Kitabı oku: «Whitemantle»
Whitemantle
Book Three of the Language Of Stones
Robert Carter
For Andrew Ritchie – the Brompton man – who gave me back my fitness.
‘I think we ought to have as great a regard for religion as we can, in order to keep it out of as many things as possible.’
Sean O’Casey
The Plough and the Stars
Table of Contents
Cover Page
Title Page
Epigraph
PROLOGUE
PART ONE THE ENCHANTED CHAIR
CHAPTER ONE DOUBLE DEPETRIFICATION
CHAPTER TWO TRINOVANT
CHAPTER THREE THE BIER OF ETERNITY
CHAPTER FOUR THE VANE
CHAPTER FIVE ‘KILL! KILL!’
CHAPTER SIX ONCE A FELLOW…
CHAPTER SEVEN LEIR’S LEGACY
CHAPTER EIGHT MAGOG AND GOGMAGOG
PART TWO THE MAN WHO WOULD NOT BE KING
CHAPTER NINE THE LAMB HYTHE YALE
CHAPTER TEN THE WINDOWLESS CHAMBER
CHAPTER ELEVEN PROMISES AND PIECRUSTS
CHAPTER TWELVE THE KING OF PENTACLES
CHAPTER FOURTEEN PROPHECIES, LIBELS AND DREAMS
PART THREE ON THE SEVENTH DAY
CHAPTER FIFTEEN THE FAST-FLOWING STREAM
CHAPTER SIXTEEN THE SLEEPLESS FIELD
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN MUCKLE GATE
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN THE DOOMSTONE OF THE WEST
PART FOUR THE END OF ALL THINGS
CHAPTER NINETEEN THE IRON TREE
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE SUNS
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE THE SECOND DUEL
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO THE STONE THAT WAS HEALED
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE EDWARD
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR A BROKEN LAND
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE WHITE SNOW, RED RIVER
EPILOGUE
AUTHOR’S HISTORICAL NOTE
About the Author
By Robert Carter
Copyright
About the Publisher
PROLOGUE
THE STORY SO FAR
Whitemantle is the third novel in the Language of Stones cycle. The first two, called The Language of Stones, and The Giants’ Dance, recount the story of Willand, an ordinary boy who stands on the threshold of manhood. On the day that Will turns thirteen, the wizard Gwydion takes him away from home and explains certain extraordinary prophecies that concern the third and final coming of an ancient hero-king called Arthur. Gwydion suggests that Will himself is that predicted incarnation, but Will does not want to believe it.
However, as Will’s adventures progress dark forces are seen to be at work, chiefly embodied in the person of Maskull, a ruthless sorcerer and Gwydion’s arch-enemy, and the Sightless Ones, a sinister order of tax collectors who squeeze the common people and try to persuade them to believe in the mind-enslaving ‘Great Lie’. Gwydion is at pains to hide Will’s true identity from the world, and so the boy is lodged in secret, first with the fearsome hog-headed Lord Strange, then with the family of Duke Richard of Ebor, where he is educated in lordly ways. Will also comes to learn ‘the redes’ – the rules that govern magic – and he meets a girl named Willow who becomes his friend. He is also befriended by the House of Ebor’s venerable herbalist, Wortmaster Gort, and he stands up to Edward, the Duke of Ebor’s wilful heir, eventually winning his respect.
But while Will is learning, the Realm is slipping into war, for the present king is descended from a usurper, and there are many who believe he is not the rightful king. In fact, King Hal is being controlled by his beautiful but greedy queen, Mag, and her violent ally, Duke Edgar of Mells. Set against their party is the House of Ebor and its allies, who believe that Duke Richard must be recognized as sovereign. Duke Richard himself is content to wait until the sickly Hal dies, for the latter has no heir, but when the queen falls unexpectedly pregnant, rumours begin to circulate that the child has been fathered by the Duke of Mells as part of a scheme to keep Richard from his just deserts. The gauntlet of conflict is thrown down.
Meanwhile Will, who is now fifteen, has begun to see that, whatever dukes and earls may think, the world is actually maintained by magic, and the real reason the Realm is sliding into war is a magical one. Gwydion tells him of something called ‘the lore’, an ancient network of nine ‘ligns’, or earth streams, extending throughout the Isles, which carries power to an array of standing stones. Each of these ‘battlestones’ contains great harm and has the power, when awoken, to draw men to battle. Gwydion also explains that he and Maskull are the last remaining members of a wizardly council of nine whose task it once was to direct the progress of the world along the true path. But as Age succeeded Age and magic gradually left the world their numbers shrank, until there are now only two wizards left. At last, Maskull has revealed himself as ‘the betrayer’. He has turned to sorcery and is now directing the future along a path of his own choosing – but it is a path that will lead to a final Age of slavery and war.
