Varlarsaga Volume 2 - Recovery

Chapter - 35 The Fate of the Daræ.

The wind wailed again.

The toad uttered a deep, croaking sound and in one leap flopped into Corin's lap and there sat poised, blinking up at him. For a moment Corin was both alarmed and repulsed by its fierce, staring eyes and dry, warty skin, but Hagris, as if sensing this, raised her hand to calm him. ‘Take no heed of Bufo, he means you no harm,’ she cackled. ‘He and Moth are no more than inquisitive.’

‘Yes, I see that,’ he replied, recovering from the sudden movement. The moth, which had taken flight as the toad moved, landed on Corin's brow and there settled, fluttering its wings.

‘Now as I was saying,’ continued the Sorceress, ‘the Daræ fathomed the roots of the world, and to the uttermost depths of Varlar came they. How they achieved such was of their contrivance; their wondrous skills they employed, and their knowledge and love of the labyrinthine earth. What their deeds and why, and what they there encountered or discovered, is not all known to us. Yea,’ she nodded, ‘some things are hidden even from us, The Unravellers. Yet this much is known; on a time after the Black Elloræ had submerged into Varlar's bosom, other creatures, fierce and foul, began to show themselves to the world. It was as if they bubbled up through the rents and cracks of the lands, like the black mire that permeates the faults of earth's crust. Mostly those beings kept to the night, and their abodes were caverns or deep, wooded haunts. Still they multiplied, growing rapidly in number, and though they could scarce stand the light of day, they coveted the lands and the life that dwelt in them. They were the earliest ancestors of the gark, the ugush and the ympari; the nugobluk: goblins and imps, as some now name them.’

She paused and rubbed a thin finger down the ridge of her nose. ‘For the most, these creatures kept to themselves as solitary beings, or in small tribes and clans, doing only minor mischief; much alike to the trolls, ogres and stone-gnomes, who appeared soon after. Then emerged the serpents and worms, and many other horrors that, maybe, had lain dormant in stone prison or hollow vastness far from sun and moon; and they too flew the sky, and walked the earth, and swam the seas. And because of their nature, they were enemies to all, each other included, and they preyed upon everything without relent.’

‘Are you saying that the Daræ caused this to happen?’ Corin asked.

‘I am saying,’ replied the Sorceress, through bloodless lips, ‘only what is known. Did the Black Elloræ make, create, release, arouse? This, I know not. But there is suspicion.’

‘You mentioned the stone-gnomes,’ said Corin, daring to interrupt once more. ‘I have encountered some of them and though they appeared aloof and proud and strange, they seemed not altogether evil.’

The Sorceress narrowed her eyes. ‘Did I say all who belong to any race, or clan, or species, are evil without redress, or redeem, or remedy? Did I say that all born to such shall likewise be? Mark these words worth, evil was not always. Evil, like good, must be contrived, must be worked at, must be nurtured. And good or evil depend on much; the toadstool, harmless to itself, may poison others. The wolf and the eagle hunt to kill, and therefore to live. The adder's fangs are venom-filled. Yet he does not die of the poison in his own mouth. Men may turn against each other for reasons that both sides would justify. In the world there has risen, out of virgin innocence, cruelty and danger. Yet also goodness. And that too must be worked, tilled and sown, reaped and harvested. Though the seeds of good and the seeds of bad may grow side by side in an individual, which shall germinate and flourish? Which, rule the other? For, it is a truth that all carry such seeds in them and, if not bent to another's will or device, must choose which to nurture.’

Hagris allowed her eyes to widen, until they appeared saucer-like in her gaunt face. ‘So then, for a time the dark creatures of the depths lurked and hunted, and the world grew to know of them, and became wary; as wary as any other danger should rightly make it. The hare must abide the fox; the sparrow, the hawk. It is only when the pack is aroused that the lone quarry quails. And when the pack is led and commanded, then must need the prey quake and seek flight and refuge. This thing happened. Out of the depths of Varlar arose the leaders of tumult; the Maadim, the Red Ones.’

She paused a moment, as if to allow her words to take effect, then went on, ‘Ah, the Maadim, Terrors of the Under-World. None knew of Their very existence, until They revealed Themselves in Their red, red wrath: mighty-hilted swords ablaze with fire, javelins like tongues of flame and eyes as black and deep as the Pits of Nether, beneath Their blazing mantles. Into the world, came They, sparks showering from Their streaming shrouds, and all before Them fled Their presence. All, that is, save the creatures of the dark; the goblins, aye, and trolls, and many a solitary ogre and dragon. Too, others, numerous others, did the Red Ones gather to Them and recruit for Their own uses. Some came willing, seeking power from the Maadim. Others came yoked as slaves, cowed and bereft of will. Some flocked, unthinking, to the flaming banners. Some, merely waited, and were snapped up and herded away. In this fashion, using the goblins as Their war-lords, did the Maadim raise an army, welded by terror and might, founded on fear and greed, and fixed on the overthrow of the Dominions of the Day: elves and men and their kindred. The Red Ones had set Themselves on the road to Varlar's domination.’

‘But who and what are these Red Ones? And why did They decide to conquer the world?’

‘Who and what They are, you ask? They are Emanations, wild and untameable, charged with the powers of Varlar's core. Stewards and Servants of the Inextinguishable Flame; Blood of earth's heart, bound to the duties of the Choths, Their ultimate Masters, as the Choths are bound to the service of earth's core.’

The Sorceress entwined her fingers so that they knotted together in ever-winding patterns. ‘And yet... And yet, something unfettered Them, filled Them with envy and hunger, charged Them with unpitying greed; a desire to covert all Varlar, above and below, and loosed Them down the long tracts: the halls and tunnels, the vaulted ways over the bridges of abyss, across fiery chasms and rivers of running gold. Up and ever up, They made Their way until They reached the Roads of Adamant; the impenetrable, unbreakable walls of which are made the inner skeleton of the world. And from such impregnable passage did They issue through the doors of Klud-er-Yah, Earth-Spine, and thence into the Under-World where spawned the infant nugobluk, and the milt of serpent, and the maggot of worm. Thence, o'er the dark lakes of Chardon's region, and through the realms of Stone-Bone, must They have travelled, until They passed out of Earth-Mouth and into Varlar's light; there to trouble the world with Terror's reign.’

Hagris halted, as if drowned in thought. Moth fanned her wings upon Corin's brow.

