘Hey-ho, Master Gwydion! How goes it with you?’

‘He looks like a man what’s footsore and road-weary to me. And properly in need of a drop of my best ale – if you’ll take the hint, my son.’

‘That is very kind,’ Gwydion said.

‘And a jar of ale for the young feller too, I’d guess?’

The Plough’s big, black mastiff dog came out to see what the excitement was. Being fond of dogs, Will put out an open palm to help it decide he was more friend than foe. It sniffed at his feet, then began to lick his toes.

‘It’s a big, old dog you have here,’ Will said. ‘Maybe you should put some water out for him.’

‘Pack that up, Bolt!’ Duffred called, pulling on the dog’s iron collar. ‘Out in the yard with you. Go on, now.’

Will grinned and shook Dimmet’s huge, freckled hand.

‘Glad to meet you.’

‘They call me Will.’

‘Do they now? Then, we shall have to do the same.’

‘He don’t recall you,’ Duffred said impishly from the taps. ‘Cider still more to your taste than ale, is it?’

Will nodded vigorously, pleased to be recognized after so long.

‘I never forgets a face!’ Dimmet touched a finger to his chin. ‘Wait a bit! Are you not the young lad who came here that time Master Gwydion led our horse, Bessie, off on some business or another up by Nadderstone?’

‘That’s it.’

‘You see! I never do forget a face. Though you was a mere lad then, and not so filled out. Must have been all of five or six year ago.’

‘I hope Bessie got back safe to you.’

‘That she did.’ Duffred set down two tankards. ‘She was fetched back by a man in my Lord of Ebor’s livery as I recall.’

‘Always happy to render Master Gwydion a service if I can.’ Dimmet glanced shrewdly at the wizard. ‘And in return he’ll often put a good word on my vats, or he makes sure my thatch don’t catch fire.’

Duffred tugged at his father’s sleeve and said, lowering his voice, ‘You might think to tell them about the odd one who’s been sat in the snug all day.’

Will looked sharply to Gwydion, knowing it was not usually possible to get into the snug.

‘Easy, Will,’ Gwydion said, as if reading his mind. ‘The Sightless Ones do not agree with the drinking of wine or ale. Nor would Dimmet here take kindly to one of them poking his nose in at the Plough, much less getting into his snug.’

‘Oh, yes,’ Dimmet said. ‘He’s a shifty one. Got wilted primroses on his hat, though I don’t know where he got them. Said he wanted “privacy”, if you please!’

Dimmet’s eyes rolled as he made the last remark. The last reason anyone would come to the Plough, Will thought, was to be alone. He looked to Gwydion again in puzzlement, but then followed the wizard into the passageway and along a swept stone floor that was so footworn it shone.

They passed a great oaken table that was stacked with platters and bowls as if a celebration had only just been cleared away. In the middle was a trencher decked with flowers and a large pig’s head with a red apple in its mouth. The head seemed to be grinning. It reminded Will of Lord Strange.

When they came to the great empty hearth with its stone chimney and inglenooks on either side, Gwydion paused and raised his arms. Then he muttered words and laid a spell on the little room that lay behind the chimney breast.

‘What are you doing?’ Will mouthed, suddenly anxious about what might be lying in wait for them inside.

The wizard looked around, then whispered, ‘Calling down a defence against eavesdroppers.’ Then he ushered Will through the hidden entrance.

The snug was cool and dark, for it was summer and the little grate was empty. The only light came from a small window and the polished oak boards that made it seem like a ship’s cabin gave the room a rare cosiness. At the table sat a man Will was delighted to recognize.

‘Tilwin!’

The dark-haired travelling man rose with a heartening greeting and gave him a bear hug. His eyes were as blue as chips of summer sky. ‘How are you now, Willand?’ he said. ‘And Master Gwydion, well met, my old friend!’

Then Will heard Tilwin utter words half under his breath to the wizard, and something made him think that a formula had been spoken in the true tongue, words of recognition, a greeting between men who stood tall in one another’s esteem. He watched them embrace briefly, then all three sat down together.

