Worms' Ending: Book Eight (The Longsword Chronicles 8) (2 page)

Elayeen turned in his arms and buried her face in his chest,
holding him in a fierce embrace.

“You are planning to leave me again,” she whispered, and the
words were more statement than question.

“There is a question which must be answered, E, and, like
Urgenenn’s Tower, it must be addressed. It plagues me, Elayeen. It vexes me. It
drives me to the distraction you have noticed. Even here, alone with you, and
holding you, it twists and writhes within me demanding to be heard, demanding
to be asked, and demanding to be answered. I cannot hope to find any peace
while that question remains. I don’t think any of us can.”

“And I am powerless to prevent you asking it. Though my
heart screams for you to remain, never to leave my side, there is another voice
which lurks as a ghost in a crypt, and I know, G’wain, I know that if I try to
keep you here, it will rise up again, and speak.”

“Eldengaze?” Gawain gasped, fearing the answer.

“Yes.”

“Oh, E… I thought us free of that cursed bitchwizard! I thought
us free of it!” And he held her closer and tighter still while she fought and
lost the battle against a shuddering sob.

“Time is catching up with us, G’wain. We cannot run from it.
We cannot fight it. Please don’t let go.”

oOo

2. Questions

“How is Corax progressing with Imzenn’s old staff?” Gawain
asked, sitting on a long bench of rock carved into a wall of the down-below.

He and Allazar had been sitting there alone for some time,
watching water gurgling from a curiously-shaped spout, wizard-made and cut into
the far wall. The water was clear as crystal, and sparkled in the Aemon’s Light
shining from Allazar’s staff, illuminating the otherwise invisible map etched
above the gushing spring.

“Hmm?”

Gawain felt anger flaring. “Come on, wizard, for ‘spit’s
sake! You’ve been like a child whose favourite toy was broken these last two
weeks!”

“I am sorry, Longsword, I have been distracted…”

“You cannot afford to be! None of us can. Rak by now will
have taken ship at Sudshear bound for Princetown Harbour, Brock by now will
have sent word to Igorn to ready all his hopes for the crossing of the Ostern,
and the Toorseneth by now will have doubtless learned of the destruction of
Urgenenn’s Tower and are doubtless already plotting the course of their
vengeance against Elayeen and I! Whatever work it is dragging your wits far
from where they’re needed, abandon it!”

“Forgive me, Longsword. It…” then he tailed off, and sighed,
and Gawain saw the wizard’s shoulders slump.

“What?”

“Hmm?”

“It. What it? It!”

Again Allazar sighed. “It seems I have acquired my own box
of worms, as you so quaintly describe it. I am plagued by them. But these are
ancient worms and of course you are quite right, it is in the here and now my
full attention is needed.”

Gawain eyed the wizard, looking for signs of the dreadful
light he’d seen burning in Allazar’s eyes in the black tower beyond the
Eastbinding.

“What?” Allazar croaked, his expression becoming a trifle
alarmed.

“Is it Eldenbeard?” Gawain asked bluntly.

Allazar blinked.

“Well, is it?”

“No, I don’t think so…”

“Good. Only I am plagued by my own worms, and said as much
to E this morning at the watchtower. There was talk of Eldengaze returning, and
frankly, it scared the both of us more than we’d care to admit to anyone else.”

“Talk of Eldengaze returning? What in sight of the sun could
possibly have prompted such a conversation between you? Were you fighting? Did
you not heed the warnings of elves concerning the dangerous moods experienced
by expectant ladies of the forest-born?”

“No we were not fighting, and yes I heeded the warnings.
Mostly. If you must know, and you probably should know, which is why I had you
meet me down here after all, I was trying to find a way to broach the subject
of my leaving her again.”

“You’re leaving?”

“Don’t squeak, Allazar, it echoes around this cavern like a
bat with its arse on fire.”

“You’re leaving?” the wizard asked again, shocked. “And us
scarcely two weeks returned from ridding the world of the Toorsencreed’s
eastern stronghold?”

Gawain sighed. “Yes. As I said, I am plagued by my own
worms. But now they seem to have become one very large one. A great slithering snake
of a worm. I’d hoped to broach the matter to Elayeen gently, but she saw
through me almost immediately. That was when Eldengaze was mentioned.”

“Mentioned how?”

“She said that she felt… that she
knew
, that if she
tried to stop me answering the question which has plagued me since the Feast of
First Choosing, Eldengaze would rise once more. It seems the ancient
bitchwizard is somehow aware of my intentions. Which really rather disturbs me,
even more than your mumbling about the place as though you’re not really here.”

