CHAPTER TEN
The attack had caught Ricci completely off guard. One minute, he was telling the motherworlders
what he thought they should know about Mamelon’s history and the next …Bog folk, for Ri’s sake. It was too
much. In short, he panicked. A basic invisibility spell leapt to mind and he
recited it at once. Alas, it only worked on himself. He tried another. Nothing
happened. By now, his guests were running for their lives with ugly, screaming.
bog folk in hot pursuit. One of them,
unable to see Ricci of course, had crashed into him and sent him flying. He
knocked his head on one of the marquee’s support poles and lost consciousness.
When he came to, it was all he could do to recall a spell to relieve sore heads. Twice he got it wrong. On the first occasion, he shrunk to dwarf size. Having put that right, he tried another and developed a curious hump on his back. “Oh dear!” he wailed. This was far worse. Why, he could be taken for a Stalker, doomed for eternity to gather souls for the Devil’s pleasure! It really is too bad…
Trying to get rid of the hump proved not only frustrating, but also far more time consuming than he had time to spare. Meanwhile, the headache cleared of its own accord. Eventually, the hump was removed and he was careful to note the appropriate spell in case the same thing should ever happen again. “Ri forbid!” he muttered with feeling and went in search of his young guests.
Outside the marquee, he almost collided with another of the bog folk. It glared at him with such ferocity that poor Ricci was convinced his end had come. He tried to recall a mobility spell, but went into tizzy instead. His heart was thumping so rapidly, he was sure it must give out on him before he could think another thought. Then he remembered he was invisible. Breathing a huge sigh of relief that caused the bog creature to prick up its ears and lean a slimy head to one side, Ricci stepped neatly by and skipped gaily through the trees. His high spirits sank as quickly as they had soared, however, when he failed to find the others. He tried several locating spells but in vain.
He ran this way and that, even spent valuable time endeavouring to establish mind contact before he remembered they were motherworlders and would almost certainly not prove receptive to his efforts. For a good while, he sat and sulked. It wasn’t fair. How could he have been expected to ward against bog folk, for Ri’s sake? They were usually harmless enough. Oh, tales were told how they loved nothing better than to sneak up on unsuspecting travellers and eat them alive. All lies. Well, half-truths perhaps. His master, Astor, the White Mage, was adamant that bog folk only ever attacked when provoked. ‘They mean no harm, my dear Ricci,’ he’d say, ‘They’re really quite docile. But they are like children. They frighten easily. When they are afraid, they strike out.’ Even so, he invariably refused point-blank to enter into any debate about cannibalism.
Ricci weighed up the wisdom of trying to contact the master and laying himself wide open to blame for what had happened against the likelihood of making an even greater ass of himself by relying on his own meagre resources. Since neither option held much appeal, he discarded both and was poised to call upon his dream-self to locate the motherworlders when he heard a muffled cry close at hand. He peered through the trees, at the same time exercising inner vision as he had been shown countless times but never quite got the knack. For once, he excelled himself. At first, he was too taken aback by his achievement to register its effects. Glowing with pride, he finally got around to focusing on the scene ahead.
What he saw shocked Ricci to the core. The boy, Pete, was being roughly manhandled and bundled into a sack that hung from a pole borne on the shoulders of two particularly nasty-looking bog folk. His master’s words returned to haunt him. Worse, they proceeded to deal such hammer blows against his temple that his headache started up again. Bog folk mean no harm, my dear Ricci. They are really quite docile creatures.
“Huh, docile, indeed..!” Ricci exclaimed under his breath. Then he noticed another sack, also fixed to a pole, its live contents far from passive and causing it to swing violently. His inner vision revealed a wriggling youth, bound and gagged, whose blurred features were vaguely familiar. A name stroked his tongue tantalizingly before disappearing altogether. He ventured closer, but just as normal sight returned. Try as he might, he could not regain inner vision. Instead, he could only watch, appalled, as the two captives were hauled off, the butt of much crude speculation as to which might provide the tastier meal.
Something rubbed against his leg. Ricci looked down and saw the dog, Ace, regarding him with such doleful intensity that he felt positively intimidated. “It wasn’t my fault,” he protested, “I didn’t expect anything like that to happen. Why should I?” But the dog continued to fix him with bloodshot eyes full of accusation and reproach. “So where were you?” countered Ricci. “You could at least have barked a warning even if you hadn’t the nerve to tackle them yourself!” The little dog was clearly not impressed. Bloodshot eyes glowing more fiercely than ever, teeth bared, the wire haired mongrel snarled viciously. Ricci took a few steps backwards and promptly sank to his knees in mud. He glared at the dog. “Now look what you’ve done!” he wailed and tried to wriggle, free but only succeeded in sinking to his armpits. “Well, don’t just stand there, do something. Help me, for Ri’s sake!”
Help yourself. he retort passed, unbidden, through Ricci’s mind. Call yourself a magician?