‘You’re the last person I expected to meet here,’ Will said.

‘Whereas I’ve been waiting for you to turn up like a bad penny all this fine afternoon!’ Tilwin grinned, and there was laughter in his eyes, but also, Will thought, a deeper gleam that spoke of troubles.

In all the years of Will’s childhood Tilwin the Tinker was the only outsider who had ever come up the Vale as far as Nether Norton. He was a knife-grinder and a trader who travelled far across the Realm. He had always helped take the tithe down to Middle Norton, and he had brought many necessaries to the Vale – tools, medicines, bolts of cloth, pretty gems and love tokens too, for he knew all the different kinds of precious stone and what could be done with them. One day he had given Will a black stone to put under his pillow to ward off nightmares. Another time he had cracked a glassy pebble for Breona, cutting it with a series of skilled blows, and so had made a false diamond for her to wear as a brooch on high days.

Some of the Valesmen swore it was Tilwin who had thought up the game of cards, and as if to prove them right he always carried a faded card stuck in the band of his hat. He usually put wayside flowers there too, to lift the spirits of those he met. Today, as Dimmet had said, there were primroses but, like Tilwin, they seemed a little worse for wear.

‘Tell us why you’ve stopped coming to the Vale,’ Will said. ‘We’ve all missed you, you know.’

Tilwin glanced at Gwydion, and some more of his smile faded. ‘I’ve had a deal to do lately, and little time to do it.’ Then his smile came bravely again, and he poked Will’s shoulder. ‘Besides, there’s less need for me to come to the Vale these days. Now the tithe has stopped and Nether Norton can afford its own grinding wheel. That was hero’s work you did for your folk, Willand. I hope they appreciate you.’

Will reddened, embarrassed.

‘I sent word for…Tilwin…to meet us here,’ Gwydion said. ‘But a word of warning to you: do you recall my saying that Tilwin the Tinker is not necessarily what he seems?’

Will looked uncertainly from the wizard to Tilwin and back. ‘I’ve long known there was something rare about him, but I never knew quite what.’

‘My name is not Tilwin – it is Morann.’

Gwydion smiled. ‘He is, among other things, a lord of the Blessed Isle.’

‘I can see that now you mention it,’ Will said. And it was true, there had always been an assured manner about the man. Will jumped up and took his tankard in both hands. ‘Allow me to greet you properly in your own name: here’s to you, Morann, Lord Knife-grinder, as keen a blade as ever there was!’

‘And here’s to the meadows and mists of the Blessed Isle, where strange tales begin!’ said Gwydion, rising and lifting his tankard also.

Then up got Morann. ‘And here’s to you, Willand of the Vale. And to you, Master Gwydion Pathfinder. You’re both of you no better than you should be!’

They clashed tankards and supped, then all laughed together and sat down again as one.

‘You’re a loremaster like Wortmaster Gort,’ Will said. ‘Isn’t that it?’

Morann made a modest gesture. ‘Where old Gort’s learning concerns all the forests and all the herbs of the field, mine only touches bits of pebbles and such like.’

Gwydion laughed. ‘He gives himself no credit. He’s a “magical lapidary” – the greatest jewelmaster of latter days.’

Like Wortmaster Gort, Morann was another of the ageless druida who had wandered abroad, collecting magical knowledge for a hundred generations and more. They had no homes, but attached themselves here and there as circumstances arose. They were not quite wizards, but their magical skills were great, and they had lived long.

Will thought immediately of the strange red fish he had found at Little Slaughter. How could it be that a thing so exactly like his own talisman had been there for the finding down in the dust? Surely a jewelmaster as knowledgeable as Morann would be able to cast light upon its origin.

But as Will put a hand down towards his pouch a powerful feeling came over him that he should not tell Morann about the talisman any more than he had told Gwydion, which was nothing at all. He examined the feeling suspiciously, and had almost decided to put his doubts aside and draw out the red fish, when Duffred arrived with cheese and bread and apple jam.