‘Why did the Maadim decide to enthral Varlar, you asked?’ The witch rubbed her elbow, and then looked straight into his face. ‘What provoked Them, convinced Them: what sought Their fantastic powers? What craft, or skill, or genius; what mind, encompassed such task, and accomplished that toil? The answer is hidden to us, even to us. Of old, we The Unravellers, knew much of earth's secrets: of mount and mor, of greenery and cloud, valley and soil; and that within, deep unto the seed, the heart. But latterly, the bones have hardened, of Adamant grown they, and masked in curtains shuttered. A mist, nay, a dark veil, has swollen over the deep world that palpitates beneath Varlar-crust. And what again, you ask, caused the Red-Ones to emerge? Was it the artifice and grace and guile of the Daræ? Were they, in their absolute, dark brilliance, the accidental discoverers? Did they, in innocence, probe beyond their intentions? Or did they intend to go so far? And perhaps further? These questions are not answered. Perhaps they shall never be. All is locked within, as you shall hear, for the story goes on. Albeit, a great convocation mustered in much part over the lands; spewed out in every direction, so that peaceful folk retreated appalled. Men, most vulnerable, fell or fled, whilst the elves steadfastly watched, withdrew and waited. Meanwhile, the armies of the Maadim were on the march, north, west, east and south, under the banners of their four leaders: Sköl the Wolf-shaped, Waroch Fearmonger, Taraka World-trouble Dæmon, and Sharappu the Burner-Lord of Destruction. Into far lands, They ravaged. None, it seemed, could halt Their terror and Their might. Their legions grew as They devoured Varlar like all-consuming fire. Elves, in truth, challenged Them, and for a short time actually held the Maadim back; yet no ground could the Ellor' win. Far to the northern wastes did Sköl venture, and there had the victory over all that dwelt in that vast, wild region. And deep into the west lands beyond the mighty Croh-Carnn mounts raged Taraka the Troubler of Varlar. East thundered Fearmonger Waroch, herding both vassals and soldiery before His frightful flame-spear. South too, drove the Lord of Destruction, Sharappu. Of His forces, some at the end assailed Elfame over the mighty ocean, and as you might know, were defeated. But that would not have been, except for the failing of their powers. Sharappu Himself took possession of all the coast of this North World, and then coveting further, sent forth an army to cross the sea and subdue lands southward, including Elfame. And He looked out and bent His eyes to the isle named Melolontha, that is now called Ravenmoor, and perceived there an ancient abode of the Fanes and a home of men. And He could not abide such to exist. Across the wide-spanned bridge that bound the North Land to Melolontha, poured the forces of the Lord of Destruction. And thence came they to the wrought halls of men, beneath abandoned domains of Nî-Ellon above on the mountain's summits, and there desecrated and obliterated most of men's Fane-inspired beauties and works. They tortured and killed any who dwelt therein, and there let darkness seep where once the halls had joyed in light. This then did the hordes of Sharappu take as their own, perverting it to their use, for the coming of their Lord, at His pleasure. Yet, only, they could not take Nî-Ellon above. For such was the glorious power that abode in the Last-Home of the Æsires, held still by the Guardian-Shades left after the living had departed. Though, mayhap, Sharappu might have overborne even them, had He ever come there. As it was, all of Melolontha, Ravenmoor, sounded alarm at those intruders. Rumour reached the leader of men, Aldîrbirran, and at once he took thought on how to save his people from the menace. Yet time was short. Themion, his son, saw to the fortifying of the dwelling place chosen by his father. That then, was lush-filled with orchards and gardens, though close enough to the sea and it was the site that later the folk who came from far-off named Berry Bay, where they first sighted ruins of that deserted bastion, which they re-built and named Penda. Then though, it was Aldîrbirran's home, the home of his peoples, contrived with all the knowledge of that age. And into it the folk of his flock mustered, heedful of the danger without. All, but for those warriors who set forth to do battle led by their leader Aldîrbirran himself. Behind, Themion was left as guardian to the harboured folk of the realm. Some time later the army was slaughtered, almost to a man, deep within the forest then named Philomel, Nightingale. Never after was it to be known by that name.’

Hagris slewed an eye round to Corin, whilst the other remained fixed upon the wolf. ‘Dread-Wood, it became. And even that name was to be lost. For a name cannot exist, when those who give such are long gone. So it came that Themion and those who herded within their fortress, waited and waited. In the garths and orchards nearby, his beloved Loriandir took her way; for it was not her will to tarry within closed walls. She was with child, an occurrence of rarity amongst the Fanes and one worthy of lauding and celebration. But this time the conception was made of Man, as much as of Færy: part Mortal, part Fane. And with no certainty of what would become of that union. Would the child be an Undying of the Æsaldian, or a courageous human, living into old age and death? If Loriandir's people had known of this, I judge, they would have been both jubilant and vexed; for this was to be a birth to the seldom birthed and at once a transgression of Mortal and Immortal. These lines, it was believed, were dangerous to mingle. Be that as it may, the seed of life was sown already; but whilst Loriandir bloomed with rapturous joy, the cape of doom flowed toward her and Themion out of the north. Precious few came back down the long road that led thereaway. Of those, however, Aldîrbirran was one. Near to his end, he was; so close that he bade Themion swear to cast his body into the sea lest the evil hand of the invaders embrace and defile it. And at his death, mid mort of tears and much woe, this wish was fulfilled, even unto those who followed him on the last path out of Varlar. Into the sea, they were sent. Yea, yet lo! As life does perish, so again it thrusts forth; for life shall not be forestalled or gain-sayed. At least, not at that time of long ago. Nay, Loriandir's child came into the world, into the terrible world of the Maadim's Flame. The child was born, forsooth, as Themion and all that were left of his people were fettered and led away; to be destroyed or enslaved at the will of Sharappu. The fortress was broken, wherein had they last defended themselves; broken and plundered, much as it had been when you and the folk of Elfame came to the aid of Penda's inmates not long gone.’

‘Yes,’ nodded Corin, his mind swirling as if in a mist, ‘and I can almost see it then, when first it was overthrown. And later, when the people of Weldun and Forinth the Fisherman first beheld it in ruins; empty, with nary a trace of those who had once dwelt there.’

‘Can you now,’ said the Sorceress beguilingly. ‘You see it as it was then.’

Corin sighed, ‘Yes, like a pale memory, as if I had been there myself.’

Hagris passed her hand before Corin's face. ‘Heed to me now. There is more to tell.’ She stared into the fire and as Corin watched there seemed to him images springing, live, in the flames.