“What is this snake of a worm, Longsword?” Allazar’s eyes
were wide, and filled with apprehension in the reflected Aemon’s Light from the
lustrous Dymendin he held.

“You go first. You’ve clearly got something awful plaguing
you, too, and if it’s anything to do with Eldenbeard, then all three of us who
stood together in the circles at Raheen are doubtless now poised on the brink
of some ancient wizard-made precipice; a chasm every bit as wide and as deep as
the Avongard Canyon and carved out by the same crypt-dwelling eldenbastards,
too.”

Allazar sighed and nodded, and lowered his head, gazing deep
into the lustrous pearl-white of the staff.

“I have been reading the notes Master Arramin sent
concerning the Morgmetal casket passed down through the ages to our lady. I
became convinced that there was some other message, hidden itself within the
clues which led to the casket’s finding. They were clever, Longsword, oh they
were clever who hid that box from the world! And Master Arramin clever too, as
they knew and intended that the finder must be. Imagine a story, Longsword, and
in that story an obscure reference, spoken by a character perhaps, or mentioned
in prose. An historical reference which would hold no real importance for
anyone save an erudite historian.

“And in following that reference, another story is found,
containing another reference likewise unimportant except to that historian, his
interest now piqued, and thus the trail followed. A pointer here, a reference
there; Master Arramin was brilliant, Longsword,
is
brilliant. And yet,
in following the path and his attention fixed upon it unto the discovery of the
casket waiting at its very end, he failed perhaps to notice other, simpler clues
hidden in plain sight.”

“Unless of course the elders knew that only a dullard D’ith
pat stupid enough to stand in the circles and unleash their unimaginable powers
would be able to spot such simple clues.”

“Indeed, Longsword. Indeed.”

Gawain nodded, and felt his stomach sink. “Elayeen said that
time has caught up with us. How many times have I railed against the
eldenbeards, and how many times have you tried to reassure me that my anger was
foolish and misplaced?”

“Too many to count.”

“And yet here we now sit, in a vault perhaps of Aemon’s
making, a refuge ancient before Morloch fled the Hallencloister and began the
nightmare. Behind us, hidden in a small chamber, a Morgmetal boxed passed
through the ages to Elayeen,
She Who Wears The Horse Though She Be Born of
Tree,
and all three of us at the mercy of events foreseen more than
sixty-two lifetimes ago. But I interrupted you.”

The wizard drew in a breath, gathered his thoughts, and
continued.

“When the worm began stirring, when it hinted that another
clue or message was hidden within the notes passed to me by Master Arramin, I
began to make notes of my own. You have seen my notebook, Longsword.”

“Yes. Your scribendana. You spent enough time calling for it
in your misery at the inn at the foot of the Downland Pass the day the circles
afflicted us.”

“Yes.
Mi scribendana.
”

Gawain smiled, though sadly. “Compindathu.”

“You named me Keeper of the Staff of Raheen,” Allazar
whispered, with great pride, and great love, and great sorrow.

“Stick.”

“Yes. And it was while standing in the puddles in your
father’s hall I saw in the reflection of the staff, black then as it was fresh
from the hand of Salaman Goth, the runes of the three circles, and only then
did I understand something of them, for it is only in the reflection of a
burnished cylinder that they may be read.”

“Oh such happy days.”

Allazar snorted, and nodded sadly. “Do you remember how long
I sat upon the dais before the broken thrones, meticulously copying all the
runes and symbols in that dark marble floor? And then you showed me how they
changed, every time someone stepped into them?”

“I remember everything, Allazar. Sometimes I think it is a
curse that I do.”

“Well. So then, mi scribendana. My notebook. I began to make
notes concerning the notes Master Arramin sent to me, notes about notes,
looking for the clues which the worms told me were there. But then I became
distracted. In a pause, here, actually, in this vault, sitting at the desk upon
which lies the ancient book intended as a journal for all those who pass
through this refuge. I flicked through my notebook, and saw all the notes I had
made concerning the circles of Raheen.”

Allazar paused, and extinguished the Light of Aemon, the
cavern lit now only by the dull orange of glowstones in the roof.

“And?”

“Hmm? Oh. You recall the goldpaper transliteration Master
Arramin found, and how he sent me a copy of that remarkable artefact? In the
notes, together with the Morgmetal box?”

Gawain’s heart began to beat a little faster. “I do.”

“I of course committed it to memory, according to his
advice, the better to aid me should I ever again encounter the written language
of the Eldenelves. And there, in my notes, I read that which had eluded me in
your father’s hall.”

“Adjectives?”

“Adjectives. And more. Insights, you would call them.”

