CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
In Lunis, City of Moons, Ragund, the Dark Mage,
raged aloud at his own impotence. Try as he might, the seer bowl obstinately
refused to conjure up all the images he sought. Of the Motherworlder, Michal,
and the Nu-gen there was no sign. Radik and his she-wolf, Arissa, were clearly
battling against similar odds to himself, foiled at almost every turn. There
was something about the latter that he found disturbing, but was too
preoccupied to investigate further. Of the others, he caught only hazy
glimpses. He sensed – no, he knew
with every timbre of mind, body and spirit - there was kikiri present and
aiding them, but so thwarted was he that he could not even penetrate its
disembodied form to see it, let alone
comprehend from whom or what its origin.
“Gr-r!” he snarled,
‘Someone will pay dearly for this…” Astor, he knew, could not thus frustrate
him alone or even with help from Galia. (What
is she doing back in Mamelon? Does she not know there is no place for her here,
and what of that crone Etta…?) That Astor would know what was going on,
though, he was in no doubt.
Bracing himself for a
battle of wills, he turned his attention to the White Mage.
……………………………….
Finding herself alone
with Radik did not suit Arissa at all. As they watched their companions sink
into the mud, one by one, screaming with terror, she was wondering how to
maintain her presence as Arissa given that Radik would now have no distraction
other than herself.
Feeding into her
consciousness from the City of Moons, Shireen, not unlike Ragund, was in a
rage. She needed Arissa until the
Spring of Life was recovered and she could rejuvenate herself accordingly.
After that, it did not matter whether she lived or died. Meanwhile, a kikiri, she
should be nothing more or less than a dark spirit, barely even that. Certainly,
it was unheard of for kikiri to possess anything resembling consciousness. Yet,
something or someone was not only enabling the disembodied form of Arissa to
communicate but also assist the enemy; working against her, Shireen, her
creator. This is intolerable. Try as
she might, however, she could not track the means by which the kikiri was able
to perform, almost as if possessed of a conscious self. There should be nothing of her, nothing. Ragund’s consort fretted
and fumed, unprepared for his appearance at the entrance to her apartments
within the palace.
“Shireen, my love, I
have need of you.”
“I am struck with a
strange sickness, my love,” she called out, “I fear forces working against me
to which I must give all my attention lest your presence in my company infect
you also. Much as it pains me, my love, my life, I sense we must stay apart
until I have tracked and defeated whatever it is opposing me.”
You,
too! Ragund was furious, but what she said made sense.
There was no point in both of them being rendered useless by…whatever. “Perhaps
a joining of mind and spirit…” he started to suggest, and then thought better
of it.
Shireen heaved a sigh
of relief. It was true that, together, they stood a better chance of defeating
this unseen enemy. Only, that would mean each lowering certain defenses to let
the other in. She could not risk his discovering that he did not figure
prominently, if at all, in her ultimate goal.
Ragund caught his
breath sharply, sensing her relief. For the first time, he found himself
doubting her. As if he had enough to contend with, now he would need to access
her consciousness, never easy with Shireen though she head a tendency to
underestimate his powers and let her guard down from time to time. He, on the
other hand, had never allowed himself to underestimate her. Whatever it is you are hiding from me, I
will discover it. “We will be together soon,” he called
“Soon, dear heart” she
replied sweetly, angry with herself for betraying even a flicker of alien
emotion in her voice earlier as she was in no doubt Ragund had caught it and
would test her grievously to ascertain the cause. “Damn you!” she grabbed a mug
of vinre and flung it at the heavy oaken door. Now she would have to take
action on several fronts; thwarting Ragund, preventing Radik from discovering
the truth and maintaining the unholy trio of self, dream-self and Arissa
persona. As for the kikiri…How, why, who
is manipulating it…?
“Mariel…!” She called
upon one of several servants that also imaged Shireen during her ‘absences’ to
clear up the mess.
……………………………..
On Ti-Gray, Isle of the
Dead, Astor and Gabriel Martin were joined by Nadya, second born of Galia of
Mamelon, mother of Heron and Arissa. Heron, she was confident, could take care
of himself, but she had been concerned and afraid for her daughter for some
time.
“I cannot make contact
with Arissa,”Nadya confided. “All avenues of mind and spirit are closed to me.
I do not understand it. She has made no contact with me for far too long It is
so unlike Arissa,” she told Astor, glancing curiously at their aged companion.
If she was expecting a formal introduction, however, she was in for a
disappointment.
“I agree, it is
vexing,” Astor sympathized, but offered no explanation.
Instinctively, Nadya
turned to their companion, her expression one of maternal anxiety in need of
reassurance. None was forthcoming.
“Arissa is kikiri,”
Gabriel told her flatly.
“Kikiri…!” Appalled and
panic-stricken, Nadya instantly rounded on Astor, “How could you allow such a
thing, why…?”