‘So it was that the child was born to Loriandir the Fane and Themion the man. How and where, you ask? Ahh, here for answer I can but surmise. Though this much is sure, Loriandir Fane Princess, still held powers of her own kind, and at wont used them. Not that they were powers to master, to dominate or to rule by. Nay, these were gentle powers, meek and mild and only to be used where no other in the world might avail. One such was the power to mask herself, to become invisible to any who sought her. A veil, she cast over her and the babe; and Themion, in his despair, could not find her at the end and thus was taken away, convinced that she was lost forever to mortal death and with her their child. But this was not so. Loriandir kindled the life of their child somewhere deep in wooded thickets, beyond the dangers of the enemy. For companion, she had but one, sprung from a race now growing to maturity, but then early in its awakenings. These were the Dwerro; the Zwerge, as they name themselves. Dwarves, you might call them, and they are the longest lived folk, excepting the elves alone. Of the seven branches of those peoples, the first and mightiest was that of Mothsognir's line, then Duron after him and Lofar's folk next. The Stone-Gnomes are descended from Gwireb and are related. But it was one, from the Father Mothsognir, that Loriandir graced. This was a Dwerro named Grani. In truth Grani was a maiden-dwarf, or Dworro as they are known, and she was of great age, even for a dwarf. How she had come to be of Loriandir's liege can only be guessed; for though the Dwerro are industrious workers together they are also solitary individuals at times: aloof, secret, and proud. Still, I digress in the telling.’

Hagris drew her raiment about herself, and as she did she seemed to shrink in size, until Corin felt that she might shape-change at any moment. Instead she continued, ‘The Fairy Loriandir gave the babe into Grani's care, a thing not lightly done, for this child was precious, more so than any might have guessed. The veil of invisibility, Loriandir wove upon the dwarf and a sleep, deep and ageless, she wrought for her baby, so that it might not awaken until the spell be lifted. Then, away she bade Grani hasten; away to some hidden place of safety, there to await her return. It was a terrible decision, yet one which had of need to be made, for Loriandir meant to pursue Themion and to save him, if the chance availed. And so they parted, Loriandir to take the road that would bring her by fell and fen to Themion, and Grani with her precious burden, in misty stealth, first back to the deserted walls of once proud men and thence on in her Lady's wake.’

The wolf Bozkirt licked his jaws and lifted a great paw to rub against his white teeth, as Hagris paused. ‘Alas,’ she went on in a whisper, ‘both paths were fraught with doom, though of diverse making. Loriandir's way took her through land befouled by goblin rabble, burnt and gutted wastes. Philomel itself was become a dark and nightmare place, where each tree was growing to a twisted parody, and each shadow held menace. Yet through that forest, where lurked wild beasts and wilder creatures of Sharappu's harness, she fled unseen. Mists were her vestments: a glimmer, her eyes, fluttering were her hands, her feet but wisps on the wind. None detected Loriandir the Fane as she passed the innermost mountains beneath Nî-Ellon, lost home of her own people. None even caught hint of her as she crossed the mighty bridge over ocean's expanse that linked Melolontha to the world of the north.

Meanwhile back to Earth-Mouth triumphed the conquering hordes, driving their slaves, fettered and wretched, before them. But only the unyielding were especially prized for the Burner, Sharappu. Others, perhaps mercifully, died along the way. Of those who survived, Themion of men was one. It was at Earth-Mouth, Croh-Yah, that the folk of Varlar were mustered; herded in from every direction to be thrust down into Stone-Bone, down between the Gates that opened only one way, thence to thraldom or death. From the east came Waroch and the blood-stained legions of the Nugobluk. From the west, over the Croh-Carnn Mountains, came the crushing armies of Taraka, or at least some part of them, bearing the spoils. Out of the north came tribute from Sköl, though few survived that arduous journey. From the south the yoked and bound folk, prisoners of Sharappu, awaited upon Aileen, the broad plain that lies before Croh-Yah; there contemplating the bowels of Varlar, where lay the unknown realms of fear. Thus were they gathered, even as Loriandir searched and drew nigh. Yet what could she avail against the Maadim? Her strengths and powers were infinitesimal, matched to Theirs. Still, she prevailed upon that scene, at loss to do more whilst Sharappu and Waroch remained about Aileen. From a distance, she perceived Themion, standing shackled like a beast of burden, though not cowered as were many about him. And she saw others that made her weep: elves and men, dwarves and gnomes and creatures of the wilds, even unto the proud eagles of the peaks; bowed, wingless and beakless. But now time grew perilously short. A great dark was descending upon the plain, when at last she decided her course. Already, the masses were passing into Earth-Mouth, as she drew her mask of invisibility about herself and swiftly awayed to the broad levels of Aileen plain.

The Maadim: Sharappu and Waroch, were gone into the depths with Their captives, leaving the lands thereabouts blackened by Their scorching steps.

At length Loriandir followed, catching up the last of the pressing throng. Through them she slipped, enshrouded as she was, nimbly by-passing nugobluk and ymp; weeping as she stopped to gaze piteously into the unseeing faces of those she dared not reveal herself to, nor comfort. For only one could she pray to win from the multitude, and already he was far ahead beyond the yawning gates of Earth-Mouth, down into Stone-Bone. Yet still, she fancied, there was a chance and so she followed in hope.’ Hagris ceased her tale and sat stroking the wolf's grey fur, as if she were brooding.

‘Unknown to any,’ growled Bozkirt from somewhere deep in his throat, ‘there was one Power left dwelling within the boundaries of Varlar. This was Valandir the Drotnar; a World-Lord who had tarried on the furthest shores of the seas in the furthest west. With Him were Fanes, readying themselves to depart the North World. They were the last of all, save Loriandir and the many who still lingered in Elfame ere its sinking. Of those with Valandir, were several akin to Loriandir; indeed, one being her Father Engilmar, mighty amongst his peoples. It is said that he was loath to leave the perilous lands, hoping that Loriandir might yet come to him. But might it also be said that the Lord Valandir, great of His Drotnar kind and the Æsires, had hesitated there long before, for reasons of His Own. Perhaps it was that He, in some way, portended the future. And it is believed that He, in a form fair to the eyes of elves and mortal creatures, roamed the world observing and searching for signs of unrest or danger. Be that as it may, so then came a rumour and a rout of refugees out of the east to the very edge of the foaming ocean; and thence did Valandir the Drotnar learn of Taraka the Maadim and the approach of the Red-One's host. Now Taraka, it seems, had no forewarning of what lay ahead in His fiery path and, filled with exultation at His conquests, had sent back a proportion of His followers and their enslaved foes to Earth-Mouth. So it was that the reduced army of this Maadim met headlong with the Fanes, led by Engilmar, in wrath that his daughter might be lost to him. And as these adversaries grappled with each other, so did Taraka the Maadim meet with Valandir the Drotnar. Fierce was Their battle; the roar of flame-spouts, smote by the quenching wind-breath of World-Lord. Taraka was deadly-fell, but the Drotnar summoned water from the sky, and caused it to deluge the Dæmon's host; thus quelling a greater part of the Red One's strength. Then, with bolted lightning for aid, Valandir rushed in and overbore Taraka, throwing Him down with a mighty blow on His buckler, so that the Maadim grew afraid and unconfident of His own powers at the onslaught of what He then perceived to be a World-Lord. Then Taraka fled away, heedless of His slaughtered followers, and flew as a ball of rolling flame, back towards the refuge of Earth-Mouth, with Valandir and the Fanes pursuing!’

