Chapter 75: Neville – Guard Dog
‘I made a list,’ Gregoire offered his notebook.
It didn’t seem like the Grey One was going to take it, but in the end he looked at the notes in the notebook.
‘What are the chances,’ he asked, ‘of anyone start saying Asrat instead of darkness?’
‘And why not?’ asked Gregoire. ‘Anything is more original than calling darkness darkness.’
The Grey One turned to Neville.
‘You brought me back for this?’
‘We’re here,’ said Gregoire. ‘Welcome to Carlaje.’
The road turned south and the forest opened up in a clearing that went down to the river. Neville hadn’t known what to expect of Carlaje. He’d never been in a Frontier city before, but part of him thought they’d be similar to the cities in the north of Franária, Debur’s labyrinths running down the hill from a fortress’ skirt, paved streets closer to the castle, then the pavement crumbling away into dirt streets, alleys and lanes; piled up shacks, awnings. He didn’t expect so much space between the houses, all buildings made from the same light green stone as the Emerald, red roofs, streets lined with trees, no walls.
Walls are useless against the danger from across the Blood. That was what Pierre had told Neville.
The Blood. Carlaje was by the river and here the Blood was broad and slow like a slumbering sea. The horizon was darkness, but the waters reflected the sky red, no matter how blue the sky above was. The Grey One hugged himself and tugged at the black twig.
‘Do you fell it too?’ asked Gregoire. ‘I think the water kept some of the dragon’s magic. Or rather, the water runs, but this part of the river remembers.’
‘The dragon that destroyed Fabec?’ asked Neville. The dragon that killed Robert?
‘His name is Chelag’Ren,’ said Gregoire. ‘This is my house.’
They stopped in front of a two-story house. Green stone walls, red tiled roof, white windows. Gregoire opened the door for Neville, who carried the Wraith inside. The house was spacious and well lit, with a desk, many shelves filled with disorganized books and a room with two beds.
‘Put him in Pierre’s bed,’ said Gregoire.
Neville obeyed and tried to think of a way to feed the Wraith. Behind him, the Grey One was shivering and trying to break the twig on his arm.
‘I can’t stay here,’ he said.
Suddenly, he went still. Neville followed his eyes to the stairs that went to the second floor. There was a man. He had dark red skin, coal black hair, distant eyes. He came down, took a book from one of the shelves, and went back to the second floor. The shelves shifted when he passed, the stairs, once straight, became a spiral. Neville had the feeling he had walked into another one of that old mage’s dreams.
‘Who is that man?’ he asked.
‘Pierre’s father,’ said Gregoire. ‘He lives on the second floor and those shleves belong to him. Sometimes he comes down and picks a book that came to be here no one knows how. He translates it and we copy it. All the books come in Satironese, but the translations may come in Franish, Anjarian, Eslarian, sometimes even in Sejo Tíen’s characters.
Neville recognized some of the titles that Fulion took to Maëlle’s library, in that distant life Neville once had in Debur. In his mother’s libraries were the translations, these were the originals. Fulion took them from here, from this house, and took them to Maëlle. Neville had feelings he couldn’t describe, emotions the Mouth had devoured and that now came back raw. Before Fabec, he would have been in awe. Now there was some amazement and curiosity.
‘Pierre is your brother,’ said Neville. ‘Is this not your father?’
‘My father died before Pierre was born. This man and the shelves were washed ashore by the river at night, right after the dragon bathed. The man was cold and lost, grasping the shelves on the water. My mother took him in, the rest is history.’
The Wraith sighed and the sigh pushed a book from the shelf. It fell open on the floor, at a page with a detailed illustration of a Satironese locomotive. The Grey One knelt by it and touched the figure with the tips of his fingers.
‘This train is called Eliana,’ he said, ‘but she’s dead. Let me die, Neville. You’ve already killed my brother.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. Then he turned to Gregoire. ‘I have to go to Tuen.’
‘Let’s find someone to take you.’
Gregoire and Neville knocked on every door, but Carlaje, like the rest of the Frontier, was preparing weapons, food, wagons and horses. Preparing to invade the North, thought Neville. If the Frontier marched north to Baynard, if it took Patire and Deran, if the Frontier showed up with its mystery and magic, killed all the kings, would Franária be cured? Would the darkness from the Mouth succumb to the darkness of the Land of the Banished?
While Gregoire spoke to the people of Carlaje in search for a guide, Neville allowed himself a moment to marvel in the darkness across the Blood. The Land of the Banished had been there for four hundred years, but its eyes were millenia old.
Eyes?
The hair on Neville’s nape stood on end. The Land of the Banished looked right inside him with eyes that clawed and pulled. Suddenly there was shadow. The Banished claws hesitated and withdrew. Neville reached out and found his black tree. It stood by him, all leaves turned to the Land of the Banished, like shields.
Neville’s guard dog was a tree.
Gregoire said that no one could guide Neville to Tuen.
‘Teach me the way.’
‘Not that simple,’ said Gregoire. ‘It’s not a matter of direction. The Frontier is not the Land of the Banished but it has a temper.’
‘I walked its woods and survived.’
‘Not alone,’ said Gregoire. ‘Pierre was with you all the way.’
‘You can take me.’
‘Me? I’ve never left the Frontier.’
Gregoire had never wanted to leave the Frontier. All he wanted was to write beautiful books with rhymes, near the river, far from dragons. But his mather passed years ago and the house, once a one-story structure, grew another floor and stairs, so that red skinned man could walk up and down mumbling in Satironese, Anjarian and all those other languages that Gregoire didn’t even recognize. When Pierre was home, the house was more solid. Since he left, the house changed a little or a lot every day, like a creature moving in its sleep, stretching, turning. Gregoire’s only safe place now was the wagon and even the wagon had been invaded by magic and darkness.
‘What about that house?’ asked Neville.
The house he meant was deeper in the forest and there was no street leading to it.
‘There lives a veteran Messenger,’ said Gregoire. ‘One day he simply retired, said he couldn’t see the way anymore.’
‘What happened?’ asked Neville.
‘He went mad. Said he lost his family, but he never had a family.’
Neville went to the house. If a mad man was all he had, then a mad man he would follow.
