Prospero's Children Page 36

  She slid from his back and turned, but he was gone without thanks, vanishing into a thinning mist: he would not come again. The moor was under her feet, the heather and the wildflowers and the butterflies, and the sunlight was warm on her face. She was Fernani, Fernani and Fernanda, she was whole again, and all that she had forgotten came flooding back, stirring her dormant memory, knocking at her heart. And far below was the gray house of her dream, but close by were three figures sitting on the slope, a man, a boy, and a dog. “I am Fern Capel,” she said aloud, and began to cry, and so they found her, and she hugged Will, and clasped the Watcher’s coat, weeping as she had not wept since she was a child, not since her mother died when she thought the tears were frozen inside her forever. As the story poured out of her so the two halves of her knowledge fitted together, and at last, with a horror that stopped her tears, she understood. “You did well,” said Ragginbone, “better than my best hope—if hope it could be called, since I dared not indulge it. The key is caught in a time-trap: none will ever retrieve it again. And with the loss of so powerful an ambulant, the Oldest Spirit may be crippled in strength for many years.”

  “But what about the rest of the Lodestone—the other pieces?” Will asked. “What became of them?”

  “That is another story,” the Watcher replied, “and still unfinished. Our story is over—for a while. Yes, you have done well. Few have ventured so far, or ever returned. Do not regret the price. It all happened a long, long time ago. Atlantis crumbled into sand ere Rome was built or Troy burned. Its people are less than a memory.”

  “I loved them!” Fern cried, and Will saw her eyes were fierce and her face desperate, and he recognized with an odd pang that she would never be a child again. “Ezramé, and Uuinarde, and Ipthor who was my friend—and Raf. I wanted to save him, I gave my life for him—but I lived, and he died. I sent him to his death. How can I go on living—living here and now—when I was in Atlantis with him?” And as she spoke she clutched unseeing at the strip of gossamer still bound around the rags of her unfamiliar clothes.

  “We all go on,” said Ragginbone, and the lines were deep in his brow. “Don’t despair. You are young, and despair comes easily to the young, but it is ultimately . . . unprofitable. Who knows? If you loved him—if he loved you—you and no other—he may come again. The Gate opens both ways, or so they say. Remember, where there is no hope, you can still have faith. You may meet again—someday. Eternity is a long time to say never.” He got to his feet: Lougarry was at his side. “You should go home now. Your father is waiting.”

  “You’ve been gone five days,” Will told her. “Dad’s been frantic: he called the police and they were going to search the moor, but then they found out about Javier and they thought you’d run off with him. It’s been awful.”

  She was staring after Ragginbone: he was moving with his ageless, tireless stride, receding swiftly into a haze of summer. She called out: “When is Someday?” but his answer, if there was one, blew away on the breeze, and man and dog—wizard and wolf—seemed to dwindle, fading into a memory.

  “Come on,” Will said, putting his arm around her, and together they walked down the hill toward their home.

  The boat battled on through the towering seas. A curling cli f of water—had they but known it, the backwash of the Nenheedra’s rising—bore them up and carried them onward, until they rode its fall and plunged again into a night-green chasm where the lightning could not come. Now he knew she was gone he was not surprised: he felt as if he had always expected to lose her, in the end. There was no mockery left in him, no anger: he must carry his grief ungrieved, like a stone in his heart. His friends had waited for him; the boat needed him. She was brave and sea-crafty, rolling with the waves, running with the gale; but already her sails were storm-shredded, her timbers leaking, her mast cracked. A shattering collision of wave on wave took her rudder: the wheel slid in his grasp. But still he held on, though there was nothing to hold on to, determined to ride his last tempest until the deck broke beneath him, to keep faith—if he had faith to keep— with his companions, his vessel, with her. She who would never know if he had kept faith at all. And so the hurricane screamed over him, and the Sea raged around him, and the dark poured down from above.

  The mermaid rose out of deep water into the stormheart.

