Glimmer in the Maelstrom: Shadow Through Time 3 (5 page)

Eventually, the four elemental worlds would be torn apart, and in that moment she must be standing on Ennae with the talisman, ready to focus her power to control the Maelstrom, drawing those elements to herself. Her body would form the gravitational centre of a new world, the One World, where the survivors of the Maelstrom might find a home, and where time would exist outside linear constraints.

This was the ending humanity had been evolving towards, the task for which she had been born. Not to live, but to die.

Those on Ennae thought her already dead, killed along with Lenid and Kert in the Volcastle mouth. But the despair of those counting on The Catalyst to save them did not touch Glimmer. Only Kert stirred her emotions. So although her best probability of joining the Four Worlds lay in an immediate return to Ennae to protect the anchors, she planned to stay on Haddash, with her love.

The part of her mind still functioning logically also concerned itself with the threat that lay sleeping in the core of Haddash — the Fire God’s child. Either the egg must be found and destroyed, or the new serpent, when it hatched, must be made to serve her purpose. If it did not, the future would become terrible beyond mortal imagining. Glimmer knew she must not let that happen. Only, just now her powers were weak and her mind was muddied with desire and attraction.

There would be time to attend to the Serpent God’s child … later.

P
agan of the House of Guardians stood patiently at the foot of the pale stone dais in the Volcastle’s circular great hall. Above him, surrounded by flickering candlelight, his beloved Lae of Be’uccdha performed her rites of office. Behind Pagan, on the solid timber pews that lined the hall, the remnants of Ennae’s nobility clustered in groups like bunches of oceanberries. All were silent, listening to the instruction of a seventeen-year-old girl who had newly inherited the title of The Dark.

Grief had stiffened the soft lines of Lae’s narrow face, and her skin, a rich Be’uccdha black, appeared paler. The swirling tattoo of her calling was stark over the right side of her face, and the straight black hair Pagan longed to touch did not dance on her shoulders. Instead it had been scraped into a tight coil at her nape, accentuating the fragile lines of cheek and chin. Yet her voice was strong as it carried across the large room, offering comfort to those who had come to listen.

‘This is a time of uncertainty,’ she said, and there were murmurs of assent throughout the crowd. The peppery scent of luhz-kernel soap permeated the chamber and Pagan took heart from that. Many must have bathed with their last portions of the Verdan Forest specialty, and with rations low because of the long siege on their castle, this showed much honour towards his beloved, as did the gildings of gold and bronze on the supplicants’ clothing. They had dressed in their finest.

‘We must hold fast to our faith,’ she told them, ‘and we must not give up hope. Though our lord and king Mihale has ascended to Atheyre, and his dear son Lenid has followed him into death …’ She paused and Pagan saw her swallow several times, blinking rapidly. ‘We must trust that the Great Guardian will continue to protect and provide for us.’

‘Trust the Great Guardian,’ Pagan intoned with the others.

‘And know his peace,’ Lae finished the invocation, clearly with precious little peace in her own heart. Then she stared out at the assembly with empty eyes, the look of one lost in a memory. Was she remembering how she had saved the royal babe’s life when his servant mother had died in childbirth, then married Kert to seal the pretence that Lenid was their child, to save him from Lae’s own father, Djahr, who had coveted the throne?

Or were her recollections of the games she and Kert had played with the child — happy times together, of which there had been many in the three years they had been a family. For surely, though she had never loved Kert, they had both adored Lenid, and when Pagan had returned from Magoria to claim her as his betrothed, she had not wished to leave her husband and son.

Until cruel fate had decreed otherwise.

Now, as The Dark, it was Lae’s responsibility to conduct the requiem for Lenid and Kert, both of whom had died the day The Catalyst had come to the Volcastle. Two days ago. Two of the longest days of Pagan’s life. And though it was selfish to think of the tragedy in such terms, he could not help but acknowledge that the only impediments to his love for Lae were now gone. Yet rather than taking solace in his arms, Lae had turned her grief into a solitary vigil. She would not speak to him.

‘We will remember them,’ she said, and Pagan saw her take several slow breaths. He felt his own throat tighten in sympathy. But when she spoke again her voice was clear. ‘And we will hold the faith.’

She made no mention of The Catalyst’s death and, as per her written instructions, neither had Pagan. Their people needed time to come to terms with the death of a royal child they had not known existed. Lae believed it would lead to chaos if they were told that their world would be obliterated by the Maelstrom with none to survive. Pagan could not argue with that. In the dead dark of night, even he, a warrior who had been trained to face death every day, felt the cold fingers of desolation when he thought of their future. Those not trained to the sword would surely go mad with despair.