The wolf sank down upon his forepaws as Hagris stirred. She beckoned and the toad leapt across the flames and landed on her black-draped knees, whilst the moth spun away into the shadows.

‘Yes, Bozkirt speaks true of the events that took place so long ago as we know them; though to us they are as yesterday. It is strange how fates are woven and interwoven, and how they are unravelled. Too, it is strange how the smallest thing may have bearing on the greatest. The streams of Varlar flow and intermingle now, as they did then. Taraka the Maadim reached Earth-Mouth even as Loriandir reached Themion, throwing her cloak of invisibility over him. But she had already journeyed far, yea, even across Chardon's lakes, and both had passed through the open Doors of Earth-Spine: Klud-er-Yah. There, upon the roads of Adamant were they reunited and there the two turned about, Loriandir leading Themion by his shackled wrists, stumbling blindly against a tide of others; those benumbed, without hope, lost to the outside world. The pair were nearing the Adamantine Doors, when Loriandir perceived the blazing fire that was Taraka, looming like a vast, flowing cloud upon the furthest side. Even in their hidden state they shrank back, crouching beside the road, so that the Maadim might pass them by, unknowing. But that was not to be. For once Taraka had crossed the threshold of Klud-er-Yah, He halted within, there to throw the Doors closed, ramming home the massive bolts and bars and wedges that held them shut, so that Valandir and the Fanes should not follow.

And there is where our knowledge of the Under-Land dims; for once those Adamant Doors closed, so then did darkness fall over almost all beyond them. Somewhere within, the Black Daræ, the Maadim and those ensnared or enlisted by Them, crowded. Without, halted by the unyielding portals, Engilmar and his Fanes could do ought to open them. Not even with the awesome powers of Valandir the Drotnar, could they be made to shift. Perhaps it was that locking spells were piled behind them like unseen mountains, though that can only be guessed. Be that as it might, Valandir, confounded and thwarted, set His own Powers to work; for He determined that if it were not possible to force entry, then rather than an impregnable fortress, so should the lower regions become a prison to those within. Bitterly He wrought a mesh of enthralling strength; as if the spells He cast were iron-banded, and He wove and wrapped and weft and warped the wires of His enchantment around and across the Doors of Klud-er-Yah, binding them from outside, that they might never move again. For it was decided by He and the Fanes that if none could gain access, then none should ever be allowed to emerge and cause havoc in the world again. Did I say bitterly was the task undertaken? So it was, and much grief was heaped upon the fetters of tangled spell-chains that webbed Earth-Spine's Doors. And if there was a mountain of fear and hatred founded on the locking spells inside, so there was the weight of earth's mightiest Powers outside, holding them shut fast. At last, when the labours were finished, the Fanes and Valandir rested and grieved for all those of theirs and mortal kind lost beyond reach or hope. And particularly did Engilmar, Loriandir's Father, mourn. For he perceived his daughter to be amongst those trapped within; and this, as you have been told, was true. She and Themion were there, caught without way of escape, amidst the vast vaults and weems of Varlar's bowels; and there, destitute of hope, to abide until the earth be broken asunder by some Higher Force, or until discovered and thence ruined and corrupted by the Enemy.'

'Now,’ said the Sorceress, with an upturned finger that caught the fire's flame and held it, candle-like, upon her nail-tip, ‘the tale winds on. Afterward, Valandir, despairing of what had come to pass, yet seeing the ruination of the world avoided, took leave of Engilmar and his brethren; for they were wounded sorely by the loss of Loriandir and took their way again to the western shores, never to return. Yet Valandir, Nimrod of World-Wrights, Seeker, Hunter, and Peace-Bringer, lone of Drotnar left in Varlar, had still works and deeds to do. It was He that came to Melolontha, surveying its desolation and the evils that dwelt there. And it was He who hounded them into their burrows and set free the innocent creatures enslaved. It was Valandir who sent the nugobluk shivering and slinking deep down, so that the few who survived His wrath took many a sun's turning till they dared look upon the blinding light of day once more. It was He who shepherded all remaining creatures of fair-kind away from the besmirched places that still linger, contaminated in great tracts where the Lords of Fear and Their armies ravaged.’

Hagris bent her finger towards Corin and the darting flame from its tip seared close to his face. ‘You and your various companions on this journey hither, passed o'er those drear lands along the coast into regions left, for the most, untouched by the shadows that fell across Varlar in those distant days.’

Corin nodded, silent and fascinated by her words, and in his heart he felt a mixture of fear and chill-awe well up, mingling with curiosity and wonder as she continued, ‘It was Valandir who bestrode this North-World, bringing tranquillity in measure to the blasted realms and restoring order with His awesome but gentle being. It was this last of World-Orderers who thence perceived the menace that still dwelt far away in the wastes of the northern ice lands. This was Sköl, the Wolf-Shaped. She was Dæmon-Queen of the Maadim; wind-wrapped, snow-bound, where She dwelt and ruled in Shanilar, Land of the Wolf-Queen, and Her palace lay deep inside the North Territory wherein dwelt the Jutunn, the savage Ice-Giants who alone could abide its solitude and dangers and whom She had made Her vassals and servants, subservient only to Her. But Valandir knew it as haven for more than they. He knew it had become Her lair.

Already the creatures of the wilds were herded away: bear, deer and snow-leopard, and the clime grew colder as Sköl grew in power, the better to over-reign those regions. Yet in the end, enduring fearsome turmoil of snow and hail, and evading the Jutunn themselves, Valandir sought and found the She-Wolf. Then those Two met and grappled and fell at last, locked together, through the frozen crevasse of Varlar-Crown; Yah-Tenki, Earth-Eye. As if on wings of air They fought, twisting and twining whilst They plummeted and the thickness of ice-water, turned boiling, swallowed Them up. After, only ever did huge steam bubbles seep to the surface of new-made glaciers, boring holes through them. Both She-Maadim and World-Wright Drotnar were lost unto the darkness of Varlar-Blood, the layers outside of Stone-Bone. And there must lie enclasped in unwithering grasp, without lease, without relent, without chance of hope. And there, at almighty cost, came the loss of the last of the Drotnar; brought low for the safe-keeping of Varlar. Yet with Valandir's downfall there was also that of Sköl, scourge of the Up-wastes of the north. After, the white lands drifted back into slumber and became again Jutunn Realm. Ahh yes, so it all was. Varlar trammelled, caught fast, hung upon a delicate scale. Inside lay the hidden Powers of Earth's might: volatile, untameable, irreplaceable, uncertain. Outside, Varlar, still lush and growing; but fixed with a taint that brooded evil. Between both, was a narrow balance. The hinge was Klud-er-Yah, Earth-Spine, and the Adamantine Gates; those massive portals held by combined strengths of Good and Evil. Or so it would have seemed. For not all of one is without the other. On the surface, there still remained those devoted to the Maadim, and within the Doors of Earth-Heart, it is surmised, abided others not then broken from Varlar's welfare.’

