Worms' Ending: Book Eight (The Longsword Chronicles 8) (23 page)

“Chaos. Until fear and hatred of the white-haired grew
stronger and stronger, and the persecution began. Children slaughtered, youths
hunted, those older and wiser living in hiding, growing in power, wreaking
revenge for their persecution or demanding the fealty of commonkind, wielding
havoc unappeasable, unstoppable. Until came Zaine. Until came order. Until,
finally, came the Hallencloister.”

Gawain at last began to understand Allazar’s heartbreak when
his call for sanctuary had gone unanswered. The Hallencloister had been so much
more than a place of learning the wizard had endured from boyhood, so much more
than a seat of governance. It was, for those of wizardkind, their homeland,
their hope, and their salvation from the barbarism of yore.

But still there remained the emotional confusion which even
now furrowed Gawain’s brow. Pity and sorrow for Allazar’s loss, rage at the
revealing of the new depths plumbed by the Toorseneth’s treachery, and his old
and familiar certainty that had the barbarism of the past succeeded in erasing
wizardkind forever, the world would not have endured the seemingly ceaseless
suffering inflicted by Morloch.

“I should have known better than to ask,” he finally
managed.

“And if Elvendere falls entirely from grace, and elves of
the Tau are let slip upon the world, to the chaos will be added the horror of
forest-born hunters seeking out the white of hair, to destroy them, to keep this
world forever dull, until Morloch’s return. And that will mean war, for as you
have so often said, Gawain, we wizards are born, not made. And we are born of
commonkind, as are you all.”

Gawain closed his eyes and sank back against the rough-hewn
wall of the cabin, his head gently thumping against it.

“Morloch’s spite knows no bounds, then,” he whispered. “With
Benithet’s Orb gone into the west, no lands south of the Teeth will be spared
his lash. The seer was right, Allazar. This is the world’s ending.”

The wizard’s silence was far more potent than any spoken
reply might have been.

oOo

24. Expressions

Dinner at Rak’s house that evening was progressing quietly,
though there were five at the table. Ognorm and Venderrian seemed a little
withdrawn, perhaps not entirely comfortable dining with their host and Gawain,
and Allazar was distant, his grief too fresh for gentle conversation. It was
therefore Rak and Gawain who were doing most of the talking, speaking quietly,
and then mostly about the continued expansion of Last Ridings since the Lord of
Tarn had left there after the Feast of First Choosing.

  A knocking at the front door was answered by the
housekeeper, who then in turn tapped gently on the kitchen door, drawing Rak away
from the table with a polite apology. He closed the hall door behind him,
leaving the four of the Hallencloister Quest eating good hearty fare, but none
of them particularly revelling in it.

“Are you both ready to leave at dawn tomorrow?” Gawain asked
softly.

“Arr, melord. All sorted. Got plenty of supplies to keep us
going on the way back. Pack‘orse won’t be loaded down mind, but we’ve enough
stuff for the winter’s journey.”

“If we don’t dawdle, we’ll be dining in the hall in seven
weeks from now.”

“And the route, Longsword?” Allazar surprised them with the
question. He hadn’t been with the three of them when Gawain had advised Ognorm
and Venderrian to make ready.

“We’ll hug the Threlland border to the vicinity of the river
crossing, skirt that, then continue south just inside the Mornland border to
the line running from Nordshear to Juria Castletown. Thence, straight as an
arrow due south, through Mornland and Arrun clear to Last Ridings.”

“The horses have had little rest,” the wizard declared,
poking at the food on his plate.

“I know. Gwyn can manage, but I’ve arranged with Rudd, the
master groomer, for fresh mounts for you all. He may be relied upon, of course,
but I’ve seen the horses myself and they’re hardy, and used to ranging with
Sarek’s men; they’ll probably think a couple of months on flat ground in the
lowlands a holiday compared to life here in the Black Hills.”

“You must forgive my distraction, Longsword, you must all
forgive my distraction of late. I ought to have done more while these
arrangements were being made. I am sorry.”

“In truth there was only one task you were needed to
perform, and you’ve done that,” Gawain soothed, eyeing the stout leather
cylinder hanging from the back of Allazar’s chair. The Dymendin Sceptre of
Raheen nestled snug inside a military map case, for convenience and for
concealment.

“Arr, and we know what task lies ahead of us all, Serre
wizard, an’ are sworn to see the short stick safe to melady back at the
Ridings.”