Will and Gwydion set out to thwart Maskull by finding and uprooting the deadly battlestones. Will shows an extraordinary sensitivity to the lorc, and after many heroic struggles he locates the controlling ‘Doomstone’ in the town of Verlamion. There a bloody battle is halted when Will uses a talisman, a green stone fish he has had since birth, to crack the stone, while Gwydion fights a magical duel against Maskull. When Will confronts Maskull the sorcerer tells him, ‘I made you, I can unmake you just as easily,’ but then disappears as Gwydion lands a vanishing spell on him and transports him down into the Realm Below. In the end, the king and Duke Richard are reconciled. Will is rewarded and returns home with the greatest prize of all – Willow. But his origins, and his ultimate destiny, remain shrouded in mystery.
The second novel, The Giants’ Dance, takes up the tale more than four years later. Will and Willow are now nineteen and living at Nether Norton, Will’s home village, with their baby daughter, Bethe. One summer’s night Will sees the skies begin to blaze with a lurid purple light. Immediately he summons the wizard.
Will has recognized the purple light as that of Maskull’s magic, and when they investigate they find the village of Little Slaughter has been smashed to powder. In the ruins Will finds a little fish carved in red stone, the counterpart to his own talisman. Gwydion says that Maskull, who has escaped from the Realm Below, has directed a shooting star down onto the village. He asks for Will’s help once again.
Soon they meet with loremaster Morann who reports a rumour that the Doomstone Will once cracked has now repaired itself. But as they struggle to discover the whereabouts of the other battlestones and so hold back the tides of war, Will becomes the target of a killer, and realizes that Willow and Bethe have been brought into jeopardy also. After the battle they have all been dreading takes place at Blow Heath, Will finds himself in Ludford Casde, where Willow brings him his green talisman. Meanwhile, the political situation has continued to bend to the lorc. Edgar, Duke of Mells, who died at Verlamion, has passed his tide to his son, Henry. The latter now schemes with Queen Mag to end the agreement that saw King Hal rule with the Duke of Ebor as his ‘Lord Protector’. While the queen’s forces besiege Duke Richard at Ludford, Will becomes greatly affected by the lorc. He tries to find the battlestone that is located there, but is afflicted by madness, and a second attempt is made on his life by the dark-robed assassin who visited him once before. When Will admits to Gwydion that the red fish talisman he found at Little Slaughter has gone, the wizard says that the village was destroyed because Will’s would-be killer once lived there. He is called Chlu, ‘the Dark Child’, and the village was obliterated to make Gwydion believe Chlu was no more, whereas in reality he had become Maskull’s agent.
Will tries to understand the significance of Chlu and what he desires, but answers concerning him are few. Now Ludford is overrun and the Ebor forces flee over the seas. Gwydion magically disguises both Will and Willow so that they may masquerade as an emissary of the Blessed Isle and his wife. They attach themselves to the royal court, but they are ensnared by the wiles of Lord Dudlea who wants Will to arrange the murder of Richard of Ebor before he too can return into the Realm. Maskull is behind this demand and when his plan fails he punishes Lord Dudlea by turning his wife and son to stone.
Nothing is seen of Gwydion for many months and Will fears for him. Then news comes that an army loyal to the House of Ebor, and commanded by Edward, Duke Richard’s heir, has landed and is marching north. As The Giants’ Dance reaches its conclusion, Will battles Chlu face to face and drives him off from one of the battlestones, but in doing so he loses his main weapon against the battlestones – the red and green fish talismans fuse together and become a real, live fish, which escapes. However, there is better news when Will finds that Gwydion is being held in the queen’s dungeon at Delamprey. He works hard to free him, and also to redeem himself by thwarting the battlestone that lies buried there. He discovers that one reason Maskull has been so keen to see the war proceed is because he knows a way to tap malign power from the battlestones and use it for his own ends. He has even employed some of this power to make sorcerous manacles which have impaired Gwydion’s ability to do magic.
Seeing no other way, Will promises Lord Dudlea that if his forces will betray the queen and allow Edward an easy victory, then Gwydion will undo the spell that has made statues of Dudlea’s wife and son. Dudlea agrees, and in consequence the battle of Delamprey is soon over. Unfortunately, though King Hal falls into Duke Richard’s hands, the queen makes good her escape: this means that the war will go on.
Once Gwydion has the manacles stricken from his wrists, he tells Will all he knows about the Dark Child – Chlu and Will are twins. Chlu’s name is, in the old tongue of the west, ‘Llyw’, and according to prophecy Will must never pronounce that name in a spell or he will be no more. Gwydion goes on to reveal that almost twenty years ago, he surprised Maskull while he was conducting magical experiments on two baby boys. He rescued them and took them in secret to two separate villages, to lessen the chances of them being found. These places Gwydion then magically hid from prying eyes. Since discovering Chlu’s whereabouts, Maskull has been using him as a means of locating Will. The sorcerer knows he must destroy Will because Will stands between him and the future he is trying to bring about. Will is to become the third incarnation of Arthur, and once that is allowed to happen, Maskull will fail.
Will is angry that Gwydion has delayed telling all that he knows for so long for fear of affecting the outcome of the prophecies and appalled at the responsibility that now faces him. It is up to him to act, and to act heroically, but how can he become King Arthur, as Gwydion says he must? In addition, the wizard warns that the harm they have been drawing out from the battlestones in an attempt to prevent the fighting has not been destroyed, merely dispersed. Like a poisonous smoke, it is filling the world and bringing down the very future that Maskull so desires. And so, as the second book of the Language of Stones cycle ends, Will sees that he must solve the riddle of his own nature, the riddle that will rescue his world.
