The Giants' Dance (16 page)

‘What are you doing?'

‘This is a light cosmetic. So that for a year and a day any innocent who strays here will change his mind about staying, and he will do so without ever knowing why.'

‘Coward!'

‘Do you remember the stakes that are up on the hill?' Gwydion said evenly. ‘Do you know what they are?'

‘What?' he said, interested despite himself.

‘They are sighting stakes. Posts driven into the ground so that their alignment points to this place. They sight where the ligns cross.'

‘
What?
'

‘Oh, indeed! So the stone may be found at a later time, whatever the phase of the moon might be.'

Will's arms stiffened, his face was colouring with an unreasoning anger. ‘You mean you've been here before? Then you've lied to me! You
knew
about this battlestone already, and you were
testing
me!'

‘Willand, it was not me who put the stakes up there.'

‘Then who?'

‘You were not listening very closely when I asked patient questions of the place. Come! We must be moving on.'

‘First tell me who put the stakes there!'

‘Oh, who do you think?' The wizard rolled his eyes.

‘Maskull?'

‘The whole hill reeks of him.'

Soon after the full of the moon, the ligns quickly faded, and though Will cut several supple wands, he could scry the flow no more. There was only a sense of fast-receding depth, masked by the mystic swirls and criss-crossing lines that showed enduring ancient streams. These, Will knew, were the natural surface flows that always patterned the land, the shapes the folk of old had learned to feel in their bones and which had given them so fine a talent for planting the right crop in the right place and building without offence to the land. It was a talent not shared by lordly builders with their city walls and their great stone keeps, a talent the Sightless Ones had all but snuffed from the minds of men.

They left the site of the Tysoe stone and, as the wizard went onward at half his customary pace, Will recovered his courtesy and began to review what had happened. While it deepened Will's understanding to feel each stone attack his mind in its own fashion, the experience was vastly tiring. He wondered if Gwydion was wholly immune from the stones' suffocating embrace, for if that was the lorc's way to protect itself from disturbance, then it seemed to be succeeding.

That day and the next they continued westward, but progress was painfully slow. Gwydion's vigour had deserted him. He instructed Will in geomancy – the proper reading of the land. He spoke of the rude way in which the bones of the earth had been rooted up. He pointed out quarries, calling them open wounds upon the land. He denounced distant towers and spires, saying they had got above themselves. ‘See how the villains pile stone upon stone to such a height that they humble the hearts of men! The only true
house is one built of stones that the earth gives up freely. Of flints or red clay baked to a good hardness, or better, houses built of wood and well thatched with reeds. The best dwellings are those that nestle in the land, Willand. Those that respect the Tenets of Amergin, who was a great architect of old. Those that do not seek to dominate men or the earth around them! No building should be made to glorify its builder or its owner, for that makes it a boastful monument, and boastful monuments are best left to the dead!'

Will listened, hearing frustration and bitterness in the wizard's words. It was worrying that the discovery of the sighting stakes had upset him so much. Perhaps they spelled some kind of disaster for Gwydion's great master plan. As for buildings, Will knew very well what style of house his own heart yearned to see again. It was a modest place, oakframed, with whitened walls of wattle and daub and a neat thatch. It was home.

The wizard was talking about the balance now, how it must always be kept, and of how the powers of recovery of the earth were being sorely tested by the demons of greed and selfishness that seemed every day to be growing stronger in men's hearts.

‘Oh, men are mostly wilful blunderers. They disturb the balance in whatever they touch – kings more so than shepherds.'

‘And sorcerers more than kings, I suppose,' Will ventured, hoping to steer the wizard towards the subject of Maskull.

‘Sorcerers far more than kings. What better poacher will you find than the one who has been a keeper of game?'

‘Have there been many sorcerers?'

‘There have been many dangerous men in the history of the world. They have arisen mostly in the kingdoms that lie across the Narrow Seas, in the Tortured Lands far away, but also here from time to time in the Realm. The worst
of these dangerous men possess a clear vision of a particular future they wish to bring about. They have certainty about what must be and why. So certain are they that they easily convince others that their way is best. Maskull is such a man as this.'

