Glimmer in the Maelstrom: Shadow Through Time 3 (6 page)

Firde closed her eyes in relief, as though she had been unsure of his intent until the words were spoken. This much surprised Pagan who imagined that everyone at the Volcastle must know of his love for Lae simply by the way he looked at her. ‘My Lord, I hoped you would say as much.’

‘I would say as much to Lae herself if she would see me?’ he asked hopefully.

Firde shook her head. ‘She will not see you with her eyes, My Lord,’ Firde declared. ‘Yet I know that in quiet moments her heart lingers over your features and recalls the sound of your voice. She loves you for true.’

Pagan nodded, unable to speak, wanting so much to believe the maid’s words.

‘Yet … she fights that love.’

He had suspected this but the pain of hearing it said aloud was like a slow-burning acid in his chest. ‘Because of Kert?’ he asked, his voice hollow.

Another gust of wind drove down into the Volcastle mouth and furnace heat rose. Firde turned her head away and it was several heartbeats before she turned back, her eyes damp, whether from the wind or emotion he wasn’t sure. ‘She has lost too much, My Lord,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Love has deserted her at every turn: her father to evil; you, her first love, to Magoria; her son and her husband to death.’ Firde’s large hand gestured to the flames below them. ‘She will not act on her love for you. She fears it will only bring her further pain.’

‘If there was some way I could advance our betrothal,’ he said, knowing his words were impetuous but feeling desperation move within him. ‘I’m sure I could woo her from grief. If she would only grant me an audience —’

But Firde was shaking her head. ‘My Lord, she will not see you, and there is no power above her to instruct her obedience.’

‘But she must …’ he said softly, glancing away, unable to believe that Lae would not be his. ‘Her love is all I live for.’

‘Your duty to the throne,’ Firde reminded him. ‘You have that.’

‘A starving man may have a bowl. It does not feed him.’

Firde touched his arm but Pagan barely noticed. ‘I will do what I can to soften her heart towards you, My Lord,’ she whispered, and turned away.

Pagan saw his own darkened reflection in the sky-mirror that rose from the Volcastle mouth. Wind whipped his long hair. raising even the heavy warrior plaits. His cloak slapped his legs.
I am the same Pagan she once loved
, he told himself, valiantly struggling to retain hope.
I have not lost her yet.

‘My Lord.’

Pagan saw the Captain of the Volcastle House Guard coming up behind him, a timely reminder that he must not allow his love for Lae to hamper his duty. The protection of the Volcastle rested in his hands. ‘Captain?’ he said, turning to face the battle-scarred old warrior who had been a friend of his father.

‘Our sentries have spied a thin trail of smoke rising from the woods to the south-west. Last night and this morning.’

A campfire for sure. ‘Northmen?’ Pagan asked.

‘I know not, My Lord,’ the captain replied. ‘But it was closer this morning.’

‘Verdan?’ Pagan suggested hopefully.

‘After all this time, My Lord?’

The Guard Captain was right, of course. The royal Volcastle had been under siege for three years. If the House of Verdan had survived the Northman invasion, they would surely have come to their king’s aid sooner. And the clan of Northmen who had taken up residence in the forest outside the castle gates would hardly be expecting reinforcements after all this time, though their number had been halved by starvation and lack of adequate shelter.

Those inside the Volcastle’s impregnable walls had suffered only the boredom of eating stockpiled grain and the limited variety of vegetables grown in the castle precincts. The Northmen outside had been forced to subsist on forest berries, bark and leaves. Kert, who had controlled the royal forces before his death, had watched the Northmen weaken, stubbornly refusing to abandon their siege. Comfortably supplied within the Volcastle, Kert had merely waited on an opportunity to conquer their enemies without loss to his own forces.

Pagan had only been the Volcastle commander these past two days, but he felt confident that objective could now be achieved. Dark clouds, seen through the great hall’s open ceiling, jostled above. ‘This storm could rid us of the Northmen at last,’ he said, keen for a military distraction. ‘If we attack in its wake, we may finally break the siege and win freedom for our castle.’