PART ONE THE ENCHANTED CHAIR
CHAPTER ONE DOUBLE DEPETRIFICATION
It was a mild summer night in July and the sun’s dying beams cast shadows from the elms. To the wise man the trees told of storm and strife and contentions in the upper airs, but down here in the evening glade neither breath of wind nor drop of rain threatened, for a strange peace enfolded all.
Four men dressed in the livery colours of Lord Dudlea sat quietly in the clearing – a waggoner, the waggoner’s lad, and two servants. They were warming themselves and spooning down chicken stew, but although they enjoyed the gentle cheer of their master’s camp fire, still a dull fore-boding shadowed their minds. The sleeping infant that had been left among them was the only one untroubled by the magic that lay heavy on the air, and each of the four knew that before the night was done weird deeds would be accomplished in the lordly tent that stood nearby. They knew it because the great wizard, Gwydion, had told them it would be so.
Only one of them had any idea of what was in the wooden crates they had brought with them, or why a wizard should be here with their lord in a forest clearing at dead of night.
Inside the tent that stood thirty paces away the mood had now become brittle. Lord Dudlea waited impatiently as Gwydion refreshed himself, drawing power from the meadow. Candlelight flickered as Willand carefully lifted the lid from one of the wooden caskets and began to tease out the straw packing and bare the stone cold flesh within. When Gwydion returned he asked Dudlea to sit alongside Willow on the far side of the tent then turned to look with close interest upon the fine-veined marble of the lady’s cheek.
‘This spell has been well worked,’ Gwydion said at last. ‘I have never seen detail like it.’
Will saw how stone eyelashes and other wisps of hair had been shattered under the first and least careful of the handlings that had brought her here. A sprinkling of fine-spun stone was to be seen in the folds of the statue’s wrappings as the last coverings came off.
It was an incredible transformation, a perfect statue of Lord Dudlea’s wife, but no mortal sculptor had made it. This was malicious work, that of a potent sorcerer.
As Gwydion reached a hand under the figure’s head, Dudlea stood up and said, ‘Please, let me—’
‘Sit down,’ the wizard told him shortly.
‘But if you’re going to lift her, I’ll call my—’
‘It’s not necessary,’ Will said, looking up.
Gwydion’s tone became compassionate. ‘Leave your men be. They are keeping true to their word, and on that much hangs. I asked them not to spy on us, come what may.’
‘Come what may?’ Dudlea blinked in alarm, and Gwydion laid a calming hand on his shoulder that made him draw in a long draught of air.
‘Take courage, John Sefton! You must be strong, for hope is one of our most important magical resources.’
Dudlea nodded and backed away. At Gwydion’s signal, Willow tied the tent’s flap firmly closed. Her daughter, Bethe, was sleeping by the camp fire, wrapped tight in a blanket. She and Will had been reunited with her only yesterday after a torturous separation. She had fared well in the care of the Duchess of Ebor, and as soon as Duchess Cicely had set foot in the Realm following her husband’s victory she had made every effort to return the child to her mother as quickly as possible. Still, Willow’s feelings had not yet fully settled. Will knew that was a concern to the wizard. He had tried to smooth their worries before the spell-working was begun. Any source of disturbance was best anticipated and dealt with ahead of time, for emotional auras would spark and fizz in bright display during magical transformations.
Will leaned over the nest of straw, checking the lady’s perfect visionless eyes informed by a glint of surprise, the knuckles, the fingers, so expressive in their attitude, gripping the stiffened folds of her robe.
‘She’s quite undamaged,’ he told Dudlea, touching the man’s spirit. ‘The delicacy of her face is scarcely blemished. Look how its waxy shine remains unscuffed. Nothing so much as a fingernail has been broken.’
John Sefton, Lord Dudlea, King’s Commissioner of Array and sometime commander of ten thousand men, broke down and wept. At Gwydion’s summons he came forward and his jaw flexed and his knuckles turned as white as his wife’s on the edge of what he feared might yet become her coffin. His tears fell upon her, but if he had imagined that tears alone would wake her, then he now discovered otherwise.
‘Open the second,’ Gwydion murmured.
The face of the lord remained bloodless as Will prised open the crate that contained the boy. The waggoner had been well paid and charged with two duties. But speed and care did not ride easily together over the Realm’s badly rutted roads, and the cart had bumped and bounced over thirty leagues to bring it to this place of particularly good aspect. The boy, too, was perfectly captured in stone. He lay mute in the finest alabaster, ten years old and innocent. Just like his mother, he was covered in fine spicules of stone. A little detail had eroded here and there, but he seemed to be undamaged.
At Will’s prompting, Dudlea came to gaze upon his son, and again he wept with relief. How different the man was now to the Lord Dudlea who had bare weeks ago tried to force Will into carrying out a murder. It was a satisfying change, a true redemption perhaps.
Gwydion’s voice rose, at once soft and sonorous, and gave the command, ‘Come to me, John Sefton.’