Shortly after they crossed the River Stoore, Gwydion halted next to the raised bed of another ancient stone highway. He threw out his arms to north and south, announcing to the sky in a resounding voice, ‘Behold, this work of sorcerers, Willand! It is the Fosse, the same we have seen before, yet called hereabouts “Trench Strete”, or “the Ditch Way”. It was made fifty generations of men ago, but see what ruin has befallen it in the present season.'

Gwydion shook his staff angrily at the crooked slabs that marked an arrow-straight highway. ‘See with what cunning the Slavers ravaged the common treasury of this Isle! A peaceful folk were enslaved in great numbers to rip up stone to build these vile paths. And we shall soon see armies moving along them once again.'

‘Then we must make greater haste,' Will urged, trying to stoke up further the fires that had sprung up in the wizard's belly. ‘We must find the next battlestone before it's too late.'

‘We cannot make more haste, for we must wait until the equinox.' Gwydion looked at him, his features seeming again careworn and haggard. ‘In magic, remember, there is always a powerful link between time and place. Oh, I wish I knew the answer!'

And then Will saw clearly the root of the wizard's fears, for Gwydion was the last phantarch. It was his task to steer the world along the track of fate that yielded up the best of all possible worlds, yet he had lost his way.

No wonder he's angry, Will thought. He's afraid. He can no longer see what the true path is. He's almost convinced that we're lost!

He looked out across the land and saw how for the most part the Slaver road was mounded up high above the meadows and how a ditch followed it along the side, though in places both road and ditch were in ruin.

‘Where does it go?' he asked, shading his eyes.

‘To the north it cuts in two the once-sacred precincts of Elder Tree Copse, a glade of leafy boughs, where green rings on the summer lawn show where the fae once danced. Then it runs onward across Dunn's Moor and beyond to the city called now Leycaster that was founded by King Leir in ancient days. It goes further north still, eventually to the city of Linton, which is in the earldom of Lindsay. But were we to follow it southward we would come first to the Four-shire Stone, go past what was once Little Slaughter, and thence to Cirne. But we will follow it in neither direction.'

Gwydion levelled his staff at a great gap in the raised roadbed. There were large, flat stones scattered all about, as if some great burrowing animal had come this way and had scraped and pawed until the stuff of the road was scattered. The gap, Will saw, ran for hundreds of paces, and there were others in the distance.

‘See how lordly ambitions imperil us all! The one who claims the land about the Four-shire Stone as his own, and who calls himself lord of that place, has done this. In recent times he sent his men to plunder the stone from these Slaver works. His plan is to increase his power by the building of a great house and fortress for himself three leagues to the south of here. These new disturbances he has made in the earth have freed the flows in the lorc and helped bring it to life all the sooner. Though he knows it not, this lord will in time be the loser, for by this mischief his bloodline shall now fail, even as that of Lord Strange has failed. He cannot see how all things come round in a great circle.'

Will raked fingers through his hair and looked up and down the old Slaver road. ‘I don't see how—'

‘Because the contract that Semias struck with Gillan the Conqueror was ever that the lords were to be stewards – servants of the land more than masters of the people! They were to hold the Realm in trust for future generations. But that contract was soon broken. The lign of the rowan, Will. It passes through that gap there. Where once its flow was dammed, now it is dammed no longer. And the same, I believe, is true of Eburos and Indonen to the south. Too many breaches in the Slaver roads have been made.' Gwydion's finger traced lines of coloured fire in the air, showing how the lorc was once again getting in touch with its extremities. ‘A great error has been committed here, and a terrible consequence set in motion. Thus it is, and always will be, when the works of man are heaped upon the earth too quickly, with selfishness and greed as their motives!'