‘And those who approach us, My Lord?’

Pagan’s enthusiasm faltered. He knew he must use prudence. ‘How much smoke is there?’ he asked.

‘A thin trail soon extinguished. My Lord,’ the Guard Captain said. ‘A small party, I would surmise.’

‘Or a larger force intent on misleading us,’ Pagan replied. His concern was that his men risked being caught outside. ‘Alert me if the ground party reaches the clearing before the storm breaks.’ They could not hide their number there. And if it was Northman reinforcements, Pagan would consider his options then.

‘My Lord, I shall ready the men.’ The Guard Captain strode from the dais and Pagan followed, preparing his mind for battle as he made for his rooms, damping the surge of hot blood that rose with the thought of steel striking steel. To spend his eagerness before the battle was a waste every apprentice warrior was warned to avoid. ‘Prepare the mind and the body will follow,’ his father had taught him, and so, as Pagan strode the pale stone corridors, shadowed now by the storm building outside, he prepared his mind for the conflict to come, seeing himself pierce the flesh of his enemies again and again.

‘It will be done,’ he said, but then into his mind came the vision of Lae running to give him a triumphant kiss. She was laughing at his victory, teasing him as she had been wont to do in the days before love had gentled their sparring ways. Then she kissed him and he felt her slender frame melt against him, stirring …

Pagan stood in his own rooms, listening to the thundering of his heart.

This was fatal.

He raised a hand to dismiss his attendant then went to a couch and lay upon it, settling himself into a cleansing ritual to purge his mind of distractions. He loved Lae. No amount of denial could erase that fact. But if she entered his mind in the heat of battle, he might not return to fight for her love.

As his blood slowed to a steady deep pulse and quiet settled over his mind. Pagan wondered which battle would prove the more wounding.

V
andal clung to the skinny wrist in his hand, knowing it was part of Magoria. Home. He had to find his way back. But even with his eyes open, his world was not as he’d left it. Colours he’d taken for granted jarred and clashed and hurt his brain. Was this how his father had felt on first entering their world?

‘Petra,’ he groaned, swivelling his head, trying to track down the thin face he’d glimpsed, hoping to find the body attached to the arm he clung to. ‘I’m lost.’

There was a second’s pause before she said, ‘I’m here. I’m right here beside you. Why can’t you see me?’

He shook his head, struggled to make sense of the jumble his sight had become. ‘Between worlds. Can’t …’

‘You’re frightening me,’ she said, and he felt a wrench on his hand, but that only made him squeeze her wrist tighter, desperate not to lose his one link to home. ‘Are you on drugs?’ she asked.

‘Not … No.’ It was too hard to speak, too hard to see. Even with his eyes opened widely. Then suddenly it was dark. He gasped, as though drowning. Again.

‘I’ve covered your eyes,’ she whispered, close to his face. The scent of her girlie perfume dazzled him. It was probably faint, but like the bright colours that had tortured his brain, it overwhelmed him. ‘Can you close them?’ she asked.

He tried to obey, felt muscles move in his face but couldn’t be sure the right ones had obeyed.

‘Are they closed?’ she asked.

‘
Aaah.
’ His powers of speech were disintegrating. Vandal felt her breath on his face and the mintiness stung his nose. There was a caramel chocolate underneath it, though, as if she’d eaten a Mars Bar and then brushed her teeth. ‘
Uhhhh.
’ The guttural sound came from deep in his belly where something weird was happening. Pulling. Pressure. He didn’t want to throw up again. But his stomach didn’t feel sick. Just … odd.

Brightness returned. ‘My face is right in front of you,’ she said softly and the tone of it, like velvety orchid petals sliding into his mind, intensified the pulling sensation. What was happening to him? ‘Open your eyes. Only a slit,’ she instructed.

He tried to comply. His cheeks tensed and then twitched. He could feel that. And he could still feel her thin wrist in his sweaty palm. Her pulse had quickened into an epileptic drumbeat. She inhaled deeply and a loud thought jarred into his mind.
God help me, he smells like a thunderstorm. If I never get to kiss him conscious, I’ll die from aching.