Then Morann unsheathed his favourite long, thin knife and in deference to Gwydion laid it handle inwards on the table before him. He said to Will, ‘Be it hidden or carried openly, in former days it was thought a deadly crime to wear a blade in the presence of a druid, much less a person of Master Gwydion’s standing.’

‘I’m thinking you’ll be cutting no flesh, nor even bread with that knife, Morann,’ Gwydion said, his eyes twinkling.

‘Indeed not, Master Gwydion. However I like to respect the Old Ways when I can.’

Will saw that a wonderful pattern like knotted cord was worked into the old steel. He wondered what was so special about the knife, but he could not ask after it for the two old friends were already busy with one another’s memories.

They munched and drank as they talked about former times. Will listened more than he spoke and the three wore away most of the golden light of evening in remaking their friendship and gilding old memories. Morann told of recent travels, and of his adventures in the land of his fathers. Gwydion spoke of his wanderings in the wilds of Albanay, and of voyages he had made in frail coracles far out into the Western Deeps. Then they asked Will to tell of his wedding, and to speak of his life with Willow and the joy he had felt at his daughter’s birth.

He told them as well as he could, but when a pause came in their talk the fears that had been banished for a while began to crowd in on him. Again he began to reach for the red fish, but then he told himself that he did not want to be the first to speak of troubles, and so once more he chose to lay the matter aside.

Instead, his eye caught the ring on Morann’s finger. A ring of gold, it was, and the stone in it one of emerald green. Will had seen it many times before, but now its colour seemed to capture his attention and he felt prompted to ask about it.

‘It’s the ring of Turloch of Connat,’ Morann said. ‘It bears the great smaragd emerald of my ancestors. The tale says that Turloch used to wear it when trying suspected traitors. He would strike in the face any follower who was accused of treachery against him. If the man got up and kissed the ring then he was innocent. But if he could not bring himself to kiss the ring then he was guilty.’

Will wanted to hear more, but Gwydion cleared his throat and said, ‘We could listen all night with great pleasure to the deeds of your forebears, Morann, but I fear that darkness is pressing. Let us not forget that we are met for a more solemn purpose.’

They pushed their empty trenchers away and sat back. Then Gwydion laid out matters concerning the battlestones, and as the sun set he began to make a summary of what was presently known.

‘According to ancient writings, there were nine channels of earth power made by the fae long ago. These channels are called “ligns” – and collectively “the lorc”. The battlestones are planted on the lorc. There are two kinds of battlestone – the greater and the lesser. The greater sort come to life one at a time. Each of them has the power to raise bloodlust in the hearts of men and draw them to battle. We have tracked down five battlestones so far—’ Gwydion raised a stark finger, ‘—the first was the Dragon Stone, which we found just a few leagues to the east of here.’

‘Gwydion put it into Castle Foderingham for safekeeping,’ Will added. ‘It’s one of the greater sort.’

‘And you hope it’s still entombed there,’ Morann added dubiously. ‘Hope, but do not know? Is that it?’

‘Quite so.’ Gwydion unfolded his thumb. ‘The second of the stones was the Plaguestone, which was left by us in the cave of Anstin the Hermit.’

A cloud passed fleetingly across Morann’s face. ‘Surely stones such as these will not be safe in castles and hermits’ caves.’

Gwydion said, ‘Indeed. But I judged they would do better when placed in fresh lodgings than when left to rot in the ground. Foderingham’s walls are thick and I counted its master to be a stalwart friend. As for Anstin’s cave, no man dares go there for fear of leprosy. It is hardly spoken of locally, and not at all elsewhere, therefore it is one of the most secret places in the Realm.’

Morann shook his head. ‘Would the Plaguestone not have been better mortared into Foderingham’s foundations alongside the Dragon Stone?’

