Thrice Advent by Adam Chapters 19 and 20

Chapter Nineteen

THE WEEPING OF MARAYELLA

Before she slept deep through the night and long into the afternoon Marayela found succulent sweet berries and a few chalot onions at the edge of copse of ancient trees.  On all fours she slurped away her thirst from a fast flowing stream.

When she awoke, Xhanu was gone; despite the food she was ravenous after so many days of hunger. She was exhausted with tears and her red eyes tried to search out the high wasp.  A hope though filled her- maybe Xhanu was not dead, had escaped the bright miasma of the White Cottage, but she felt in her black heart, that she was gone, that she would never fly upon her back, rise to the peaks of the Papillion or rollercoaster up the endless climb of the Red Rose. An afterthought, Han was dead, they had known each other since children, and loved each other as if the world was empty of other children and learnt knowledge from each other.  He would have let her fly upon the Wasp, as Han had promised and the Bede forbade.  Yet now Xhanu the wonder of the Demense was gone, and she found Xhanu left to rot in the Caretakers garden. Her eyes were dry, her heart incapable of hope, she had no song, no dance, as if such thing was of days gone passed and her heart hardened.

She stood stock-still incapable to turn and face the Caretaker.  The Caretaker licked his lips sticky with the Wasps blood.

Without turning her gaze, in soft voice he heard:

‘I know you pig.  You have defiled the death of Xhanu, by devouring him.  May Han in heaven curse you and the curse of the Bede’s infirmity lay upon you ever more.’

The Caretaker giggled and punched her in the stomach.  ‘Oh curses, curses. Witch do not put you owl blast on me, I am immune, I spit on you seven times.  Your friend Dalrosse has feasted upon the wasp and the poison in him has no remedy and all his life the poison will creep into him and all that was good in him will diminish into his despair.’

Ultimate defeat filled Marayela. Her memories of the duties in the Demense a mere remembrance of a lifetime long beyond birth.

His hand gripped tight on her led her into the White Cottage. Dalrosse was in the kitchen, the severed head of Xhanu before him.

The Caretaker said:

‘Dalrosse I told you, try its eyes their delicious’.

Bereft of will she let herself be set at the table.

As the afternoon sped on, piece by piece Dalrosse ate Xhanu, sucking out the delicacy of its eyes. Guiltily at his greed he offered the wasp’s eye to Marayela.

While they ate The Caretaker went to the locked glass case where he kept the small white rose, from his pocket he took the cutting of the Red Rose he had stolen from Dalrosse and firmly locked in the cabinet and hid the key.  Dalrosse and Marayela were still gorging on the wasp.  The Caretaker left the cottage and climbed to a high slope, a wide, dark valley beneath him.  Here the Ravens were flocked.  In the guttering harshness of the song of the raven he told them that he had found the Omelyn and commanded they send word to Loor and Aflarien.  A few of the ravens remained with him to guard him, the rest if the flock digested his commands, sigh fully they set off to send the Good news that the King would find pleasure in, and fill Aflarien with Unfettered hope.

Chapter Twenty

THE LORD OF ASHENMOIRE

Aflarien, Conqueror of Ket, High Emperor of The Meringal, Lord of Ashenmoire stared at the withered and pathetic slow death of The Black Rose.  His attention was taken away by the flock of ravens crossing the expanse of The River, Mighty Grule.  At last they are coming.

Weeks before he had heard of the fate of Dalrosse, imprisoned, mind reamed by the Caretaker. He laughed cruelly; The Caretaker was uninhibited in the ways torture and relished whatever vileness he could inflict on those that ventured within his doors.  His diabolical ways were like a part of Aflarien’s soul.

He climbed out of The Hollow and before he returned to Helvearn spat at the shadowy rose.

‘Look’-he laughed. ‘There’s some water for you.’

He walked down from the Hollow, his breathing slow as the air was thin so far up in these reaches of Ashenmoire.  By the time he had descended a half tiaga he could breathe deeply. His eyes were full wide as if he could smell, feel and hear with them the profusion of all that was his dominion. Soon the verdant grass and the vulpine wings and the soft blue of the sky, diminished and he found himself navigating rocky crags, and deftly found footholds that led down to a sea foam drenched cliff where the palace of Helvearn perched.

Helvearn was immense, a tower of golden glass that reached to the wisping clouds.  He found his horse tethered upon the beach and led him to drink in the cool, sweet waters of the Lake. He reached the gateway into Helvearn dismounted and a stocky guard was sent to the stable, with the horse. Inside he divested himself of the Shouel pelt coat and raced to his office, so high above the sea.  His desk was strewn with the books and phials of necro-knowledge he had rescued from R’thera, also in no semblance of tidiness maps he had recently made and notes, plans for his ultimate victory over Tasen and the eradication of the Shouels.  He sat for a moment, then paced about, stopped by a window and gloried at the azure sky and the foam racked water.

Aflarien pushed open the doors to his balcony and waited for the ravens to reach him as the sky reddened and the sea seemed to fall into a slumber.  The first of the flock approached.  Some rested on the balcony; others circled round the spire of Helvearn, while the others lightly fell upon his outstretched arms or perched on his shoulder.  The largest Raven, the wisest, longest lived who knew the tongues of Men, told to Aflarien of the prophesy he had found in a seeing.

‘An angel will come to aid the Omelyn.’  Aflarien beautiful face blanched with sudden foreboding.

.