He shook his head, felt it rattle. Was this madness? Deadness? Lostness? Was there such a word as lostness? The idea took hold of him and he drifted with it. His body went slack.

‘Vandal, stay with me,’ she said, so loudly his cars hurt. But he was still going. Losing himself. He couldn’t feel his fingers on her arm any more and that frightened him. He didn’t want to be lost in the limbo between worlds. He tried to tell her that but his lips wouldn’t work. Yet they must have moved because he heard her say, ‘Are you trying to talk? I can’t understand you. Try again.’

He struggled. This time really struggled. ‘Can’t … feel,’ he managed, but the swirling inside his mind was sucking him away from her.

‘You have to …’ She sounded so young. So frightened. But she also sounded like Petra and he clung to that. He’d heard her voice in the debating class, passionate about the poetry of some dead guy, raving about the plight of penguins, something. Activist. Lunatic in her own lunchtime. But he knew that voice, and she was here. He struggled not to lose it, not to lose Magoria. ‘If you die,’ she was saying, ‘like this in my arms, it’s like … I’m not Juliet. I couldn’t …’

The idiocy of her babbling touched something inside him that spread calm focus to the furthest corners of his body. The distancing sensation evaporated and he felt the return of his bodily sensations. The void where he’d been lost began to recede and he felt the hard ground beneath his back. If he could, he would have smiled. ‘Didn’t …’ He swallowed and tried again, ‘… bring your happy dagger?’ he whispered.

She choked back a laugh, or a sob, he wasn’t sure which. ‘Are you …?’

‘Back.’ After a moment his face stopped feeling like there was a flea nest underneath his skin and he managed to part his eyelashes a crack. He saw her eyes clearly then, wide dark pools of fear. But around her was still a jumble. He wasn’t fully returned. ‘Speak again,’ he said and strained his hearing to lock onto her voice.

‘Speak again …’ she repeated,’… bright angel, for though art as glorious to this sight, being o’er my head, as is a winged messenger of heaven unto the white-upturned wond’ring eyes of mortals …’ She trailed off, pressing her lips together tightly. He could see her lips now, small and pink, could tell that the blur of green behind her would resolve itself into trees. Trusted that it would. He had the template back in his mind. Magoria. He knew how it was put together and now his brain could make sense of it.

‘I owe you one,’ he whispered, smiling up into her eyes. He closed his own for a moment to take a deep shuddering breath out of relief and the incredible feeling of knowing his life would go on. What a surprise that he’d struggled so hard against death. Or limbo. Or wherever he’d been. He opened his eyes again. ‘You saved my life.’

‘Twice,’ she said solemnly.

‘Then I owe you two.’ Vandal wasn’t ready to take his eyes from hers yet, although he saw the periphery of his vision firming, felt his mind settling.

‘Two lives?’ She frowned, twin ridges between her eyebrows.

Such a narrow face. He could see her hair now, black as his own, straight with a severe middle part and tucked behind her ears. The dark skin of her Aboriginal ancestors.

‘You’ve got flecks of gold in your eyes,’ he said.

She turned away. He heard a scrabbling sound and then she was putting her glasses on one-handed. She turned back to him, the pretty dark eyes obscured by thick lenses, her cheeks as red as sunburn. ‘Took them off to do CPR.’

‘Right.’ Cheese anyone? The impersonation was complete. He remembered now that they called her Mouse. She’d looked so different without the glasses. His gaze wandered And out of her shapeless school tunic and in shorts and a T-shirt, there were other improvements he could see. Not in the league of the swimming class girls he fantasised about, but still, a long way from ugly.

‘Can you walk?’ she asked stiffly. ‘I could help you up.’

His attention returned to her face and the dreadful glasses. He could fix that. Fix her eyes so she didn’t have to wear them. It would be within his power. Not now of course. He’d need to rest for a couple of days, do some self-healing rituals. But later. Would she appreciate that? Could she keep quiet about it? And more pressing at the moment, how much had she actually seen?