And Allazar then turned his head, and gazed at Gawain with
such great sorrow it at once called to mind Valin, and how the elf had seemed
so often on the brink of revealing a dread secret. But, like the ranger,
Allazar simply sighed, and turned his gaze away, and back towards the gurgling
water.

Gawain waited for the wizard to continue, well past the
point of patience.

“Must I command you to speak of your discovery?”

“I am sorry. I was gathering my thoughts.”

“Liar. Now I know how Elayeen sees through me so easily, if
my attempts at delay or dissembling are as feeble as yours.”

“It is simply that I dread my own insights, and would refuse
to admit their possibility if I could.”

“The air in here is filled with sudden sorrow, Allazar. I
have seen in Valin’s eyes the same sadness I saw just now in yours. These
insights, they concern Elayeen, and our son.”

“They concern us all three, Gawain.”

“Oh now as Martan might say, there’s a cause for
trouser-bricks and no mistake.”

“We were all of us rewritten,” Allazar whispered. “Our own separate
qualities turned each of the three rune-rings, and all three rings aligned unlocked
the great power of the circles which smote the Teeth and smacked Morloch back
behind the wall of his binding. And then… then those qualities in us were
rewritten to achieve a single end.”

“Friyenheth, Ceartus, Omniumde.”

Allazar paused before answering. “Yes.”

“We’d already deduced as much along the way, Allazar, ever
since you scribbled your answers to our questions in your scribendana outside
the inn, there at the foot of the pass. Before Jaxon and Kahla marched into
view and Elayeen shot the Grimmand, and you were able once again to speak the
common tongue. We’ve known we were changed since then. How else do you explain
my surviving Elve’s Blood poison, or explain Eldengaze, the spreading of the
Sight and the vast outpourings of white fire you couldn’t possibly hope to
summon before the circles changed you? How else do you explain your knowledge
of the Pangoricon?”

Still, Allazar cut a small and sorrowful figure sat on the
bare rock bench. Still he seemed crushed by the weight of some profound
understanding which remained beyond Gawain’s ability to grasp.

For his part, Gawain’s mind reeled, searching through the
grey mist of strange aquamire in search of an answer to the unspoken conundrum
posed by the sad and silent wizard. But always through the wispy fog of
intuition swam unbidden the vision of the citadel which had troubled him since
he’d lain abed, Elayeen asleep beside him, in the early hours before dawn after
their homecoming feast.

But then Allazar drew in a deep breath, and straightened his
back, clutching his staff tightly, as if the iron-heavy Dymendin would lend its
enormous and unbendable strength to the wizard’s spine. Which, Gawain thought,
it probably did.

“But,” the wizard declared, “I returned to my initial
studies of Master Arramin’s materials, and unravelled the final, simple clue
contained in all the pieces of the puzzle which led him to the unearthing of
the casket. Or perhaps I should say, the penultimate clue, for it points the
way to the final piece of the puzzle.”

“Do you have your scribendana with you, there in your bag?”
Gawain pointed to the battered leather satchel, which usually found repose
either over the wizard’s shoulder or in his saddle-bags.

“I do.” Allazar looked surprised.

“May I borrow it and a pencil for a moment?”

“Of course, Longsword…”

Allazar fished out the items and passed them Gawain. The
notebook was grubby but surprisingly intact given its age, and for a moment
Gawain thought the same might be said of its owner, but humour was a fleeting
shadow, gone in an instant. The pencil was worn to a nub, and held in the
makeshift jaws of a split and hollowed stick bound with twine, the better to
extend the life of the well-used implement.

On the blank leaf at the end of the notebook, Gawain wrote a
single word, closed the book, and handed the two items back to their rightful
owner.

“The final clue is what, Allazar?”

“Hidden in plain sight in the notes sent to me by Master
Arramin is the title of a final tome, and that itself is likewise hidden in
plain sight. The final piece of the ancient puzzle is the illustrated Book of
Thangar, one of the earliest tomes still legible in the library at the
Hallencloister. By coincidence, or perhaps not, I had made a note, in your
father’s hall, that one of the circles had about it a hint of the stylistic
runes which adorn the cover of that tome.”

“I remember you saying so, before Elayeen arrived. Before
Salaman Goth arrived. You were eating half a cow stuffed between two loaves as
I recall, made for you at the inn by Tyrane’s men.”

Allazar frowned, recalling the moment when Gawain had burst
into uncontrollable and inconsolable tears, both of them sitting on the marble
dais before the broken thrones of Raheen. Sitting as they were now, side by
side, on the cold rock of Aemon’s making.