It was Gabriel who
answered in a dry matter-of-fact manner from which she took no grain of
comfort. “It is regrettable, yes, but we must take advantage of the situation.
Kikiri have amazing powers, they feed on the source of their creation even as
that same source overwhelms and all but destroys them.”
“I did not know that,”
Astor interrupted.
“My dear Astor, even
you do not know everything,” commented Gabriel drily without once averting his
gaze from Nadya, “All is not lost…yet. Your daughter is of the bloodline. As
such, even her subjugated self retains elements of the powers with which she
was born. They are limited, of course, but Arissa is strong, stronger than she
who usurps her physical form could ever have anticipated.”
“She…?” Nadya pounced
on the word, answering the half formed question on her lips without waiting for
Gabriel to confirm, “Shireen, the she-wolf consort to that devil Ragund!”
Gabriel nodded. “But she can be restored to her host self?” Nadya pleaded.
Whoever Astor’s companion was, he was clearly someone of importance, so much so
that she sensed even the White Mage was not a little in awe of him. Astor, in awe of a Motherworlder, it is
unheard of. Not a motherworlder, perhaps, but then who…?
“Win or lose, we can
but wait and see,” said Gabriel with which he rose from a dead tree trunk upon
which he sat and walked away without another word, nor did he look back as he
mingled with myriad shadows, almost as if he were one of them, and vanished.
Nadya looked
questioningly at Astor who seemed in a trance of sorts, his eyes fixed on the
dead tree trunk. She followed his gaze and gasped. Where there had been only
dead wood, a green shoot had appeared. It was the first sign of new life she
had seen for longer than she cared to recall. Mamelon was dying, her children
in danger, and yet Nadya felt suddenly blessed with hope, as real as it was
improbable, as uplifting as the pull of an abyss had been.
Astor tugged at his
beard. Nadya deserved the truth. Ah, but
what is truth when it feeds on lies…? Did his erstwhile companion guess his
own, Astor’s intentions? Possibly…probably…so
what is his plan, and how do I, even dare I, proceed…?
Nadya observed the
White Mage with growing concern until she realized that Astor was contemplating
the possibility of a defeat of sorts, the nature of which she could only make a
wild guess. At the same time, Astor was not one to be defeated easily. It would
take someone or something with
greater powers even than his, inconceivable unless…Can it be? Is it possible? Could the legends of Earth and Mamelon
over more lifetimes than she had seen be true…? Even as she dismissed the thought as pure fantasy, those seeds of
hope the old man had left with her (intentionally
or not) continued to stir beneath an incredulous consciousness. A single
green shoot sprouting from the dead tree trunk seemed to confirm a suspicion
she would not normally have entertained in her wildest dreams. But these are not normal times. If I am
right, there is hope yet for Mamelon and even, she silently prayed… for Arissa.
………………………………………
“Beth!”
The two women embraced,
and it was into the arms of Gail Wright from leafy Tonbridge Wells. not Galia
of Mamelon, that Beth fell, exhausted, weeping with relief. She had not
realized until now just how scared and alone she had been feeling.
“This is wonderful,
I’ll say!” exclaimed Ricci.
“Where is Mulac?”
demanded Etta sharply, earning critical looks from Ricci and Galia alike.
“Where is Michael?”
Gail wanted to know.
“Where is Mulac?” Etta repeated.
Beth reluctantly
withdrew from Gail’s embrace. Even as she did so, she could feel her
Motherworld persona slipping away. “I don’t know,” she told the Magela, and
turned instead, to confront the other woman. “How, why are you here?”
“Galia of Mamelon
belongs here,” said Ricci.
“Galia of Mamelon…”
Beth nodded as memories she never knew existed began to fall into place. “You
are…”
“I belonged here once,
many lifetimes ago, as consort to Michal the Great,” said Galia quietly,
understanding only too well how confusing it was to have a foothold in two
worlds at the same time. In Mamelon, though, and she saw it, too, in the girl’s
strained expression, no aspect of Motherworld persona stood a chance of
surviving for long. Intuitively, she detected a growing willingness on the
other’s part to surrender hers completely. As
a Keeper, she, like me, must feel increasingly drawn to a sense of duty. It
well may be she is content to lose her Motherworld self here. Nor would it be
such a bad thing. So why, Gail asked herself for the umpteenth time do I so fear the same fate?
“Fear not, daughter,”
murmured Astor’s disembodied voice at her ear, “Trust that what will be, will
be…”
Galia, though, was not
comforted. On the contrary, her father’s fondness for stating the obvious so
irked her that she promptly warded against him. To her amazement, the voice
instantly broke through. No, not his voice, but another, not dissimilar and
more convincing by far.