At that the lord went meekly. Without being asked, he knelt before Gwydion as an earl might kneel before his sovereign. Gwydion laid a hand on his shoulder, saying, ‘I want you to understand what I am attempting. It is done neither for your sake nor out of charity towards your kin. No offer that you could make would ever be sufficient to pay for this service, and it is to your credit that you did not sink to the proffering of silver or gold to me. This is to be a corrective. It is a private matter between wizard and sorcerer, and also the rescuing of a promise made by another to restore your wife and son to you.’ His eyes flickered to Will and back. ‘Fortunately for you, I happen to owe that person a favour. It is wise to power some spells on gratitude whenever possible.’
‘Thank you, thank you. I’m as grateful as any man could be,’ Lord Dudlea babbled, and it was plain to Will that he considered himself fortunate indeed. He had clearly remembered Will’s warning to him not to offer payment or reward and not to disrespect the wizard.
Gwydion’s face darkened. ‘However, when the promise was made, the promiser did not know whether there was a spell to reverse what had been done to your kin. He did not know if it was even possible. And in that falseness of promise resides my present difficulty, for lies do poison magic. They weaken it.’
‘I understand,’ Lord Dudlea said eagerly. Though he did not understand much at all, and his eyes were fever bright. ‘I can vouch that Master Willand’s word was given in true hope, at least – hope that a greater good would be born of it.’
‘That, alas, is not nearly enough. For magic springs from moral strength. In the true tongue the name of magic means ‘keeping the word’. Such stuff may not be coldly traded, for in that case the results will not be as expected. And those whose hopes are pinned upon debased magic are doomed to be disappointed.’
‘Then, if only for pity’s sake…’
‘Pity, you say? How that word has been warped over the years! Pity is properly what we feel for those who have given themselves over to weakness and so harmed others. What you mean is not pity, but fellow feeling. Do I have fellow feeling for you, John Sefton? Do I have enough? That is what you want to know.’
The lord stared back as if already stricken. ‘Do you?’
‘The question you are asking now is: have you merited it?’ He shook his head, apparently amused, and turned back to the crate. ‘I must not try to remove the spell directly, for that is now all but impossible. However, I may attempt the laying on of a counter-spell.’
Dudlea swallowed hard. ‘Do whatever you think, Master Gwydion. Only, I beg you, please do not fail them. I love my wife. I cannot live without her. And my boy is both son and heir to me.’
The wizard inclined his head. ‘You have a quick mind, John Sefton, and how uplifting it is to hear a squalid politicker such as you speak from the heart at last. Is it not time that you put on the mantle of statesman and set aside your childish plots? You are not yet become another Lord Strange. You may still choose dignity. So cease your peddling of lies and threats, keep the promise of your ancestors, even as I shall keep Willand’s promise tonight. And remember that men of privilege are but stewards of this Realm. You should not fail it in its hour of need.’
The lord had hung his head but as Gwydion finished he looked up boldly and met the wizard’s eye. ‘I’ve behaved like a fool, Crowmaster. I told myself that desperate times called for desperate measures, but I see now that I was only being weak. I will take your advice as my watchword.’
‘See that you do. What passes here tonight is not to be spoken about. And, since true magic depends upon truth of spirit, what you pledge to me here and now will take effect in the flesh of your wife and son. If you break your bonden word to me, the counter-spell will be undone and your kin will slowly – painfully – return to stone. Do you understand this warning that I give to you?’
Dudlea closed his eyes. ‘I do.’
‘Then return to me your solemn word that what you witness here tonight will remain with you alone unto death.’
‘I do so promise.’
Gwydion gathered himself. He stood gaunt and twisted as a winter oak as he drew the earth power inside him for a long moment. Words of the true tongue issued from his mouth. Cunning words coiled like ivy, blossomed like honey-suckle, gave fruit like the vine. Then he stepped around the crates, gathering up a charm of woven paces and waving hands, dancing out in gestures and speaking a spell of great magic that began to fall upon the two effigies.
A crackle of blue light passed over woman and child as they lay side by side. Will seized Lord Dudlea’s arm when he started forward, knowing he must not let the lord interfere once that blue glow had enveloped them.
A noise that was not a noise grew loud in their heads. And slowly, as Gwydion danced and drew down the power, shadows flew and the tent filled with the tang of lightning-struck air. Their skins prickled and their hair stood up, and slowly in those two strange beds of straw the cold whiteness of marble became tinted as living flesh is tinted, and the wax of death began to give way to the bloom of life.
Will felt the unbearable tension of great magic. He closed his mind against it, but it tore at him as a storm tears at a hovel. Willow, tougher by far, hung onto the lord’s flailing arms, holding him back as his wife and son rose up from their coffins like spectres. Lord Dudlea called out. His eyes bulged in helpless horror as a weird light played blue in his wife’s eyes. Something moved the boy’s lips, then jolted them again as the figures floated free above the ground. But just as Will began to think they could not hold the lord any longer, a shuddering racked both woman and boy and they fell down as if in a faint. Yet now they were moist and soft and alive, and as the noise and light vanished away they began to breathe again.
