Whitemantle (33 page)

‘You don’t have to justify yourself to me,’ Lotan muttered.

‘I’m not justifying myself. I’m trying to tell you something important. Jasper’s doing what he can to end the war, but he’s not impartial. He’s the king’s half-brother.’

Lotan grunted. ‘Impartial? What is that? There’s no one in the Realm for whom loyalty to one side or the other is not important.’

‘Exactly. It’s a family fight in which the dukes, whose veins are running with royal blood, are most closely concerned. And all the earls support one duke or another. And the lesser lords and landowners are already committed within the earldoms. As for the churlish folk, feudal bonds keep them tied to the land and the lords whom they think will protect them. Everything’s locked tight.’

Lotan took the message stonily. ‘That is the usual recipe for war.’

‘I’ve begun to realize what purpose the Ogdoad served. Only the wizards were not caught up in the snares of allegiance. Only they could recommend any kind of just remedy. But today they represent the tail end of a dying tradition and now Gwydion and Maskull have fallen to fighting one another.’

‘You speak of Maskull as if he once acted justly,’ Lotan said, uncertain now.

‘He was accustomed to long ago.’ Will scratched his head. ‘Don’t you know that he was once a wizard? He betrayed their calling and went to work for himself. It doesn’t matter to him who wins the war, he’s only trying to further his own ends these days. That’s why he’s a sorcerer. He and Master Gwydion have seen wars great and small, hundreds probably. They know the shape of war, the way things always go when conflicts arise, and they understand how long it takes to fix things afterwards. But as Master Gwydion once told me, Ogdoad wizards
are not men of power. What they hold is wisdom and what they wield is influence. They could never make kings and lords do what they advised, only make the true path seem like good sense.’

‘Just like the Fellowship,’ Lotan said.

‘Huh! I don’t think so!’

‘Why do you say that? What’s the difference?’

‘Well, because the Fellowship doesn’t see the true path in anything. It uses bribery and blackmail and it enriches itself obscenely at the expense of the churlish folk, whereas Master Gwydion does none of those things.’

Lotan thought on that for a long moment, then he said, ‘Is that truly so? Are his motives and his methods really so pure?’

‘Yes, I think they are. A wizard’s task is to try to make folk see the truth and the folly of things. Remember, you don’t know him at his best. Nowadays he’s a long way past his prime.’

‘Maybe he’s started working for himself too.’

‘No. That’s just it, you see. Because real magic won’t work properly when too much self-interest is present. That’s exactly what’s wrong with Maskull’s way. His magic is sorcery, and try as he might sorcery cannot win in the end. It’s dead meat that only turns to stink and corruption.’

Will fell silent, thinking how hollow his hopes must sound in the quiet of the oak grove. He began to think about Willow again and to ask whether his own reasons for choosing to come here with Lotan were not at their root a little less than pure. Perhaps they were not, after all, connected with a desire to interfere with the coming battle. Perhaps he was only doing what other men did, trying to protect what was his.

It was true that the idea to drape Willow in a swan cloak and have her shoot corpse-whale arrows into Maskull had sounded as if it might be possible. Now the
thought of it terrified him. It seemed absurd and outrageously dangerous, much more so than when they had been back in the safety of Trinovant. And if Will was honest he would have to admit that Master Gwydion had the knack of making anything seem possible when he so chose…

As they came to Ludford’s Feather Gate, Will began to worry that Gwydion’s weapon of choice in the battle between wizard and sorcerer was indeed a cause for concern – because that weapon was his wife.

’
S
tate your business!’

The demand was called down from a tall gatehouse that had been barred and barricaded against war.

Iron spikes had been driven into logs dragged across the road, and a glade of sharpened stakes guarded all approaches like fearsome teeth. It was frosty in the shadow of the walls.

‘We bring tidings for Castle Ludford concerning Duke Richard of Ebor.’

‘Then go to the Durnhelm Gate, for the town is closed to all comers!’