  THE BEGINNING

  Glossary

  Names

  Alimond The name Alys Giddings took in honor of her Gift, probably from the Latin, alius other, mundus world, though it would also have been chosen for its similarity to her own name. Since the fall of Atlantis, most of the Gifted have taken a different name for magical purposes, one not used in their everyday lives; only the very arrogant or the very simple may not do so. Sometimes they choose their own name, more often it is given to them by a mentor. Its origins may come from any language but it usually has a meaning of significance to the named.

  The reason for this may be partly to do with concealing their Gift from other people. Atlanteans wielded their power without pseudonyms, needing no other identity, but after the fall the Gifted were often called Accursed, and took many names to hide themselves.

  Aliph (Al-eef) The servant of Ezramé.

  Atlantis In Atlantean, the pronunciation is similar to the French, but the final consonant is almost always sounded. Thus, At-lon-teess. (The nasal an, as in the French, sounds almost like on).

  Azmordis One of the many names of the Old Spirit, pronounced as written and probably a variant of Asmodeus, in Christian legend one of the right-hand demons of Satan. Azimuth may come from the same source, or it may be a version of Ashtaroth, a Middle-Eastern goddess with sinister aspects. Azmordis is generally considered a male spirit but will use female ambulants and identities when it suits him. Of the other names he mentions, Jhavé (Zh-ahvay) is obscure, but could have an oblique connection with Jahweh, the ancient Jewish god—masquerading as a god always appealed to him, it gave him more scope than manifestation as a demon, though modern theology has made it far less practicable. Jezreel may be related to Azrael, the Angel of Death, Xicatli to Xiuhtecuhtli, the Aztec fire god, Ingré Manu to Angra Mainya, the principle of evil in Persian mythology. The origin of Babbaloukis is unknown, but it could be the name of another demon derived from Babel or Babylon, both seen by old-fashioned Christianity as symbols of chaos and wickedness.

  Azmodel, the valley in the hinterland of reality where the Old Spirit is still worshipped, obviously comes from the same source as Azmordis.

  Caracandal The Gift-name of Ragginbone, Latin or Italian in origin, derived from his true-name of Candido, meaning white or pure—an unlikely meaning presumably intended to apply to something in his spirit rather than his outward character. The addition of cara, dear, suggests the name was chosen by someone particularly close to him in affection.

  Dévornine (Day-vor-neen) One of the twelve Ruling Families (i.e. the most Gifted) in Atlantis.

  Ezramé (Ez-ra-may) The title of Cidame (See-dam) was given to all the women of the Ruling Families after coming-of-age at sixteen; Cidé is the masculine equivalent. It is possible that the Spanish el Cid may be a latter-day derivative.

  Fernani (Fur-nah-nee) This is northern, not Atlantean, in origin, but from what region or language it is impossible to tell. After the fall the empire disintegrated and many peoples—and their tongues—were lost.

  Gogoth (Goh-goth) Probably a mainlander name, since although Atlantean uses the sound th (sounded as in the English sloth), it rarely occurs at the end of a word.

  Goulabey (Goo-la-bay) The name of the Thirteenth House, the last of the Ruling Families to rise to prominence in Atlantis. Characterized by their ruthlessness and rapacity, they were considered upstarts by the rest of the aristocracy. The Thirteenth House is invariably mentioned separately from the other twelve. However, Pharouq (Fa-rook), the Wizard-King, was in many ways an efficient and practical ruler who did much to strengthen the empire and increase its prosperity. This wealth improved the lot of citizens, peasa
nts, and slaves, so that Atlantis in its last days was more affluent than any other city of ancient times, even Athens or Rome.

  Hexaté (Heks-ah-tay) Also written Hex-té, in the days when she was first worshipped as a goddess. The name was probably the origin of the Greek Hecate, goddess of witches, and the German word hex.

  Ipthor (Eep-thor) A common forename in Atlantis.

  Lougarry This almost certainly derives, as Gus Dinsdale suggested, from the French loup garou, werewolf. Her true-name of Vashtari has an eastern flavor, which, since Ragginbone speaks of “northern forests” when relating her history, hints at a background in one of the Asian countries bordering on Russia.

  Malmorth Also Malmorff, meaning misshapen. Of mixed Latin and Greek origin, the name is a term of derision applied almost exclusively to goblins.