‘Yes, Gwydion,’ Will agreed. ‘Surely Maskull, with all his arts, would not fear the leper’s touch. If to get at a stone, even one of the lesser sort, is his aim—’

Gwydion held up a hand at mention of the sorcerer’s name. ‘Hear me out. Of the Plaguestone I shall say more presently. Meanwhile, let me speak of the third stone.’ He unfolded another finger. ‘This is the Stone of Aston Oddingley, whose malignant power Willand first felt in his bones as we combed the land in search of the lign of the rowan. That stone, which he says is probably of the greater sort, remains undisturbed, for when we found it we had another quarry in mind, and my advice was that we should leave it be for the moment.’

Will turned to Morann. ‘That’s because the Aston Oddingley stone was planted on lands controlled by mad Lord Clifton, who Gwydion said would never bid us welcome. It was true. He was killed at Verlamion.’

Gwydion looked to Morann and the many charms hanging at the wizard’s chest rattled together. ‘I wanted to show Will here that according to the redes of magic some problems, though they are insoluble in themselves, in time often turn into different problems which may be solved.’ He raised another finger. ‘Fourthly came the stone we found near the Giant’s Ring. Our triumph over it was accomplished at great risk, for it was a stone of the greater sort, though its nearness to the King’s Stone had muted it. Its downfall was complete, and now its stump has been returned whence it came. Henceforth it will do good service for a mutual friend.’

Gwydion now unfolded his little finger and tapped it significantly. ‘And that brings us to the final stone of which we have sure knowledge, the Doomstone of Verlamion, the same one that Will may have destroyed.’

‘May have…’ Will repeated.

The wizard took a deep breath. ‘That stone, I believe to be the controlling stone, and without it the power of the others will be so diminished that they cannot complete their tasks. But when Will made his brave attack he was young and untried, so it is possible that the Doomstone was not destroyed after all. Perhaps it only suffered a disabling shock, one which temporarily shattered its power into many parts. But perhaps those parts have been growing together again like drops of lead in the bottom of a fiery crucible.’

‘And when enough drops are gathered into one?’ Will asked.

‘Then we shall know if I am right.’

Gwydion’s mouse-brown robes had merged with the shadows of the snug. Will had been aware of a bumble bee buzzing at the trellis, but now even this tireless labourer had gone to its burrow and the climbing flowers that had listened in all around the window had closed their trumpets for the night.

Morann, whose chin rested on his hand, said, ‘So, of the stones you know about, one has been drained, two are stored, one lies yet undisturbed, and the master of them all, the Doomstone, has been attacked but may be repairing itself. The sites of the other battlestones – if there are others – you have not yet learned.’

‘We do know something.’ Gwydion clasped his hands before him. ‘When Willand was at Ludford Castle he felt himself affected by a strange melancholy. He thought it may have been caused by the emanations of a powerful stone, but in such a fortified place it was hard to tell exactly where they were coming from.’

Will thought back to the morbid feelings he had endured while staying at Ludford. ‘I was certain it was a battlestone, Morann. At first I believed it to be the Dragon Stone, and I suspected Duke Richard of having carried it there for his own purposes. But then Gwydion explained to me that my thinking was out of kilter. The Dragon Stone was still at Foderingham, and my state of mind must have been roused up by another stone.’

‘But you couldn’t find it?’ Morann asked.

Will shook his head. ‘Though it seemed very strong. Ludford Castle and the town itself is a maze of walls and towers. There is too much dressed stone there. My feelings were confused. It was like listening for a sound inside a cave full of echoes.’

‘Yet you were able to find the Doomstone, even though it lay under a great stone-built chapter house,’ Morann said.

Gwydion spread his hands. ‘That is because the Doomstone was by then awake, in the full flood of its power and actively calling men to the fight. It is possible that some powerful hiding magic is at work at Ludford. That may be a good reason to let the battlestone lie for the meanwhile, just as we have let the Aston Oddingley stone lie.’