Hagris flared her fingers and sparks ignited at their ends. ‘Heh, such endeavour, such design, such inimitable grand folly. And all this still leaving entrails tangled, unresolved.’

The Toad scrambled down from her lap onto the rough boards of the floor, out into shadow. ‘And so, you see,’ it began in a croak, ‘Varlar is now thus, undisturbed for long time. But the scale of balance is ripe to shift either way. And either way to the better, or the worse, errech?!’

Corin dared a further thought. ‘Then why am I called, told this? Why me? What can I afford in such immense plannings?’

The Toad croaked, ‘Hee-ruppt! Have you yet not gleaned?’

‘No not,’ Corin replied, though suspicion entered his words.

‘Then listen further,’ said Bufo, and the creature was gone into the blackness of the hut.

Moth, as a brown veil, returned fluttering, and stole down over Corin's brow; and for the first time he heard Moth's thoughts. ‘I am soft and delicate. Do not brush me. I mean unharm. Let me think in you.’

Aloud, Corin said, ‘I will not...’ and his words failed, without purpose.

Moth fluttered to his nose and thence to his upturned fingers. Her voice was not Earth's-sound, but Earth's-vibration, and Corin knew it without hesitation.

‘The tale is not finished,’ she whispered on the faintness of her wings. ‘It was spoken of Grani, of the Dworro, who kept and protected Loriandir's new babe; part Mortal, part Fane. And early it was said that the paths of Loriandir and her child were twained and thence sundered. Now, be that which is known, heard. Grani the Dworro, and the babe, both unseen within Loriandir's spell of mist, made away to the last abode of men; the fallen walls of Themion's citadel. There Grani sought, midst rubble and desecration, a cradle; not an ordinary cradle, but one fashioned especially for the coming of the infant. This was wrought by Loriandir and Grani together. With loving hands and hearts, the craft of Dworro and the artifice of Fane were combined to create a thing of wonder. Now this cradle was of simple wood; seed treasured by Loriandir, scion nurtured in soil, tree-grown of root. And thus, reared to living timber, had they cut the very soul from the forest itself. Simple wood did I say? Aye, but of secrets unto they alone known. Able to give of a gentle softness, not from grained pollard or hardened stump, but of pliant bough, for trunk-heart was its bedding and sleep-comfort its inner recess. So Grani came upon it, unharmed amidst the wreck of ruin, and it was unsullied.’

Moth drew her wings together and, in a sudden flutter, darted away, following the toad into the shadows.

‘And there,’ murmured Hagris, events that ensued grow dim. For many a passing year afterward it could only be guessed that Grani and the Fane-child had been scented and taken by a wolf or goblin, whilst fleeing northward to the mountains and the great bridge beyond. Yet that was not so. Somehow, Grani and her precious burden were unable to follow after Loriandir. Perhaps it was that with Loriandir's internment, the cloak of invisibility failed, and that the Dworro was pursued far from her course, into the eastern peaks. Be that as it may, the dwarvess and the living treasure that she bore slipped from all knowledge and vanished without trace. Even we, The Unravellers, knew not where, nor was it likely that we might find out, for our minds and thoughts were turned elsewhere amid the tumult of Varlar's warrings. At any rate, Grani and the Fane-child never passed beyond the mounts named Tumberimber by the settlers who later came across the southern ocean in a single ship. Forinth the fisherman it was, who gave them that name, and in time to come, was it he who tramped away, alone and in old age, to seek what might lie beyond those high and formidable peaks. And to die there amongst them, after ordeal and hardship, was his fate. Yet he did not die for nought. By accident, or by guided hand, did he discover a marvellous thing, though mayhap he knew it not. But out into the light of day, released at long last from Grani's death vigil, Forinth bore his greatest triumph. Maybe he was meant to come there and find such thing, or perhaps it was sheer chance. That, for you now, Master Corin, is of little concern. What does matter is that the casket, shorn of its veil of unsight, had emerged once more upon a wind-swept ledge, high on the seaward eastern cliffs of the Tumberimber. Grani, long since departed the realms of the living, lay within the stone of the mountains; returning to that stone from whence she and all her folk had sprung. Perhaps she died of starvation, or old age, or maybe a riven heart; but to her last she had protected that within her keeping, hiding it from all sight. Almost too well was that done, until Forinth happed upon the dwarf maiden's last resting place and the casket at her side. Did Forinth see within? Perhaps. He died with his hand close by. Nonetheless, a mighty service had he rendered; for the Fane-child still lived and breathed in deep, deep slumber, unchanged from day of birth. And there on that ledge, the dead man and the living child remained, until one day Bili the Jackdaw chanced to pass that way.’

Hagris paused, chuckling. ‘Oh yes, Bili makes many journeys far and wide in search of this and that; and then, as now, he gathered and gleaned. A bird of much use is he.’

‘But he is you, isn't he?’ Corin asked in wonder.

‘Is he?’ Hagris laughed again. ‘Perhaps, maybe; as you will have it.’ A light sprang up in her dark eyes. ‘And maybe I am none of these things and maybe I am all. It is yours to judge.’ She clapped her narrow hands together and at once Bozkirt arose and padded from the flame-dimmed room. ‘Now,’ she said, ‘comes the last of this droplet from Varlar's history. This is the way of it. We were made aware, and in our awareness, had this casket and its precious burden brought hither in the talons of an eagle. For long did we observe and study and wonder at the baby-fair that lay in unwithering sleep, yet nothing could we do to arouse it. It seemed that the spell binding the child was impenetrable and unalterable, that only the Mother might shift such potent charm. And, of course, Loriandir was beyond reach; far beneath in Stone-Bone. None other was there who might have broken that sleep. Valandir had fallen, embracing Sköl in the distant north. So it was that the Unravellers waited, and brewed within our minds various solutions, incantations, runes and staves and unspells. Though none would avail to awaken the sleeper.’

‘But somehow that child was woken!’ exclaimed Corin, leaning forward as if a mist had been lifted from his eyes. ‘I am that child,’ he said fervently.

