The Language of Stones

Gwydion turned away. He was going from a lord’s presence without dismissal, which was a great slight, but the curse had stunned everyone, and there was not a soldier in the Realm who dared lay hands upon a wizard.

The guards fell back as Gwydion swept from the scene. Will followed, hoping that the wizard’s power would see them safely away from the tower. Whatever happened, it seemed that a dismal shadow had been cast over the future of John, Lord Strange, and that he would not let it go. But, despite the unbearable tension Will felt between his shoulder blades, no call to arms was made, and no order to loose an arrow was given.

‘This is bad, very bad,’ Gwydion muttered as they passed from view.

‘What is?’ Will asked, looking over his shoulder again.

‘Lord Strange is the gauge that shows the prevailing temper of the nobility. He has grown worse these last few months, I think. And that worries me.’

And now that Will thought about it, perhaps Lord Strange had indeed become more pig-like of late. Seeing him every day might have masked slow changes that were stealing over him.

‘If the spell’s getting worse, why don’t you take it off him?’

‘How little you know,’ the wizard said, and walked on in silence for a while, but then he added, ‘John le Strange was once the handsomest of men. Both his vanity and his ambition laid him open to magical attack. The spell he labours under was not put on him by me, but by Maskull. My ingenious enemy wished to make of Lord Strange a gauge with which he might test the governance of the Realm.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Friend John does not know it, but his appearance follows – and depends upon – the state of corruption of his peers. Is that simple enough for you?’

Will scratched his head. ‘Do you mean, the worse his fellow lords behave the uglier Lord Strange becomes?’

Gwydion nodded. ‘Exactly!’

‘Well, you could’ve said that in the first place! That’s nasty.’

‘It is a cruel and clever spell, is it not? And all the more cruel for the Hogshead himself already has the means to set it aside – if he did but realize it.’

Will blinked. ‘Do you mean that?’

‘All he has to do is attend to his own duties selflessly and in good conscience. That would break Maskull’s spellhold over him.’

‘You mean, if he started being a little less greedy then he’d start looking less ugly again?’ Will blew out a breath. ‘But, why didn’t you tell him that?’

‘Because Maskull’s spells are rarely simple. There is a stubborn protection that binds this curse. It makes all assistance deadly to the victim. Did I not say that the spell was constructed by an ingenious enemy? John le Strange must release himself, and I have gone as far as I dare in pointing him in the right direction. If I, or anyone else, were to tell him what to do, then he would die.’ The wizard looked back. ‘Friend John was sent here to keep him out of sight – sent by one who could not stand to see their own failings portrayed in his features. Unfortunately, ambition convinced him that the only way back from exile is to help the king’s weapon-maker.’

The idea that had been forming in Will’s mind sought release. ‘Is the king a bad man, then?’

‘The king himself is a gentle spirit. It is those who surround him whom we must worry about.’

They went on in silence as Will digested the wizard’s words, and soon they had passed fully into the forest’s green embrace. Then Gwydion produced a bag from the folds of his robes which he gave Will to carry.

‘What’s this?’

‘It is my crane bag, made long ago from the skin of a large wading bird that once lived in the West. The bag is of small size, but you will find it is of surprising capacity. It contains all needful things for the wayfarer. And whatever you put inside, it will always weigh the same.’

Will took it. ‘Then I suppose it must be magical.’

‘There is a very considerable spell upon it.’

He hefted it dubiously. ‘You don’t carry much else that’s made of leather.’

‘I do not like to kill my friends for the use of their hides. What would you say if you knew that a book had been bound in skin cut from a dead person’s back? Would you read it?’

‘Urgh! No!’

‘You may make a face, but that is so with some manuals of sorcery and star lorc. However, the hide of this bag is quite different. It was sloughed and shed long ago, when the crane, whose name was Aoife, returned to human form.’

The wizard said no more about that, and Will lapsed into silence too. He began thinking about Willow, appalled now at the way he had endangered her. What if she had been taken by the hag? What if he had seen her body, white and bloodless, at the bottom of the pool when the waters had drained away? It was too horrible. Magic, as the Wise Woman had said, was mostly about consequences. Harnessing the power was the easy part, what was difficult was managing what happened as a result.