Thrice Advent chapters 17 and 18

Chapter Seventeen

BREAKFAST IN THE WHITE COTTAGE

Alone Marayela cared for the mortally wounded High Wasp in the clearing outside the Cottage of the white rose.  Within the cottage Dalrosse sat with Crow upon his shoulder unable to take his eyes away from the small, seemingly fragile White Rose.  It was tiny not more than a few inches tall.  An uncomfortable thought entered his mind, he could take the white rose, what use was it in this dismal cottage when with it Dalrosse could fulfil his quest that would heal the land.

The caretaker as he introduced himself was preparing food, the smell of the cooking meat and odour of spices made Dalrosse suddenly ravenous, the hunger took from his benighted thoughts of stealing the rose and swiftly continue on his journey to find the other Roses.

The Caretaker seemed amenable enough and perhaps once he heard of Dalrosse’s quest would not begrudge a cutting from the rose.  When the food was ready and lain beside the Shouel, the Caretaker was silent, as if he were relishing the bliss of Dalrosse devouring his food.  Of course the Crow perched upon his shoulder ate too, some of the cracked ham and the gristly meat that Dalrosse fed him by hand.

The Caretaker was at the window.

‘Xhanu is dead’, his said bluntly. Dalrosse looked out of the window.  On her knees, as if she did not want lift herself again into a world without her, Xhanu, the joyous beast of the Demense, a weak hand, powerless with grief held a hand upon the High Wasp as if her life would restore life into Xhanu. By the way she held her head, her body shaking he could tell she was weeping. He wrapped in some clothes the remnants of his meal and took it out to the fey maid in the clearing.

‘Here is something to keep you going.  Come into the cottage.  She has gone Marayela’

He sat beside her and held her hand.  ‘There is nothing we can do, but you need food. Here take it now and perhaps you will sleep by the wasps side and dream her last dream, of Freedom and Flight as she soared over the mountains, leaving her young ones, so she could save us.’ He opened the napkin.  ‘Look there’s lots of food left for you.’

She almost screamed. ‘I do not want food.  I need distillate; it will revive Xhanu and send her home to us from the Forest of Forgetfulness.’ For a moment her unyielding rage made him fearful, perhaps she would take from him the Red Rose cutting and fruit and try to revive the wasp.

Dalrosse repeated again. ‘There is nothing you can do’

She snapped angrily and seemed incoherent with grief and a madness that had fallen over her.

‘Well than just leave me.  I won’t go into that cottage.’

‘Then later I’ll bring you out some more food, perhaps some wine, what do you say?’

‘I told you I want nothing, especially from the Caretaker.’

‘You know of him?’ Dalrosse asked.

‘Enough.  This food he gave you, are you sure you know what it is?’

Dalrosse smiled. ‘So you are hungry after all.’

‘I would rather starve than eat the Caretaker’s food.’

’Why? What’s wrong with it?’

Marayela began to weep again and with her wet hair cleaned the dirt and blood from the Holy wasp, that had long gone from her form and dwelt in the twilight lands of the Thirteen Rivers, changed, so transformed by death that memories of another life remained but as sleeping thoughts.

Dalrosse impotently left the woman to weep and re-entered the cottage.  The Caretaker was sitting at the table the kitchen bright with afternoon sun and all the dishes of food cleared away. To Dalrosse’s dismay he could not see Crow anywhere in the Cottage.

After speaking to the woman from the Demense a slow uneasiness had slipped over him. He blurted out.

‘Where’s the crow.’

‘Oh,’ the man smiled. ‘He said he wanted to scout ahead the road for your journey tomorrow.  He said he would not be back before morning.’ Though the smile stayed on the Caretakers lips not once did his eyes make contact with the Shouels purple ones.

A bit gruffly the caretaker asked. ‘What are we going to do with wasp?  I can’t have it in the garden rotting.  Will she help us bury it?’

Dalrosse doubted it; he doubted whether Marayela would let him anywhere near the wasp.  He considered for a while, and then replied. ‘She is exhausted and when she sleeps I will help you.  That is if she will sleep, she is obsessed that distillate from the red rose will bring him from the ghost lands.’ A new thought entered his mind, tinged with guilt, yet he yearned to see her suffer no more.  I could take the White rose and with it perhaps restore the mighty wasp. For a moment he thought of asking the Caretaker for a cutting of his rose, but the black look in his eyes and the crease of a scar seemed to laugh at his unspoken thoughts.  With no longer any words between them the Caretaker gently lifted the petty rose, placed it in a glass cabinet and with a small key locked the door, putting the key in a pocket.  Irrationally, or not, Dalrosse felt the Caretaker knew exactly what he was thinking.

Chapter Eighteen

THE DREAM OF CROW

Once again The Crow was tapping on Shaneal’s window; oh he was bitter with cold, whitened with snow and ice so thick that he was frozen to the point of death. Futilely he tapped as hard as he could upon the tower window of the lady of Demerol’s window.  She opened in the window and smiled broadly.

‘O, crow, O crow’ she sang.

Not this again the Crow thought. ‘Shhh’ he said and sprang into her warm fire shadowed room and he sang her a song, a story so long that told of love and loss and forgetful as fleeting men’s minds, wretched with tragedy, a tragedy void of reason.  O the story was so long and Shaneal stood transfixed as he sang and told of the thousand lifetimes she had tarried upon the world, and in the silent, slow remembrance he threaded together into her the ageless lives of Dalrosse and Aflarien.  A veil of forgetfulness erased the pain of her captivity and the slumbering void King Loor had left her in, and the lies he had spun to snare her.  When the Crow stopped singing, bereft with no now, no yesterday, just an endless urge to return to the world Shaneal cried, but the twinkling of laughter in the crow’s eyes stilled her tears.

