50. Talks in the Dark.
Festivities and merriment only started dying down in the darkest hour of night, right before sunrise. So Rowanbloom, who came to an outer gallery to cool down and take a few breaths of fresh nightly air, was not very surprised to find Lady Violet there in that hour.
"Ah, Rowanbloom. I hope this feast reminded you of home?" The badger ruler looked somewhat disheveled, but stone-cold sober.
"A bit too wild compared to our feasts in Redwall." The squirrel walked closer to the narrow window where Violet stood. The gallery seemed empty except for the two of them, as far as Rowanbloom could smell and see in the dim illumination of a few widely-spaced lamps.
"You look very beautiful today, Lady Violet." That was not what Rowanbloom wanted to say. For weeks she wanted to talk with Violet face-to-face again, but certainly not about appearances. Though at least her words were true. Not that Violet did not look beautiful on all the other days Rowanbloom saw her. But before her beauty always seemed like that of a tall, unapproachable mountain. Until today the squirrel could hardly imagine her laughing, dancing and having a good time.
"So are you, Rowanbloom." Violet smiled. "When you give any thought to how you look, you look like a queen. But I have a hint that you want to ask me something. Go on, ask."
"You see the future, Lady." Violet seemed much less intimidating than usual right now, so Rowanbloom did not hesitate to take her at her word. "And that's exactly what bothers me, once I think about everything that happened. You see the future. Yet woodlanders are on the brink of war against each other, if not already past it, and the vermin army remains free to work their evil. How it came to the result so terrible, when we have prophecy on our side?"
Violet's good mood evaporated quickly. "Depending on one's point of view, this might take three words or three days to explain."
Romanbloom did not answer, but continued staring at the bigger creature with insistence, until Violet sighed, walked to a stone bench carved from the wall, sat, and lowered her head, so that their faces would be on the same level. That brought her out of the relatively illuminated spot, but despite the shroud of shadows, the squirrel still could clearly see her unblinking, staring eyes, lamplight glimmering slightly upon them. Somehow it took just a few seconds to turn a living, breathing, happy badger into something more resembling a grim idol. "You are well-versed in history and legends of Redwall, Rowanbloom, so tell me – from whom, ultimately, came all those prophecies, visions and warnings of the future that kept Redwall unconquered through thousands of long and perilous seasons?"
Rowanbloom didn't need to think before answering. "The spirit of Martin who protects the Abbey."
"Right. Martin. The Guardian of Redwall. The Foremost of the Restless. Salamandastron has the same sort of guardians, spirits our ancient Badger Rulers, albeit if there is an order of being among the dead, their stature is lesser. But, Rowanbloom, when you spoke of Martin, did I hear the same resentment in your voice as when you questioned myself just now?"
Rowanbloom shook her head. "You see not only the future, but my mind as well."
This time it was Violet's turn to wait and stare questioningly, until the squirrel spoke.
"To think of it, I liked nothing more than old heroic tales of Redwall in my youth, well, aside from Mother's cooking. Committed most of them to memory, remember them still. But as I grew older… you can say I started doubting them. If Martin saw the future precisely enough to know his successor through thousands of seasons and leave riddles and rhymes tailored to Matthias, if he sent visions freely across the land, even as far as to the otters of the Green Isle or Triss Swordmaid in the middle of the sea, if he could intervene just in the right faction of a second to make Martha walk, how could so much harm and tragedy, easily avoided by a simple warning, befall the Abbey? Why not even a word of caution about Slagar's gang, about the stoats carrying Dryditch Fever to the Abbey, about the jackdaws in 's? Why nine out of every ten defenders of Mossflower had to be buried on the Ridge of the Thousand, if one brief vision could have given the Long Patrol that quarter of an hour by which it was late? Why Urthstripe the Strong had to walk to his doom and open Salamandastron to the enemy, for the sake of avenging beasts who weren't even dead, and when relief was in a day's march?" As the squirrel spoke, her voice got quieter and quieter, the last phrase almost a whisper. "Why on that night in the Seacrag Castle I got warned so late?"