  Mithraïs (Mith-rae-eess) The oldest of the twelve Ruling Houses.

  The Nenheedra The origins of this word come from the Old Tongue, which pre-dated Atlantean and was said to be the first language ever spoken by man. The name, roughly translated, means Darkserpent, using Dark in the sense of the void, the abyss. The Old Tongue næân became the Atlantean néan, while hyadr, meaning giant snake, recurs as the Greek hydra.

  Pegwillen This was presumably a nickname given to the house-goblin by his child-playmates. It comes from Pig William, a character in a folk tale. The youngest of three brothers, he was exceptionally ugly and apparently stupid, and his smarter and handsomer elders left him to take care of the pigs while they set off to win the hand of the local princess. Inevitably, they failed, while Pig William’s down-to-earth common sense enabled him to outwit an invading giant, and his sincerity gained him the love of an unusually discerning royal.

  Rafarl The pronunciation of this name demonstrates both Atlantean Rs. They use the R as in French, i.e. at the back of the throat, and also as in Italian, rolled off the tip of the tongue. The double R is normally French, the single Italian, except when it is preceded by a vowel. Thus in Rafarl the first R comes off the tip of the tongue while the second is in the back of the throat: Ra-farrrl.

  Rahil (Ra-heel) Both Rahil and Rafarl may be sources for the later name Raphael.

  Tamiszandre (Tam-eess-zondr) The wife of Pharouq and mother of Zohrâne.

  Uuinarde (Oo-ee-narrrd) The French R occurs here, and the double U at the beginning is particularly common among the names of nymphelines , as in the case of her brother Uuinoor (Oo-ee-noor). In Atlantean uu and ou are both generally pronounced oo, but a preceding H— huu— can change the sound to hew. A single U is always pronounced ew.

  Nymphelines (neem-feh-lin) were human mutations unique to Atlantis—mutations occurred frequently in the vicinity of the Lodestone—not magical creatures like mermaids. They were natural swimmers who could hold their breath for long periods and seemed unaffected by water pressure even at depths of several fathoms. None remain, although their genes may have been passed on to certain races in the South Seas.

  Zohrâne (Zoh-rahn) Literally Evertime, or eternity, this is a name from the Old Tongue, where zohr meant time and ân , ever. In Atlantean zoor meant time as in an age, or era, also zone.

  Language

  Little Atlantean survives nowadays: the descendants of the Exiles no longer use it and the Gifted learn it as a dead language, like Latin or Ancient Greek. Only the very skilled employ it for spells and incantations; lesser magic uses other tongues. Alone among Prospero’s Children Fern traveled to the Forbidden Past, and thus the language became a part of her inborn knowledge, though her accent was always that of the north. We can surmise that it was the linguistic ancestor of many modern languages, specifically European ones. The pronunciation closely resembles French, with the epiglottal R and several nasal inflections like an and on, although in Atlantean the final consonant is generally sounded. However, there is also the German ch, the Russian zh, and the English th. Rules are erratic and, since the language is long dead, open to debate. For example, th is also pronounced as t in some proper names.

  The Atlanteans claimed they created the first fully developed human speech; the Old Tongue, they said, contained many primitive sounds and even animal noises which pre-dated the subtleties of true communication. Certainly Atlantean holds a power which other tongues do not possess, as if an echo of the Lodestone’s magnetism was transmuted into its sounds and rhythms. As a language of summoning it is irresistible: even the Old Spirits respond to it, though they were part of the world long before speech was invented. It is worth noting that they often use elemental noises rather than words to release their powers. Words are the skill of Men. Few among the Immortals learned from such transient beings, but those who did, whether in love or enmity, became fascinated and absorbed, and the words they had not made bound them irrevocably to the fate of humankind. Of these the strongest, and the closest to Man, is Azmordis.