She remembered back, long, long years and memory took her to her Father’s Inn in Delgdreth and laughed heartedly.  ‘All I wanted was a holiday; I didn’t think I would end up in this place.

‘And I have been here a such a long  time, so long, I cannot remember when I was not lost in this perfect cell, maids to serve me, feed me dress me, give me my lessons so I would be a suitable wife for a King.’ Yet her heart mellowed and the memory of the faces of Dalrosse and Aflarien smiling at her beauty, there bright eyes filling her with a confidence she had not felt since her imprisonment began.

‘They must be dead after all this time?’

The Crow was a little hesitant when he spoke. ‘Uh, well they might be, they might be, yet still it may not be too late.  A hundred or more times I have been to this exact point in your life to help you escape from Demerol, but they have always foiled us, Loor and the shade of Krostic whose long life is lost even to me, for she came to Menerth when the Psybots fell from the sky. Maybe it is not too late; remember you are an Omelyn, the three of you, the land, earth and the sun.  Oh Shaneal I am weary and my long life will be longer still.

‘The Author has lost faith in road that he has sent Dalrosse.  I realize now that I cannot help you escape.  But, wonderful child never forget who you are. An Omelyn, remember that in all the trails that come.  Yet after this night I cannot be of aid to any of the three of you.  I must go for awhile out of the story and meet with the Author. There is something wrong- I see a dark ending, a darkening cloud over the hope of the first words of the tale.  Today you do escape Demerol and never return.  Child this is not a fairytale.  For your freedom I must suffer a little. I must die by your hand to reach Esplomeoir.  You must kill me and take bird form and be a bright shadow over the Sunbourne Sea.  In The Authors temple, I will guide him wisdom and dispel his fears.  You must go to the cottage of the White Rose and find out what ails the Dalrosse’s song. I will return to him soon and be a guide to his hope. Without you near him he will always be in danger. The Author despairs at the conundrums and the misery Dalrosse will face and he needs you, your love and wise words when he despairs. The Unauthor has sent storms and fire upon Ashenmoire and the power of the Black Rose is so weak and its impotence is destroying Menerth and the worlds beyond.  Yes.  I must go Esplomeoir and speak with the author, my brother Araden.

‘Yet Shaneal’, he said before she cut the Crows throat and sent him into the night to Esplomeoir and she transformed into a blackbird, ‘you must make Dalrosse smile when he is at his weakest, your instincts will guide and your tender touch will bring new light and imaginings in his mind. Dalrosse he is so strangely different, as brave as the forgotten gods, I feel he is stronger than the UnAuthor yet so alone, but with your love Dalrosse will make his path until he stands once more by the golden waters of Lake Leme, yet still he will need you Shaneal.’

The Crow become a mist of amber dust, Shaneal perched on the window sill, and then flew out into the snow, pulled by the tidalverse through miles of time and re-emerged from the tidewake circling about the lower reaches Mount Mull.

Like a rage of storm the amber aura of Jon Esierk ripped toward Esplomeoir and before he knew it Jon Esierk stood before the doors of the Authors chamber.  On the simple chair the Author sat.  He was staring out of the window to the sea, the brightness of the sun causing tears to fall on his sallow cheeks.  He turned slightly and Jon saw how dark and hollow with weary his once bright eyes were.  He did not greet Jon, but muttered to himself.  ‘It is too late.  I have sent him on the wrong path.’

In a commanding voice Jon spoke his true name.

‘Araden’ and clicked his fingers in front of the Authors dull eyes.

Sighing he said,

‘Ah Jon.  It is good that you are here.  It is too late you know, I can’t seem to get the story right, it has become so confused now that Lebin has died. The Unauthor has taken all hope from me and I have become tangled the liar’s web and I see no hope for the Great kin, they weaken, though they cling to a hope that is lost in confusion.

‘I have made too many mistakes and I see no way back.  Dalrosse is soft.  Aflarien will go to the ends of time and thought to corrupt the story.  You know he ate the flesh and soul of Lebin. I am so alone here. I have to do everything to try and save the Omelyns, but I don’t know how to stop him, but what can I do so alone. Aflarien has corrupted the story.  The story that was once a light, a beacon from the beginning, he has corrupted and infested it with maggots,’ The Author fell into uncontrollable tears. ‘Aflarien has killed Lebin and sucks upon his soul. He will kill the Roses and the Menerth he will lay desolate.  Jon. Jon. there will be no lovliness in the world, no songs, no freedom to smile or love, and laughter, what is the world without laughter, what need is there of a world without laughter.

‘You have come brother, come to help me with Story?  Was I wrong to rest the Roses fate on the Shouel who is unsure of his path? His heart will be broken, and all the lands will die. I no longer know how to change it.

Jon rested his hand on Araden’s shoulder. ‘Shh now. All the might of Aflarien and the aeons of dark force set against him will not hinder Dalrosse’s search for the Roses.’

Despite his smile of assurance Jon was sad.  Lebin was dead.  Aflarien had consumed his soul. Was Aflarien trying to usurp the power of the UnAuthor?  He looked at his feeble, lost brother whom he loved all the days of his long, long life.

‘Yes my brother I will help you. You must gather your strength and gather your thoughts for all the journeys and trails to come. I will help you grow strong again, and dispel you fears. Let us go to the Portal of the Unwritten Lands.’ Jon led his brother from the chamber with a grin.