‘Why are you here?’ he asked.

She held his gaze but not a word came out of her mouth.

‘Petra?’

‘I’m here … to rescue you,’ she said and kept looking into his eyes, as though the answer to his question lay there. ‘I thought you’d be grateful.’ she added softly.

‘I am,’ he said quickly as guilt overrode his curiosity It didn’t matter why she was there. Call it destiny. Luck ‘But what did you see?’

‘I saw …’ Her pupils were so dilated Vandal couldn’t see the gold flecks any more. ‘… you were drowning. I pulled you out. You had difficulty focusing your eyes. I don’t think it’s brain damage. It was barely a minute that you weren’t breathing. Maybe … you hit your head when you fell. Concussion.’ Her soft voice trailed off and he had the distinct impression she was hiding something. Her cheeks were still red. ‘Do you want your shirt,’ she whispered.

‘I don’t know if I could put it on,’ he said and closed his eyes again. ‘I feel like a truck hit me.’

Silence; then, ‘One nearly did. A month ago.’

Vandal considered that statement from behind closed eyelids. She’d seen him on his bike playing chicken with the semi. Had she also seen him healing the cuts and bruises he’d got out of it? ‘Did you tell anyone?’ he asked.

She said nothing so he opened his eyes and was surprised to see her bottom lip trembling.

‘Petra?’

She shook her head, lips pressed tightly together now.

He felt a tug on his hand, remembered he was holding her, and let go. The trees behind her were trees again. His head hurt but everything looked normal. He didn’t need her any more, but, ‘Are you okay?’

She nodded, a jerky movement. Then a tear ran from behind her glasses down her cheek. She turned away.

‘Wait.’ He struggled to sit up and caught her arm before she could escape. ‘What’s wrong?’

She wouldn’t turn back to him, but instead mumbled into the hand that was covering her face. ‘I was so scared —’

‘Of me?’ The idea horrified Vandal. She’d saved his life. He should be thanking her, not —

‘Scared you were going to
die
,’ she moaned and tried to get her arm back. Her hand wavered into his line of sight and Vandal felt as though someone had punched him in the gut. The brown skin of her tiny wrist was purpled with bruises.

He immediately spread his fingers in shock, releasing her, and she snatched the wrist away, cradling it against her chest as she rocked, her back still turned towards him, her breath hiccupping between sobs. She looked small and defenceless, like a sparrow with a broken wing.

Vandal could barely comprehend what he’d done. In his desperation to keep hold of his world, to find his way back, he’d selfishly used Petra’s arm as if it was a safety railing. Any more pressure and he’d have snapped bones. ‘I’m so sorry.’ He felt dizzy and wasn’t sure whether it was weakness from his ordeal or guilt at the damage he’d done to her. ‘Let me …’
heal that
, he’d wanted to say. To hell with keeping his secret. He’d hurt her. He’d hurt a girl. He had to fix that. But he couldn’t because the darkness was closing in on him again, buzzing in his ears, making him feel hot. And this time there was no fighting it. ‘Wait!’ he managed to say before the discordant sound grew louder and he swayed, then heard the thump of his body landing back on the dried mud. His hand flailed beside him to find water as he focused on the words of the self-healing ritual.

Ancient powers find in my hand the sacred element of our land.
He couldn’t say it aloud and hoped that repeating the words in his mind would work.

This water that gives Magoria its hue, restore my strength to that I knew.

‘Vandal?’ A soft sound coming from outside his consciousness. A sniffle. Then later a sensation of cold on his forehead, the back of his neck. More water. She was unwittingly helping him perform the ritual. He repeated the invocation in his mind, trying to block out her words. Failed. ‘I’m so stupid,’ she whispered, and inside himself Vandal winced. ‘Feeling sorry for myself. You’re the one who’s hurt.’

No
, he wanted to say,
it’s you
, but he was sinking deeper into the trance. He hoped she’d wait until he came back to himself so he could tell her. But the last thing he heard was his own voice inside his mind saying,
You’re right, it is her. She’s the one.