Allazar nodded, and stabbed a chunk of beef with his fork,
eyeing it sadly.

“There wasn’t a ceremony or anything,” Gawain announced,
trying to lighten the mood around the table. “But yes, I suppose what started
at the Hallencloister Quest is now the Quest of the Sceptre. If nothing else,
it’ll give us another reason to speed our journey and to exercise caution along
the way. The prospect of
that
falling into unfriendly hands does not a
warm and fluffy feeling make.”

“Arr, we seen what the long white stick can do, doubt the
short one’s got much less of a poke in it.”

Allazar was on the brink of a reply mid-chew when Rak came
back into the kitchen and took his seat at the table. A quick draught of hot
wine, and he eyed Gawain with a telling look.

“Ill news, my friend?” Gawain asked, tensing.

“News, though what its portent, I cannot yet say. Word has
arrived from Crownmount concerning his Majesty’s hopes for an eastern alliance
to force the annulment of Hellin’s warrant and the thwarting of any plans she
might have had for seeing you and your lady taken in chains to Thallanhall. Neither
he nor the rest of the world yet knows of Hellin’s condition, of course.”

“Your expression, Lord Rak, does not bode well for
Threlland’s hopes,” Allazar sighed.

“No. Word recently arrived by couriers via the River
Shasstin, it seems, and was taken direct to Crownmount. To be brief, Callodon
supports the initiative but is far too preoccupied with matters in the Old Kingdom to spare the resources required for a formal treaty to be ratified, though of
course Brock’s Court wishes to assure Threlland of the high esteem in which you
are held there, blah blah. Arrun and Mornland sit on the fence, the councils in
those principalities unwilling to risk the ire either of Hellin and Elvendere,
or of Callodon, Threlland, and of course Last Ridings. They’ve expressed their
continued friendship and respect for all lands and are pleased to remind us
that all who come in peace may cross their borders without let or hindrance.”

Gawain sighed. “There is little those lands could do should
anyone cross their borders with ill intent. Long have they relied upon friendly
relations with all lands to protect them.”

“And with the threat from the north diminished and passed
into history, they are anxious for those friendly relations to continue. His
Majesty’s efforts were valiant, but in vain, as I suspected they might be, my
brother. Were it not for Pellarn, of course, there would have been no need for
Eryk to act; Brock would have rumbled a warning north across the border to
Hellin, and she would likely have heeded it as well as the advice of her own
council. However, news of the proposed alliance should certainly have
strengthened her council’s call for moderation, and will also have reached the
ear of Thallanhall. It has not been a complete failure.”

“Perhaps it’s as well,” Gawain nodded. “Now that Hellin is
unfit to rule, her council may act. I have no desire to make enemies of good
people, least of all those who stood to the fore at Far-gor.”

“Indeed, and nor they of you. Hellin’s descent into madness,
if such it be, may well have spared Juria a great deal of unpleasantness.”

“Was there no other news? No word of Brock’s progress?”

“Alas, none. You must remember, Gawain, news travels slowly
here in Threlland. His Majesty will not even know you are here until days after
you have left. And we do not have the kind of swift communications Brock
employs. Even if we did, few are the birds which reached Juria, you said, and
even fewer would there be to reach Crownmount.”

“It is a lack which must be addressed by all of us. With so
much happening in the world, to remain unaware of critical events is to remain
unprepared for them. I do not like surprises. It’s a lesson we all should have
learned years ago when Pellarn fell.”

“If we had learned it before then, the loss of the Old Kingdom might have been averted, and much else besides. But that, alas, is hindsight. I
have no more news for you. I would that I had some words of comfort from
without our borders to help speed your journey, but I do not. Do you have
everything you need for tomorrow’s departure?”

“Yes, thank you. The horses are readied, provisions
obtained, new clothing and blankets. I’m hoping sunrise finds us on the plains,
and the wind behind us all the way.”

“Merrin will wish to bid you farewell. She has letters, and
another bundle for your packsaddle. Gifts, I think, for your lady.”

Gawain smiled. “Lady Merrin is kind. I know Elayeen will
appreciate that kindness. By the time I get back to her, she’ll be huge, and in
need of something cheerier than just me to brighten the dark days and nights of
winter. Spring, and the new prince, cannot come fast enough for me. How it must
be for Elayeen, I cannot imagine.”