Thrice Advent Chapters 15 and 16

Chapter Fifteen

Dalrosse in the Cottage of the White Rose.

Xhanu, the high wasp, struggled up from the crushed bodies of Han and the Bede.  The insect was a pre-cognitive creature, despite the anguish she felt and the hurt of her injuries, the High Wasp’s heart rejoiced that the maiden, Marayela had not rode with them when the ravens attacked.  Trying to test her injuries, she tried to lift a wing; yes it was badly damaged, yet in silent pain she flew to Marayela’s abode.

A diminutive creature, unlike any she had seen before was talking to the woman.  As Xhanu approached, he noticed the Crow.  The Crow told Dalrosse to Shush,

‘Listen, the crow said.  Let me tell you the Story of Shaneal.  How she loved to speak the language of the Birds, but her Father was cruel, and her guards inhuman. And so to keep her without friends and to languish with no hope, she was locked into the high tower of Demerol.  Her father had promised Shaneal a bridegroom, an aged prince with who he would return with once the latest war was over.

Night after night her loneliness increased and she spent long times weeping, yet one night to her absolute surprise a crow tap-tapped upon her icy window.  Eventually she forced the window open and let in the crow, who had been her greatest friend when she had wandered in the summer gardens of Demerol.

“How please I am to see you.  Where have you been,” she chittered and chattered like a baby robin about how she had missed him and all her other friends.

“Oh, shut up Shaneal.  We have to get out of here.”

“And how on earth are we going to do that?”

The Crow flew to her shoulder and said with a laugh. “You haven’t seen anything yet.”

Beneath him, in what seemed an instant Shaneal transformed with beak and wing into a youthful blackbird.  Together the crow with the blackbird beside him escaped Demerol, a rainbow encircled them and together they dived into the tidalverse.”

As the crow silenced Xhanu landed beside them.  Marayela did not at first notice the High Wasp, her mind distracted by the thought that so long ago her mother had told her the story of Shaneal, before she went away to the happy land beyond the unwritten sea. Slowly she returned from her reverie and saw how hideously Xhanu had been hurt. Xhanu, as if instructed by the truly sublime 605 and the power of the Author’s incantation was filled her with new strength.  She ordered Marayela onto her back and the boy thing.  Her last journey for the creature required the fruit of the Red Rose and though the mountains of the Demense were high, he would have to help them escape.

The crow was silent.

Marayela got to her feet and walked away from her home. There before her was the crushed corpse of the Bede, yet on Han’s face a smile, a look of glee in his open eyes as if the death he had found was the death that he had sought and if he still lived  laughter would assuredly issue from his mouth. The maiden knelt beside Han’s corpse and it seemed a lifetime of unshed tears fell from like the deluge of rain each day in the Demense. Secreted in her pocket what was left of the Rose distillate she removed, unplugged the stopper and drank deeply until the phial was empty.  Slowly her tears diminished and she thought of Shaneal and the blackbird and it seemed to her that she had lived only days in the Demense, she imagined the flight of the blackbird and despite her broken heart, a laughter of wings came upon her and she decided that she would leave the Demense for good.

“We must go.” Dalrosse said.

Tentatively Dalrosse and Marayela were lifted upon the High Wasp’s back and they flew to the Red Rose.  Dalrosse took his knife, cut a sapling, and took two or three bulbs as the wasp painfully rose to the uppermost point of the rose.

Anger filled The Maiden.  I will not stay here.  I know Dalrosse’s design and oh my Xhanu, take us one last journey to The Cottage of the White Rose.  An so with the Shouel  and the maid to no man ruled rose over the dismal mountains of Pallion, the crow always abreast of them heading to Cottage over the city of Peth and swiftly beyond the Garden of Strainval.

Thirty three tiaga away in the White Rose cottage the Janitor stared tranquilly out of the window.  He seemed to be waiting, and while he waited, the knife his father had given him stabbed between his splayed fingers time after time after time. After a long time of watching from his well spruced windows he saw the beautiful Marayela approach clutching tighter to the shoulders of the Omelyn on the back of a High Wasp.  Unable to fly any longer, Xhanu fell, in a slow motion descent as she thought of her little ones soon to be born and fly where no Bede of harsh men would rule them.  With them on her back she fell into Death and Slumber. Dalrosse and the girl tumbled from her back onto the shortly mowed lawn of the garden bedside the cottage.

Inside the Janitor put away his knife, hefted a smile on his grim face and went to meet them he came to the door he hid put the bloody contusions on his fingers deep into his pocket and thought:

‘Visitors and such a good day I was having.’

Chapter Sixteen

THE FALLS OF SHANEAL

The moment Shaneal reached the shore of the island she collapsed under the weight of the King as if the strength in her body had been banished from her. The breathless Phytomonger dripped drops of water upon her. He laughed, as did the king. Kren kicked her prone body. King Loor said:

‘I don’t know why, but Plan C always works.’

‘Do you want me to kill her?’

‘Oh, you ridiculous man. Get me out of the sand.  Of course I don’t want you to kill her. Carry her to Demorel. Yeric’s breaths kill her.’

Shaneal was slung over Kren’s shoulder, and he kept pace with the king as if filled with Shaneal’s psybotic strength. On his hoveboots the King’s pace was quick and soon they saw the tower, Demerol. It rose from the jungle that covered the island. Its structure seemed chained in a sea of green. They went on pushing passed countless strands of vines and creeping branches feeling no hurt in them, as they stared up enamoured by the tower reaching almost a tiaga high.