"And how do you know that any goodbeasts who died in the castle would still be alive to this day, had you been warned earlier?" Violet answered. "Defend from the attack by the secret tunnel, and be encircled, bottled up by your foes, to perish a moon later; refuse to raid castle because of a forewarning – if anybeast would have believed it – and be hunted down eventually in remote corners of Ergaph, unable to change anything at all. In a war, I cannot explain every one of my plans to every hare soldier under my command. Sometimes they have to follow orders and hope I know what I am doing, lest we all come to grief. In the war of destiny you and even I are but simple soldiers. We only ever see tiniest parts of its whole. Reason tells us that the woodlander force coming to relieve Salamandastron could have been caught in the open field and defeated, had Feragho not been in such a rush to finally invade the Fire Mountain; that if Lady Cregga was to arrive on the ridge in a different moment, a single lucky javelin could have stopped her dead, breaking the spirit of her hares; that a beast not killed by birds or slavers could have met a far worse fate, than brief pain and swift passage to the Dark Forest, some time later. Yes, such reasoning is only easy when thinking of stories long in the past, you don't need to tell me that. So, when sheer chaos of war clouds our minds with fear, sorrow and confusion, we can only soldier on, follow guidance given to us, and hope."
"But what war? What is this "war of destiny" you're talking about?"
Violet remained unperturbed despite clear aggression in the squirrel's voice. "You know, of course, that there are vermin seers. Most of them are frauds, true, but in most generations you can find a few real ones, like Nightshade and Grissoul from the old stories. You saw one of them, a true Seer with true power, the white ferret, with your own eyes, haven't you? What did you feel then?"
"Terror. Dread. Foreboding. But that must have been another warning from Martin, nothing more!"
"No." Violet responded with weight and authority of a Badger Lady. "What you felt was not of this world, but I'm certain it had nothing to do with Martin. Think of it, Rowanbloom. Visions, warnings and prophecies, any true prophecies, have to come from somewhere. They come to us from Martin or the ancient lords of the Mountain. But surely you do not believe they might send anything to vermin, beyond nightmares to frighten and dispirit them?"
"No… I don't believe so." Rowanbloom nodded with reluctance. She felt a gnawing urge to plug her ears, to run, to avoid hearing what she already knew the Badger Lady was going to say next.
"Then the truth should be already clear to you." Violet's words fell like stones. "Martin and the badgers of old are not the only restless beings on the other side of the grave. There are others. Ghosts and shades dwelling in what vermin call Hellgates. When I was shown the future in the Secret Chamber of Badger Lords, my mind brushed briefly against theirs, and even now the memory of their misery, envy, and relentless hatred chills me to my very bones. What you felt was the distant echo of the same malevolence. Of the dead things that seek ruin and ill fortune for every living creature. They war endlessly with our unseen guardians, and if any being, in this world or the next, truly has any control over fate and destiny – then that control is what they contend."
"If this is true, why I was the only one to feel them?" Rowanbloom hoped her shuddering at least wasn't visible.
"Some beasts are gifted with eyesight a hawk would envy. Others with keen ears or noses so delicate they can catch scent left by your steps hours after you're gone. You and I are similar. I'm certain most beasts feel a slight unease in the white ferret's company, too slight for them to perceive as something out of the ordinary – what else one is supposed to feel when next to a wicked and cunning beast? What you experienced was not truly different, only far more acute."
"And what do you mean «if any being, in this world or the next, truly has any control over fate and destiny»?" Rowanbloom asked the first question her mind stumbled upon, simply because she did not want to stop and contemplate the Badger Lady's words.
Violet sighed again. She shouldn't have used that turn of phrase. She could see and smell that the squirrel is already shaken enough. But what was said could not be unsaid and what probably was thought could not be unthought.
"Nothing new to you, or any beast who pondered workings of prophecy and fate, I'm afraid. You have said that Martin predicted the future for thousands of seasons ahead. Surely you already considered what exactly such perfectly accurate predictions might possibly entail?" Violet made a strange movement with her claws, as if pulling something invisible. "If the exact actions a beast will make in her life can be seen crystal clear many generations before she is even born, if the weaves of destiny are already woven for innumerable springs and autumns onwards, are we anything but mere threads caught in them? Are even spirits of the dead any different, except in being able to perceive their subjugation to the inexorable doom of all things?"