Ricci’s hackles soared at the unexpected jibe. “Exactly who or what are you?” he demanded in his sternest voice. “Beasts are forbidden mind contact. It is the law. Ri knows, it gets complicated enough without any rag, tag and bobtail getting in on the act!”
"Complicated? Now I’ve heard everything. It is simplicity itself. It’s not as if you weren’t shown how by an expert. But if you won’t listen, my dear Ricci, you won’t learn," a familiar voice in his head added scathingly.
“Master…?” Ricci met the dog’s contemptuous gaze in a state of stunned disbelief. The black nose sniffed once, the staring eyes blinked. Then it vanished and Ricci was left once more to his own devices. By now, he was now up to his neck in mud. He struggled to remember a bird spell, thought he’d got it and spluttered an appropriate chant just as the first foul drops of slime oozed between his lips.
The changing process always made him feel dizzy. Ricci closed his eyes willing his entire self to complete the transformation. Eagerly, he anticipated an imminent spread of wings that would carry him aloft and allow him the incomparable sensation of flight. Yet, nothing of that nature occurred. He stopped sinking but that was all. Perplexed and not a little disappointed, he opened his eyes. Transformation had been achieved, yes. But, no, he was not a bird. He was a doolie, one of thousands of little toad-like creatures that could be found almost anywhere in Mamelon.
It’s bad enough that I’m not a bird, Ricci fretted, but a common doolie? It really was too much! For now, though, at any rate, he had no choice and proceeded to hop across the mud flats in a state of growing agitation. He hadn’t gone far when he heard voices to the left and veered in that direction. A doolie was capable of surprising speeds. He must, Ricci supposed, be thankful for small mercies. By now, he had calmed down. Sooner or later, he kept telling himself, he would hit upon the right spell. Even so, he felt betrayed by the Master for not confiding in him earlier. Taking on the form of a canine, for Ri’s sake. Whatever next?
The boggy ground had given way to terra firma, much to Ricci’s relief. While it posed no threat to a doolie, he hadn’t altogether managed to put aside his own natural misgivings. He hopped into a small clearing and hiccoughed with astonishment. “Krills…!” He hiccoughed again. What in Ri’s name are krills doing here? He hopped closer. None of the scaly creatures took any notice and he felt brave enough to squat within hearing distance.
“I only hope Radik knows what he’s playing at,” grumbled one.
“Doesn’t he always?” said another, “Where would we be without him?”
“Dead, and don’t we all know it!” grunted a third.
“Mark my words, no good will come of mixing with bog folk,” muttered the first speaker.
“We can trust Radik,” chimed in yet another.
"Radik, yes, but only a fool would trust the likes of that Ragund!” The first krill spat and a pellet of phlegm narrowly missed a doolie crouching nearby. He guffawed as it scampered away.
Ricci did not stop until he guessed he was safely out of range. The krill’s spittle came at such a speed that he’d barely had time to dodge its path. The slightest hesitation and it would have flattened him for sure. Krills, alive! Who’d have thought it? Ragund, for one, it seems. But Ricci was long past being either surprised or shocked by any dirty tricks his former teacher cared to play. Hadn’t Ragund bedded the Ruler’s sister, Shureen, long before disposing of her husband and his own wife in a so-called accident that fooled no one? Even that, though, paled into insignificance beside mass murder. For that’s what it had taken for Ragund to ascend the High Seat of Mamelon as that whore Shireen’s consort. He’d have declared himself Ruler but was not of the male bloodline and the people would never have tolerated it. Scared of the Dark Mage they may be, but even Ragund recognized he dared not go against the ages-old Law of Succession. As it was, it had made precious little difference. He is Ruler in everything but name, Ricci raged. Ragund was the Devil incarnate. If he hadn’t seen for himself the evil that man had done, he’d never have believed it.
The intensity of Riki’s feelings sparked a flash of insight that lent him access to the very bird spell he sought. He squealed with delight, flapped his wings and soared skywards with a self-congratulatory twitch of the beak. Gradually, he clamed down and began to adjust to his new situation. This is more like it, he squawked at some passing kytes as he circled the dismal landscape that was such a trial to him.
He swooped low and tried to spot the band of krills, but had quite lost his bearings and soon gave up the search. At least he could console himself with the sure knowledge that at least one of the motherworlders still lived.
Ricci cheered up and flew east, keeping as low as he dared, in search of the others.
He had recognized the older captive, of course. Heron had popped up during scryings from time to time. Not only had Astor identified the image in the scrying cup, but he had also had spoken highly of Nadya’s son while warning Ricci to keep the secret or risk expulsion from the Guild of Magicians. The threat alone was enough to put the fear of Ri into poor Ricci whose greatest ambition was to become a fully-fledged mage. Lately, and of far greater significance, Heron had appeared in the seer bowl. A general scry was one thing, but he seer bowl only revealed aspects of Destiny upon which all Mamelon turned.