‘The trouble is,’ Will muttered, glancing at Gwydion, ‘we can’t keep deciding to let sleeping dogs lie.’

Gwydion nodded at the hidden accusation. ‘What Willand wants to know is why I seem to have done nothing to unearth the battlestones in the intervening years. I will tell him, for what youthful impatience sees as idleness may now appear otherwise. When the battle at Verlamion was halted I believed that the breaking of the Doomstone had likely solved the problem of the lorc. The Black Book predicts that Arthur’s third coming signals the end of the fifth Age – therefore we know that it must end within Will’s lifetime. When he cracked the Doomstone and I banished Maskull into the Realm Below there seemed little likelihood of trouble arising again before the current Age drew to a close, and so I went about on other errands, in Albanay and elsewhere. It has turned out that my optimism was misplaced. I might have known it would be, for the end of each Age is a strange time and in the last days odd things do happen. But if optimism is one of my failings, I have at least learned not to put all my eggs in the same basket. It could be that neither Maskull nor the lorc were wholly settled – and so I kept Will safe in the Vale against the possibility of rainier days.’

Morann nodded. ‘He dared not risk squandering you, for you are the only way he has of finding the stones.’

Will compressed his lips. ‘You make it seem as if my life is hardly my own.’

Gwydion’s face was never more serious. ‘It has never been that, Willand.’

They lapsed into a gloomy silence, but then the wizard strove to lift their spirits. ‘My friends, let me speak rather of what lies within the hearts of brave men. I should tell you that the true tally of stones is more encouraging than you presently imagine, for my efforts during the past four years have not been entirely without fruit. I returned to the cave of Anstin the Hermit, and now a second stone is undone.’

‘You mean you succeeded in draining the Plaguestone?’ Will said, sitting up in amazement.

The wizard set a taper to a candle and brought a rich golden light to the gloom. ‘It was a far from simple task. My plan was to take the Plaguestone across to the Blessed Isle, but I could find no safe way to sail an undrained battlestone, even one of the lesser sort, over the seas. I could not hazard the lives of a ship’s crew. Nor could I allow the stone to sink itself into the Deeps, for even the lesser stones will blight whatever they can, and many a ship would be wrecked by such a hazard forever afterwards.’

‘So what did you do?’ Will asked.

‘Anstin the Hermit agreed to aid me, and in the end he paid dearly for his decision.’ Gwydion’s face set in sadness once more. ‘I was much troubled, for when I reached Anstin’s cave he told me the battlestone had been struggling against the bondage into which I had placed it. He said he feared that soon the harm would succeed against the spells that contained it. Every month it would writhe and spit at the eye of the full moon. Anstin was a man of true worth who came to know the nature of the stone very well. Great valour lived in his heart. In his younger days he was a lad with a good head for heights and for this one reason he was sent into a trade that did not sit well with his spirit. Even so, his hands proved to be talented. They were taught to work stone, and he decorated many of the high spires that sit atop the chapter houses and cloisters of the Sightless Ones. But in time his spirit cried against such work, and the feeling withdrew from his fingers. When the Sightless Ones learned of his plight they pressed upon him admission to their Fellowship, and when he refused them they said he had deliberately dropped a hammer, meaning for it to fall onto the head of an Elder. He repeatedly swore his innocence until they saw that he would not be moved. Then they drove him off, saying they would have nothing more to do with a man who was touched by obstinate evil. When I came upon him in Trinovant he was a lonely leper whose flesh was rotting on the living bone. I took him to dwell in a cave, away from all others, and there he was cared for by a Sister who brought him bread, but whom he would not suffer to see him, so ugly did he imagine he had become.’

Will said, ‘I remember a rede you once told me: “Delicious fruit most often has a spotted rind.”’

‘And so it does. Anstin the Hermit was never ugly to my eye, but he yearned only for death when I first came upon him. I could not heal his flesh, for the damage had come of a deep contention within his heart, but I could and did reveal to him the true length of his lifespan. This he asked of me, for he said he wanted to know how much more suffering he must endure.’

