The Fall of the Dagger (The Forsaken Lands) (16 page)

The mist surrounded them, but it drifted by in strands, sometimes thick and opaque, sometimes parting so she glimpsed random snatches of unconnected places and people – a clump of reeds beside a stream, the glowing coals of a blacksmith’s fire, a woman winnowing grain. Their progress was tentative, edging forward when they saw a safe path to take. Every time she thought they had arrived somewhere, the scene vanished and she saw another place, glimpsed different folk, heard other sounds. There was no sign of a shrine-oak anywhere.

Just when she decided that it was all completely random, she saw a child in front of her a few paces away. Shock raced her heart.

Heather.

Her distress immobilised her.

Heather, the way she had been just before she died. Beautiful, happy, with an intent expression on her face as if she were fascinated by what she was seeing.

“
Heather?
” She spoke the word, but whether aloud, or just in her head, she wasn’t sure.

The child did not move. Of course she wouldn’t. She wouldn’t have heard.

Sorrel stumbled forward, or thought she did, wanting to gather her daughter into her arms, but when she reached out, her fingers felt nothing to clasp.

No, wait. She was still standing holding hands with Saker and Ardhi. Heather was not there.

Yes, she was. But she was still just as far away.

I didn’t move. I just
thought
I did
…

Heather was sitting as she had been, still looking at something that had her full attention. Everything about her was familiar: the tilt of her head, the way her hair wisped around her face, the curl of her lips when she smiled.

No, something’s wrong. She’s dead.

But I can
see
her.

She strained to see what had caught the child’s eye. There were vague shapes in the mist. Children playing, perhaps. She thought she caught the sound of childish voices. A coloured ball, bouncing. When
one of the children missed the catch and the ball tumbled towards Heather, she laughed. A boy came running to get it, a transparent figure. He did not appear to see Heather. As he gathered up the ball, he shouted at one of the other children, and Heather jumped, startled.

Sorrel closed her eyes tight, biting her lip hard.

Heather had been deaf.

An age passed, or no time at all. Saker’s hand in hers, gripping her hard, and his voice, saying, “It’s all right, it’s all right.”

When she opened her eyes, she could see him and Ardhi, but nothing more except the enveloping mist. Heather had gone.

Someone said once that in the land of the dead, the blind can see
…

She swayed, her head spinning. Ardhi let go of her hand and slipped his arm around her shoulder instead to give her support. She leaned into him, glad of his strength. “What happened?” she asked in a whisper. “Where is this place? I saw my daughter!”
But she’s dead.
“Are we dead too?” Stupid question, but nothing was making sense any more.

At least neither of them mocked her for asking it. “I don’t think so,” Saker said calmly, but she knew him well enough to see that he was unsettled.

“I didn’t see anyone I knew,” Ardhi said. “Just places and people.”

“I saw Heather. She was happy, watching other children play. She didn’t see me. She didn’t hear me. And – and there, where she was, she wasn’t deaf. But she’s
dead.
I think – I think I saw her in her afterlife.”

Neither of them spoke.

“Va-faith believes that you can choose the place to watch the living world from your afterlife,” Saker explained for Ardhi’s benefit.

“Maybe we came too far,” she said.

“You mean, you think we
died
?” Ardhi asked.

“No.” Saker’s denial was flat and convincing. “I think I know what happened to the shrines now. Or at least what happened to this one. I think the unseen guardian’s power took it and the surrounding land
out
of time. Time in our world moved on, but the shrine stayed still, stationary in its own time, which was the hour – the moment – that it disappeared.”

Shaking with shock and trying desperately not to think of Heather,
she considered his words. “So… we went to the wrong place in time. We don’t belong here.”

“No. And we’re not in the right time for the shrine, either,” Saker said. “We went too far back.”

Pickle it. It was me. I took us all to the time of Heather’s death
.

“So how do we get to the shrine from here?” Ardhi asked.

“We try again,” Saker said. “With the feathers and the dagger, as before. But this time you try to think only of me, of holding on to me, of staying with me.
I
will concentrate on the shrine and its keeper, because I’ve been here before. That might be enough to take us there, in the right time frame.”

She shivered again, and Ardhi bent to murmur in her ear. “You can do it. Grip our hands tight and concentrate on that hold. Empty your mind of everything else.”