“All is not yet lost,
Galia of Mamelon,” the second voice reassured her, “just as all is not yet
won,” it added annoyingly. “You have well-honed instincts, use them well.” The
voice fell away into the surrounding gloom, her initial irritation with it. On
the contrary, she was left feeling oddly reassured if more than a trifle
disempowered for having no idea why.
Etta gave no sign that
she had followed these mute exchanges and found herself, yet again, contemplating
the impossible.
“Look!” cried Ricci,
pointing excitedly to where the kikiri had reappeared and was beckoning.
“Kikiri…!” Ricci
snorted, “Dangerous, not to be trusted, I’ll say! Where has following it got us
so far other than further on than we were?”
“For once, my dear
Ricci, I am inclined to agree,” said Etta.
“No, no, it has come to
help us,” said Beth to everyone’s surprise. “It led me to you and it will lead
us to the Tomb of the Creator.” How can I
possibly know that? Nonplussed, she hesitated only briefly before heading
towards the kikiri without any further reference to the others.
It was the latter event
that convinced Etta. With first a shrug, and then a deep sigh that seemed to
suggest they had little choice in the matter, she followed Bethan’s example,
Galia hot on her heels if only for want of a better alternative.
Ricci was the last to
make a move, caving in to an unnerving inevitability that he was finding
impossible to shake off. Finding some reassurance by fingering the key around
his neck, concealed less by his tunic than by ancient wardings of which he had
no knowledge, he scurried after the others.
…………………………………..
The rock pile was no
leafy forest. Mick struggled to keep the image in his head, but it was no match
for the pitch blackness and stale air of their surroundings. The only sounds
were of heavy breathing from Mulac, in the lead, and Fred, close behind. Were
they, too, as terrified as he, Mick-Michal wondered? This is no passage to anywhere, it is a tomb. His body suggested
they had been walking for many Earth hours while common sense reminded him it
had been barely minutes.
Mulac pressed on,
silently calling upon Ri to aid them. Just as he was beginning to think the god
of the mountain and all Mamelon had abandoned them to a living death, he saw
it, a pin-prick of light farther on. He quickened his step, but it was a long
while before the pin-prick grew large enough to take on the appearance of an
exit. “I see a way out of here,” he called to the others, his voice so muffled
by encroaching rock they did not hear. They sensed his excitement, though, and
rightly guessed its cause.
Even Fred, lagging
behind, found the strength to break into a trot. He, too, was tired and
frightened, but too angry with himself to contemplate despair. I am
Foss. This is my mountain, my home. Yet, here I am, in its very belly, and more
terrified than if I was at the mercy of druids or worse, krills. Besides,
he trusted Tol. When not wrestling with the anger, he had given much thought to
Tol. I know that voice, but how, from
where…whose? On this matter, however, he had been forced to concede defeat.
Yet, it was as if he stood at the very edge of time, and the voice was offering
safe passage through eternity just as Tol had somehow created the same through
the rock pile…But these were heavy thoughts and Foss were not known for them.
Dear me, no. Intuitively, he, too, sensed the Nu-gen’s excitement and was
relieved to cast at least one burden aside…for now, at least.
Upon emerging from the
rock passage, Mulac barely had time to subdue his he relief and steady his
erratic breathing before taking in his new surroundings with amazement and
wonder. He sensed rather than heard the others emerge while their silence told
him they shared his thoughts.
The unlikely trio now
found themselves in a huge cylinder of sheer rock, more than wide in diameter enough to accommodate them
and stretching upwards as far as the eye could see; to the mountain’s peak, and
beyond where a hint of marmalade coloured sky told them it was daylight
outside. Facing them, a fraction of the cylinder was incredibly smooth,
reaching just above Mulac’s head, and about as wide as…
“A door, it’s a door!” Mulac shouted, clapping
both hands to his ears as the first of a frenzy of echoes all but deafened
them,
“A door, perhaps,”
Michal was inclined to agree, “But how in Ri’s name do we open it…?”
“It is a trap,” sobbed
the Foss.
“Tol would not lead is
into a trap,” said Mulac with such absolute conviction that his companions were
almost convinced.
“Not Tol, the kikiri.
Perhaps Tol, too, was deceived by it?” Michal suggested.
“Perhaps,” murmured
Mulac, contemplating the mirror-smooth surface at which he stood. He turned,
excitedly, to face the others, “But where there is a door there is a way out
so…no trap. Behind this door, I feel,
no, I know, lies Tomb of the Creator
and Spring of Life. What other reason can there be for it?”
“But how in Ri’s name
do we open it?” Michal repeated impatiently.
“Look,” Fred pointed to
a hole in the sheer rock, “a keyhole…”
“Well spotted, Fred,”
Michal gave his friend a hug.
“Yes, well observed,
Foss,” said Mulac, “Only, of what use is a keyhole without a key?”
The subsequent silence
was as despairing as it was deafening.
Suddenly, waves of
indescribable sound rumbled through the mountain…as if it were laughing at
them.