‘Oh, joy!’ Lord Dudlea called out as he attended his kin. He reached up to touch the wizard’s robe. ‘Thank you, Master Gwydion! With all my heart I thank you!’
Will opened the tent and stepped out as soon as he could. Willow went with the wizard to join those by the fire whom Gwydion said must now have their minds set at ease. They left Lord Dudlea to his family, and Will stood alone under the moon and stars, trembling, a mass of glorious emotions coursing through him. The power that flowed at Gwydion’s direction was truly awesome, and Will reminded himself that it was not every day the dead came to life again.
They parted company in the early morning.
Lord Dudlea took Gwydion’s hand. With bowed head, he pledged himself. ‘I shall keep my word, Crowmaster. I shall wait for the army that now marches south towards Trinovant, and I shall offer service to Duke Richard of Ebor.’
‘Is that wise?’ Will asked. ‘You were his captive before you escaped. Then you joined the queen against him.’
‘It was the king’s court to which I fled, not the queen’s.’
‘Oh, indeed? Rumour has it that you tried to arrange the murder of Richard while he was still in the Blessed Isle.’
The lord’s eyes opened wide and his wife looked to him as if she had been betrayed by a foolish act carried out in her absence. ‘That rumour is a lie.’
Gwydion looked upon the lord pityingly and spread his hands. ‘A lie, John Sefton? We have not even taken our leave of this clearing and already you have betrayed your promise to me. Is it so hard to be true to your word?’
‘Forgive him, Master Gwydion,’ Lady Dudlea begged. ‘I have been his staff. Without a wife to oversee his policies things naturally go awry with him.’
The wizard smiled. ‘It would be better if you let him be, lady. Grown men must learn to rely on their own consciences. It seems to me that the main question you now have before you is this: how will Lord Warrewyk receive you when next you meet? He murdered a great many of the queen’s friends after the battle.’
Lord Dudlea met Gwydion’s eye. ‘However he looks upon us, I shall lay myself upon the king’s mercy. If that means pleading for the Duke of Ebor’s mercy too, then that I shall do also.’
‘Do you think he has the strength to do the right thing?’ Willow asked when they were out of sight.
But Gwydion only smiled.
The wizard took them south on unfrequented roads, ones that went the longer way around but avoided the great chapter house at Verlamion. For that Will was grateful. He disliked and feared the Sightless Ones – or ‘red hands’ as the common folk privately called them – and he knew that at Verlamion they would be as thick as wasps about a honey pot.
The company spent the morning journeying through fruitful farm land. Will knew that if the weather kept dry for a month this part of the Realm would see a good harvest. But then, when the reaping and threshing was all done and the nights began to close in and leaves began spreading red-gold in the hedges, then out would come the Sighdess Ones with their tally sticks and counting frames to take away the best portion of the bounty from the churls who had grown it.
At Aubrey End Will announced that he could feel the presence of a green lane. The flow of earth power was strong in the soil and Gwydion marked the place with his sigil in the bole of a tree. The lign tasted, Will said, like that of the elder, and Gwydion said that, unless he was very much mistaken, they would soon cross the lign of the rowan too, and this they did before they had gone another league.
Will looked along the lign and knew it for the same stream of dark power that flowed through Ludford, many leagues to the west. And when he looked eastward he knew they could be no more than a couple of leagues west of Verlamion. A shiver passed through him. Gwydion had said that the Elders of the great chapter house there would stop at nothing to bring to book the defiler who had cracked their Doomstone. Will had not cared that it had turned out to be none other than the lid that sealed the tomb of their revered Founder. He had only wanted to break the lorc’s stony heart that day, and he had saved many a life by his actions.
They came to the banks of the River Gadden well before noon. It was here that Will felt yet another lign prickle his skin. This one was fainter and harder to follow, but it seemed to trend a little south of east, much as the rowan lign had. There was no doubt in Will’s mind that it was the yew lign, the same that passed close by the Vale.
‘Keep up!’ Gwydion called back, flicking the reins of his horse.
‘Master Gwydion, I can feel the Eburos lign.’
‘What of it?’
‘Nothing – except I thought it was our task to find more battlestones.’
‘There is no time to tarry at present. We must reach Trinovant before nightfall!’
‘Then ride on ahead of us!’ Will told him. ‘We’ve a young child to consider. And this old nag’s already tired out.’
The wizard waited for them to draw abreast. ‘I would rather you came along with me,’ he said with exaggerated patience. ‘This is not a safe time for anyone to be on the road. News of the battle has yet to reach these parts and there will be much uncertainty in men’s hearts.’
Will saw that Gwydion’s impatience was unsettling his horse. It had soon taken him fifty paces ahead and was champing to get on further still.
Willow watched the wizard with concern. ‘He’s getting grumpier by the hour,’ she whispered. ‘I hope he’s all right.’
‘He’s worried. And is it any wonder, when things have gone so far astray?’
He partly meant their quest to rid the Realm of battlestones, but he was also thinking of the unspeakable bloodshed that had followed the fight at Delamprey. While a greater battle had been narrowly prevented, the murder of so many noble prisoners at Lord Warrewyk’s hands had blighted the victory. Will was sure that act had sown the seeds of revenge – seeds that must eventually be reaped as a yet bloodier harvest.
