Worms' Ending: Book Eight (The Longsword Chronicles 8) Read online

  “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.”

  Alla
zar 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.

  “I remember, Longsword.”

  “Look in your notebook, Allazar, there at the end, the word I have written. The word is the name of the snake of a worm which demands my attention, and calls me away from my love, my hearth, and my hall.”

  With trembling fingers, the wizard opened the notebook and read there the one word Gawain had written. Hallencloister.

  “They will not grant us entry,” Allazar announced, a good time later. A time filled with silent contemplation, both of them watching the waters of the spring gurgling into a small pool served by some hidden drain, the pool never overflowing, and never draining away, always holding the same level.

  “They’ll have no vakin choice.”

  “When it was built so very long ago, the citadel was so constructed to keep out the barbarians of commonkind.”

  “Commonkind?”

  “The ancient name given by wizardkind to all those not wizardkind. The history I learned there spoke of warring tribes, and elves more elvish even than now. The Hallencloister was built in the days before Morloch, and its architects took into account the canny nature of men and how it might be employed to gain entry into what was then more of a wizard’s enclave and sanctuary, rather than the great place of learning and repository of knowledge we know it as today.”

  “Which you know it as today. I know it as a nest of vipers.”

  “The persecution of wizards was rife in those early days. Hence the need for great fortress walls. It is only once inside that the true spectacle of the place is revealed.”

  “I shall reserve my judgement as to the nature of the spectacle until I’ve seen it myself.”

  “Calhaneth was built upon concentric circles, each smaller and grander than the next until the great roundtower and Wheel of Thought was achieved at its centre. The Hallencloister is built on a rectangular pattern, each cloister giving way to another until the centre is reached. A great square courtyard is found in the heart of the place, at the centre of which lies the Fountain of Zaine…” Allazar sighed, drifting into his memories. “The fountain is circular; apart perhaps from the columns of the cloisters it the only object built within the walls to posses such architecture. A round pool of crystal clear water from the middle of which rises a pillar of tiered circular dishes forming a cascade, water spilling from one dish down into the next before achieving the pool at the bottom. It symbolises, of course, the purity of knowledge, and its spreading down through the ranks of the D’ith until the greater circle of the pool at the base representing commonkind is finally filled and the people enlightened.”

  Gawain said nothing. The atmosphere in the vault was filled with melancholy enough, and he had no heart for teasing or insults.

  “Five dishes in the fountain, five great nested quadrangles. The outer, dwellings, dining halls, dormitories and lesser classrooms for the D’ith pat, and the inner, libraries and centres of higher learning and study, students advancing from the outer towards the final cloister of Sek. Four towers lie within the walls, one each at the cardinal points, great keeps of stone from the tops of which each of the four Sardorians could observe the mystic domains which were their nominal responsibility. Back when there were four Sardorians, and not the single Sardor of today. The towers were said to contain the chambers of the Masters of Sek, who enjoyed luxury far exceeding anything dreamed of in the humble dormitories or monastic cells I was accustomed to. I never entered those towers. I had neither the rank nor the reason so to do. Except once, when I was dragged as a boy before three imposing wizards seated behind an imposing table…” Allazar’s voice faded as he drifted into the memory.

  “We’ll have time to discuss in detail the layout of the place on our journey there, Allazar. You’ve already described the citadel to me, as well as to the three kings at Ferdan when we journeyed there before Far-gor.”

  “I’m sorry. Yes, so I did. I wish Master Arramin were here. He might be able to convince you that there is no hope of gaining entry should the inhabitants refuse to open the gates. Nothing short of riding on the back of Graken could get you in there, not with all its gates drawn up.”

  “Yes,” Gawain agreed, “You’ve said that before, too.”

  “I have?”

  “Yes, at Raheen, after the destruction of Salaman Goth and when Elayeen told us both all the news she had gleaned in Jarn, and she spoke of the Hallencloister’s gates all being drawn up. You described the citadel then as being as impregnable.”

  All
azar nodded. “Before we stood together in the circles. I must have been wiser than I thought, in those days.”

  “Not wise enough, or none of us would have stepped into them.”

  “And yet,” the wizard sighed, “There now would be no world, had we not. The Teeth breached, Morloch able to cross them, these lands in the grip of his army of Meggen and the Empire in the west in the grip of Goth-lords rising, he would have consumed us all.”

  “And doubtless still intends to. So many things demanded our attention when first we met, and since. We have done so much together, in these few short years. It seems to me our attention was ever diverted away from the Hallencloister.”

  “And still you intend to leave Last Ridings, and leave our lady here?”

  “I have to, Allazar. This is not about an ancient book in an ancient library, not for me. Ever since Elayeen told me of the compulsions she felt which drove her from Tarn and into the wilds of the south, I have wondered how it must have felt. How it must have been for her, answering a call only she could hear and feel. Now I know. Every time I close my eyes for a moment’s peace, I see visions of the Hallencloister you described. High walls, immense gates, standing in pride and arrogance atop a rise and dominating the lands all around it, as unassailable as Raheen itself once stood. I am being driven, Allazar. I am compelled to go there.”

  “And you will not take Elayeen with you?”

  “No. Not for all the wealth in the lands would I take her north of the Sudenstem, not now. Not now she bears our son. I would build a Hallencloister citadel of my own around her, if I could.”

  “And if she insists?”

  Gawain shook his head. “She won’t. Just as she won’t do or say anything to prevent my leaving. She, too, is compelled, only to silence and inaction, where I am compelled to the Hallencloister. It is the one unanswered question which dominates all others. And even you, it seems, are intended to go there with me.”