  Read on for a preview of THE DRAGON CHARMER

  by Jan Siegel

  I have known many battles, many defeats. I have been a fugitive, hiding in the hollow hills, spinning the blood-magic only in the dark. The children of the north ruled my kingdom, and the Oldest Spirit hunted me with the Hounds of Arawn, and I fled from them riding on a giant owl, over the edge of being, out of the world, out of Time, to this place that was in the very beginning. Only the great birds come here, and a few other strays who crossed the boundary in the days when the barrier between worlds was thinner, and have never returned. But the witchkind may find the way, in desperation or need, and then there is no going back, and no going forward. So I dwell here, in the cave beneath the Tree, I and another who eluded persecution or senility, beyond the reach of the past. Awaiting a new future.

  This is the Ancient of Trees, older than history, older than memory—the Tree of Life, whose branches uphold Middle-Earth and whose roots reach down into the deeps of the Underworld. And maybe once it grew in an orchard behind a high wall, and the apples of Good and Evil hung from its bough. No apples hang there now, but in due season it bears other fruit. The heads of the dead, which swell and ripen on their stems until the eyes open and the lips writhe, and sap drips from each truncated gorge. We can hear them muttering sometimes, louder than the wind. And then a storm will come and shake the Tree until they fall, pounding the earth like hail, and the wild hog will follow, rooting in the heaps with its tusks, glutting itself on windfalls, and the sound of its crunching carries even to the cave below. Perhaps apples fell there, once upon a time, but the wild hog does not notice the difference, or care. All who have done evil in their lives must hang a season on that Tree, or so they say; yet who among us has not done evil, some time or other? Tell me that!

  You may think this is all mere fancy, the delusions of a mind warped with age and power. Come walk with me then, under the Tree, and you will see the uneaten heads rotting on the ground, and the white grubs that crawl into each open ear and lay their eggs in the shelter of the skull, and the mouths that twitch and gape until the last of the brain has been nibbled away. I saw my sister once, hanging on a low branch. Oh, not my sister Sysselore—my sister in power, my sister in kind—I mean my blood-sister, my rival, my twin. Morgun. She ripened into beauty like a pale fruit, milky skinned, raven haired, but when her eyes opened they were cold, and bitterness dragged at her features. “You will hang here, too,” she said to me, “one day.” The heads often talk to you, whether they know you or not. I suppose talk is all they can manage. I saw another that I recognized, not so long ago. We had had great hopes of her once, but she would not listen. A famine devoured her from within. I remember she had bewitched her hair so that it grew unnaturally long, and it brushed against my brow like some clinging creeper. It was wet not with sap but with water, though we had had no rain, and her budding face, still only half-formed, had a waxy gleam like the faces of the drowned. I meant to pass by again when her eyes had opened, but I was watching the smoke to see what went on in the world, and it slipped my mind.

  Time is not, where we are. I may have spent centuries star
ing into the spellfire, seeing the tide of life sweeping by, but there are no years to measure here: only the slow unrelenting heartbeat of the Tree. Sysselore and I grate one another with words, recycling old arguments, great debates that have long degenerated into pettiness, sharp exchanges whose edges are blunted with use. We know the pattern of every dispute. She has grown thin with wear, a skeleton scantily clad in flesh; the skin that was formerly peach-golden is pallid and threaded with visible veins, a blue webbing over her arms and throat. When she sulks, as she often does, you can see the grinning lines of her skull mocking her tight mouth. She has come a long way from that enchanted island set in the sapphire seas of her youth. Syrcé they named her then, Seersay the Wise, since Wise is an epithet more courteous than others they might have chosen, and it is always prudent to flatter the Gifted. She used to turn men into pigs, by way of amusement.

  “Why pigs?” I asked her, listening to the wild hog grunting and snorting around the bole of the Tree.

  “Laziness,” she said. “That was their true nature, so it took very little effort.”

  She is worn thin while I have swollen with my stored-up powers like the queen of a termite mound. I save my Gift, hoarding it like misers’ gold, watching in the smoke for my time to come round again. We are two who must be three, the magic number, the coven number. Someday she will be there, the she for whom we wait, and we will steal her soul away and bind her to us, versing her in our ways, casting her in our mold, and then we will return, over the borderland into reality, and the long-lost kingdom of Logrèz will be mine at last.