Nodding, she took hold of their hands, closed her eyes, and thought of nothing except the clasp of the two men who had come to mean so much to her. A moment later her head was spinning, and the world around her was a blur of colour and sound and touch and aroma, all of it one amorphous mix.

S
aker drew in a deep breath and turned his whole being towards the destination he wanted. He knew before he began that it was problematical: he had only visited the Hornbeam shrine once, and that was more than five years previously, when he’d first started working for the Pontifect. It was hard to remember the exact details now, and the shrine could have changed. All he knew for sure was that it had vanished at a time when it should have been in leaf, so that was how he tried to imagine it. He closed his eyes and built a picture…

The vast oak tree, centuries old, its limbs drooping, its roots wide and thick. He recalled the man who was the shrine keeper, named for plants as most were: Wintercress. No, Wintergreen. Vervain Wintergreen. At least he wouldn’t have altered much. When someone was that ancient, there wasn’t much that could age. His memory of Vervain was of skin already crinkled like a withered leaf, a back bent like a wind-blown bough, hands gnarled, neck loose-skinned like old bark.

Air rushed past, clammy dampness misting his skin, and he knew he’d changed where they were. He opened his eyes.

Wherever they had landed, it was not the right place. He couldn’t see it properly because of the thickness of the mist. In consternation, he whipped his head around. Nothing.

Damn you to beggary, Saker, what have you done?

All he wanted to do right then was panic, but Sorrel’s hand clasped his, her trust implicit. Yet the ternion was doomed if he couldn’t find a way out of this for them all.

Think, you beef-wit. Think.

They
had
moved. From the feel of the air against his face, they
were still moving. Hunting for something that approximated to his recollection.

His memory of the shrine must have been faulty. Neither the witchery nor the
sakti
knew where he wanted to go.
After five years, what did you expect, you daft dewberry?

They were moving around in an infinity of time. Va, but it was cold. Wrong season. Depth of winter. He thought of warmth, and felt the move from winter to spring against his skin, but there was still no visible oak, no shrine, no people.

Sweet Va. Help me. I am so lost
…
Don’t panic, just decide: where can you get a better memory from?

The answer was obvious.

The eagle.

The bird knew exactly what the shrine looked like
now
. A bird from the Summer Seas which could drop into a tree that was somewhere in a different time. A Chenderawasi bird.

Reaching out to find the connection, he released something of his humanity in order to drift free so he could be drawn to an alien mind. It made no difference if he opened or closed his eyes; he saw nothing. He lost track of time. A few seconds? Days? He had no idea. All he could be certain of was that he was holding on to two people who meant the world to him, and he must never let go. The ternion, linked not just by magic, but forged by the courage and integrity of his companions. Sorrel, as close to him as any sister. Ardhi, the brother he’d never had in his own family. He was their only hope; they were his anchor to reality in a place which had no time.

When he groped through the gloom of his mind, he found the link, travelled down it. And was there, in an alien, Avian mind once more.

From the bird, through time, to his body, he tightened the link to bridge the interval, building it stronger, pulling himself closer. Nausea swept through him like a cresting wave. He spoke to the bird, ordering it to perch on his shoulder, and felt the lurch through his being as the eagle launched itself from the tree and dropped down, bringing the two periods of time together into one whole. His stomach heaved and then quieted. The taloned feet hit his shoulder, propelling him forward a step, then pinions brushed his head as the bird strove
to balance itself and fold its wings. He opened his eyes and heard voices. Laughter. Shouting in the distance, chatter close by, men and women.

And then silence. The three of them were standing near the edge of the massive oak and the eagle was settling its weight on to his shoulder, digging its claws into his skin. People, far and near, were staring at them, rooted in place by varying degrees of shock or consternation.

Vervain Wintergreen had told him that the age of the tree was at least a thousand years. Unlike many shrines, this one did not have any walls. As its lowest branches dipped to the ground at the point furthest from the tree trunk, the sheltered area resembled an upside-down bowl with the butt of the oak at its centre. Entry was through a break between massive boughs.

“We’re here,” he said, letting go of the hands he held. “You can open your eyes.”