 Into Demerol’s bright white marble shimmer in the new sun they fought through to the courtyard, crowded with vegetation that it seemed sunk in a quick sand of creeping green.

Shaneal in the topmost of the tower had no memory of Tasen, or the cruel slave driver, or even of Delgdreth and her childhood.  The door was mainly locked an iron strong door barred her room like a safe, her cell, despite its fine furnishings and warmth.

It seemed for a hundred days she slept. The King kissed her into wakefulness.

‘O sweet so long I’ve been away I have almost forget the sound of your voice. Sing to me again; sing me once more in my dreams’

She laughed. She got out of bed, blew out the candle and quickly dressed.

Anxiously she asked.

‘Is your fellow officer coming to Demorel?’

‘Yes my sweet.  He is the lord of Opydamea across the wandering width of the Sunbourne Sea.  His dolphins have raced him here to meet you.  Put on your finery.’  Before he left her alone he added sternly.

‘Be ready when Drendunde arrives.’

Before she got ready for sleep, she heard a tap on her window, then two more taps. The Crow was there. Excitedly she opened the window and in he flew. ‘Has your new suitor arrived, I hear that Drendunde paid Loor well for you to be his Lady.’

He flew on her shoulder. ‘Is there anything to eat?’ With the touch of the Crow on her shoulder Shaneal was aware of a momentary déjà-vu. Mere seconds were faceted of quarter memories of her cavorting about the flames with Aflarien, about a bonfire lain on one of nighttimes dark beaches about Lake Leme. Dalrosse rose to join them as the bonfire grew higher and the stars brighter. The three, Shouel, woman, man took each other’s hands. Dalrosse’s grip and tiny hands held his step- kin’s and as if that night had never ended together they danced on as the sun flowered over Ashenmoire.  They danced until exhaustion finally took them and they curled about each on the warm sands until midday. In unison they were mesmerised by the blue beyond blue they looking out on the golden waters of Lake Leme. Shaneal splashed water onto her night crusted eyes in the sweet water and walked toward the receding tide.

She awoke walking once more in her high apartment in the tall tower of Demorel, bitter, dank and drunk with despair. She thought of her suitor, Drendunde and her chest quailed.  She knew he was old; at least sixty and that he had been lured here by the greed of Loor.  Her Father, the King who had long coveted the vast peninsula of Opaydaemia. She also knew if Drendunde took her as wife she would live until death in a half life of loveless contempt.

The Crow though cawed from his perch on her shoulder.

Shaneal was delighted at the song of the crow.  She thought she would practice his speech.

‘I’ve missed you so much and all the other birds too, before I was banished from the garden. You know I do not want to marry so stop teasing. Yet I have no choice,’ she sang with melancholy. ‘There is no escape.’

The Crow laughed. ‘You haven’t seen anything yet.’

He lifted off her shoulder, she felt herself get thinner, her lips grew a bill, her arms transformed into a blackbird wings, she flew in ecstasy all about the room sniffing at the flowers and perching on a bowl of fruit.

‘Come on,’ the Crow said.  ‘We’d better get going.’

‘Where’

He sighed as only crows do. ‘How many hundreds of times do I have to explain?’

He went to the window and Shaneal flew beside him.

In silence they flew into the night, and were soon far from Demorel and on the edge of the Sunbourne Sea. They needed no sleep and by morning they were in Menerth.

Thrice Advent Chapter's 13 and 14

Chapter Thirteen

Dalrosse in the Demense of the Red Rose

                Dalrosse still struggled to free himself his bonds, tied to stake that held his hands and feet and left by watchmen of the Demense to die in the desert between the mountains.   A crow flew upon his shoulder and to Dalrosse’s utter surprise it spoke to him.

                “Hold still and stop muttering to yourself.   You’ll never get out of there on your own.”

                “Who the nak are you?”

                “I’m The Crow.   I leave you for five minutes and look at the mess you’re in.”

                “Have we met before?   I’m sure I would remember a talking crow.”

                “Yes, we met o ages ago, before, er…well before.   You probably wouldn’t remember as it was a long time ago.

                “Now stop struggling.   Look, those rocks are more jagged.   You might be able to prise open some of the links in the chain.   You’ve been out here too long in the sun Dalrosse.   You’ve hardly eaten since you left Soen.   We must get you under the shades of the Red Rose.   Prise two links out around the manacles and kick the stake from the ground.   You can do it, I know you can my, my friend…I mean you…are very strong in mind and spirit but your body needs nourishment.   The power of your heart is weak as you don’t know if you are on the right road and you think you must search instead for your family.   You know you are going on a long journey.   You can’t do anything to change their fate.   Know that you do go the right way and your task is true.”

                “There, that didn’t take long.   Quick, follow me.”

                Without knowing where, his strength was instinctive as he prised open two links and slowly, bound by feet and hand, he was set free from his prison in the acrid lands by the mines of The Demense of The Red Rose.  He was exhausted, and still bleeding from the beating from the soldiers, who had captured him, as he emerged from the passage through the mountains of Paillion into The Demense.

                The Crow flew at his shoulder, conversationally, through the rocks and along the path that led finally to the crimson shade of The Red Rose.

                Lifting on his wings Crow could see two soldiers ahead.

                “Quick, get behind those gorse bushes.  I’ll go and find you food.   If I’m not mistaken, there will be some rain soon so you can get water.   I’ll go and find you help to remove your bonds.’