It occurred to Ricci that he should warn Nadya, young Heron’s mother. She would want to know that her only son remained, so far at least, in one piece. He could have attempted mind contact but Astor had warned against it. “Remember, Ricci,” he had said, with a severity that brooked no argument, “Ragund will be on the alert for anything and everything. It is up to you to thwart and mislead him at every turn not to give him your every assistance.” Ricci sighed. Sometimes he wondered if his master had any faith in him at all.
Making a graceful arc, a winged Ricci headed for Ti-Gray. Soon, he was hovering in mid-flight directly over the Isle of the Dead. It was the queerest experience, this dangling in space. It tickled his fancy to imagine himself lording it over the Dead. Ego, however, nose-dived along with bird image as the latter descended. He could feel the presence of brooding spirits crowding him, pricking the skin, ruffling his feathers. He landed on a branch on the edge of a clearing that appeared to be the only inhabited part of the island. Immediately, he sensed danger. For a start, there was no one about. It was not that late. Mamelonians liked to be active, only resting to satisfy the body’s occasional need for sleep. The place was obviously deserted. He could feel the Dead homing in, their quick breaths making him shiver not to mention unseen hands ruffling his feathers.
Suddenly, he heard it, distant at first, little more than a faint whine that became a low, humming noise growing louder and even louder still, rising to an unbearably high pitch. It had caught up with him before he knew it. Poor Ricci could barely think, let alone get his act together and fly away. He was in no doubt as to the source. It had to be Ragund. But how, when he had been so careful not to let his wards down for an instant although…during spells perhaps? Oh, no. Master will skin me alive. But he dare not fret. Time enough for that later. His dimming consciousness fought to resist a tug on each and every one of his senses, dragging him towards a yawning void. Suddenly, at the void’s very edge, came inspiration. “Ri-Gar, Gar-Ri, Gwennor,” he croaked. How could he have forgotten?
At once, silence fell. Oh, bliss. It was too all much. Although he had never heard of a bird fainting, somehow Ricci managed it.
It was a while before Ricci risked opening his eyes to find himself sprawled on the ground and restored to his own body. He regarded his badly stained tunic with distaste and set about summoning up a change of clothes. A bath, too, he decided. Time enough to resume searching for the motherworlders once refreshed and therefore better able to put the chaos in his head into something resembling order.
Michal, called Mick, had to be his chief concern, Ricci acknowledged. On this point, the Master had been adamant. He dare not access the seer bowl. But a little scrying couldn’t do any harm, surely? Having bathed, changed into a new outfit and even snatched a brief rest, much needed in the wake of earlier exertions, Ricci was brimming with self-confidence. He sat cross-legged and gazed into the scrying cup. Nothing happened. He swallowed a rush of irritation. Why can’t things happen as they should, just for once? So much depended on this Michal…
Ricci concentrated again. Still nothing happened. It really was too bad. At the same time, he could not help wondering why, if so much depended on the motherworlder, his master hadn’t taken charge of events himself. He, Ricci, was only an apprentice after all. Well, more than that, surely? Hadn’t he been with the Master for several lifetimes? Mage status could not be far off. Besides, Astor must have faith in his powers or why give him such an important task? Ricci’s face lit up. He had found the Time Gate, hadn’t he? Not only had he entered and re-entered by it but had also succeeded in bringing the motherworlders to Mamelon. Not bad, for an apprentice. Only, now I’ve had lost them…
Ricci frowned and braced himself for another go at scrying. Concentrating wholly upon Michal, called Mick, he delved into the deepest regions of dream-self, projecting the youth’s image, as he recalled it, upon a surface of vinre that filled the cup. Nothing… He strained with every fibre of his being.
Nothing…
He dived even deeper within himself until he was treading that thinnest of lines between life and death.
Nothing….
All that greeted his innermost vision was a murky greyness. It was like swimming underwater against a powerful current. Ricci shifted his position slightly, redirecting his concentration but a fraction. In one corner of his mind’s eye, a red glow flickered then flared into a splendid flame, but only briefly. As suddenly as it had appeared, it died. Again, nothing… By now, though, Ricci thought he understood. Elves…It made sense, he supposed. Galia was part elf, after all. It followed, therefore, that Michal would be under their protection. And don’t elves always stick by their own with no regard for ordinary folk? Although why they had to wait until now to get involved, Ricci could only speculate. Trust elves to wait for a crisis rather than use their extraordinary powers to avert one in the first place. At least, though, the mother-worlder was safe. He prepared to withdraw.
As Ricci’s dream-self surfaced, it suddenly received a jolt, rocked to and fro for a bit then stilled and remained in a state of delicate suspension. Into the picture floated the female Bethan, called Beth, or someone very much like her. Hair spread in all directions, eyes wide and imploring, she stretched out her arms in a gesture so forlorn that Ricci was moved to tears. She opened her mouth and each syllable that reached his ears was like the purest sound.