Unexpectedly to Violet, there words did not upset Rowanbloom further. Instead, the squirrel just shook her head.
"I don't know if it is just me, or all healers eventually turn out like this, but I sort of got used to the thought that our lives are in the paws of fate. Sometimes a patient is doomed, no matter how desperate I get and what I try. Doesn't mean I shouldn't try my best to save as many as possible. I guess…" Rowanbloom shrugged "…I guess the idea of fate only scares me when I think that it might be directed by someone… malign. Is that naive of me?"
"Yes," Violet thought. But she kept this answer to herself.
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Smalltooth woke up in a corner of a dark and cold corridor, with hardly any memory of getting there, feeling like there was a privy in his mouth and a smithy in his head. Clearly, trying to taste every drink at the feast, half of which the ermine never even sniffed before, was a bad idea. At least his remaining winter fur saved him from freezing. His eyes could not see anything at all. There was no sound, at least no sound outside of pounding between his ears. Feeling around himself blindly, he could find no evidence of a lamp or a torch, not that he had anything to relight them with. Had Smalltooth been less miserable, he would have been scared by that. At least he still had his whiskers and sense of scent.
Groaning, the ermine rose to all fours and, driven more by instinct than by conscious thought, tried to find his way, preferably to a place where he could find something to wet his throat and a bed to crawl into, so that he could die in greater comfort. He had not the faintest idea in which part of Salamandastron's stone labyrinth he was. Retching twisted Smalltooth nearly in a knot before he made five steps, and he just barely avoided collapsing right in his own vomit. Certainly that did not improve the taste in his mouth, but his mind cleared a bit. There were usual smells of dwellings around – smoke and hares, primarily, and undertones Smalltooth was in no condition to recognize. At least he did not wander far enough to become lost.
As the ermine sprawled on the hard stone floor, his nose also detected a mild cool draft from nearby, carrying a strange mix of smells, which the ermine disregarded. The only important thing at the moment was some sort of window being near enough. Maybe, for lack of anything better, breathing some fresh air could alleviate his suffering?
With a painful effort, Smalltooth forced himself to move again, following the draft – and very soon found a closed wooden door, nearly squashing his nose against it. Muttering unintelligible curses, the ermine stood upright and pushed against the door without any visible result, once, twice, then his claws accidentally met with a doorknob, he pulled and nearly fell over as the door jerked open.
Behind it was what seemed a pretty large room. A hint of first morning light could be seen through the window that somebeast foolishly left half-open. The smells of herbs, sickness and cooling fireplace were now pretty heavy, but the ermine still did not care.
On the way to the window Smalltooth slammed into one object or another at least thrice, overturned something that probably was a chair, and made plenty of noise, but that did not distract him from his goal. Finally the ermine leaned over the window edge, inhaling as deeply as he could without risking to vomit again. The sky was brightening in the east, but sun still hid deep below the horizon. Even on a normal day Salamandastron was going to be asleep in this hour. In a couple of minutes or so the ermine recovered enough to see that as a good thing: nobeast was going to laugh at him for inability to hold his drink. As nobeast kicked him out of the room yet, he figured out it was empty.
It wouldn't hurt to check, though. Smalltooth turned and stepped aside from the window to see where he was. And froze in shock. The room wasn't empty at all. Its sole inhabitant, still and unmoving under thick blankets, was simply in no condition to kick anybeast out.
For all Smalltooth could see, Heddin Wintersky wasn't even awake. And seeing that probably was the only thing that saved the ermine from some sort of shameful reaction. After remembering to breathe, he looked around – nobeast else was in evidence. If any healer watched the maimed otter at night, he or she clearly did not deem this task important enough to miss the feast. Smalltooth edged alongside the walls, as far away from the otter's bed as possible, trying to leave the room quietly and cautiously.
A vain effort for a beast who had trouble walking steady. Crash! The sound when Smalltooth, a table on which he tripped, and a big jug of water on the table all fell on the floor seemed deafening like thunder to the ermine.
