The Last Stitch (The Chronicles of Eirie: 2) (10 page)

Chapter Sixteen

‘Prophecies? I would prefer not! Some soothsayer has practiced his art and now my life is turned upside down.’

‘Your life was turned upside down the day your real mother left you by the sea.’

Phelim was silent. He had not yet had time to wonder what his life may have been if he hadn’t been mislaid. Did he have a father, brothers and sisters? Had his mother met her bane?
Ah, but what does it matter anyway?
His life was the one Ebba gave to him when she held him in her arms that fateful day and he was without doubt better because of it. ‘To a point,’ he replied to the woman and expounded his most recent thought.

‘An interesting choice of words, Phelim.
‘That fateful day’
you say and yet what you don’t realize is that one cannot change Fate. It is immutable. In the stars.’

‘Spare me. Would you tell me my future has been reduced to a bit of augury or card-turning?’

‘No. More serious than that. Listen to me and hearken. Every individual in this world has a span of life that they are destined to live, some with more clarity than others. But no matter what, it is written. Most never find out their Fate or if they do, it is too late. And if they are fool enough to try and change it, they destine themselves toward the proving of a prophetic end. It is the way of life. Unalterable. The prophecy that hangs about you, Phelim, will help you find
what
part of your life is truly your destiny. You shall discover what you fear is lost.’

‘Do you mean that I will return to my mortal life?’

‘Ah, your destiny is for you to discover. I am merely here to offer you some timely advice. It is the souls that propel you toward your destiny. Deny it till you are breathless but it will not change. It is also your destiny that you shall be honourable. A promise was made to a dying woman that the souls would be taken to Jasper of the Faeran. Even then the Fates were conspiring to push you toward your destiny. The prophecy, seen also by Jasper, is that you are to be saviour and perhaps even avenger.’ The pale face and the rich voice settled over him like a dream.

‘It sounds like a bard’s heroic tale,’ he scoffed, ‘and I can’t envisage how I could possibly fulfill the lofty ideals of which you speak.’

‘You are halfway there already, Phelim. But in the doing, you have emasculated Huon, and the huntress Severine will not forgive you lightly. Your advantage is that Severine does not realise
you
have
the souls but she is clever and may deduce it eventually. Trust me Phelim, when I say that you shall take the souls further, that you will do what you must and that your reward will be finding what you thought you had lost.’

Phelim sat digesting the enigmatic
revelation. ‘With respect, Lady, you have said a lot and revealed little. Methinks I could have gone on without your words.’

‘I think not. You had forgiven Ebba and were as like to turn around. And then you would have delayed everything. Better that I encourage you to accept what you cannot change and urge you to use your wisdom in moving forward and to move forward with speed.’

‘Then I shall, albeit unwillingly, and you should know I do this only because Ebba promised a dying woman that it would be done. Show me the way off this island and I’ll be gone. The sooner gone, the sooner I can return to my home.’

‘Patience
, Phelim, son of Ebba. You must rest first.’

There was a rustle and Phelim guessed the woman levered herse
lf to stand. However, looking up he saw nothing beyond the ever deepening night sky and the mesmeric twinkling of stars.

‘Phelim, I will tell you one more thing. There are two men of whom you should know. One is the Dark Haired Man. He exclusively serves the baser side of Faeran. He can abduct the heart and mind of any he chooses and will encourage them to mount behind him and they shall never be seen again. And there is the Red-haired Man, who for no reason other than he is a good man, will protect those mortals that he finds. You shall
meet them in your journey and I bid you to beware because the choices you make at that time will determine the path you follow to your destiny.’ The woman gave a sigh as gentle as a night breeze. ‘You must be tired. Sleep now. Let the soft dark of night erase your troubles and let the light of the stars and the moon protect you until you wake. Good fortune.’

Phelim heard a shivering sound but as he sank into a dreamless sleep, the vast indigo heaven wrapping around him, he would never know if it was skirts he heard moving away or merely the blowing of a welkin wind, rattling the leaves and buds around him.