‘You actually told him the day on which he would die?’ Will asked.

‘That is not something to be undertaken lightly,’ Morann said.

Gwydion’s face betrayed no regret. ‘I told him he was fated to die a hero. Only when he knew the true date of his death was I able to arrest his illness and thereby win for him a space of time to make a proper peace with the world. For this he was grateful, and when I brought the Plaguestone to him he was quite pleased to take it.’

Will thought back to the time when they had delivered the Plaguestone. He had waited outside Anstin’s cave, imagining what was going on inside. He wondered if Gwydion had also foretold the manner of Anstin’s death.

The wizard went on. ‘Anstin understood very well the dangers the Plaguestone posed, but as ever he had a wry answer at the ready. “There can be no danger to a man who is already composed for the grave,” said he. And I replied that, in truth, there was no gainsaying him. Therefore, this man whose fingers once knew stone so well kept the Plaguestone for thirteen seasons of the year under close watch and ward. At all times he lived in its presence. Fearlessly and with great strength he repulsed its struggles to ensnare him. When I returned to him just before the end he told me movingly of the continuing misery of his life, how he wished to pledge his last day to my cause if I should choose to attempt a draining of the Plaguestone. Hearing this bravery, how could I have done other than agree?’

Gwydion stirred and the living flame of the candle shivered. ‘I will not tell in detail what happened that night in the cave of Anstin the Hermit. Suffice to say that there are few horrors that were not visited against his mind and body as the black breath of the stone was slowly drawn. I had learned much from my earlier mistakes, but even so the drawing out of the Plaguestone did not go well. The Black Book said the Plaguestone was far less powerful than the Doomstone, yet it was all I could do to drain it. Poor Anstin died when a cloud that had issued from the stone enveloped his body. He alone soaked up the harm, yet until the moment he was burst asunder he laughed at death and showed more courage than all the knights of this Realm might hope to muster. Such is the power of what lies within.’

Will clasped his hands in respect. He tried to dispel the images that swarmed in his mind, but it was difficult, for he himself had been under attack from a battlestone and his memory of the agony was sharp. Never before had he heard Gwydion speak with such a power of sadness in his voice. But the wizard was not yet done, and strength gathered in his words again. ‘Friends, my decision to try to drain the Plaguestone was not taken lightly. There is a very deep rede of magic that says: “There is no good and no evil in the world, except that which is made by the wilful action of people.” Yet all things are but vessels in which two contrary kinds of spirit are equally mixed. Some call these spirits “bliss” and “bale”, the one having the power to drive kindness and the other the power to drive harm. Men, by their choices, liberate both into the world just by moving through it. We upset the balance whatever we do, unwittingly and without malice, sometimes through our failings, sometimes even when we strive to do what is best. But those imbalances are mostly small, and it is only when malice aforethought is involved that the balance is more widely upset, for then the malicious man acts as a sieve. He strains out the bliss from all that he touches, and so he gathers harm about him in ever greater concentration.’

‘But how are kindness and harm different from what the Sightless Ones preach about good and evil?’ Will asked. ‘Aren’t you just using different names for the same things?’

‘Do not think that! Words are important. Dogs are not cats, which is why we trouble to call them by different names.’

‘But surely good and kindness are the same, aren’t they?’

‘If you mean kindness, then you must say kindness. Good and evil are notions invented by the Fellowship for their own purposes, and the difference is this: the Sightless Ones say there are conscious sources of good and evil. They say that both good and evil are active in the world, driven by intent; one is sent to scourge us, and the other to save us. The Sightless Ones would have us believe that invisible monsters of great power use us as their playthings. This is quite different from the magical understanding of the spirits of kindness and harm which lie latent and in balance and scattered throughout all things.’

Will shook his head. ‘I still don’t understand.’

‘The idea of good fighting to survive evil is a very dangerous one. It represents the second greatest tool of the Fellowship, and is something that softens and warps the minds of any who allow themselves to see the world in those terms.’