For a few seconds Smalltooth was afraid to move a single claw. But then… nothing happened. The otter remained still and silent. There were no steps outside. Cold water, which soaked much of his fur, seemed to wash away the remaining haze from the ermine's mind. He lapped a bit from the puddle on the floor, before rising. Heddin still gave no indication of being conscious. The ermine remembered the soul-wrenching fear he just felt. Then his fear on the duel field, at the trial, during the rush to Salamandastron across the frozen landscape. He remembered his hatred and envy as well. He remembered the look on Kethra's face as she tried on her new eyepatch, her stumbling on a flat floor.
The ermine looked around. A long towel caught his eye. Picking and rolling it up into a tight cord was a matter of moments. Smalltooth's stare returned to Heddin. Surely in this condition the otter was no longer able to fight back? Surely he would be easy to strangle, without making it look like a murder? Smalltooth raised his improvised garrote, as he stalked cautiously towards the bed-head.
Then, among all the smells in the room, Smalltooth's keen nose caught a faint, but very familiar one coming right from the towel, he now held before his face. Rowanbloom. What was she doing here? Helping to nurse a foe back to health?
Yes, of course she was. Smalltooth remembered that she even objected against killing and torturing prisoners, beasts from Kunas' army who would have flayed her alive without batting an eye, to Marroch, back when Marroch was still alive and in command. Too many woodlanders seemed strange in this way: showing compassion even to their enemies… never mind beasts they had no real reason to care about.
The ermine felt all his wicked intent swiftly draining away, as if floodgates opened in his mind. What he was even doing right now? Betraying woodlanders' trust, betraying Kethra's trust too by putting her at more risk alongside with himself; all just for the satisfaction of murdering a powerful and fearsome beast turned into a helpless cripple? Smalltooth's paws were trembling, and his headache returned with a vengeance. Clumsily, he set an overturned chair straight, dropped right into it, and closed his eyes for half a minute, his paws on his forehead.
When Smalltooth opened his eyes again, he found himself looking straight at the face of Heddin Wintersky, the otter's head clearly turned towards him.
Smalltooth felt too burned out for panicking. "You were awake. You bastard."
There was no answer and that – alongside with the realization that the otter, awake or not, could not hurt him – made the ermine angry. "What do you want from me? I didn't do anything! I just didn't see where I was going in the dark!"
"Answer me." Heddin's voice was weak but clear. "Answer me. Is the ferret Kethra alive?"
"Uhm… yes," answered Smalltooth mechanically.
"And where is Mother… where is Akkla?"
"She broke the rules of the trial by combat, and got exiled from Salamandastron. And so were the rest of your otters. See how badly you and yours lost? And I'd say that serves you right, you stinky waste of fur! Hah, if not for Aldwin, the hares and their badger warlady probably wouldn't have bothered to keep a broken beast like you alive! Hey, you know that you are broken, and I do mean broken – your back snapped like a twig – don't you?"
Heddin did not answer and that unnerved Smalltooth again. There was not enough light to see the otter's expression clearly.
"Eh, whatever. Why I'm even talking with a useless piece of flotsam?" Smalltooth rose to storm out of the room – or at least tried to. His head immediately reminded him that abrupt movements weren't the best idea in his condition.
"Wait." Even now Heddin could speak commandingly. "Find Aldwin, or Lady Violet, or any Long Patrol commander. Ask them to…."
"Oh my, ain't this funny! Our mighty and proud otter warrior suddenly needs a lowly vermin to do something for him." Smalltooth hissed, while backing further away. "Tell me why shouldn't I refuse just for fun? You'd have killed me just for fun, when you still could, so that's only fair!"
Heddin did not answer immediately. It seemed as if he needed to gather his strength – or wits – each time he spoke.