Ca-an knows where it flows, sang the voice, It flows to the womb of Mamelon, womb-tomb of Mamelon, tomb-doom of Mamelon. Darkness has fallen. Sword of Light, shine! Let live, let die. Let be, let Ri. Oh, destiny… The song trailed away and the vision vanished.
Ricci’s dream-self continued its gradual ascent to consciousness. At last, his eyes saw the hands in his lap, felt again a caress of dead fingers making his flesh creep. He was back on Ti-Gray.
Exhausted, but exhilarated, Ricci considered his findings. Plainly, Michal’s immediate fate rested with elves, and Ri only knew what they would do next. More importantly, surely, it would seem the way to the Spring of Life lay in the hidden Vale of Ca-an whose precise location in the Purple Mountains had eluded countless searchers lifetime after lifetime. Legends told of druids there once, who performed miracles. Ca-an himself was reputed to have performed the greatest miracle of them all.
Ca-an alone, so tales were told, had prevented the breakaway fragment of motherworld that was Mamelon being tossed into infinity, dragging it into a secure orbit by the sheer power of his own will. He died in the attempt, and the line of druids that followed him continued to honour him as ki, or Chosen One. But that was long ago. There had been no sign of druids, or Chosen as some called them, for many, lifetimes. It was said that Astor, Mage of Mages, had been initiated into the ways of druids, but Ricci, for one, was inclined to dismiss the rumours as idle gossip.
Ricci’s thoughts returned to the vision. His native intuition had been confirmed. Bethan, called Beth, was a Keeper.
Since time began, the first daughter of a first son had guarded the Tomb of the Creator that housed, among other things, the Spring of Life. Whatever her birth name, the Keeper was called Bethan. When slaves mining for gold stumbled upon the tomb, their krill masters struck down its Keeper before seizing and attempting to make off with whatever priceless artefacts their greedy, scaly hands could carry. The thieves had not gone far, according to legend, before a dying Bethan uttered a loud cry, exhorting the spirit of Ri to take revenge. The entire peninsula gave an almighty heave. Its purple peaks began to crumble and the spirits of Earth and Fire joined together in a terrible fury. Avalanches cascaded upon masters and slaves alike, raising a cloud of red dust that mushroomed to such heights it could be seen as far away as Lunis, City of Moons, over a five hundred spans away.
Ricci frowned. He must find this Bethan. Plainly, she had a vital role to play in events to come, whatever they may be. It was typical of the Master to have left him to make such an important discovery for himself. “He might have warned me,” he muttered crossly, shifting his foot to avoid treading on a doolie. His own recent experience of doolies leapt to mind and he had a momentary vision of himself being squashed to a pulp beneath a carelessly placed boot. A shiver ran up his spine and brought on a coughing fit. He quickly recovered, however, and focused his attention once more on finding the Keeper, for that was how he had already begun to think of this Bethan, motherworlder.
When he came to, it was all he could do to recall a spell to relieve sore heads. Twice he got it wrong. On the first occasion, he shrunk to dwarf size. Having put that right, he tried another and developed a curious hump on his back. “Oh dear!” he wailed. This was far worse. Why, he could be taken for a Stalker, doomed for eternity to gather souls for the Devil’s pleasure! It really is too bad…
Trying to get rid of the hump proved not only frustrating, but also far more time consuming than he had time to spare. Meanwhile, the headache cleared of its own accord. Eventually, the hump was removed and he was careful to note the appropriate spell in case the same thing should ever happen again. “Ri forbid!” he muttered with feeling and went in search of his young guests.
Outside the marquee, he almost collided with another of the bog folk. It glared at him with such ferocity that poor Ricci was convinced his end had come. He tried to recall a mobility spell, but went into tizzy instead. His heart was thumping so rapidly, he was sure it must give out on him before he could think another thought. Then he remembered he was invisible. Breathing a huge sigh of relief that caused the bog creature to prick up its ears and lean a slimy head to one side, Ricci stepped neatly by and skipped gaily through the trees. His high spirits sank as quickly as they had soared, however, when he failed to find the others. He tried several locating spells but in vain.
He ran this way and that, even spent valuable time endeavouring to establish mind contact before he remembered they were motherworlders and would almost certainly not prove receptive to his efforts. For a good while, he sat and sulked. It wasn’t fair. How could he have been expected to ward against bog folk, for Ri’s sake? They were usually harmless enough. Oh, tales were told how they loved nothing better than to sneak up on unsuspecting travellers and eat them alive. All lies. Well, half-truths perhaps. His master, Astor, the White Mage, was adamant that bog folk only ever attacked when provoked. ‘They mean no harm, my dear Ricci,’ he’d say, ‘They’re really quite docile. But they are like children. They frighten easily. When they are afraid, they strike out.’ Even so, he invariably refused point-blank to enter into any debate about cannibalism.