‘The second greatest?’ Will raised his eyebrows. ‘You mean there’s a worse one?’

‘Much worse. Long ago the Sightless Ones harnessed an even more dangerous idea, one that came from the Tortured Lands of the east. It is an idea that makes folk into willing slaves once it is planted in their heads.’

‘A simple idea can do that?’

‘Do you doubt it?’

‘But what can it be?’

‘I dare not tell you for, though it is lethal, it also has great appeal. It might seize you and destroy you, and do so seemingly within the bounds of your own free will.’

‘Gwydion, I am no longer a child. I have a child of my own.’

‘Then I will tell you, but…are you sure you are ready to hear it?’

He thought about that for a moment then shook his head. ‘No, I’m not sure. How could I be? Maybe I’m just letting idle curiosity get the better of me.’

‘Ah, now that is a mature response. Then I can at least refresh your memory on the matter: the idea is called the Great Lie. The Sightless Ones have used it ruthlessly to bend the common people to their will, for once brought to a false belief they are easily persuaded into other lies. They become obedient and willingly swap their lives for no more than the promise of a better one to come. Thus may a man’s true fate be twisted out of his own control. Thus is a real, living person sent walking into a glittering maze of deceptions.’

Will sat back, unsure about what Gwydion was saying. He knew little enough about the Sightless Ones, except that thinking about their red, scaly hands made him itch. He wanted to ask how an idea could make a man give up his life, and what reward could possibly be offered to make him do it, but then he thought about what he had seen inside the great chapter house at Verlamion and he knew that whatever this idea was, it certainly did drive men insane.

He held up his hand, suddenly fearful. ‘I don’t think I’m ready to know what the Great Lie is.’

Gwydion smiled and then said, ‘Perhaps we are straying from the true path, for the kindness and harm that exist in the battlestones are another thing entirely. What is known is this: the fae of old readied two similar stones and worked high magic upon them. They drew all the kindness they could from the first and put it into the second, while at the same time they drew almost all the harm from the second and put it into the first. Thus the sister-stone was filled twice over with unbalanced kindness, whereas the battlestone contained a double measure of almost pure harm. The draining in which Anstin offered himself as bait was attempted to prevent a battle in which thousands would have died, but there was a second reason. We must not permit the battlestones to fall into Maskull’s hands, for he will certainly misuse them if he can. My belief is that, at present, he knows less than we do about them, but he learns speedily and is ever ready to experiment in matters which he would not touch if he were wiser. I fear he may have taken the Dragon Stone. Perhaps he has even put it back into the lorc. That is why tomorrow we must go to Nadderstone and see for ourselves.’

In the silence that followed, Will heard the muted sound of merry revels coming from the rest of the inn. Voices were raised in laughter, a round of song and the scraping of a long-handled fiddle. Perhaps Gwydion’s spell of defence against eavesdroppers had spent itself. Duffred came in to collect the trenchers and to flap the crumbs from the table. He brought a measure of brisk good cheer with him that dispelled their thoughtfulness, and when he asked if they needed their tankards refilling, they agreed that that was a very good idea.

They spoke more lightly for a while, reminiscing about this and that until at last Morann rose up. ‘I think it’s time I was away to my bed.’

‘In that case, may you remember to forget only what you forget to remember,’ Will told him in parting toast.

Gwydion drained his tankard. ‘Black swan, white crow, take good care, wheresoever you go!’

Morann picked up his knife and sheathed it. ‘And I have a parting toast for the both of you: may misfortune follow you all the days of your life…’ he smiled a warm smile, ‘…but never catch up with you.’

And with that Morann was walking with uneven steps towards the passageway, and soon the stairs were creaking under his heels. When Gwydion also took his leave, Will sat alone in the snug for a few moments, his thoughts darkening as he wondered about Willow and their baby daughter and the peril that still seemed to him to hang over the Vale like a dark cloud.