Hagris gave no sign. After a time her eyelids dipped until the eyes beneath became mere slits filled with fire-red reflections. ‘And what prompts you to believe that?’ she questioned slyly.

‘Why...many things,’ stammered Corin. ‘Why else am I here? Why have I lifelong heard the callings of Voices; Voices mixed and muddled, yet always beckoning me on. Why did the Elves so readily accept me, though many seemed puzzled, as if there were some things strange about me. I have also felt that way, though I knew not why. But it seems to me now that everyone, every creature that I have ever known, has seen in me a difference; a difference that makes them curious, or distrustful, or...’

‘Or loving,’ interrupted Ergris, who suddenly appeared at Corin's shoulder. ‘It might not have occurred to you before now, but what if all folk see you differently? What if, to each, you act and appear so that as one might see in you only a lazy dullard: oafish and stupid, another might see a bright, nimble young man; another, a Prince of noble bearing. And another, a useless dreamer, an elvish wanderer, or an enchanter, a spell-binder and spinner.’

The Herb-leech stepped before him, her long tresses tumbling down to the floor around her bare feet, like a living gown. In her hands she bore a white cup, fashioned it seemed at first of horn. Then, as it glowed, pearly-pink in the light, Corin saw that it was shell. She held it out to him. ‘This is my gift to you,’ she said, her voice that of music. ‘It will sustain you now, and for all of your living days. Drink deep of this draught, for within are things that shall not vanish, and from them will you draw endurance and courage.’

Corin took the vessel and pressed it to his lips. The liquid within foamed like an ocean wave, then receded whilst he drank, until it turned tranquil and silent. In its taste were nuances subtle: barley and wild berries, spices, grapes, herbs, and the tincture of roses. Tinges of honey and nut and currant all blended together with the smell of sea and morning dew and mountain air.

‘It is wonderful,’ he said, draining the cup and setting it down. Almost at once, he felt himself bursting inside, and had a sudden desire to be gone, to be on his way.

‘Yes, but you do not know yet whither is your way,’ said Ergris, as if Corin had spoken aloud.

‘That is true,’ sighed he, sinking back.

The Herbess laughed lightly. ‘Never mind. You shall know that shortly. First though, you must finish the answer to the question asked.’

‘Well for one thing,’ Corin replied, thinking back to the past events of his life and absently noticing that this was the first time he had seen two of the witches together, ‘there was my imprisonment in the dungeons of Penda and my rescue by you, or at least by the jackdaw.’

‘Go on,’ smiled Ergris, whilst Hagris sat unmoving and impassive.

‘For another, there is the tale told me by my Father...well not my Father, but the King of Ravenmoor.’

Hagris nodded slowly, saying, ‘The tale of how he waited alone one night for news of his first child, and how he heard a fluttering in the darkness of his hall that caused him to look up, whereby he caught sight of a small bird perched on a strange basket.’

‘Aye,’ answered Corin in a whisper. ‘Of course you know of that time, for I was the babe in that basket; the unknown waif brought to that place by you, or your companions.’

Again Hagris nodded. ‘You were the child sent there by us.’

Corin shook his head in bewilderment. ‘But why was I given to the King and Queen of Ravenmoor, and how was the sleeping spell undone?’

For answer, Ergris began to sway, slowly revolving around the fire. To and fro she went, to and fro, her feet sliding, her arms outstretched, hands poised, her voice rising.

She ceased revolving, and stood still and silent.

‘I have heard that, or parts of it over and over, many times,’ Corin murmured.

‘A portion of the binding, sleeping spell,’ said Hagris. ‘It was long, casting back and forth seeking some knowledge, some lost art, to learn the secret behind Loriandir's spell. And for long time it was fruitless. Fruitless, until the simple meaning dawned upon us, for we had searched depths unneedfully. The answer, when it came to us, was both absurdly plain, and yet most fair of glamour; an enchantment fay and logical. It was as a hidden lock, binding shut a door, that all could or should see, if only they opened their hearts.’

Ergris, who now stood with her hand upon the Sorceress' left shoulder, continued, ‘Even then, the answer was of no avail, for though we guessed the key, we had not the lock.’

‘Yet lo, I cast my mind into the future, and there glimpsed a faint hope.’ It was Sayga the Seeress who now spoke, coming forward out of the dark to rest a hand upon the cowl that swathed the head of Hagris. ‘I foresaw a time when folk again would dwell in Melolontha, renaming it Ravenmoor,’ said Sayga. ‘I foresaw generations pass, village and thorp grow, and the bastion of Themion rebuilt and named anew as Penda. I foresaw evil's resurrection and the coming of a new doom, not only for Ravenmoor, but for all of Varlar. Yet too, I foresaw something else. Something vague and distant, though if it could be achieved, hope might still spring, born and mustered out of sorrow and despair, to struggle forth. It began with death; the still-birthed child of a king and queen of mortals, Erryldene and Belda. That child, a son, never to become the sixth king of the realm of Ravenmoor; the parents barren thereafter, without heir, without heart.’

The fire, rising, played over the three faces that Corin now found gazing intently at him.

Hagris spoke. ‘So it was that we could do ought more but wait and wait, until Time's allotment. Then you were sent from our keeping, not before or after, but exactly at need. Erryldene, astonished at the appearance of bird and babe, had no moment to do more than wonder. Almost at once, news was brought of his own child, still-born, and his queen, swooned and unknowing. No other but his loyal leach and counsellor was aware of the tragedy. In the king's royal grief, what must he have thought to do, but take the mysterious, sleeping new-born baby, abandoned so it seemed, claim him as his own, and place him in his wife's arms. And thus it was. As the expectant mother awoke from her ordeal, so did the child awaken to the mother's caress. And there was the secret broken, so, "Lest the world, repaired of dying," which really means salvaged by Valandir and His sacrifice… then further, "Sends a Great-One, spell untying." The simple ingredient to awaken that babe; the last free abode of Themion combined with the instant love of innocent motherhood. The mortal, Belda, unknowing, bliss-filled after frightful struggle, awoke to find her child, a king's son, beside her. The love of an honest soul, in total belief of the birth, the touch of one who deemed herself mother, was the key to the hidden lock. The door was opened. The Great-One was indeed a mortal, a mother, the Queen Belda herself, possessing within her motherhood all that was needed of Man or Fane to break Prince Mylor from ever-sleep.’

Corin drew his hands to his brow. For a moment his senses seemed to revolve without reason. Then he said, in a voice small and tremulous, ‘So, it was You who sent me, as a baby, to Ravenmoor, where I grew up a King's son, a Prince; until I ran away and found the Elves.’

The three nodded solemnly; ‘That is just as it was,’ said Ergris.