"I don't know how much time I have left. If I die here, my parents, my clan will seek revenge. Hares, who protected and sheltered you under their roof. They will suffer. Maybe I can prevent that." Heddin swallowed. "Please. You have…"
"You're not very good at begging, aren't you? Hares will suffer? As if I care!" As Smalltooth turned and walked out of the room, he heard a movement behind, the bed creaking, as if Heddin tried vainly to rise or reach for him. That only made Smalltoth step faster. He still did not feel so good. Even after hurting Heddin. Was the otter simply too scary even when helpless? Could he stay conscious long enough to retell the whole story, Smalltooth's words and all, to his woodlander nurses? Of course it could not be that Smalltooth regretted any of those words. All these arrogant hares, who, no doubt, never were kicked around just for being young and small, and ate well all their lives…
Thinking about the feast made Smalltooth nauseous again, and he leaned against the wall. Where he was going, again? In the pitch dark corridor he could not say. Bloody jumped-up rabbits, making their warren so mind-bogglingly huge one could easily get lost in it… He never asked them for a shelter, anyway. And the rules of hospitality did not extend to prey creatures, any fool knew that. And they practically broke them first, allowing Heddin in, and starting the whole trial thing. However you looked at it, Smalltooth owed them nothing. And it was not like wandering blindly across the stone labyrinth in hopes of finding Aldwin, or whomever else, could do any good, if Heddin really was so close to death that every hour mattered.
Why he was telling all of this to himself, again?
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Sleep was the most insidious enemy Heddin Wintersky ever faced. Insistent but gentle, promising to make the gnawing pain in his body disappear, to wash weariness away, to quell bitter thoughts, if only he allowed his eyelids to close. Instead, the otter bit into his lip every time the world started fading. Maybe he was recovering, yes. Or maybe this awakening was the final grace given to a dying beast, and his next sleep would be his last. Heddin saw such things a few times before – beasts who seemed to take a step towards recovery, just when the end of their earthly road was very close. And for the first time in his life, Heddin felt afraid of death. He was not ready to enter the Dark Forest yet. Not before fixing what little he could fix.
However vigilant Heddin tried to be, he missed a moment – or minutes – when his thoughts started to unravel again and almost slipped into oblivion. Sound of a familiar voice and touch of paws made the otter snap back one more time. Great relief flooded him like warm summer tide. Standing over him was Aldwin, ruffled and wild-eyed, smelling of alcohol, sweat and something slightly less recognizable. Morning light was still dim – even though Heddin could swear many hours have passed – but the otter could not mistake the captain for any other hare.
"Aldwin." The otter would have laughed if he could.
"Who else?" Aldwin wiped his brow. "Good to see you back with us, old chap. But now you should just eat something and sleep. Everything else can wait till you get even better."
"Oh, Aldwin. You still see things, as you want them to be, not as they are." Heddin shook his head slightly. "I can hear the gates of the Dark Forest opening for me already. Don't argue."
Heddin took a few breaths gathering his strength. "The stoat told me what happened. You're here because he brought you?"
"Yes." Aldwin nodded.
The otter remained silent for a long time, or at least what seemed a long time to him. "Aldwin. You were right, and I was wrong all this time. Now… Bring me writing materials. Mother and Father would recognize my pawwriting. Maybe if I write to them, if I ask them to stay their paw, they won't spill any more blood trying to avenge me."
Aldwin did as he was asked, turning towards one of the other beasts in the room – Heddin only just now noticed their presence – to request quills, ink and paper. Then he brought a chair closer and sat next to the otter's bed. "Well, you see, soon everythin' you asked for will be right here very soon, Heddin."
"Thanks." The otter felt peaceful now, almost happy. "I was wrong all this time, but at least there is one thing I still can set right."
"That you can." Aldwin took the otter's right paw in both of his. "You also can live on and set right many more things. Don't be silly, we all know what a warrior you are. I would take more than those few wounds to kill you, wot."
The hare tried to smile comfortingly, but managed only to force his face into a wry, frightening expression.
Heddin did not see that, but he squeezed Aldwin's paw slightly in recognition of his words. He smiled too – a relaxed, almost happy smile. "Maybe. Maybe…"
When Lady Violet walked back into the room with her writing set, she found Aldwin Nightfur still holding Heddin Wintersky by the paw – the paw that went limp and unmoving a few minutes before.