Ricci weighed up the wisdom of trying to contact the master and laying himself wide open to blame for what had happened against the likelihood of making an even greater ass of himself by relying on his own meagre resources. Since neither option held much appeal, he discarded both and was poised to call upon his dream-self to locate the motherworlders when he heard a muffled cry close at hand. He peered through the trees, at the same time exercising inner vision as he had been shown countless times but never quite got the knack. For once, he excelled himself. At first, he was too taken aback by his achievement to register its effects. Glowing with pride, he finally got around to focusing on the scene ahead.
What he saw shocked Ricci to the core. The boy, Pete, was being roughly manhandled and bundled into a sack that hung from a pole borne on the shoulders of two particularly nasty-looking bog folk. His master’s words returned to haunt him. Worse, they proceeded to deal such hammer blows against his temple that his headache started up again. Bog folk mean no harm, my dear Ricci. They are really quite docile creatures.
“Huh, docile, indeed..!” Ricci exclaimed under his breath. Then he noticed another sack, also fixed to a pole, its live contents far from passive and causing it to swing violently. His inner vision revealed a wriggling youth, bound and gagged, whose blurred features were vaguely familiar. A name stroked his tongue tantalizingly before disappearing altogether. He ventured closer, but just as normal sight returned. Try as he might, he could not regain inner vision. Instead, he could only watch, appalled, as the two captives were hauled off, the butt of much crude speculation as to which might provide the tastier meal.
Something rubbed against his leg. Ricci looked down and saw the dog, Ace, regarding him with such doleful intensity that he felt positively intimidated. “It wasn’t my fault,” he protested, “I didn’t expect anything like that to happen. Why should I?” But the dog continued to fix him with bloodshot eyes full of accusation and reproach. “So where were you?” countered Ricci. “You could at least have barked a warning even if you hadn’t the nerve to tackle them yourself!” The little dog was clearly not impressed. Bloodshot eyes glowing more fiercely than ever, teeth bared, the wire haired mongrel snarled viciously. Ricci took a few steps backwards and promptly sank to his knees in mud. He glared at the dog. “Now look what you’ve done!” he wailed and tried to wriggle, free but only succeeded in sinking to his armpits. “Well, don’t just stand there, do something. Help me, for Ri’s sake!”
Help yourself. he retort passed, unbidden, through Ricci’s mind. Call yourself a magician?
Ricci’s hackles soared at the unexpected jibe. “Exactly who or what are you?” he demanded in his sternest voice. “Beasts are forbidden mind contact. It is the law. Ri knows, it gets complicated enough without any rag, tag and bobtail getting in on the act!”
"Complicated? Now I’ve heard everything. It is simplicity itself. It’s not as if you weren’t shown how by an expert. But if you won’t listen, my dear Ricci, you won’t learn," a familiar voice in his head added scathingly.
“Master…?” Ricci met the dog’s contemptuous gaze in a state of stunned disbelief. The black nose sniffed once, the staring eyes blinked. Then it vanished and Ricci was left once more to his own devices. By now, he was now up to his neck in mud. He struggled to remember a bird spell, thought he’d got it and spluttered an appropriate chant just as the first foul drops of slime oozed between his lips.
The changing process always made him feel dizzy. Ricci closed his eyes willing his entire self to complete the transformation. Eagerly, he anticipated an imminent spread of wings that would carry him aloft and allow him the incomparable sensation of flight. Yet, nothing of that nature occurred. He stopped sinking but that was all. Perplexed and not a little disappointed, he opened his eyes. Transformation had been achieved, yes. But, no, he was not a bird. He was a doolie, one of thousands of little toad-like creatures that could be found almost anywhere in Mamelon.
It’s bad enough that I’m not a bird, Ricci fretted, but a common doolie? It really was too much! For now, though, at any rate, he had no choice and proceeded to hop across the mud flats in a state of growing agitation. He hadn’t gone far when he heard voices to the left and veered in that direction. A doolie was capable of surprising speeds. He must, Ricci supposed, be thankful for small mercies. By now, he had calmed down. Sooner or later, he kept telling himself, he would hit upon the right spell. Even so, he felt betrayed by the Master for not confiding in him earlier. Taking on the form of a canine, for Ri’s sake. Whatever next?
The boggy ground had given way to terra firma, much to Ricci’s relief. While it posed no threat to a doolie, he hadn’t altogether managed to put aside his own natural misgivings. He hopped into a small clearing and hiccoughed with astonishment. “Krills…!” He hiccoughed again. What in Ri’s name are krills doing here? He hopped closer. None of the scaly creatures took any notice and he felt brave enough to squat within hearing distance.
“I only hope Radik knows what he’s playing at,” grumbled one.
“Doesn’t he always?” said another, “Where would we be without him?”
“Dead, and don’t we all know it!” grunted a third.
“Mark my words, no good will come of mixing with bog folk,” muttered the first speaker.