Lae fell silent and her gaze swept the audience behind him. Pagan was unnerved by her power to read auras so he shifted his attention to the anchor, marvelling at what had been wrought by the young royal woman, Glimmer, and an aging Plainsman. The sparkling sky-mirror, as wide as spread arms, rose up from the glowing volcano mouth of the Volcastle and through the open ceiling of the great hall into the sky, further than the eye could follow. On clear days lookouts reported sighting similar sparkling pillars from the direction of the four winds — south at Castle Be’uccdha, west at Fortress Sh’hale and north at the Verdan Hold.

But marvel though it was, this mirror had tricked the poor child Lenid into thinking he was running towards Lae, when instead he had run towards her reflection and into death in the Volcastle mouth. Not even the desperate actions of his Champion Kert had been quick enough to save him from a fiery fate; worse, Kert’s lunge to save the child had rolled The Catalyst with him over the edge, consigning the Four Worlds to sure destruction. Those left alive now faced a bleak future, and as their only remaining Guardian Pagan had nothing to offer them except the lie that The Catalyst still lived.

Lucky Kert had been saved the anguish of trying to live with himself, knowing his small royal charge had died such a pointless death, the second king to die due to his negligence. Lae, however, was very much alive and she had loved Lenid as fiercely as any natural mother could. So large a love must surely leave a fearful wound when it was wrenched away. Pagan could not begin to comprehend her pain.

‘Though sadness lies in our hearts at these recent losses,’ she said at last, ‘I see also strength and the potential for joy.’ Her hand rose, pointing to someone behind Pagan whose aura she had read. ‘You are with child,’ she announced, ‘a healthy daughter,’ and as Pagan turned to look, the woman gasped in delight and the man at her side enfolded her into an embrace.

Lae’s eyes moved on, but Pagan continued to stare at the woman, knowing how Lae must covet the child within her, marvelling that his beloved had not betrayed that envy by tone or expression. How Pagan longed to give Lae a child, to stand at her side through this adversity. But she had chosen to adhere to the grieving traditions of her House, leaving her chambers only to perform the religious ceremonies that were demanded of her as The Dark. Few though they were.

There had been no scythe of death come to cover the face of their sun since the time of The Catalyst’s birth, and therefore no need to banish it with ceremony and the sacrifice of an evil one. This had been The Dark’s chief responsibility. Before The Catalyst had come to the Volcastle, when Lae had still been married and Pagan desperate to win back her love, they had discussed this change to the cycle of their world and wondered at it. Pagan had admitted no knowledge within his Guardian heritage that could explain it, and Lae had told him of Khatrene’s assertions that on Magoria the darkness was an ‘eclipse’, the rhythmic passage of an object between themselves and the sun. Yet if that was the case on Ennae also, why had it stopped?

Pagan had no answers, and now Lae seemed not to care. Her rituals were reduced to their barest minimum: reciting the prophecies and reading auras, but these familiar traditions gave comfort to a people grappling with the daily terrors the Maelstrom produced. The elements of the Four Worlds had begun to drift across the void and now air-thin Magorian water fell from the sky on Ennae, sometimes daily. Wind tore clothes from the bodies of those caught out; the earth shook with the Maelstrom’s fury; and on some days the sun was so hot, the cook baked ort on the courtyard cobblestones.

Lae was oblivious to it all and Pagan tried to understand how she must feel, wishing he could compare her grief to something he had experienced, but, with no memory of his years on Magoria, Pagan could feel no loss for the son he had left behind there. All he had was a letter with facts. His son’s name was Vandal. The boy’s mother was Sarah, with whom Pagan had apparently shared a bed for fourteen years. The letter had also confirmed that The Catalyst, whom he had taken as a baby into exile, had been raised. His duty to the throne had been fulfilled, but the details meant nothing — flashes of faces in his mind, and a memory of tenderness towards Sarah who had borne him a son, but no grief at leaving them.

Y
OUR LIFE IS HERE NOW
, the voice said inside his mind, and Pagan felt his agitation ease. It had taken him time to accept that the Great Guardian spoke to him directly, and had apparently done so even while he had lived in exile. But now he took heart from his God’s wisdom, reminding himself that he and Lae were meant to be together, no matter the obstacles fate put in their way.

I will marry Lae
, he told the Great Guardian.

Y
OU MUST BE PATIENT
, the voice replied, and Pagan frowned. Her grief was so deep and wide, he was unsure how to bridge it. The Great Guardian had told him once that time healed, but Pagan had lost so much time already. While Lae’s world had aged only three years in his absence, Magoria had aged five times that number, and Pagan with it. He was now thirty-three. The young apprentice warrior who had kissed her to quieten her acid tongue and then longed for more was part of another life.