The voice was uncompromising. Gone was the simplicity of belief the townsfolk of Ludford had once enjoyed. At the time of Will’s last visit the people had just been told of a great victory by their beloved lord whose great ally had smashed an enemy army. But since that heady and hopeful day, their lord had deserted them, running for his life into the Forest of Morte while their houses had burned. Many of the churls who had cheered the news of Blow Heath had died before the year was out, and now their lord and his ally were dead also, though they were yet to learn about it.

News of the calamity had yet to come this far, and Will
tried to take encouragement from that, for it was vital that the matter of his father’s death be broached to Edward in exactly the right fashion if the explosion of violence that must follow was to be contained. He could not have come here any quicker, not without killing their horses. The hours they had spent in the dark at Ebor had set them back, but not, it seemed, fatally.

As they skirted the town, Will saw the remains of the earthworks that had been dug long ago to prevent the king’s sappers from getting to the foot of the town walls. He led the way over the mounds where the Earl of Warrewyk’s gunners had set their great guns, and then he recognized the very place where he had been sitting the day he had realized his salmon talisman was missing.

A ray of sunlight pooled around them. Under his thick woollen jacket Will felt suddenly overwarm. He wiped a sleeve against his forehead, then put a hand against the pit of his stomach and, like a man who has been sickening for a day and sensing for the first time the onset of his illness, he blew out a weary breath.

But what sickness was this? Not one of the body, for sure.

He looked up at the sky, searching for the gibbous moon; the pregnant-bellied phase always complicated his blood. But the influence was not upon him. Nor was it the vacant earth, for the blockages of Ludford were long gone. Echoes there were aplenty, but not even the memory of his madnesses here could explain the feelings that welled up inside him as if from under stones. This was a sickness of mind. As if something unacceptable had come to him, something he was pushing down deep and blocking from the light.

He steeled himself and decided to look within, and in that moment of decision the way became clear. He must follow the pain. Pursue it. It was not fearlessness nor even courage,
but some insistent need to know. What he saw was ugly – a revelation he did not want to face.

‘What ails you?’ Lotan said, regarding him askance.

‘Nothing.’

‘If you’re sick—’

‘Leave it!’ That was needlessly brusque. ‘Just…a little queasiness. I’ll tell you if it gets worse.’

And in the comradely way that all good warriors must learn, Lotan gave space and easy silence. It was a private matter.

Will suffered, for the revelation was appalling. He could see the red and the green fishes for what they truly were now. The former had gone with Chlu and the latter with himself. They must have been made by Maskull’s use of fae magic, made out of a live fish, perhaps as a preliminary to the main spell-working. But the trial had gone awry and the result had been two wizened pieces of stone, one benevolent, the other malicious. Still in the shape of fish, but both turned to stone and as dead as doornails.

Good enough, perhaps, for Maskull to know that he was following the right lines with his work, but not nearly good enough to satisfy his eventual aim. For that to happen those transformed by the magic would have to remain alive…

Will shivered as he imagined the sorcerer hanging those little stone fish on cords about the neck of the original child on which he planned to perfect his grand experiment of separation. It may even have been that they were a part of the magic – a starter, so to say, like a burning ember applied to the vent of a great gun to set off its powder charge.

And so Maskull had been able to say in his moment of triumph, ‘I made you, I can unmake you just as easily.’

I am not I, Will thought. I am merely half of a whole. And the
other
half…

Perhaps it was only the muting power of shock, but there was no outrage or loathing in him. Only an understanding.
And that was good enough. He wondered how he could tell Willow.

I am what I am, he thought, with contradicting false confidence. I am what I’ve always been, and there’s nothing wrong with that. Nothing.

But then the idea that he was so closely bound to Chlu overwhelmed his peace of mind:
can we really be the two halves that make the same man?
The idea was utterly repellent.