They passed through the gap in the old road and went on, still hoping to follow the lign of the rowan into the west. To Will's surprise, as the afternoon wore on and the heat of the day mounted, Gwydion began to speak more freely of Maskull and his journeys into the realms of forbidden knowledge:

‘“Much have I travelled, much have I tried, and much have I tested the powers of this world.” Those were his words to me when last we spoke. And it is true. He has ventured through fantastical places – east across the Narrow Seas, down through forgotten empires beneath the earth. Maskull has taken ship to the very Edge of the World. He has walked in the Drowned Lands, that once were lit by the sun but now lie deep beneath the ocean. He even claims to have bathed in the Spring of Celamon, to have touched the moon and to have found a doorway set in the starpunctured dome of the sky – one that leads out into the furnace of starlight beyond. That doorway can only be
reached by voyaging to the Baerberg, Willand. The Baerberg, which lies at the top of the world. He has been there, and so have I. That is how I know what is in his mind. He has seen another world, one not unlike our own, yet quite separated from it. He is steering the fates of that world and ours ever closer, setting us on a collision course. He means for the destinies of our two worlds to merge, to become one, so that afterwards there will be only one future, and he the undisputed master of it!'

T
here was a chill in the air and a faint mist lay over the early morning. For the first time autumn seemed to be on its way and with that change came another – their success reached an abrupt end. For several days progress had been slow, and now the equinox had come and gone and Will was having an even harder time scrying the western path of the Caorthan lign. When they came into the increasingly hilly country around Flyefforde, their trend was a little north of west. Then Will began to suspect that he already knew where his wand was leading him.

‘I get the feeling we've been here before,' he said.

‘From here we must tread softly,' Gwydion told him as they came to a wooded rise, ‘for yonder lie the lands of the mad lord.'

Will nodded at Gwydion's words. He understood the danger that lay in wait for them, for they were near the hamlet of Aston Oddingley.

Years ago they had found a battlestone here, but Gwydion had chosen to leave it be. Partly that was because it was not the Doomstone, but another reason had been that it was buried on land owned by Baron Clifton, a man
famously cruel, quick to take offence and easily roused to anger.

Thomas, Lord Clifton had allied himself with the queen. He had ridden with his knights and three hundred menat-arms to Verlamion under the banner of the red wyvern. There he had been more affected than most by the fell emanations of the Doomstone, and his heedless bloodlust had proved his undoing. He had fallen under hideous wounds and, after the battle, his broken body had been reclaimed by his son, John, in whose heart lay no shred of forgiveness.

‘The son is mad too,' Gwydion said.

‘Is that so?' Will said.

‘He is sworn to avenge his father. When Morann was last in Trinovant he noted Friend John's closeness to the queen's cause. After learning of his vows of revenge, she has cultivated him, and now keeps him continually about her at court. He is always ready to do her bidding. His mind is three parts rotted by the battlestone, and all the while the queen inflames him further against Duke Richard. He wants only to set upon his enemy and tear him limb from limb.'

‘Then you're right,' Will said, looking at the hill beyond which the Baron's manor house stood. ‘We shouldn't look for a welcome here, even though the master of the house has changed, for it seems to me you are thought of amongst the queen's friends as little more than Duke Richard of Ebor's magician.'

Gwydion sighed. ‘Alas! That is their oft-repeated complaint. To such a low esteem have I lately fallen. Come! For we must now draw nigh.'

They went by quiet ways, fringing woods and following hedge lines that covered their movements. They soon reached the crest of the hill where they had camped in the rain long ago, and a great house came into view.

Though Clifton Grange was not a castle, it was a strongly built house, surrounded by a ditch and walls that were twice the height of a man. It possessed stout gates and two towers from which arrows might be shot. Will thought back to the lessons about fortification that he had learned during his days at Foderingham. He decided the baron's house might be expected to stand for days – maybe even weeks – against a hostile force of considerable size, and that a great cost in lives would be paid by anyone attempting to enter it uninvited.

That thought also caused Will to wonder what cost might be paid by someone seeking to leave the house against the owner's wishes. But before he could think the matter through, Gwydion danced and clothed them both in magic. A bright blue light shone suddenly about them, and when Will looked again he saw the same old man that he had seen at the Plough Inn. He felt a momentary pang of disquiet at the sight of a white heart carved in bone upon his breast, and at the broad-brimmed hat and patched grey cloak on which the mark of the Fellowship was also pinned. But then he gasped, for when he looked down at himself he saw that he was similarly clad, in the dark grey travelling gear of a novice mendicant of the Sightless Ones, and girt with the thick leather belt with its knuckle-shaped clasp that was famously used as a weapon. Will also wore the bone-white heart as his badge, and a soap bag slung across his back and chest like a foot-soldier's blanket. To add the finishing touches to their beggary, Gwydion produced two wooden bowls and then, perhaps remembering the sombre weather that had attended their last visit, he called down a shower of rain upon them.