                Before long the rain began to fall.   At first, a slight drizzle, that refreshed his face, by increments, the air was filled with a deluge of sweet rain.   He opened his mouth to the rain and each mouthful was a delight.   He heard the two guards pass by  and noisily he slurped the water from the quickly filling pools and rivulets in the ground around him.   Before long the Crow returned with a crust of bread in his beak.   It wasn’t much but Dalrosse thanked him profusely.

***

                Beside the Manor House, the Bede was tending the vegetable patch.   He muttered to himself.

                “The weeds are so over-run this time of the year.”   He pondered wistfully to himself and for a few moments more he pottered about, cut some flowers for his bedchamber and took the gardening gloves from his thin, pale pristine hands.  

                Labourers were dotted about the fields, naked, sunburnt, and calmly working away.   The Dew bell rang and the Bede watched them stop for their well earned refreshments, thorn soup and a thimble full of the Rose’s dew.   The Bede then shuffled into the Manor House in time to avoid the first of the storm.

                So tired, he thought, wiping his brow.   He ordered the singing maid to sing a calming song and yet he bored of it quickly and made his way to his bedchamber and put the flowers in water.   Marayela, another of his maids, came into the room and uttered meekly.

                “The keeper has brought you this Bede.   It is Red Rose distillate for your enjoyment.   Can I be of anymore assistance,” she asked.

                “No, I have worked in the garden today and I am exhausted.   Come back later when I am refreshed.”

                Bede drank the distillate.   He lay gently on the bed and lit two Red Rose petals into a hazy flame.   He could still hear the song maid trilling like a lark.

                Marayela left the Manor House, half naked, her long curls swimming down her back and shoulders.   She ran into the rain.  The fieldworkers toiled in the downpour of the storm.   She was bright eyed after drinking just a small sip of the distillate and felt euphoric as her bare feet danced over the puddles on the road towards her dwelling.

                The Bede would sleep all day, maybe until tomorrow afternoon.   His cold pale fingers would not touch her tonight

It seemed as she ran that she was arching upward into the dull sky.   Her bronze body was like a torch burning away the rain with her fire.   Yet with the rain a new nakedness covered her, androgynous, an instant stripping of her fleshy beauty.   In the raging cloud and storm she had become like a rainbow as she flew into the scarlet shade of the Red Rose.

Below Marayela saw a small creature being fed bread by a crow.   She laughed at the delight of such a sight.   Slowly the brief euphoria of the distillate receded and she was on the road, drenched, as she walked towards them, her intense blue-black eyes staring at the strange creature.

Although small in stature, the creature appeared old.   An aura of time surrounded him, like a flash of green.   Thunder raged in the storm.  Then, as if it had never been here, the rain stopped.   She watched as he greedily drank from the puddles of fresh water.   The Crow was sitting on a rock.    As she walked towards him she saw how tattered and ragged, and covered with blood, he was.  Filled with sympathy for the stranger, she ran towards them.   In alarm the Crow croaked and the man, or boy, or whatever he was ran behind some long grass.

She walked slowly, gently whispering that she could help them.   Dalrosse stood, refreshed by the water, but still encumbered by the chains.   Yet, he seemed to stand somewhat straighter in the hot shade of the Red Rose.   Marayela helped strip what remained of his garments that stuck to the dried welts and whip strokes across his body.   She cleaned him tenderly, scrutinisingly, with none of the indifference she felt when washing the Bede.  Nearby was a leaf from the Rose, she gathered some of the dew and made him drink it from her cupped hands.

In a matter of moments, by sudden increments, he felt the pain the Demense had inflicted on him crumble away into another memory.   The woman said she would take him to her dwelling place so she could remove his manacles.

“Who are you?” Dalrosse asked.

“I am Marayela, a sister of the Rose and also the Bede’s Keeper.”   She took him by the arm and slowly walked beside him as the Crow tarried behind and above looking for any guards that may come their way unannounced.

Finally Marayela led him into her dwelling.   To his surprise it was a cool arbour of indescribable scents.   Upon a bed of silver cushions she lay him down.   From a shelf above his head she took down a bottle of crimson powder.   She rubbed it on the manacles and the dark metal crumbled.   Dalrosse became, and remained for the rest of his life, unfettered.   He slept then for a long time.   When he awoke, which seemed like days later, Marayela was gone.   However, the peace and the healing within the woman’s house lulled him back to sleep.

                Marayela refreshed the whims of the vexed Bede.   Tiredly he told her to depart and to bring him fresh distillate from the Keeper.   He also told her to return with the High Wasp so he could survey the Demense.   When she asked meekly if she could fulfil any of his other needs he snapped at her.

                “No, and tell the song maid to be silent.”

                She didn’t hesitate to leave him.   She was tired from her exertions with the Bede and decided to go home to refresh herself and check on Dalrosse before she went to the Red Rose.

                Dalrosse was kneeling outside her home; the ever present Crow beside him, helping the small man pile together some rocks.   He tried to conjure in his mind the image of Lake Leme and Ashenmoire.   He had not spoken kada since he’d found the slain of Delgdreth.   In his meditation he’d always brought into his mind the boat that would take him over the tranquil waters to the holy island.   Now though, other thoughts intruded in his mind.   He thought of Shaneal.   Half of him felt that he should go back and search for her and ignore the advice of the Shouels and the Crow.   His heart was weighed down with indecision.   Then the Crow cawed a warning.