“We can trust Radik,” chimed in yet another.
"Radik, yes, but only a fool would trust the likes of that Ragund!” The first krill spat and a pellet of phlegm narrowly missed a doolie crouching nearby. He guffawed as it scampered away.
Ricci did not stop until he guessed he was safely out of range. The krill’s spittle came at such a speed that he’d barely had time to dodge its path. The slightest hesitation and it would have flattened him for sure. Krills, alive! Who’d have thought it? Ragund, for one, it seems. But Ricci was long past being either surprised or shocked by any dirty tricks his former teacher cared to play. Hadn’t Ragund bedded the Ruler’s sister, Shureen, long before disposing of her husband and his own wife in a so-called accident that fooled no one? Even that, though, paled into insignificance beside mass murder. For that’s what it had taken for Ragund to ascend the High Seat of Mamelon as that whore Shireen’s consort. He’d have declared himself Ruler but was not of the male bloodline and the people would never have tolerated it. Scared of the Dark Mage they may be, but even Ragund recognized he dared not go against the ages-old Law of Succession. As it was, it had made precious little difference. He is Ruler in everything but name, Ricci raged. Ragund was the Devil incarnate. If he hadn’t seen for himself the evil that man had done, he’d never have believed it.
The intensity of Riki’s feelings sparked a flash of insight that lent him access to the very bird spell he sought. He squealed with delight, flapped his wings and soared skywards with a self-congratulatory twitch of the beak. Gradually, he clamed down and began to adjust to his new situation. This is more like it, he squawked at some passing kytes as he circled the dismal landscape that was such a trial to him.
He swooped low and tried to spot the band of krills, but had quite lost his bearings and soon gave up the search. At least he could console himself with the sure knowledge that at least one of the motherworlders still lived.
Ricci cheered up and flew east, keeping as low as he dared, in search of the others.
He had recognized the older captive, of course. Heron had popped up during scryings from time to time. Not only had Astor identified the image in the scrying cup, but he had also had spoken highly of Nadya’s son while warning Ricci to keep the secret or risk expulsion from the Guild of Magicians. The threat alone was enough to put the fear of Ri into poor Ricci whose greatest ambition was to become a fully-fledged mage. Lately, and of far greater significance, Heron had appeared in the seer bowl. A general scry was one thing, but he seer bowl only revealed aspects of Destiny upon which all Mamelon turned.
It occurred to Ricci that he should warn Nadya, young Heron’s mother. She would want to know that her only son remained, so far at least, in one piece. He could have attempted mind contact but Astor had warned against it. “Remember, Ricci,” he had said, with a severity that brooked no argument, “Ragund will be on the alert for anything and everything. It is up to you to thwart and mislead him at every turn not to give him your every assistance.” Ricci sighed. Sometimes he wondered if his master had any faith in him at all.
Making a graceful arc, a winged Ricci headed for Ti-Gray. Soon, he was hovering in mid-flight directly over the Isle of the Dead. It was the queerest experience, this dangling in space. It tickled his fancy to imagine himself lording it over the Dead. Ego, however, nose-dived along with bird image as the latter descended. He could feel the presence of brooding spirits crowding him, pricking the skin, ruffling his feathers. He landed on a branch on the edge of a clearing that appeared to be the only inhabited part of the island. Immediately, he sensed danger. For a start, there was no one about. It was not that late. Mamelonians liked to be active, only resting to satisfy the body’s occasional need for sleep. The place was obviously deserted. He could feel the Dead homing in, their quick breaths making him shiver not to mention unseen hands ruffling his feathers.
Suddenly, he heard it, distant at first, little more than a faint whine that became a low, humming noise growing louder and even louder still, rising to an unbearably high pitch. It had caught up with him before he knew it. Poor Ricci could barely think, let alone get his act together and fly away. He was in no doubt as to the source. It had to be Ragund. But how, when he had been so careful not to let his wards down for an instant although…during spells perhaps? Oh, no. Master will skin me alive. But he dare not fret. Time enough for that later. His dimming consciousness fought to resist a tug on each and every one of his senses, dragging him towards a yawning void. Suddenly, at the void’s very edge, came inspiration. “Ri-Gar, Gar-Ri, Gwennor,” he croaked. How could he have forgotten?
At once, silence fell. Oh, bliss. It was too all much. Although he had never heard of a bird fainting, somehow Ricci managed it.
It was a while before Ricci risked opening his eyes to find himself sprawled on the ground and restored to his own body. He regarded his badly stained tunic with distaste and set about summoning up a change of clothes. A bath, too, he decided. Time enough to resume searching for the motherworlders once refreshed and therefore better able to put the chaos in his head into something resembling order.