‘Well! That was quite painless.'

‘Of course.' Gwydion looked askance at him. ‘What did you think? I've done it
before
, you know.'

And then there came to Will some recollection that long
ago there had been a king whose name was Uther, whose passions had been roused over another man's wife, and that he too had been changed in form…‘You did it to Uther Pendragon,' he said, hardly knowing where these strange thoughts came from. ‘You did it shamelessly, to deceive a lady. So she would become pregnant by a king. So Arthur would be born.'

‘Was that me?'

‘You know it was!'

Again the wizard's eyes alighted on him, and in his new guise of Fellow his smile was frightening. ‘It may have been me. And if it was, then you may suppose that what was done was done out of
necessity.
'

Will drew apart, wiped the rain from his face. He was uncomfortable. He felt suddenly wretched and caught up in things that were far too big for him. But he had agreed to this insane adventure, and there seemed to be no alternative.

‘What are we waiting for?' he asked, as Gwydion lingered in the trees, watching the rain fall.

‘What do you think?'

Will licked his lips at the question, keen now to get the deed over with. Then he saw Gwydion's eyes scour the skies briefly.

As always the wizard looked slightingly on his impatience. ‘We're waiting for noon.'

‘Why?'

‘We must gather all the advantage we can to help your talent.'

‘I'm sure there's no need to wait on my account,' he said sharply.

Gwydion rolled his eyes. ‘Willand, do not take my words amiss.'

‘Forgive me,' he said with hardly less edge, ‘if I'm not
quite
myself.'

‘Never fear. I'll change you back.'

‘Yes, you will!'

They started off down the hill towards the manor, letting the rain soak them thoroughly.

‘Gwydion, what about these?' Will said, pointing at his eyes. ‘Just a little detail, I know, but won't they tend to give us away?'

‘Sarcasm is a very low form of wit, Willand.'

‘It's not irony. It's a straight question.'

‘Many mendicants are sent abroad by the Fellowship,' Gwydion said, kicking through the puddles to muddy himself. ‘In that way, you understand, the influence of the Sightless Ones is not confined to the chapter houses. The Fellows come out at harvest time to claim the tithe, of course. They are seen sometimes upon the roads, going from cloister to cloister, but the red hands have collected about them many sighted followers who do their bidding in the wider world – messengers, agents, spies, sneaks of one kind or another – men and women who have unwisely accepted the charity of the Fellowship, accepted the Great Lie even, but who have not yet repaid their debt with surrender.'

Will felt the weight of the soap bag that girdled him, and looked at his hands in horror. Had he been a genuine Fellow, ritual washing many times a day would have made his hands raw. He saw they were red and scaly and his nails hard and yellow, as were Gwydion's. The sight took him back momentarily to the dangerous enterprise he had so thoughtlessly undertaken at Verlamion.

‘How many folk do you think live down there?' he asked.

‘Upon the lands that Friend John boasts to own? Some thousands.'

‘I meant in the manor house itself.'

‘There? Perhaps two dozen. No more while the baron is with his retinue in Trinovant – though I think he will not remain there much longer with war so near.'

‘Is he married?'

‘Married? When his mind is bent solely on avenging his father? There is no mistress of any kind at Clifton Grange. The baron's mother is already gone into one of the cloisters which the Fellowship maintains for ladies of rank who have wearied of the world.'

Will shivered at the choice she must have had to make. ‘I don't know what I would've decided if I'd stood in her shoes – join the Sightless Ones or stay in a house built over a battlestone.'

‘I would not be surprised to find that the people hereabouts think of this as a house of ill omen. That should make our task a little easier.'

They came to the gate and found it unguarded and the yard within quiet, apart from the hissing of rain. Gwydion went to the back door and knocked three times with his staff. It was now a banded rod, hung about with coloured ribbons and the pewter medals of pilgrimage that rattled like a jester's wand. When the door opened, an anxious serving woman looked them up and down and enquired suspiciously what purpose they had in coming to the Grange.