The more he thought about Willow the more heartsick he felt. He had so wanted her to come, but now he would never even know if she had agreed. He wanted to have the chance to explain. He wanted it so much that it hurt to think about it. He tried to put her out of his mind, but there was something that the wizard had said that would not let his thoughts rest – he had said that the hag could not bear to see others who were in love…

Might that mean he was in love with Willow? And might it mean Willow was in love with him too?

The idea excited him mightily. He was considering whether he could ask Gwydion about it when the wizard halted and thrust out a hand.

‘Did you feel that?’

‘Feel what?’ He felt only a breeze that shivered the birch leaves.

The wizard braced himself and looked around, as if he expected some great beast to leap from the forest and try to tear him to pieces.

‘Feel what, Master Gwydion?’

‘A passing danger…but we are not its target.’

‘But what was it?’Will asked suspiciously. ‘I saw nothing. I felt nothing. I never do.’

‘That is merely your inexperience. But one day soon, I think, you will begin to feel the warning of such threats.’

Will touched the other’s sleeve. ‘Master Gwydion, why do you say I’m a Child of Destiny?’

The wizard decided it was safe to go on, then for once he deigned to answer directly. ‘Because, if I am correct about you, according to prophecy one day you will stand at the crossroads, at the place where the future of the world will be decided.’

‘What prophecy?’ he said, fully alert now. ‘Tell me.’

The wizard’s half-smile faded. ‘Have you ever heard the name “Arthur”?’

‘You mean like Great Arthur? The king of olden days?’

‘Olden days. Well perhaps those days seem olden to you. What do you know about him?’

‘Only what the stories say.’ Will tried to recall what he had been told, but realized his knowledge was scant. ‘Arthur lived long ago, just a little time after the Slavers left the Realm. It was a time of war and so he found a sword in a stone and…and when he pulled it out that made him king. And then he had a big, round table made out of a dozen different trees in Waincaister, and his knights came and ate their dinners at it…and…’

‘And?’

‘Well…he fought battles and always won, except for the last one, because he got shot in the eye with an arrow. But before he died he had to give his sword back to a lady who lived in the pond. And…’

The wizard seemed amused. ‘Oh, is that what happened?’

Will shrugged. ‘So the stories that I’ve heard say. I’m sure there’s more, but I can’t remember it all. Valesmen add their own parts to a tale every time they tell it, so the stories about Arthur the King, which were always our favourites, got more mixed up than most. I’ve heard them told all ways around and can’t rightly say what’s true.’

‘Then I shall have to tell you how it was. Great Arthur was the hundred-and-first king of the line of Brea. He succeeded his father when he was but thirteen years of age, and he lived a most extraordinary life. But you know, his strange fate was hardly that of a mortal king, for he was in truth nothing of the sort.’

‘You once said there was no such thing as immortals.’

‘Oh, Arthur was not immortal. He was the second coming of a king of old, one who reigned in the time of the First Men, the same who swore to protect these isles in time of peril. What you were told about in Valesmen’s stories was Arthur’s second coming, which was prophesied and watched over by one who then called himself Master Merlyn. But you are right about the manner in which Arthur’s kingship was confirmed. When he was just thirteen he drew the hallowed sword Branstock from a stone, which is one of the signs that were to be watched for.’

‘Calibor!’ Will said. ‘I remember King Arthur’s sword was called Calibor!’

But Gwydion, who had been watching him carefully, shook his head. ‘No, that was much later. The Lady of the Lake granted Arthur a sword called Carabur. But the sword he drew from the stone was quite different. That was called Branstock. And it was one of the Four Hallows of the Realm.’

Will put a hand to his mouth thoughtfully. He had the feeling that something was dimly familiar. ‘The Four Hallows…’ he whispered. ‘Wand, sword, cup and pentacle!’

‘Now, how could you know that, I wonder?’ the wizard asked, very satisfied.

‘I don’t know…I…’ Will shook his head as if trying to clear it. ‘Tilwin! Of course! He brought cards to the Vale and taught me to play.’

‘And have you heard of the Sceptre, the Sword of State, the Ampulla and the Crown?’

‘No.’