Corin said, ‘I see now why it was that You waited all that time. There was only a time, that time, no other, for such event to take place. Without that time the thing could not have been accomplished.’

‘Not that I could foretell,’ said Sayga. ‘The meaning of Loriandir's spell we gleaned, though the means to unmake it came not until the unfortunate still-birth of a royal child in the last abode of Themion, Loriandir's mortal love.’

‘Then why did you call me hither?’ exclaimed Corin, clapping a hand to his thigh in mystification. ‘And why did you call me at all? Could you not have simply come and taken me, rather than let me suffer through years of hardship and bewilderment; years of ridicule, shame, loneliness, and finally, imprisonment.’

‘We might have,’ replied Ergris evenly, ‘yet Sayga saw it otherwise.’

‘I did,’ said the Seeress. ‘I saw that those passing years were necessary. In some part they were a training, a mortal training true, though needed. You were taught much of the goodness, and the badness inherent in mortals: their pride, their hatred and fear and folly at the unknown, their suspicion, their unsounded courage, anger and impatience, the mocking humour and accusation that mortals thrive upon, when one of their number is outcast, the loyalty and honour that even those, regarded as lowly, possess. You were taught the strengths, and the weaknesses, of they who come, dwell, and pass; swift as water uplifted to the sky, to be rained down and flow again in another stream.’

At this, Corin was reminded of many folk out of his past: his foster mother Belda, a strong woman, though kind and soft, his foster-father Erryldene, a King who had attempted the good and wrought instead only long-lived anguish. And there was Reethian, the grizzled old tutor; knowledgeable and sly, and now dead. As dead as proud, boastful, daring, cruel, valiant Arleas. And there were the simple folk: Spiggot the landlord of the Old Oak, and his daughter Flora, the Goosie family and the Jug and Kettle man Finikin, and many others. From all these, had Corin learned, one way or another, the minds of men. And it was an apprenticeship of sorts.

The Seeress smiled, as if she knew. ‘Ay, lessons you learned under stern teachers. Still and all, you experienced the life of Man's contrivance, lived it from day into long day, lived it for the most alone, lonely. And it seemed to you that you were somehow different, a sour fish in a fair pond. Which, of course you were, in a way. Though a fair fish in a fouling pond, might be as true. Fish look different above and below the water, though they be the same. No matter. Men took regard strictly to that which was your surface; clumsy, coddled, lily-livered, or so they thought. They perceived little of your heart and temper; that other gentle part of you, your kindness and compassion and love of life and things living. Those are attributes men, in some part, do possess, yet so do the Æsaldian, in far greater measure. Men saw in you only what concerned them and treated you accordingly. Lost to them, was another you; the you that was ever beckoned and drawn away. Not drawn, mind you well, in total by we, the Ap-peloth Witches.’

Corin gave a start. ‘Do you mean that yours were not the only Voices that I heard? Have I, as well, been lured by others?’

Sayga laughed softly. ‘I believe you have. Though I cannot tell which are for the good and which are for the evil. That shall be one of your tasks.’

‘Tasks, tasks,’ Corin questioned. ‘What tasks are these?’

‘Tasks or gifts, labours or loves. Ye shall decide,’ murmured Hagris, stirring. She laughed, comfortless. ‘Tortures, maybe, might better fit such burdens as you are to confront. But those are, for the most, such as you may accept, or turn from at your will. It shall be, always has been, yours to decide wholly your path. Thus did you turn aside with your elvish friends, at a time you deemed needful, and thus did you help save Ravenmoor from ruination. And yet, you forsook those same friends and parted hence, to travel beyond Lang-Shan. And again thereafter, shucked your companions, even to the cat, and to your treasured elvan robes and gifts in order to come, nigh naked and soul-bared, to us.’

‘And never have I known if I have made a right decision at each baulk,’ Corin sighed.

‘That is all part of the tasks before and behind you,’ returned Hagris. ‘You must decide, for yourself, the way through the maze.’

‘Did I succeed in the past?’ he wondered aloud.

‘There are fine variations between success and failure. You may never know until the end whether you chose well,’ said the Sorceress.

Corin blinked, nodding in the smoky light, ‘And where now? Where, and what am I to be tested against?’

‘Ahh, let us not search too much Sayga's seeing,’ murmured Ergris, beguilingly. ‘Remember that her visions may hold many alternatives, dependant on whim or will, or chance.’

‘Rather,’ said Sayga herself, ‘let us pass to talk of that which you are now aware.’

Corin rubbed his forehead, somewhat perplexed. ‘Well, it seems that I am the child of Mortal and Fane, and...’ he faltered a moment, grasping at this new role, ‘my true Mother and Father were imprisoned long ago, deep within the earth, and there...’ he halted, pondering, as another thought struck at him, ‘they are still there, still locked away!’

‘They are still there,’ Hagris agreed, ‘over Varlar's ages. Perhaps Loriandir yet survives as thrall and slave, or flitting free, maybe. But Themion must long ago be lost.’

Corin's head and heart sagged. ‘Of course, Mortaldom. Mortaldoom...alas. Then what am I to do, if my Mother is alive beyond aid? Is it she who calls to me? Is her voice mingled with those, The Voices?’

‘Perhaps,’ Ergris replied, ‘amongst the thronging of many. But for now, if you shall accept, here is your task; you are to go on, to seek an answer long unasked and forgotten. It concerns the peoples of Ravenmoor, of Indlebloom, and so forth, and will greatly effect those of mortals in all the world.’

‘And it will have meaning of singular import for the man Menkeepir,’ hastened Sayga.

At this, Corin's thoughts seemed to fair bounce about his head. ‘Of course!’ he exclaimed. ‘I had nigh forgotten it was you, Sayga, who prophesied the events that took place before the birth, and after, of the Brothers three; the Lords of Mendoth. You, I guess, who set Menkeepir to travel this dangerous road, together with someone he knew not, but need trust at first sight.’

‘True,’ answered the Seeress, ‘and now, with aftersight, do you challenge such? After all, you were that stranger.’

Nonplussed Corin could only answer, ‘It might have been better that noble, frail, Menkeepir should never have met me.’

‘Then he should not have had chance to fulfil all that within his boundaries and abilities,’ countered Ergris, with a passing smile.