“I can,” Rak smiled, “And I fear in the matter of value
between your safe arrival home and a bundle of gifts, you underestimate yourself.”

The meal continued quietly after that, until finally
Venderrian and Ognorm took their leave. Early nights were the order of the day,
the journey south would be a long one, seven weeks of winter travelling. After
Allazar retired to his room, Gawain sat awhile longer with Rak by the living-room
fire, still loath for sleep to end their brief reunion. That Rak understood
helped not, and merely added to Gawain’s rising melancholy mood.

“In the summer, perhaps,” the dwarf smiled, his eyes
glinting in the firelight, “When ships’ captains put out to sea with great
enthusiasm for their voyages, there may be a need for Threlland to assure
itself of the welfare of Last Ridings and those who dwell there. I wouldn’t be
at all surprised if a certain lady of Eryk’s acquaintance doesn’t insist upon
it.”

“Will Merrin be fit to travel, then?”

Rak nodded. “We are expecting our new arrival in June. I’ll
send word of course, but all being well our ladies will be able to compare
poops and mewlings near the end of August.”

Gawain smiled. “Yes. How happy was I to escape such daily
commotions when Maeve delivered Kamryn. How it’ll be when our son is born I do
not know. Were you preoccupied with such events when Travak was born? I don’t
seem to remember.”

“Husbands are expected to maintain a certain level of
interest, and need to learn how to feign an expression of delighted surprise at
the drop of a hat. You should practice on the way back to your hall. Here, let
me show you. Here am I, sitting by the fire, reading an important document fresh
arrived with urgency from Crownmount. But lo, in comes my lady, beaming, and
holding out a soiled nappy for my inspection, and declares,
look what our
darling baby has managed!
”

Rak’s expression instantly became the picture of fatherly
delight, pride, and astonishment. “Oh! Our son did
that
? How marvellous!
Give him a kiss for me, my love, I will do so myself the moment I have finished
reading this proposed trade agreement sent to me by your uncle…”

Gawain chuckled as Rak’s expression instantly became serious
once more.

“There are other lessons you should probably learn, my
brother, which will spare you many hardships, but alas, there is no time now
for the teaching of them.”

“Why are you now smiling?”

“No reason. But chief among the lessons I urge you to
remember is this: Do not tell your lady that your son must take after her side
of the family should she present you with a soiled nappy and a happy smile after
waking you so to do three hours before dawn. It makes for an uncomfortably
silent breakfast made by your own hand. And do practice the expression, it will
spare you much pain and your lady many tears. Here, let me show you again…”

Gawain laughed, quietly, and shook his head. “Were I to
practice doing that every day for the next seven weeks, my companions would
think me quite mad.”

“True, but trust me when I say it’s worth it. The rest,
alas, you must discover for yourself.”

But then Gawain remembered the sorrow so often in Valin’s
eyes, and he shuddered. Rak noticed.

“What is it, my friend?”

Gawain’s smile faded, and he gazed at the flames in the
grate. “I do not know, Rak. I do not think the future is inclined towards
kindness where Elayeen and I and our son are concerned.”

“I had such fears for Travak when you spoke of Morlochmen in
the Barak-nor, and when the call to arms sounded, heralding war. Your fears are
those of all expectant fathers, Gawain. We none of us wish an ill world upon
our children. Our nights are filled with dark imaginings, and we see dangers
where there were none before. It is natural to fear the future, at such times
as this. It is why you overestimate the cheer a letter and a small bundle of
gifts might bring compared to the comfort of your arms about your lady.”

“Do you think so?”

“I know so. But practice the expression anyway, it’ll serve
you well in years to come, especially if you’re graced with another bundle of
joy.”

Gawain nodded.

“Have you thought of a name for him, my brother?”

“No. Whenever E and I have spoken of names it has most often
been in jest. A name would make of a dream a hard reality, and we were not
ready for that. Nor am I still, not yet. I expect it will be something suitably
elvish.”

“You will not choose a name from among Raheen’s monarchs?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. There is no Raheen, Rak.
The Hall of Raheen in Last Ridings is no more than an institution, an
embodiment of a set of traditions those of us who are left of that land yet
cling to, and yearn to maintain. But we cannot, and we know it. My son will
inherit no crown from the king of ashes. If he inherits anything at all it will
be a longhouse of wood, a roundtower of stone, and a hole in the ground. A hole
made when elder days were young, and in it, waiting for him, a box which only
he can open.”

oOo