‘They are four items of regalia that represent the Hallows when a king is crowned. These four objects must be present at each royal coronation. Unless they are, no man may call himself king. But they are not the real Hallows. Those were once lodged deep underground. In ancient times they resided together in a vault in the Realm Below. The first is the Sword of Might, called Branstock. The second is the Staff of Justice. The third is the Cauldron of Plenty, and the last—’

‘And the last is a star.’

‘The last is the Star of Annuin. Tell me, how did you know that?’

He shook his head. ‘I…’ His fears suddenly overflowed. He swallowed hard and looked up. ‘Master Gwydion, has this got something to do with me being a Child of Destiny, because if it has then a big mistake has been—’

The wizard held up a hand. ‘In the same way that King Arthur’s second coming was prophesied in the Black Book, so also was another’s.’

Will felt another current of fear run through him. ‘Whose?’

The wizard looked away. ‘It may be that it was yours. What do you think of that?’

Will tried to laugh. ‘Mine? But that’s – that’s silly!’

‘Is it? Why do you think I saw to it that you were saved from harm and cared for by loving parents, hmmm? Why do you think I made sure you were brought to adulthood in the carefree bosom of the Vale? That place has long been under my magical cloak, for if you were the Child of Destiny, then you had to be preserved from Maskull. Now do you see? You must be properly prepared to fulfil your destiny.’

The idea was vast, terrible. He wanted to hide from it. ‘But…but what if I don’t want to be prepared?’

‘It does not much matter what you want. You must be. That is one of my tasks. And it seems to me there is still plenty to be made of you.’

‘What does the prophecy say?’ he asked, dazed.

‘As with all prophecies, the wording is far from clear. It speaks mistily, of “one being made two” and other notions that are hard to fathom.’

Will felt heartsick. ‘But it can’t be anything to do with me!’

‘Ah! A further proof.’

‘What?’

‘The prophecy says you would deny yourself thrice. That is the second time you have done so.’

‘But I’m not denying myself!’

‘And that sounds like a third denial to me.’ Gwydion glanced at him critically. ‘Still, Lord Strange and his lady have not accomplished as much as I had hoped with you. You have yet the bare means to gain knowledge which is needful, for no man can truly call himself a man until he has stocked his head with a goodly measure of knowledge. You are still far from being sufficiently taught. I think perhaps you need—’

He halted suddenly again and threw out a staying hand. Will froze, then they crouched down together behind a stand of saplings. But nothing showed itself, and the afternoon sun filtered through the leaves until all was still and sleepy again.

‘What was it?’ Will whispered at last. ‘Something evil?’

Gwydion turned, frowning, light upon his feet. ‘I have asked you not to use that word. It makes for loose thinking.’

‘Then tell me what you felt.’

‘A danger. A shadow…some piece of malice in hiding. Or so it seemed for a moment.’

‘Do you mean Maskull?’

‘It felt somewhat like his dirty magic. But perhaps I was mistaken – ah, look there!’

The wizard drew the split hazel wand from his sleeve and began to test the ground ahead. He went on a few paces and pointed his staff at a partly overgrown track that drove through the forest like a green tunnel. It was too wide to jump across, and paved with stones so that its way was clear, for no trees grew along the line where the close-set slabs had been laid. It looked as if it had not been used in a great many years, but still it was a better-made road than any that Will had ever seen.

‘If you would know a little of what you call evil, Willand, then mark this scar upon the land.’

‘It’s a fine path made of stones, Master Gwydion,’ Will said, staring up and down it. He wondered where it came from and where it went.

‘Do not admire it! It is the Akemain, a Slaver road! Slavebuilt, laid here long ages ago by a sorcerer’s empire. Its main purpose was to take armies of foot soldiers across the land as fast as could be. It was built to aid in the work of murder and the holding down of the people.’

‘Sorry.’ He scuffed at the grass with his toes. ‘Where does it go?’

‘It runs fifty leagues and more east to west. And there are many other such slave roads that defile the land in like manner. See how it goes straight and takes no heed of hill or dale? Mark that arrogance well, Willand! For the stones of this long street and others like it have ever been an insult to the earth and are the present bane of our Realm.’

‘How so?’ asked Will stepping into the middle of it. ‘It’s just an old stone road.’