Michal, called Mick, had to be his chief concern, Ricci acknowledged. On this point, the Master had been adamant. He dare not access the seer bowl. But a little scrying couldn’t do any harm, surely? Having bathed, changed into a new outfit and even snatched a brief rest, much needed in the wake of earlier exertions, Ricci was brimming with self-confidence. He sat cross-legged and gazed into the scrying cup. Nothing happened. He swallowed a rush of irritation. Why can’t things happen as they should, just for once? So much depended on this Michal…
Ricci concentrated again. Still nothing happened. It really was too bad. At the same time, he could not help wondering why, if so much depended on the motherworlder, his master hadn’t taken charge of events himself. He, Ricci, was only an apprentice after all. Well, more than that, surely? Hadn’t he been with the Master for several lifetimes? Mage status could not be far off. Besides, Astor must have faith in his powers or why give him such an important task? Ricci’s face lit up. He had found the Time Gate, hadn’t he? Not only had he entered and re-entered by it but had also succeeded in bringing the motherworlders to Mamelon. Not bad, for an apprentice. Only, now I’ve had lost them…
Ricci frowned and braced himself for another go at scrying. Concentrating wholly upon Michal, called Mick, he delved into the deepest regions of dream-self, projecting the youth’s image, as he recalled it, upon a surface of vinre that filled the cup. Nothing… He strained with every fibre of his being.
Nothing…
He dived even deeper within himself until he was treading that thinnest of lines between life and death.
Nothing….
All that greeted his innermost vision was a murky greyness. It was like swimming underwater against a powerful current. Ricci shifted his position slightly, redirecting his concentration but a fraction. In one corner of his mind’s eye, a red glow flickered then flared into a splendid flame, but only briefly. As suddenly as it had appeared, it died. Again, nothing… By now, though, Ricci thought he understood. Elves…It made sense, he supposed. Galia was part elf, after all. It followed, therefore, that Michal would be under their protection. And don’t elves always stick by their own with no regard for ordinary folk? Although why they had to wait until now to get involved, Ricci could only speculate. Trust elves to wait for a crisis rather than use their extraordinary powers to avert one in the first place. At least, though, the mother-worlder was safe. He prepared to withdraw.
As Ricci’s dream-self surfaced, it suddenly received a jolt, rocked to and fro for a bit then stilled and remained in a state of delicate suspension. Into the picture floated the female Bethan, called Beth, or someone very much like her. Hair spread in all directions, eyes wide and imploring, she stretched out her arms in a gesture so forlorn that Ricci was moved to tears. She opened her mouth and each syllable that reached his ears was like the purest sound.
Ca-an knows where it flows, sang the voice, It flows to the womb of Mamelon, womb-tomb of Mamelon, tomb-doom of Mamelon. Darkness has fallen. Sword of Light, shine! Let live, let die. Let be, let Ri. Oh, destiny… The song trailed away and the vision vanished.
Ricci’s dream-self continued its gradual ascent to consciousness. At last, his eyes saw the hands in his lap, felt again a caress of dead fingers making his flesh creep. He was back on Ti-Gray.
Exhausted, but exhilarated, Ricci considered his findings. Plainly, Michal’s immediate fate rested with elves, and Ri only knew what they would do next. More importantly, surely, it would seem the way to the Spring of Life lay in the hidden Vale of Ca-an whose precise location in the Purple Mountains had eluded countless searchers lifetime after lifetime. Legends told of druids there once, who performed miracles. Ca-an himself was reputed to have performed the greatest miracle of them all.
Ca-an alone, so tales were told, had prevented the breakaway fragment of motherworld that was Mamelon being tossed into infinity, dragging it into a secure orbit by the sheer power of his own will. He died in the attempt, and the line of druids that followed him continued to honour him as ki, or Chosen One. But that was long ago. There had been no sign of druids, or Chosen as some called them, for many, lifetimes. It was said that Astor, Mage of Mages, had been initiated into the ways of druids, but Ricci, for one, was inclined to dismiss the rumours as idle gossip.
Ricci’s thoughts returned to the vision. His native intuition had been confirmed. Bethan, called Beth, was a Keeper.
Since time began, the first daughter of a first son had guarded the Tomb of the Creator that housed, among other things, the Spring of Life. Whatever her birth name, the Keeper was called Bethan. When slaves mining for gold stumbled upon the tomb, their krill masters struck down its Keeper before seizing and attempting to make off with whatever priceless artefacts their greedy, scaly hands could carry. The thieves had not gone far, according to legend, before a dying Bethan uttered a loud cry, exhorting the spirit of Ri to take revenge. The entire peninsula gave an almighty heave. Its purple peaks began to crumble and the spirits of Earth and Fire joined together in a terrible fury. Avalanches cascaded upon masters and slaves alike, raising a cloud of red dust that mushroomed to such heights it could be seen as far away as Lunis, City of Moons, over a five hundred spans away.