‘Enough,’ groaned the Sorceress, standing between Sayga and Ergris. ‘We have spoken overlongly, Varlar is held up and scorches to move. Tasks for you, Corin, as you would name yourself, lie before you in plenty. Or rather, you might name them choices, and in choosing therein, might further tasks await. Henceforth, I will tell ye this much, the fate of the world might well rest upon you and your errantries. There are those aplenty to help or to hinder you. Discerning between, again, shall be one of your tasks. Of the main, you must think long. Go on, if you dare, and seek as Ergris has spoken. Seek the road of knowledge, for you are but an apprentice to the world's treasures and hopes of fulfilment. Search out the Ones of Wisdom: Man or Elf, or other. From them, even those of Evil, will knowledge be gained. In valour, go to the aid of the needy. Never shirk, though life itself depend. Remember, within Varlar's bosom lies world's hope, and that will be with you always. Your torment is to attain the impossible. Your quest is to find some way. Your salvation is to release the enthralled, Loriandir amongst them. Your riddle, to be first. For there are others, working already to open the Doors and allow the Powers within to rush out and engulf Varlar. They, are waiting. Beyond the barriers, They are waiting. It cannot be seen whether the Maadim are subdued in Their desires upon the world, but still, outside, work minds of terrifying strength and powers. Things are stirring, working toward the breaking of Valandir's prohibitions and the overthrow of Varlar.’

Hagris came toward him. ‘And it is, maybe, that you are the key; the only one, young master, who may avert such disaster.’ She threw an arm, bony and black-veiled, about his shoulders.

The fire failed. Coals steamed, hissing. Her voice came, hissing, ‘You are to go now, knowing the little that you know. We could fill you up to the brim, if we so desired...If you needed such. But you do not. Not yet. A small knowledge, a little truth, take ye from this place, and with it shall you feed your mind.’

Silently, Ergris and Sayga stepped into the gloom, and in their passing it seemed to Corin that they shrank and dissolved into vague shapes: wolf and toad-like.

The Sorceress grunted. ‘From them,’ said she, ‘you have already received two gifts; the first, the potion of hope and courage, the second, a chance of insight. If they are to grow and burgeon, it will take your long labour. Thirdly, comes this gift.’ Her wasted eyes met Corin's and held them time over. Then, she lifted up her free arm and across it, there draped, lay a sable cloak. ‘You are henceforth to wear this,’ she said. ‘It is to be your sign; the symbol that absorbs all light, indeed draws unto it that which shineth in the darkest doom. Take the robe, and get you gone out into Varlar's existence.’

She drew him to the door, nudged it open, and sent him through.

Outside, Corin stood, stock-still, dazed by the day that greeted him. Behind, the door groaned shut. He peered down at the garment clutched between his shivering fingers. After moments beyond time, he pulled the cloak across his arms, shrugging into it. The cloth was at once warming. It appeared to be composed of finest wool, spun through with silken thread, and the clasps were of black metal, or maybe glass, it was hard to tell. Without thought, he tugged the black hood over his head and took several steps forward.

Then, he halted. ‘Which way to go,’ he wondered aloud.

‘Shall you take one more advice. One more gift?’ asked a tiny voice behind him.

Corin turned to find the child...the Enchantress Clothyl, smiling up at him; her deep blue eyes framed by wild, golden hair.

‘I thought I had been given my leave,’ he muttered.

‘By the others, yes,’ she replied, ‘yet there is still my offering.’ She opened her hand and held forth an object on her fingers. It was a small, silvery spiral of metal, wrought of twisted strands, beautifully woven together.

‘What is it?’ Corin asked.

‘It is the fillet designed as a crown for a babe; thus is it open so that adjustment might be made as the child grows. Loriandir fashioned this in the long ago, before her child's coming, and the Dworro Grani kept it within the casket. Now you must take it to wear, for in this trinket are qualities and properties of great worth.’

‘But it is much too small, even opened to its widest, to fit my brow,’ smiled Corin.

‘Never mind. Still shall it make you an armlet gracefully strong. Carry it with you always, as a vambrace and a proof of our meeting. After all, it is yours, now.’

Corin took it from the tiny hand. ‘Thank you. I will bear it on my right arm, that it may guide my touch in all that I do from this time on.’

Clothyl watched patiently whilst he slipped the silver-twist across his wrist to his forearm, where it fitted neatly.

‘It may need guide you in fair deed and sword deed,’ she said, in the softest voice.

Corin pulled the bell-sleeve of his new cloak down over it. ‘My hope is not in wielding weapons. Not when elsewise might avail.’

She took his hand in hers and, on tip-toe, drew him down to kiss his cheek. ‘There is wisdom in such thought. But even the meekest must bare the blade at need. Perhaps there, is the truth; never to violence, lest all else be beyond hope.’

Corin arose, uncertain and somewhat abashed by the manner of the child-witch.

‘Ahh then,’ she giggled, ‘never forget that Clothyl is more than she appears. An Enchantress knows much of glamour.’ As if to prove her reading of his thoughts, she tumbled her yellow hair, and out fluttered Moth, to perch upon her brow, there batting its wings. She raised her arm, and set a straight finger pointing steadily into the east. ‘There is your road now, Corin Black-Robe.’

He took a pace, then hesitated. ‘But my companions, I have left them far behind in the west. They shall not know of my passing. Will you tell them, if they chance hither?’

Clothyl shook her head, laughing. ‘Have no qualms. All will be ordered for a time hence. Yet if you like, take not my advice and heed your own mind. Fare thee well. The world lies at your feet and at your heart's bidding.’ She turned and was gone through a gap in the hut wall, as if she had never been.

A timber cracked and squealed in the wind, which had got up again. A rude tile flapped about on the roof. Suddenly Corin felt very chill and alone. No more was there entry into that abode of witches. The door sagged aslant, and the rotting hut lurched on its posts like a besotted oaf. The wind moaned through the ruin. Now he felt without, in every sense. He stumbled away, pinching himself to awake from this dream, whilst over and over running his fingers around the vambrace that his forearm now bore.

Enshrouded in black, he walked toward the cloud-engulfed sun where it loomed eastward, close to night. Once, he turned about to stare back at the dim horizon, but whether by a trick of the light or not, he could see only that empty line. The shack had passed from sight.

The sun dipped lower, waning in its journey.

Corin trudged on, deep in thought, wondering at all befallen him, staring down at his dusty feet as they trod the cracked stone, the stone and pebble, the grained stone that went beneath. And on and on until the grains turned to sand and marram, and the slow-builded drifts bound together by islands of quitch grass and straggling heath.

He looked up bemused, and saw before him a stretch of sandhills, and to his right hand a vast water crammed with reeds. A voice, a distant hail, assailed his ears. The sound of hooves, ponderous and slow, drummed behind him. He halted and spun about, though the vision before his eyes swung but quarter pace.

When they found him: Menkeepir, Mysingir and the others, Corin was drawn up, arms folded deep within a long, black cloak; standing on the shores of a brack, reedy sea, where the water murmured across the shingle at his feet.

Chapter 36 [next]