Gwydion bowed low and said in a wheedling, pitiful voice, ‘You may say it is a pilgrimage that we are upon, woman. You may say that we seek the Shrine of the Siren Sisters.'

‘Then you've missed your road,' the servant said, not opening the door any wider. ‘You must go back the way you've come and take the Crowle road.'

‘Precipitation…' Gwydion said with a yellow-grey smile. Big drops fell from the brim of his hat. ‘If you were a friend, you would afford us shelter while this downpour continues.'

The woman looked unhappy. She hesitated, then said, ‘Wait here.'

Soon a manservant appeared. He was a big man with a
bald head, and he seemed to carry some authority. He wore the colours of the baron, and on his chest six gold rings upon red with a badge showing a red wyvern on his arm. ‘You cannot stay here, rain or shine,' he said.

‘You may suppose it invites adverse fortune to refuse a pilgrim his right and due,' Will said as slyly as he could.

The man advanced across the threshold threateningly. ‘Right and due, you say? On your way, beggars!'

‘We may retire,' Gwydion said, drawing back. His fingers went to his bone badge and lifted it menacingly. ‘But common beggars we are not. See! We are mendicants of the Fellowship. What if we should petition the Elders at Cirne regarding your treatment of us?'

‘I care nothing for your Elders.'

‘Oh, but it may be that you should care.'

The man's anger seemed fit to burst, but he controlled himself for Gwydion's weaselly words had put him in a quandary. The serving woman touched his arm fearfully.

‘Give him what he wants, Gryth.'

‘Not this side of the grave!'

‘But what'll the baron say if he returns home to a
letter
?'

‘What letter?'

She lowered her voice and half turned away. ‘The one that would come back from the Warden of the chapter house at Cirne.'

‘Which lord's wicked servants would refuse a mendicant of the Fellowship food and drink and asylum from the heavenly flux?' Gwydion muttered mournfully. ‘You may already know how it is with the red hands.'

The words that were commonly used to speak slightingly of the Sightless Ones made the woman gasp.

‘Now, I didn't say that!' Gryth objected. ‘They were your words, not mine!'

‘He said it!' Will found himself blurting out. ‘He spoke the execrable phrase!'

‘I never did!'

‘The words came from his own lips! Defiler!' Will called out.

Gryth began to argue, but now there was fear in his voice.

‘May it be “come taste of our food and drink” was all that this man said after all…' Gwydion put in, and though the bald man scowled and blustered, still he bade them follow him to the bakehouse.

Will forced his mind to shut tight as he walked. He could feel the battlestone affecting him. The onset was sudden and sickening, and the magical disguise in which Gwydion had enwrapped him did not react well to its presence. When he looked down he counted six fingers on his left hand. He looked away, feeling suddenly panicky. His mind swam as his eyes fixed upon a large brown and white mare. She waited steadily enough in the rain, hitched to a large victual cart, but it seemed that she was vastly uncomfortable about something.

Will blinked and swallowed hard, following on after Gwydion, feeling every bit as fearful as he looked. He took himself in hand.

‘Here!' Gryth said, giving Will a hard loaf and a lump of cheese. ‘Put this betwixt you. You may sit here on this bench until you have eaten and until the rain has eased, but then you must go on your way, do you hear? I warn you: neither stray from this passage nor poke your noses into anything that does not concern you. Begone quickly! The master of this house is due home soon, and he is a man of short temper and fiery ways. You will rue it if he finds you here, protected beggars or no.'

‘Then the baron must have a sour character indeed,' Will muttered as the man left. The piece of cheese he was holding was cracked and as hard as rind. ‘I have little love for the Sightless Ones, but we did not ask for much by way of hospitality. What does he call this?'

‘Never mind the cheese,' Gwydion said sharply. ‘What about the stone? The equinox is now some days past. Tonight the waning crescent of the moon will lie midway between last quarter and new. We must not miss our chance!'

Will began to look around. They had been left in a small, draughty passageway that joined the yard and the back of the stables. Two cool storage rooms led off and Will saw sacks and barrels and sides of meat hanging in the first. In the second there were wooden shelves stocked with big, round cheeses and more dry goods.

Will drew out the split hazel wand from under his cloak. But no sooner had he taken up the scrier's stance than he began to tremble and then to shudder.