‘You will learn soon enough what it truly means. Come! Do not stand upon it!’

As he hurried on, the ancient road faded quickly from his mind, and little more passed between them until at last they came to the southern edge of the Wychwoode.

It was a hot and close afternoon, but a change came into the air as the sun reddened and the evening became golden. They were once more among open fields. Gwydion avoided the places where folk might be found, meandering instead through woods and along overgrown paths, and as they crossed over a small stream the wizard asked about the lessons the Wise Woman had told him, and what manner of magic he thought he had learned from her.

Will repeated the first of the Wise Woman’s lessons, but then he could not help but admit to having read the book of beasts in which the spells had been written.

‘I know I shouldn’t have,’ he said lamely. ‘I know that now.’

‘And doubtless you did at the time too. Tell me, were there any words written on the front cover of the book?’

Will nodded. ‘A few. But I couldn’t read them in the ordinary way.’

‘The words were most probably, Ane radhas a’leguim oicheamna; ainsagimn deo teuiccimn. That is the true tongue.’

Will marvelled. ‘The sound of it rings pleasantly in my ears.’

‘It is a very ancient way of speech, the words the First Men learned from the fae. They cause a mighty hunger in the head, do they not? That is why you must take care when speaking the true tongue, for it is the language of stones and it has great power. Now tell me what else the Wise Woman taught you.’

While Will recalled all he could, the wizard nodded or stroked his beard, but he asked no more questions and gave no rebukes, for which Will was grateful. At last Gwydion said, ‘Say after me: Fiel ean mail arh an mailor treas.’

Will tried. Then he tried again. And then he tried a third time to get the sound just right, and at last Gwydion smiled.

‘There!’

‘What does it mean?’

‘You have spoken the Rede of the Three-fold Way in the true tongue.’

Will smiled back, pleased. ‘That was easy.’

‘Easy enough for some. But heed me well: magic must always be requested and never summoned. Always respect it, and never treat it with disdain. And when you ask, ask openly and honestly, for the honest man alone has the right to speak the words of power.’

By now they had come to a river bank, and Will saw a small standing stone sticking up out of the grassy bank.

Gwydion said, ‘Come here and put down the crane bag.’

Once more, Will did as he was told, and the wizard made him jump up and sit on the stone. ‘Do not be afraid. This little stone is called Taynton Sarsen. It is as benign as your own Tarry Stone. It marks an important ancient crossing point over the stream.’ He took from his pouch a piece of flint so sharp at the edge that it could have been used to shave with.

‘What are you going to do with that?’ Will asked, eyeing the flint uncertainly.

‘Give you a beggar’s head.’

‘What?’

The wizard tested the edge of the flint, then began to cut off locks of Will’s hair. ‘Hold still. The place where your braids used to hang looks like a half-harvested wheatfield and we can’t have that.’

Will screwed up his face but endured the indignity and when at last he put a hand to his head he found his hair was no more than half a finger’s length all over, and tussocky. He ruffled it and followed the wizard, picking up a stick on the way. ‘Why did you cut my hair?’

‘It is a disguise.’

‘It’s not much of one.’

‘It will serve to confound those who have been sent to make report on you.’

Will felt renewed anxiety cramp his stomach. ‘People sent by Maskull, do you mean?’

‘It is not unusual for him to have me watched when he can get news of my whereabouts. It is likely we are being watched now, for he certainly knows my bag-carrier was lodged in the Wychwoode.’

Will’s anxiety turned to alarm. ‘He found out about me?’

Gwydion smiled. ‘I made sure of it.’

‘You mean, you told him?’

‘I made sure Maskull found out that I had brought an unsatisfactory apprentice lad to Lord Strange’s tower for a summer of correction.’

‘Wasn’t that dangerous?’

‘Of course. But far less dangerous than if I had not done so. You see, Maskull does not know who you are. He will dismiss the detail from his thoughts, and once dismissed it will stay dismissed.’

‘I hope so.’

‘He believes I am a coward. He cannot bring himself to believe that I would dare bring the one spoken of in prophecy into plain view, for were he in my place he would certainly have kept you locked away in a fortress of spells. Be warned, Maskull wants very much to find the prophesied one, and if ever he decided that you were he, then…’ The wizard’s words petered out and he made a lethal gesture.