                “What are you doing?” Marayela asked as she walked towards him.

                “I am preparing to say kada.”   She had disturbed him from his meditation that had seemed a mere scramble of disjointed thoughts.

                “What is that?”

                “A blessing to Ashenmoire and the Black Rose, as the sun shines upon it at first light.”

                “A Black Rose?” she said surprised.   “There is a Black Rose?”

                The Crow’s caw in response resembled an abrasive laugh.

                “Yes, in a great hollow on the Island,” Dalrosse said.   “I was going to live there,” he sighed.   “They say the Black Rose is stunted and near to death.   Today I say kada to the Red Rose and this land…and you.”

                Marayela went into her home and prepared to meet with the Keeper.   She was looking forward to flying with Han upon the High Wasp.   She took a draught of her distillate to stave off the sadness in the knowledge that her flight, upon the back of the great insect, would be short and she would have to relinquish her seat for the Bede.   She washed herself, glimpsing out through the door.   Dalrosse poured handfuls of sand upon the rocks he and the Crow had collected.   She saw him draw shapes in the sand then wipe them away as the waves of Lake Leme would have done if he’d been on the beach.

                Once more a deluge of rain fell upon the Demense.   Marayela laughed.   She took Dalrosse into the refuge of her home.

                “I have some duties that the Bede has required I do.  Don’t go out as someone will see you once the rain has ceased and you’ll be beaten again,” she said looking him straight in the eyes.   “It’s a wonder that you even got through the mountains.   Now stay safe and hidden, I really must go.”

                Marayela left him and danced through the rain.   She jumped over the puddles and accidentally scattered Dalrosse’s pile of kada rocks.   Lightning ripped through the air as she reached the Rose mound and climbed to the first thorn.

                She climbed the main stem of the Rose watching the rain drip from the petal of the rose high above.   Looking down she saw the small, unformed dew collectors so far below her.   Breathless, half up the stem, she struggled into Xhanu’s nest.   The High Wasp flickered into wakefulness.   Han, standing vigil beside Xhanu, laughed with gladness at seeing her.

                “Marayela, how beautiful you look in the rain.”   He hugged her close and kissed the droplets of rain from her brow.

                “Watch now.   The Bede may be watching.”

                Han laughed again.  

                “The Bede watching!   He’s far too lazy to watch these days.   What did he want to send you here, sweet Marayela?”   With Rose imbued fingers he slowly stroked her spine.   She giggled and their lips caressed each others.   They breathed in and out the glee into one another.   She whispered her mission as if it were a love song.

                “The Bede needs Xhanu.”

                The High Wash yawned.

                “At last,” she said.   “To fly!   My little ones will come soon, yet I am so bored watching them.   Xhanu flew away from her nest, scooped the couple onto her back and before they knew it they were spiralling upwards around the spine of the Red Rose.   At last, reaching the single bloom, Xhanu soared into the blue of the storm cleared sky.  She reached above the plateau and carved giants in the architecture, far above the weather worn summits of Paillion.   And further they went into the night blue of the morning where starlight still lingered.  

                Sighing Marayela commanded Xhanu to the Bede’s house.    She found him in his bedchamber that stank of his iron odour.   She startled him into wakefulness and he fell from his levitation to the stained and stinking red draped bed.

                Meekly she said,

                “The High Wasp awaits you.”

                He snarled at her.

                “You’ve taken by dreams from me,” he said as he rose into a tower of scarlet rage and slapped her down onto the rose littered carpet.   Pathetically he vented his feeble rage with weak slaps and mistimed kicks.   She screamed, as she always did, and fell beneath him as his half stiff penis tried to burrow into her, but, as usual he failed and came upon her stomach.   The Bede fell, as if with a weight of iron, his face weeping into her flock of curling hair.

After she’d helped him to his toilette, she dressed him in his finest robes and led him to Xhanu, with motherly whispers of his greatness, nibbling his ear with the tips of her teeth.   He was so full of grace and dignity, she told him, as she did every morning.

As if her heart was breaking she turned away as Han and the Bede flew away upon the High Wasp.

Chapter 14

Retreat to R’thera.

Aflarien’s men were exhausted long before the neared the vast city of Tasen. His, men who had pleasured themselves so greedily upon the streets of Ket, needed rest.  Aflarien fed and filled them with sparse resources of Theem knowing that in the morning they must be ready to fight.  He put his less hardened troops to the tasks of digging trenches and a stockade about his tent.  Then from the camp, all lights were distinguished and the hungry, weary boned men awaited the dawn.  At first light the battle was not long in coming.  Unknown even to Nen-Resul, a band of arrowmen from Thet, had killed the guards about the stockade and infiltrated themselves silently in the vicinity of Aflariens tent.  At first the slow flyers sent down incendiaries upon the defenceless vanguard, brilliant lit chariots fired pelts of steel into the retreating backs of Aflariens men. From his tent he screamed to his Captains to fire on the deserters. His dead men like piles of slaughtered pigs dotted the smoky battlefield.