Lae swore she had exchanged no kisses with Kert and that their marriage had been a front to protect Lenid. So when her grief was laid to rest there was no reason she could not wed him. Only, Pagan feared that in death, Kert had secured her love more surely than he ever had in life. He worried, too, that in time, when they had children of their own, she might compare his fathering to Kert’s and find him lacking. Already Lae did not understand how he could leave a son in Magoria, nor why he did not go back now.

There was no royal duty to hold him on Ennae. His charge, Glimmer, who was the reason he had left Magoria, was dead. Pagan had seen her fall into the Volcastle mouth with Kert, although the hissing and smell of burning flesh that had followed Lenid’s fall had not followed The Catalyst’s or Kert’s. Instead, an armful of glittering sparks had risen, reflecting off the sky-mirror like tiny snowflakes of fire. Under happier circumstances the sight would have stunned him with its beauty, but as his last vision of The Catalyst, it was merely the signal of another pointless death.

Born a warrior, Pagan felt at ease with death on the battlefield. Death by accident was unacceptable in his eyes.

‘There is no royal descendant of the Ancients in our lands at this time,’ Lae went on, her solemn voice reaching the quiet mourners around him and enveloping them in her calm comfort. ‘Thus we must look to our remaining Guardian for leadership,’ she said, and Pagan took his cue to ascend the stairs and stand at her side. As he did so, she kept her eyes steadfastly ahead, and though he longed to hold her hand, he knew her reserve would keep him at bay.

‘I am The Dark,’ she announced and there was no demur from the crowd. They knew her father had betrayed them and was now dead. ‘I will lead our people in matters of the spirit.’ A lengthy pause issued before she added, ‘The Guardian Pagan will hold sovereignty over matters of defence.’

Pagan looked out over the faces of the lesser nobles. Most appeared relieved. Lae spoke with such authority that he expected no dissent, and indeed saw none. It was clear that the reckless, razor-tongued girl he had loved and left was now a self-assured woman, and Pagan hated that it was her marriage to Kert that had wrought the change.

She was so beautiful in her mourning white, even allowing for the austere severity of her robe and hair coil. Pagan could not help but ache for all that had been taken from them by duty.

‘I declare a day of mourning,’ she said. ‘There will be no bread baked on the morrow and no wine poured. Let our stomachs be as empty as our hearts for one day only, then we shall fill both with the life that must follow.’

Yet Lae would continue to mourn for several weeks.

She lowered her head and the nobles shuffled to their feet and began to depart, speaking in whispers among themselves.

Lae turned to Pagan and bowed formally, then stepped away before he could catch her eye. Her slow limp took her from the dais down onto the floor of the hall where two white-clad acolytes came forward to flank her as she exited, a reminder to all that The Dark would not speak except out of duty until her forty-day mourning period was at end.

Pagan tugged his thick honour cloak more tightly about his shoulders as a sudden gust of wind descended through the open ceiling of the great hall. It fanned the flames of the Volcastle mouth at his side, sending a dark bronze glow across the pale walls of the chamber. The stillness that had allowed them to perform the ceremony was at an end and the crowd now scurried to return to their homes, fearing another storm.

The Maelstrom was building, and with no Catalyst to join the Four Worlds they would soon all die. Pagan knew not when, only that the lifetime he had envisaged at Lae’s side was fading from his hopes. They could have only a handful of years, perhaps scant months, and each day she spent in mourning was one day less from their tally.

When he was in her presence he could wait, but when she was out of sight his impatience grew to an unmanageable size. It was fortunate that she had given him authority over the Volcastle forces. That, at least, would keep his mind occupied with matters other than how soon he could approach her and what he would say.

‘My Lord,’ a soft voice said behind him, and Pagan turned. It was Firde, Lae’s chief maid, an older matron with angular features and a practical nature. His heart leapt at the sight of her. Had Lae sent for him? ‘I fear for my lady,’ she said, speaking quietly though no other stood on the dais with them. Indeed, as the wind grew stronger the hall grew emptier. ‘Her burdens are too great.’

This was not news to Pagan who lay awake worrying about Lae’s burdens. He searched the maid’s eyes with his own, seeing nothing but sincerity in them. Her Verdan heritage was not only reflected in her pale skin and amber eyes, but in the frankness of her demeanour. He knew he could trust her with his heart. ‘I would ease those burdens as a husband and a father to her children,’ he said honestly. ‘If she would have me.’