As they turned towards the wooded slopes that dropped down to the River Theam, Will rode across the rowan lign and felt a powerful blast tear at him. A few paces away was the grave of the Blood Stone. That sickly hollow was full of memories and the air above it thick with ghosts. It was just a gaping hole, icy and bare of grass, but it was the place where Lord Strange had once pulled a monster from its bed before throwing it down the castle well.

The sickness gradually passed from him and Will noted that the earth flow had gone deeper hereabouts. It was as if, no longer pinned to the surface by a battlestone, it had sagged down into the Realm Below. Instead of breaching the land and being shattered into a thousand fragments against the castle ramparts and the byways of the town, the flow was no longer obstructed. Now its power rushed headlong through underground channels to a place of far greater importance, a place which was no more than a league or two further south.

But was that the only reason that Will could see and feel the power with such clarity now? Or had
he
changed too? Had he grown more into his own power? He hoped so, for there seemed little doubt that the final combat was approaching.

‘What now?’ Lotan asked.

Will realized that he had unthinkingly brought his mount to a halt. He roused himself. ‘If Edward’s anywhere, he’s up there,’ he said, pointing at the castle.

The Durnhelm Gate, when they reached it, was also closed. When he called up, a voice came from behind the battlements.

‘What do you want?’

‘I have an urgent message for the Duke of Ebor!’

The reply seemed to stump the invisible gateman, then a head appeared and another voice, a woman’s, piped up, ‘He don’t live here no more.’

Then the first voice said, ‘What do you want with him?’

Will’s knuckles tightened on the reins. ‘This is an urgent matter and only for the duke’s ears.’

There was hilarity at the hardening of his tone. ‘Hark at that! Open the gate, he says. Urgent, if you please!’

‘Tell him to push off.’

The woman’s face appeared and smiled a gap-toothed smile. ‘My man here says you’re to push off.’

Will waited, wrathful yet considering, then he shouted, ‘Your lord will not thank you for turning us away when we have important news for him!’

A new head appeared wearing a kettle hat. ‘Our lord thanks us to keep his town and castle against enemies and ne’er-do-wells like you. Now, be off with you!’

‘The message I bear is important. I—’

‘Aye, and if you were my lord’s messenger you’d have given us the password by now, wouldn’t you?’

‘We’ve been riding three days from the north. We know no password.’

‘Then turn around and get you gone. Or shall I have my lads stick a couple of arrows in the rump of that nag of yours?’

As Will bit back his anger, Lotan touched his arm and motioned him away.

Will scowled, but complied. ‘I don’t want to use magic on him. Why does he have to make it so difficult?’

‘He’s a town gateman. It’s not his job to make things
easy for strangers, and we’re hardly dressed like nobility. Look at the ground.’

Will saw that the place on which their horses were stamping was heavily churned. He met the big man’s knowing look. ‘Traffic.’

‘And all going one way.’

Will nodded. ‘Leaving the town.’

Lotan got down and examined the muddied ground with care. ‘The gateman’s woman was right, the Duke of Ebor don’t live here no more.’

‘What can you see?’

‘An army passed out of the town this morning.’

Will rubbed at his unshaved chin. ‘How many men?’

‘A couple of thousand. Maybe more.’

‘A couple of thousand?’ Will said, pained. ‘That won’t be nearly enough against a fresh army brought up from Cambray.’

‘This may have been only a town levy. A contribution to a greater army camped elsewhere. There are wheel ruts. Provision waggons, and many horses without riders.’

Will deliberated. ‘We have a choice. We can follow the flow until we get to the Doomstone of the West, or we can track this trail until we find Edward.’

‘You must decide,’ Lotan said

‘I already have.’

It was a simple decision, for as Will explained, wherever the levy had gone, their final destination was in no doubt—they would eventually be drawn towards the battlestone.

But as Will looked east towards the dark mass of Cullee Hill he knew they would go nowhere much for the moment. The light was already failing and after a short while they were forced to make camp. The horses were quickly seen to, their own bellies were soon filled, and a single candle
and a little charcoal brazier were hung up to give their tent warmth and good cheer.