His face was ashen as he realised he must retreat.  He called his honour guards and told them to bring horses, from the lights of the burning and the screams of the early morning Aflarien turned his back away from the smoke and the stench. Aflariens head cleared as a swift wind from the East invigorated him.  Retreat yes, but it has not ended, he knew.   Soon the Meringal would be struck with sudden war when he sent his troops to attack other villages, such as Eaun and Pathimplying that the Shouels would be seen as the aggressors, so the wrath of the humans would scour the Shouels from those lands.  Others he would order to

the Forest of Soen to set a great blaze that would turn that tranquil forest into an inferno.  The

Shouels there would not survive. Lies and rumours from his lips would bring more humans

to his banner, from his sanctuary in R’thera Aflarien would sow dissension, and  gather to him

his allies in the war to come.  For now his army in the South now was almost

useless and he would need the men of Meringal and the north country to guard him from any

plans that the soldiers of Nen Resul would advance and try Aflarien’s schemes.

Four horseman escorted Aflarien to the keep. They exhausted their horses, trying to keep up with the Leader.  Within four tiaga of R’thera only Aflarien stayed upon his horse, the others dead after the long harsh ride and their horseman crushed beneath. Aflarien rode on as if  he were unaware of the pleas for aid from the soldiers.  Then his horse also collapsed, he rose from the dead horse, the blast of wind from Ashenmoire like a blanket of comfort wrapping round Aflarien as he contemplated the days to come. He walked the last undulating hills to R’thera, slipping into the bubble of thought about him; he seemed to hear words on the winds.  Words from Ashenmoire.

As he struggled on a new thought came to his mind. If they came to attack him from Tasen R’thera was no adequate defence.  But, there was Ashenmoire and the weak acolytes of the accursed race. He concluded that if he could take the Island before winter lay too full upon the lake, with the dark blood of the decaying rose he would have power over the lands and peoples of Menerth, yes blights and monstrous creatures he could unleash from the bowels of R’thera, but his power would be magnified in the Black aura of the Hollow of Helvearn and such ice and desolation he would bring upon the lordlands of Tasen and freezing ice bridges would grant him access to the petty kingdoms beyond the southern ocean.

At last he reached the courtyard of R’thera; the Keep seemed devoid of any others present.  He lit a hearth in his chambers, sleep lowering his eyes.  Yet he forced them open and new strength like the touch of a psybot filled him. He got up and began to wander around the dark corridors of the Keep.  He descended to the dungeons, looking into the cells, viperous creatures, like aging ghosts yearning for nothingness pleaded silently to Aflarien for their releases.  ‘Soon’, he whispered to them.

He descended further down the hardly lit steps to the basement of the Keep. Here there was such a tumult and anger.  Within the strong cages chimera ripped into each other relishing in each other’s flesh  satiating of their need for fresh blood.

Safely, disdaining the anguish of the fettered creatures he aimlessly wandered about their cages, saw their immense strength and hate, hate that countless years of Krostic’s hand had engendered.  He thought of his army that had attempted to attack Tasen, how weak they were so weak, that the feeble defence of the city had made them into snivelling wretches, despite himself their weakness sickened him.   He walked down the final steps to the depth of R’thera, cages and cages of rats, fought within struggling for food and space, crammed within the iron cages.  He enclosed himself in a booth and opened the cages, one by one, the black rats two or three feet tall swarmed about the dungeon floor rising up the many levels to the gates of R’thera, yet unable to flee as Aflarien’s controlled all that they could do. He thought about sending them south to destroy all those who had betrayed him, the soldiers that had deserted, yes send to break the defences of Tasen. The cacophony of their claws upon the marble floors was like an ecstatic song in Aflariens head.  Aflarien spoke an ancient word of power and the rats fell into submission and seemed to form ranks.  In the guttural tongue that had not been uttered for many lifetimes of petty man, he commanded the rats, a thousand, and another thousand in number, swirling, swaying like a deadly snake out of R’thera towards the South. The others, the ghouls and the chimera, and the loyal men of the North he would unleash upon Ashenmoire. As the winter, so long and harsh in those parts would forestall any plans Nen-Resul and Marriamme to attack him.  If need be he would be safe on Ashenmoire, interminably.

Aflarien revelled in his power; Ket was nothing, Tasen a place that had lost glory long ago. He would be King of Menerth, Lord of Ashenmoire. Yet he knew his victory would herald the end of Shouels, he would leave none to live, to spawn, and when he had all that he desired the world would be pure. His legacy would be the end of Shouels and the end of the memory of them.  The abomination Dalrosse will be brought to me in chains and Shaneal would be sent to me, she  would be his alone and Loor the weak King will give me her gladly.  He would have all the Omelyns and the prophesies of the UnAuthor will ripen into fruition. Aflarien would not be only Lord or King of the Menerth but God.

Returning to the courtyard lines of well armed men, from the villages and the ports about Lake Leme and on the edges of the Forest marched in the wide courtyard of R’thera.  A bright light filled Aflarien’s eyes.  Loudly he spoke to the men of the north:

‘Today we march upon the ice-flats of the lake and we will offer protection to the acolytes of the Black Rose.  Take as much as you carry- we do not know what to expect, some wonder if the acolytes have not already left and  have left the rose to root in its hollow, untended.

‘We must do what we can for the Rose that wills Aflariens reign over the world, yet, be patient. For one comes. Small, fearful, indecisive with choice and hope, yet he will come to change the worlds and make it a world of Shouels. However we have time yet for the Authors tale to unravels into nonsense, we must have patience, and that old world will die.  The snivelling creature must not destroy our victory.  Once Ashenmoire is mine I will send the jagged minds of the starveling ghost to hinder him, until he dies beneath the claws of Galian the high Chimera who has starved so long in the dark.  My plans are many and the Author guides this Shouels steps, but if all comes to nothing and he comes to Ashenmoire, I Lord of Ashenmoire, King of the World, will slay him.’