When he’d visited the shrine before, it had stood at the edge of an outcrop of huge granite boulders half buried in a meadow. On the side closest to the town there had been a row of houses, but most of the tree had jutted from the boulders into a wild meadow, beyond which was a forest. He could still see the boulders and the meadow, and a little of the forest, but the houses had vanished. At the limits of the meadow everything became blurry, as if he was looking through fog. Edges of the closest trees and bushes became indistinct, those further away dissolved into the mistiness. He had the unpleasant thought that if he walked outside the visual limits, he too would lose definition and start to forget who he was, or where he was. He’d be caught in a moment that had no end.

Hurriedly, he returned his gaze to the settlement. Everything appeared makeshift, temporary. Buildings of unmortared stone, or of untreated wood and reed thatching, had been constructed against the granite boulders. A well had been dug for water.

The scene reminded him of the hovels outside a city wall. Cleaner and less noxious, certainly, but too many people living in too few buildings, all with an aura of unspoken poverty. Pigs and cows and hens and humanity, all cheek and jowl – not what anyone associated with a shrine and its emphasis on nature. There were children as
well, so he guessed that some of those who had hidden themselves here had brought their families with them. Even so, he doubted the whole settlement could have numbered more than two or three hundred folk.

Someone yelled for Vervain, and a moment later the ageing shrine keeper stepped out from between the drooping branches. As Saker had expected, he had not changed much in appearance over the years.

Nor had the old man mellowed. He took one look at the three interlopers and cried, “By the oak! Who are you?” His tone was larded with suspicion and alarm as he looked from one to the other. Then, directing his attention to Saker, he added, “I remember ye. Rampion! You’re the witan got hisself nulled out on Chervil Moors.” He snorted. “Didn’t hear your witchery was one of linking, though. To a bird, eh? That’s a strange one.”

Saker released his hold over the eagle, and it lifted into the air to perch in the oak instead.“Greetings, Keeper Vervain. These are my friends, Sorrel Redwing, and Ardhi from Chenderawasi.”

Vervain switched his attention to Sorrel. “Ah. Heared about ye from the oakmarrow over in Melforn. That’s a rare bewitching ye have.”

Sorrel blinked. “You mean from the shrine keeper? Marsh Bedstraw?”

“Oakmarrow is an archaic word for unseen guardian,” Saker said. His mind raced as he began to think things through.

“Archaic?” Vervain snorted. “It’s the
true
word!” He stepped over to Ardhi, the gaze from his deep-seated eyes shrewd. “But you? You’re a strange blood.” He reached up and placed his hand flat to Ardhi’s cheek. “Born by the sea and sea-borne. More the Way of the Flow than of the Oak, methinks? And your bewitching’s a right odd one. What’s your skill, lascar?”

“Climbing.”

“The higher the height, the deeper the fall.”

Ardhi smiled faintly. “Tell me something I don’t know,
bapak
.”

“That’s a word of respect, I hope, young man.”

“In my land, the elderly are always respected.”

“Hmph. Beware of those high places. A slip kills.”

Ardhi merely inclined his head politely; it was Sorrel who leaped to his aid. “Is that a promise or a warning, sir?”

Vervain shrugged and turned back to Saker. “We were alerted about Va-forsaken witcheries, and such is he. He’s neither trusted nor welcome here.” He signalled to several of the men who had been watching them from nearby. “Burr,” he said, “shepherd this fellow yonder. Disarm him, and confine him well.”

“He’s here to help us!” Saker protested. “I suggest you listen before—”

“And perhaps
you
are gullible,” Vervain snapped, contempt layered over every word. “Va-forsaken means what it deems. He’s not one of us. Take him away, Burr.”

“I can vouch for him,” Saker said, and laid his hand on his sword.

Vervain’s eyes flickered to the weapon and back to Saker’s face in a glance that was dangerously unfriendly. “I am hardly likely to have confidence in an unfrocked cleric who was once nulled for blasphemy and apostasy. Especially one who’s thinking to draw a blade in the sanctity of a shrine.”

Va, what has happened while we were gone? Shrine keepers were never like this
… “Do not harm him or you will face my wrath,” Saker said. Pox on’t, Vervain’s archaic speech was contagious. “My power lies not just in my sword,” he added for good measure. As the man called Burr came forward to grasp Ardhi’s arm, Saker stepped between them. “Treat him as an honoured guest.”