Far from Hy-Breasil, a horse stampeded in blind panic; tripping, stumbling, leaping logs and ditches with all the power of huge legs and massive hindquarters. All the while the blood flowed in a stream down his shoulder, past his knee, to cover the fetlock in a shining, sanguine stain. The flap of skin, muscle and tendon was covered in dirt and the first throes of infection began to course rapidly through his body.

He stopped when he smelled water and drank, shivering and sweating. He would doze, a fetlock resting, head turning unconsciously to bite at the injured shoulder. The pain would wake him with a start and he would bolt again, aware of the flash of lightning and the growl of thunder in the far distant cauldron of
the Styx. This was the horse that though valiant and loyal to Adelina, trembled on the heights of the Celestine Stair. Thunder likewise induced deep-seated anxiety. Fear goaded him on and by the time Phelim had sunk into sleep, the exhausted horse was as far from the hateful storm as he could be. He stood shaking as the once proud head hung low, his breath gushing through red, distended nostrils as the dawn light softly crept amongst leaf and tree.

Adelina had woken with a disquiet of her own well before the dawn. Her eyes had ripped open and her heart pounded like Ajax’s hooves. Immediately she recalled Luther’s attack and leaped from the bed, rushing to the window. ‘I can’t stay here,’ her fist crunched into an agitated ball and she pounded the windowsill. ‘I have get away, get Ajax and run for my life. I must!’ Her voice bounced around the dark room.

‘Well, I must say I am pleased you have at least come to a firm decision, Adelina. Like I said, your equanimity has been surprising.’ Gallivant appeared by her side at the window. He noticed she was trembling. ‘What’s amiss?’

‘I don’t know. I was in a dead sleep and I woke suddenly as if the Hunt were at my bedside and I can’t shake the feeling. I have to get away, Gallivant.’ Adelina cast a miserable look at the hob. ‘And I don’t know how.’

‘Ah, well I think I may be able to help. I have had a thought you see.’

Oh yes,
Adelina remembered with barely suppressed despair.
The hob has had a thought.

‘Now let us not stand in the dark. Light the lamp.’ He bounced around
cheerfully, passing her a glowing taper from the hot coals of the hearth. With awry fingers, Adelina held it to a wick in a small table lamp and then sat down, for indeed she felt weak. Gallivant, ever positive, offered a suggestion. ‘Write or sew, Threadlady. Occupy your mind, for I have a task I must undertake but I will be back as soon as I can.’ He looked at Adelina. ‘Shall you be alright?’

She nodded her head faintly, hair falling everywhere. And before she could ask where he must go he was gone, leaving a space for loneliness and agitation to fill. She picked up a pen and a piece of
washi
paper and began to write. Every night of her stay in this wretched prison she had spent detailing her journey and secreting it behind the embroidered stuff of the robe. It was in truth one of the few things that gave her any satisfaction - that every single thing that had happened since the day of the Stitching Fair had been laid on paper, like cobbles on a pathway, all the while leading to Severine’s downfall. It was what she hoped with every vengeful fibre of her being. She let the pen fly across the page.

Severine had
slept like a baby until she was woken by a servant’s hand scrabbling at her door. Candle-like fingers of light poked under her drapes suggesting dawn was close and she bade the creature enter. A message was passed and her howl echoed throughout the lodge, causing trepidation in all living things, so like a banshee was its pitch. She hastily dressed and flung herself along the corridor to the Gertus’s room, throwing open the door to a dim space lit only by a candle which had slumped in a melted heap on its holder. ‘And?’ Her voice froze the air in the room.

The goblin pulled his tatters tighter round his body and began his hand
-washing. ‘Well Madam, I have pursued the puzzle all the night. Wracked my brains I did. All the while the stones caused my fingers to tingle and I thought they were tell...’

‘GERTUS. In the name of Behir, will you get to the point.’ She stormed across the room to the table by the window and picked up first one rock and then another. ‘You had best have something for me, goblin, because I have just had a message from an Other of your ilk, as illmade and wanton as yourself.’ She threw the rocks down. ‘The great and invincible Huon has lost my souls
, Gertus, lost them! And now I am forced to chase after them myself. Either that, or you get me to Faeran where I can find a soul surfeit, where I can use the ring and help myself to all that world has to offer.’ She turned quickly to the cowering goblin. ‘Do you see now? I
must
have the details.’