So far as the battlestones were concerned, the loss of Will’s talisman had been an even greater blow, for it was the only real weapon they had ever possessed. The more he thought about it, the more it seemed that Gwydion was right – Maskull had finally gained the upper hand.
‘And you can cheer up, too!’ Willow said. ‘Things might have gone a lot worse for us. That loathsome woman – I won’t dignify her with the title of queen – is running away into the north with what’s left of her friends. Things look set for a change at last, and probably a change for the better.’
‘Maybe. But Master Gwydion once told me to remember that we’re peacemakers – we shouldn’t be feeling pleased that Duke Richard’s forces won at Delamprey, even though he’s been a better friend to us than his enemies ever have. The balance has been shifted again, and that’s the important thing.’
Willow settled Bethe in a more comfortable position in front of her. ‘I don’t see why we shouldn’t feel happy for the duke. We lived among his household. You were even schooled with his sons. Duchess Cicely helped my father and me when she might have sent us back to face Lord Strange’s displeasure. And she looked after Bethe as if she was one of her own.’
He sighed, trying to see how best to put it. ‘I’m not saying Duke Richard isn’t a good man at heart. He’s probably better than most, but he’s human like us all, and—’
Willow grunted. ‘And what? When fighting against him is that she-wolf who cares nothing for nobody. Tell me where’s our loyalty supposed to lie?’
‘You just have to try to see things more broadly. That’s what Master Gwydion means.’
‘Oh, is that it?’
Will sucked his teeth. He saw the way his infant daughter’s eyes swept across the land, drinking in everything they noticed, delighting in every bird and squirrel she saw. Her expressions were so much like her mother’s, and yet Willow said they were exactly like his own.
‘It’s got something to do with the way the past gets made out of the future,’ he said. ‘There’s the future where all is uncertain and yet to be fixed, and there’s the past, where all is done and cannot be undone. But where the future touches the past, there’s a thin line. That’s what we call the present. That’s where we live.’
‘I see,’ she said unconvincingly.
‘And the present’s the only part we can affect with our free will, don’t you see? Because what we choose to do in the present affects the way the future is turned into the past.’
‘Well, I know that,’ Willow said, unimpressed. ‘That much even Bethe knows, don’t you, sweet baby?’
‘But…but the point is, Master Gwydion says there’s only one “true path”, one track through time that’s the best of all possible destinies. If everybody did what was right by everybody else then the best possible world would come about as soon as blink.’
‘You mean like it does in the Vale when everyone argues and we all somehow come to a compromise in the end?’
‘Exactly! But you see not everybody can do right because there are powerful people out here and they’ve multiplied their strength so that now most people just take orders and don’t even think about what they’re doing. And then there’s Maskull, who’s done that more than anyone. And because he’s a sorcerer that means he understands the harm he’s doing, which is even worse.’
Willow let it all sink in. She shook her head. ‘Then why is he doing it?’
Will shrugged. ‘He’s a renegade, a cock who thinks the sun has risen to hear him crow. He’s broken his vows of guardianship and forgotten all about humility and kindness and all the things he always said he cared about. He wants to live forever and go on and on in charge of the world, and he thinks he might have found a way to make that happen.’
‘So that’s the path he’s leading us all towards.’
‘Yes. It’s one that will reward him alone. He’s started behaving as if he’s found a way to live forever and enjoy power forever. But to do that he needs to turn the future of the world far away from the true path. And Master Gwydion says that if we get pushed too far from the true path, then we’ll never be able to get back to it. Maskull will have won, and the world won’t ever be the same again.’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘We won’t ever be able to get it back?’
‘No. If Maskull steers history along that terrible, false path, he’ll take us towards a world without magic – it’ll mean five hundred years of ceaseless war, and the end of the world that we know. Now you see what Master Gwydion’s really fighting for: he wants us to have the best of all possible worlds, or for us to come as close as we can to getting that. That’s why he wants us to follow the true path. It’s not all that complicated an idea in the end, but it’s hard to make it happen.’
Willow offered no reply. There was just the sound of horses’ hooves clopping along the dusty track, the buzz of flies in the hot July air and a baby gurgling to herself at all that she saw and heard.
After a while, Will said unhappily, ‘You know what? The batdestones are Maskull’s big chance. I’ve begun to see it all quite clearly now. Master Gwydion had everything going along nicely, but then the lorc awakened and the stones started the very war that Maskull needs to turn the destiny of the world to dust. While the stones stay in place they’re like rotten teeth in a jaw – there’ll be a lot of pain and suffering up and down the Realm, and that’s what Maskull needs if he’s going to work his designs. That’s why we have to root the stones out.’
Once more Will felt a pang of guilt at the way he had lost his talisman. It seemed suddenly to be a gigantic setback. He thought again of the moment when he had broken the malice of the Blood Stone at Ludford, and he was more certain than ever that he could not have done it without the green fish.
‘You told me you thought Master Gwydion was losing his powers,’ Willow said, as if reading his thoughts. ‘But it didn’t look like he was weakening last night. Lady Dudlea and her son woke up like nothing heavier than a troubled night’s sleep had lain upon them.’