Ricci frowned. He must find this Bethan. Plainly, she had a vital role to play in events to come, whatever they may be. It was typical of the Master to have left him to make such an important discovery for himself. “He might have warned me,” he muttered crossly, shifting his foot to avoid treading on a doolie. His own recent experience of doolies leapt to mind and he had a momentary vision of himself being squashed to a pulp beneath a carelessly placed boot. A shiver ran up his spine and brought on a coughing fit. He quickly recovered, however, and focused his attention once more on finding the Keeper, for that was how he had already begun to think of this Bethan, motherworlder.
Gravely, Ricci
considered various possibilities. It would appear she had fallen into the hands
of neither bog folk nor krills. She could be with elves, of course, but it
seemed unlikely since elves were inclined to be single-minded. If, as he
suspected, they were aiding Michal, that would be quite enough for elves to
take on. Besides, it was well known that
females, other than those highly ranked, were not held in the greatest esteem
by elves. So, she must be lost or…
He remembered hearing rumours only recently that a band of Nu-gen was passing through the bog lands. Ricci winced involuntarily. They were a crude folk, Nu-gen, always on the move. They had no manners, few scruples, and precious little appreciation of the finer aspects of life. Not that he’d ever had much to do with them, Ricci conceded. Nor did he relish any prospect of making up for lost time. Even so, he mused, it may well mean he would get to see the magela, Etta, again.
He remembered hearing rumours only recently that a band of Nu-gen was passing through the bog lands. Ricci winced involuntarily. They were a crude folk, Nu-gen, always on the move. They had no manners, few scruples, and precious little appreciation of the finer aspects of life. Not that he’d ever had much to do with them, Ricci conceded. Nor did he relish any prospect of making up for lost time. Even so, he mused, it may well mean he would get to see the magela, Etta, again.
Although every
Nu-gen band had its magela, they themselves were not Nu-gen. Who or what they were, exactly, Ricci had
never been able to fathom. Certainly, Etta was the complete opposite of Nu-gen
and could be relied upon to provide exquisite company.
An aryd screeched overhead just as Ricci
was about to try another bird spell. He changed his mind. An aryd would have
swallowed whole and alive the cuna bird into which his previous efforts had
transformed him. There was only one thing for it. He must attempt
transportation. “My success rate isn’t half bad either,” he reminded himself
aloud. The sound of his own voice did wonders for his self-confidence and he
resolved to get on with it while optimism prevailed.
It worked.
Soon afterwards, Ricci found himself on the edge of a clearing. Just ahead were numerous tents. Carcasses and mori-ga were toasting on spits, watched over by those Nu-gen who were not gathered in small groups, chatting or tending horses.
Soon afterwards, Ricci found himself on the edge of a clearing. Just ahead were numerous tents. Carcasses and mori-ga were toasting on spits, watched over by those Nu-gen who were not gathered in small groups, chatting or tending horses.
“Why, Ricci,
how nice...!” He turned aside and saw a petite female with white hair piled
high belying an incredibly youthful complexion coming towards him.
“Etta!” he
exclaimed with genuine pleasure as The Magela reached and embraced him. He
returned her hug with interest. Hadn’t they been friends for more lifetimes
than either cared to remember? I’ll say! he chuckled to himself.
“I’ve been
expecting you.”
“You have?”
Ricci was nonplussed.
“But, yes, of
course. You seek Bethan, yes?” The lovely eyes twinkled. “I suppose you’ll be
expecting me to help you as usual?”
“Well,
naturally.” Ricci beamed at his old friend. He’d done it! He was precisely
where he should be. Bursting with excitement and pride, he gave the magela his
arm and let her lead him to Bethan.
He saw Bethan before she saw him. She was engaged in some sort of altercation with a swarthy
Nu-gen who, in spite of striking Ricci as a particularly nasty piece of work,
did not run true to type. This one was really quite handsome after a fashion,
and,to say the least, Nu-gen were not renowned for their good looks.
“My adopted
son, Mulac,” Etta replied to his question even before he had time to ask it. “I
have no idea what is happening here. However, I shall make it my business to
find out,” she added, shrugging off his arm and striding ahead. Ricci grinned
inwardly. He didn’t much care for this Mulac but nor would he wish Etta in a
temper upon anyone. He had never heard her raise her voice for the simple
reason that she never needed to. One
look would suffice to give her the moral high ground.
Ricci felt
almost sorry for the scowling Nu-gen who appeared to be giving Beth a hard
time. Had Etta guessed she was a Keeper, he wondered? He thought it likely. Not much escaped this
magela. More to the point, had Ragund? Again, he thought it likely. But Etta will know what to do, she always
does. Ricci relaxed and prepared to enjoy the show as one hothead Nu-gen
found himself confronted by one cool, resolute magela.
To be continued
Author's Note: Apologies for slightly irregular indentation, bu the blogger template will not accommodate any amount of editing to correct this. I have send feedback to Google on several occasions and am hoping the problem will resolve itself. NB There is a glossary of names and terms for Mamelon in a separate post prior to Chapter 1.
