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.
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