Will’s gaze was fixed on the road ahead. ‘That’s true, but depetrification isn’t so difficult, and I helped him somewhat. Did you see how he milked it for all it was worth?’
‘Milked it? What do you mean?’
‘You must have noticed how he went as close as he could to trading without crossing the line. Trading magic for favours is against the redes. But he asked Lord Dudlea to change his ways while the fates of his wife and son were still in the balance. I’d call that pretty close to coercion.’
‘Oh, you’re reading too much into it.’
Will grunted. ‘Am I? Master Gwydion’s not above a little chess playing, you know. Look how he works on you and me to get his bidding done – tempting us out here, making us follow him all over the place. You shouldn’t underestimate him, you know.’
‘He’s done no such thing, Will. It was you who summoned him. And it was my choice to come with you.’
‘Oh, he makes it seem that way, but the truth is he’s a dozen times wilier than any fox.’
‘Master Gwydion can’t help it if the Vale’s become too dangerous for us to go home to. I’m just happy we’ve got somewhere else.’ She paused. ‘We have got somewhere else…haven’t we?’
Will sighed. ‘He told me he’s taking us to the royal palace – you can call that a home if you like, but I wouldn’t.’
‘The royal palace of the White Hall…’ Willow’s voice softened as she fussed with Bethe. ‘Just the place for King Arthur.’
He looked sideways at her and blew out his breath, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. ‘Master Gwydion said that in the days of the First Men Arthur was an adventurer-chieftain, but at his second coming he was a hero-king. I wonder what the third incarnation is destined to be?’
‘Gort told me that the legend of Arthur’s return speaks of his return as a crow…’
He laughed. ‘A crow! He probably meant I’m to become a bird.’
She resisted his amusement. ‘I think Gort meant you’re to become a wizard of sorts. He said the natural talent was strong in you – and getting stronger – whereas in all the rest of the world the magic is leaking away. He says your magic feels ancient.’
He grunted. ‘Sometimes it makes me feel very old, I know that much.’
‘Is it so hard to accept, Will? Arthur’s third and final appearance as wizard-king?’ She smiled privately, then abruptly changed the subject. ‘I wonder what it’s going to be like, living in the big city.’
‘Well, I’d guess the royal palace is no better than all the other lordly houses we’ve seen – a forbidding fortress and a boast when seen from without, yet a hive of treachery within.’
‘No place to bring a baby to, then?’
That focussed him. ‘No.’
As he settled into a morose silence he thought of the battle they had succeeded in spoiling at Delamprey. Though it would be remembered as a victory for the Duke of Ebor, the duke had not even been there. The fight had been won by his son, Edward, and by his fearsome ally, Lord Warrewyk, the greatest and richest man in the Realm. In truth, though, the entire result had been secured through Will’s own efforts.
Now Duke Richard had joined his son, and the victorious army was slowly marching south towards Trinovant where it was certain to be happily received by the townsfolk in a day or two’s time.
‘Please! Try to keep up!’ the wizard chided them.
‘We can’t go any faster, Master Gwydion!’ Will called back.
The wizard turned away, equally irritated. ‘We must reach the capital before Richard of Ebor does. You know that.’
‘But we’ll do that easily.’
‘And do you think Maskull has left no magic there? The White Tower and the White Hall will both be webbed about with all manner of mischief. I must find it and deal with it before it can bear on events. And I must find clues to the whereabouts of the secret place where he has done all his dirty work. That will be no easy task.’
Will lapsed into silence again. He had more than enough on his mind without troubling himself about Gwydion’s problems. Chlu lay heaviest upon his thoughts. It was strange to think that he had always had a brother, stranger still to know that brother was his twin, but strangest of all to find that it was Chlu who all along had been trying to kill him.
‘I must find out why, and make my peace with him if I can,’ he told Willow.
‘Some chance of that when all he wants to do is murder you. And mind what Master Gwydion said about speaking his true name. He said that if you did that you’d be destroyed.’
He shook his head. ‘He said that would happen only if I spoke Chlu’s true name as part of a spell. Don’t worry, the pronunciation is difficult, for it’s a Cambray name and the men of Cambray have their own tradition in both magic and words that is hard to approach and even harder to master. And anyway, Master Gwydion says that knowing a person’s true name always gives a measure of power over them.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t take the risk if I were you. Promise me you’ll keep away from Chlu if you can.’
‘I can’t promise that. I need to know what Maskull has done to him. Perhaps I can heal him. And perhaps in return he’ll be able to tell me what I most want to know.’
CHAPTER TWO TRINOVANT
As they rode south, shadowing the last league of the Great North Road, they crested a heath dotted with elm trees and Trinovant began to rise up out of the afternoon haze. Will saw the dark needle of the Spire, which rose up like a crack in the sky, and the blue-grey sprawl that lay below it, sunk in summer haze.