Will passed a hand over his throat and looked around uncomfortably. Fresh fears bubbled up inside him. It was terrifying to think that his survival now depended on his being mistaken for his own decoy. ‘Where are we going?’

‘You’ll know that when we get there.’

‘Well…how far is it?’

‘About as far as it is to Nempnett Thrubwell.’

Will gave a hard, frustrated sigh. ‘Oh, Master Gwydion, why will you never tell me where I came from and what is to become of me?’

‘As to the first, I do not know. And I have already told you the second – you are going to be taught.’

‘Taught what?’

‘What the world is truly like.’

Will snorted. ‘Who can know what the world is truly like?’

Gwydion tapped his nose with a forefinger. ‘Ah! The world is the sum of what men believe it to be. Now, that is deep wisdom, if you did but know it.’

He liked the idea. ‘Do you mean that if most men thought the sky was green and the grass was blue then they would be?’

The wizard smiled. ‘Willand, I mean precisely that.’

‘Is that why magic is leaving the world? Because people are stopping believing in it?’

Gwydion’s eyebrows lifted. ‘Why, Willand, you surprise me! That is a very interesting question. Indeed, there is an important rede that says, “Magic alters” and another that says, “Magic to him who magic thinks”.’

Will swished at the dust with the stick. ‘But what I really want to know is why did Maskull put that spell on Lord Strange if he’s not an evil sorcerer?’

Gwydion picked his way towards a mass of brambles. ‘Three steps forward, two steps back. How easily you use the word “evil”, Willand. Where did the idea come from in the first place?’

‘I don’t know.’ He shrugged and pushed the spiky briars aside with his stick. ‘Isn’t it right? To use the word “evil”, sometimes. I mean, surely Maskull is evil, even though he may not know it.’

‘“Evil” is a dangerous idea to have in your head if you wish to understand magic properly. Each of us carries tremendous power for the doing of what you unthinkingly call “good” and “evil”.’ He drew a deep breath. ‘I suppose you ought to be given instruction about this, though you hardly seem ripe for it.’

Will wrinkled his nose at that. ‘I don’t want to know.’

Gwydion stopped dead and turned so that the charms which hung inside his shirt clattered together. ‘Is that truly so? Make no mistake, people are forestalled or led on by knowledge – and by the lack of it. I must be careful what I reveal to you, and what I hide. You must be taught. You must be prepared. But I must not fill your head with so much that your essential nature is altered. Do you see?’

Will thought about that as they followed the banks of the river. The sky deepened and the brighter stars began to appear. Before night fell fully, they camped. Gwydion picked a place close to running water and in the lee of a hill. He danced earth magic around his chosen spot, then produced a cooking pot that was heavier when taken from the crane bag than the bag was with the pot and all its other contents put together.

‘What’s this pot made from?’Will said feeling the weight. ‘Some kind of stone?’

‘Correct. That is cleberkh, or loomlode as some say, a kind of stone found in the Isles of the Sword, a place that lies beyond even the Orcas in the Far North. At first the stone is soft enough to shape, but the more you cook with it the harder it gets.’ Gwydion took out a patched brown travelling cloak much like his own. ‘And this is for you. It will help you to sleep.’

He took out a slate blade and cut a yard square in the grass, made nine turfs of it and stacked them up. Then he gathered twigs into the hole and whispered a merry fire into being. In the pot he made a thick, savoury broth in which pieces of roasted vegetable floated. Will could not tell if it was done by magic or the brown powder the wizard spilled into the mix, but the soup tasted wonderfully flavoursome.

As the flames of the fire died down Gwydion lay back and searched the sky.

‘What are you looking for?’ Will asked. ‘A sign?’

‘I am simply marvelling.’

Gwydion told him how the dome of the sky was very far away, and how tiny windows in the dome let through the light of the great furnace that was the Beyond. ‘Those windows,’ he said, ‘are the stars.’

‘And shooting stars?’ Will asked. ‘What are they?’

‘The Beyond is a place of unimaginable brightness. There are fireballs with hearts of iron that perpetually crash against the outer dome of the sky. Sometimes one of them falls down through a star window. That is what we call a shooting star.’