The obsequious hands rolled over and over as the
oily voice began. ‘This stone, Ma’am, I felt it till my fingers ached.’ He fingered the pitted brown rock. ‘It is volcanic. From some deep basin that has become dry and bereft of moisture, somewhere where the sun has baked and burned and boiled and where some acid has etched pits and craters in its surface before Time even began. There is only one such place in Eirie, milady and that is in the Raj.’

‘Of course,’ She leaned over the rocks, her voice losing some of its edge. ‘It is Fahsi. The town is built over a dried out basin
, I remember. The river changed its course hundreds of years previous.’ Severine smiled, ivory teeth bared, eyes glittering and a sharp tip to the red lips. Suddenly the day had hope. ‘Gertus, I am proud of you. And?’

‘Now the grey stone.’ He held it out to show her. ‘See how perfectly ovoid it is. How smooth? It is like the touch of Faeran silk on the skin. And see the paler undulations of colour melded through the stone. This, Madame, is a sea-stone. Washed and rolled by aeons of waves a
nd as such, one has to think which coast has such grey rock. Trevallyn is walled with sandstone on its coast. Veniche has no real rock as we know it. That leaves the Pymm Archipelago and almost all the islands have a granite shore. Except for one.’ His expression of self-congratulation drew his chin back into his neck and his eyes became sly, the lips stretching into a thin smile.

‘Indeed. And that would be?’ Severine humoured him. Perhaps he was worth the weight of precious gems she had turned his way.

‘Foula, Madame. Foula is as grey as a stormy sea day. Remember the story of the Mermaid of Foula? In order to have a soul, she was told she would have to renounce the sea. And when she couldn’t do that, she sobbed and sobbed and her tears stained the rocks and pebbles of Foula to the grey they are today.’ Gertus held the rock to the candle, the soft grisaille shining in the glow of the wick.

‘Oh my friend, you do very well.’

Outside, the forest birds had begun to sing and the light around the edges of the window drapes was stronger. Gertus preened like a cock, his ego climbing like the comb of said rooster to stand erect and proud. He smiled a self-important smile.

Severine picked up the third stone. A pale yellow rock that left a faint ochre stain on all who touched it. ‘What causes this, Gertus? It flakes like...’

‘Paint, mistress. And I think it is just that. Underneath is a red clay-like substance, maybe from bricks I am guessing, and this too is only a guess. It is from Veniche.’

‘An inspired guess. And why not? We have Fahsi
in the Raj, Foula in the Pymm Archipelago and now Veniche. We have only to isolate the building; a not impossible task I think. But what about the fruit stone?’

Gertus swallowed. His mistress seemed mellow enough but she was an expert at the deathly turnaround. ‘I don’t know. Someone’s dinner perhaps?’ He laughed at his own joke but swiped the grin when he saw his mistress’s expression. ‘At any rate, if one assumes that the Archipelago, Veniche and the Raj are the sites of Gates, it would be fair to assume the last would be in Trevallyn. As to the stone representing this? It may, it may not.’

As Gertus expounded so Severine’s mind had racketed ahead. She didn’t really care if there was a gateway anywhere else now she knew there was one in Veniche. It would be a matter of a day to find the building with that distinctive ochre paint. And then? Suddenly Huon didn’t matter because if Lhiannon and her little boat made for Veniche, then she made for the Gate. A glut of souls presented themselves as if they were served on a platter.

She turned to her gnome, fingering the swathe of damask curtain as she did so. ‘Ah Gertus, what a help you have been.’ She smiled. ‘I can’t imagine how I would have done any of this without you.’ The gnome washed and re-washed his hands, excitement at just rewards lubricating the exercise. Severine flicked the drapes open with a rapid swish so the sun streamed in, a golden shaft pouring along the floor, a chasm of brilliance that had the gnome screaming as it touched his feet. With excessive speed, a stain of grey sped up his legs, hardening, solidifying. His horrified expression froze in a layer of stony resin, to be screaming for posterity.