‘How do you know where to find the ligns?’ Lotan asked once they were settled. ‘Can you see them?’

Will had been quiet all day, bound up with the morose business of healing himself. He did not welcome the question. ‘See them? Not usually.’

‘Then how?’

‘It’s just a knack I have.’

‘But how does it
feel,
what you do?’

‘We call it scrying. The first thing you must do is make your mind go blank.’

Lotan looked doubtful. ‘How do I do that?’

‘Just…think of nothing.’

‘I can’t!’

‘Well, think of thinking of nothing. That will have to do.’

The big man stared into space for a long moment, then he shook his head as if a wasp had flown into his ear. ‘Oh, this is stupid!’

‘It’s harder than it seems.’

‘For me, it’s impossible.’

‘That may be true.’

Lotan went into a sulk, but Will could see that his mind was ploughing furrows and it was not long before he spoke again. ‘If Edward’s not at the castle, where is he?’

‘That’s a good question. He could be anywhere. He’s been scouring the Marches for men since before Ewle.’

‘Has he got other, smaller fortresses hereabouts? Towers held by his kinsmen maybe?’

‘There’s Castle Morte at Wyg Moor and Castle Crofter. And some keeps between here and the Great Dyke of King Offa in the west.’ Will looked up from studying the ashy glow of the charcoal. ‘But I don’t think the news from Awakenfield has reached any of them yet.’

Lotan stirred. ‘Why do you say that?’

‘Because, now I’ve had chance to dwell on it, I’m sure they didn’t know who I was talking about back there at the Durnhelm Gate when I mentioned the duke. I meant Edward, but it seems to me they thought I was talking about Duke Richard.’

‘If they’ve not heard the news, then why was the town shut up like an oyster?’

‘Edward’s orders. Precautions. And it’ll be his way of creating a sense of urgency. I think he knows there’s an army coming, but not why. His spies in Cambray must have told him of its approach.’

Lotan was unconvinced. ‘But what about Ebor’s men who escaped the disaster at Awakenfield? The fastest of them could have got here yesterday, well ahead of us.’

‘Those who fled in time to escape wouldn’t know for certain that Richard was dead, only perhaps that the battle had been lost. Those who lingered long enough to confirm his death would probably not have got this far.’

‘Some must have.’

‘Not necessarily.’ Will sat back in the flickering candle-light. ‘I believe that only a handful got away.’

‘But where have
they
gone?’

‘Anywhere and nowhere. Anywhere quickly, at first, but then nowhere they wanted to get to. Not after a rout like that. The few who escaped were hunted men, as we saw. We didn’t get far before we had to show our tokens of safe conduct. Any survivor of Awakenfield who still carried with him more than a care for his own life would probably have decided to make for Trinovant.’

Lotan nodded slowly. ‘Given the choice, it would make more sense to warn Lord Warrewyk that the ogres of Awakenfield were coming to break down the doors of the capital.’

‘Exactly.’

‘So what of Lord Pendrake?’ Lotan asked after a
moment. ‘He must have travelled here by a different route. An armed retinue could not have passed through this country as we have. I think Jasper will join with his army today, if he has not done so already.’

Jasper’s no fool, Will thought. He said, ‘I agree. His escort would have chosen a more protected route than ours. They would have used the Slaver roads and not been concerned with tracking ligns along the way.’

‘Also his men would likely have ridden well-shod coursers – much faster than the three dawdling palfreys he gave to us. His knights would have taken many spare mounts with them to share the burden.’

‘Then it’s our best guess that he’s already joined up with his army. I wonder where they are now. Coming by the road that passes under Hergest Ridge, I expect, unless they’re already across the Dyke.’

‘If Lord Owain has brought the army out of Cambray, then it can’t be far.’

‘Let’s hope you’re wrong. I like to think that Jasper will stand by his word, to come in strength, but to use that strength to work for peace.’

Lotan’s grim face showed little hope. ‘We should sleep as soon as we can, for we must rise early.’