Burr glanced at Vervain for confirmation. The shrine keeper hesitated, then nodded. “We are not savages.”

When Burr and another man led Ardhi away, Saker saw the kris sheath at his belt was empty. Sorrel was holding her tote close to her chest, her face blank.

“You must tell how came you here,” Vervain said, addressing Saker. “I’d not thought it possible since the shrines were locked.”

“I’d not thought to find them so, after returning from a journey across the face of the world,” Saker said in bitter anger. “Over two years absent, and we come back to this: a land where shrine keepers no longer serve their congregation, and folk with witcheries abandon those who need them? You may find us uncomfortable visitors,” he warned, his ire seeping into every word. “We want answers.”

The old man spat. “You’ve no rights here, not to answers, not even to be fed. We don’t have victuals to spare.” He waved a hand at what had once been meadowland on the other side of the oak and Saker glanced to see what he was indicating. A couple of cows grazed there and an area had been walled off to keep the animals away from a vegetable plot. “No food comes in here. We feed ourselves.”

“What’s the
point
of all this?” Saker asked, surprising himself with the intensity of the rage he felt. As he spoke, he kept an eye on Ardhi to see where he was being taken. “The lands out there are struggling, people are frightened, with no recourse to help from shrines, while you hide in safety and grizzle about raising your own cows?”

Vervain glowered at him. “Cobble dwellers are the ones who chose to desert their shrines in the first place, favouring the stone-walled chapels in their towns and cities. So let them turn to their clerics! We owe them little.”

Saker and Sorrel exchanged glances and he knew she was as appalled as he was.

“Vervain, Vervain,” came a voice behind them, “calm yourself. There is no point in condemning without listening.”

Saker turned to look at the speaker, a middle-aged woman dressed in cleric’s garb. His glance went to the medallion around her neck; the oakleaf was edged with gold, denoting her rank. District Arbiter.

She nodded to him. “Willow Partridge, once Arbiter of Hornbeam. You want a conversation? Then let’s have one.” She waved a hand at the interior of the shrine. “Enter, both of you, and remember this is a sacred place. I think, Witan Saker, we have met once before, when you were hardly more than a student.”

He recalled he had once made a courtesy call on her in the Hornbeam Va-faith office, but he had little memory of the event. She was a quiet, greying woman with grief-stricken eyes, and he wondered why she would have remembered him.

“I am no longer a witan,” he said as they followed her into the shrine itself.

“I’m not surprised at that,” she said. “You were nulled, after all.”

He winced and turned his attention to the interior of the shrine. The light, filtered through the translucence of the roof of woven branches and layers of living leaves, was luminous and soft. The
seating, part of the living tree, woven from roots and branches, had been smoothed and polished by the worship and pilgrimage of generations. “I have never been faithless, Arbiter Willow.”

Keeper Vervain, trailing behind Sorrel, snorted. “And are we to swallow all the sweet words tripping so easily from your lips, nulled witan? Sit, fellow, and before you hear any truths from us, you tell us whence you came, and how, and what you want.”

It was hard to condense their story into a tale that was succinct and still coherent, but Saker did his best. It helped that he left out everything to do with Piper, the Chenderawasi feathers, Avians and the kris, simply saying that Ardhi was a sailor with a witchery from the Va-forsaken Hemisphere who wanted to help.

“We have been there,” he said. “We’ve seen first-hand the faith of Ardhi’s people, and it’s not so different from ours.”

“And we are supposed to be impressed by the testimony of an apostate?” Vervain asked, furrowed eyebrows eloquently expressing his doubt.

Va-damn. That is all coming back to haunt me still?

Sorrel intervened then, saying, just as snappishly as Vervain, “May I point out just who brought the charges against Witan Saker, and who prosecuted the case for nullification?” She paused for effect. “Why, I believe it was Prime Valerian Fox!”

He blinked in surprise. Sarcasm was not something he had heard Sorrel employ, even to make an argument. She pushed on, eyes flashing, her whole body rigid with annoyance. No, with rage. “And why do you think that vile man might have done that?” she asked. “Because he knew that Witan Saker was a threat to him. Because he knew Saker Rampion was the Pontifect’s agent.” She shook an irate finger at Vervain. “I was
there
. I saw it.”