‘The Spire contains the shrine of Ercowald,’ Gwydion said, ‘to which many pilgrims make journeys on the days when its precincts are thrown open to the ill and the dying, the lovelorn and despairing. They are given to wash in the troughs that surround the building, and perhaps make bargains of the heart with the hidden agents who speak to them persuasively from behind the iron grilles. Pilgrims come here even in freezing weather, when the ice on the troughs must be broken. On two great days in November and February there is a special ‘Day of Whipping’ in which the most committed of the Fellows go in procession through the City, beating themselves with scourges, for these are the ones that are mad beyond repair and have come to revere, and even to love, the suffering of their own flesh.’
Will felt a shiver of revulsion go through him. He looked to his wife and daughter, anxious now about the ordeal that was soon to come. It was said that at each of the City’s seven great gates there was kept a pair of dragonets, silvery wyrms whose task it was to guard the capital. Gwydion said that in olden times they had been bred to smell out treachery, and would pick clean the ribs of anyone whom they thought unworthy to enter.
Gwydion had spoken many times of the great city of Trinovant. Often he had likened its size and power to that of Tibor, the Slaver capital of old.
‘Over the centuries this place has grown into a vast, walled capital, a city of spires and towers and palaces, of the Guild Hall and the White Tower and Corfe Gate. A sprawling, rollicking morass of people live here, huddling inside for warmth in the cold midwinter, sweltering in the sweats of high summer. It is a city of high and low, from the bright, castellated battlements of royal palaces to the crowded hovels of the poor. It is quite unlike anywhere else.’
Now, as the shadows of the elms stretched more and more, the wizard turned, pointing ahead. ‘And do you see the white heart weather vanes of the Sightless Ones? Look how they rise above the walls. Those walls that will soon pass on our right are not the walls of the City, but those of the House of Silence. Beyond it lies the College of Benedix and the glass-makers’ yards, which is another rich establishment of the Fellows…’
Will listened as Gwydion pointed out the various marvels that were to be seen as they approached the City wall proper. So much of Trinovant seemed to have burst out and overspilled into the land beyond. But these unprotected buildings were not all mean houses and trade stalls as he had thought. His eye passed along many a row of tall merchants’ houses, some of three and even four floors built right on top of each other. In the street there were all manner of people – such a flow of traffic coming in and out of the City that Will could hardly believe there was not some special reason for it.
As they came past the great chapter house to their right, Will got his first sight of Eldersgate. It was like the gate of a great castle, all decorated with the rough likenesses of several great wyrms – the five great dragons of Umberland, Gwydion said. Their heads snarled down at them stonily.
‘What you will never see of this city are the cellars down below,’ Gwydion told them. ‘The whole place is greatly undermined. There are the secret passageways of the Guilds and many a sunless dungeon that lies beneath every lordly mansion flanking the river. There are tunnels too, linking together the many places of secret power – places like Bayard’s Castle and the Fitchet’s Den. The lords dwell there and the streets around them are wide and throng with sellers of costly wares. You will see, but first we shall pass by more humble ways, for we must go by Fish Street, Salters Ride and the Cloth Market, and so by unstraight ways to our destination, for today I must speak with Magog and Gogmagog.’
‘Magog and Gogmagog…’ Willow mused. ‘Weren’t those two the last of the giants? The ones that were put to flight by King Brea in the olden days?’
‘Put to flight? Not at all. Do you not know your own history? They were taken captive by Brea. Chained by him, then brought to his oaken palace, which was from that time onward called the White Hall.’
Will said, remembering his lordly schooling, ‘I was told by Tutor Aspall that Magog and Gogmagog were sent to the White Hall to do service as porters. Perhaps they serve King Hal still, for I don’t know how long giants live.’
Gwydion grunted. ‘Long, but not that long. Today’s Magog and Gogmagog are not the same as those giants of yore, yet they serve the present king after their own fashion, for today they are two great statues which stand in niches on each side of the throne. They look down upon the king’s proceedings and call out to give warning whenever his throne is in danger.’
‘They must be crying themselves hoarse at present,’ Will muttered.
‘And so it may be for the next few months, unless I am allowed to set to work to prevent the catastrophe.’
‘What will you do?’ Willow asked.
‘Do? I must do many things. But first there is a far greater work of un-doing. As I have already told you, I must pull down the grey skeins of sorcery that festoon the White Hall. Maskull has dwelt here for many a month, and in that time he has crept over every wall and tower like a longlegged spider, spinning webs of deceit about the royal house. Those spells must be swept away before the king and his captor come to town. I must find the workshop of Maskull’s wickedness.’ He sighed and glanced to his left. ‘What say we slake our thirsts at The Bell Without?’
‘Bell without what?’ Willow asked.
‘Without its clapper, I guess,’ Will said. ‘The Fellows of the Charterhouse yonder are of the White Order, and they keep a ritual of silence.’
‘A creditable surmise, but you guess wrongly. The inn is called The Bell Without, because it is without the walls. There is another alehouse inside the City called The Bell Within.’
Will smiled at that. ‘They seem to like their drink here. That’s a good sign, at least, for those who can drink and be merry are good men indeed!’
He was pleased they were taking a rest, for his throat was dry. As he dismounted and looked around the inn yard his thoughts lingered on the captive King Hal. The queen had wrought her easy-melting king like wax, but since the fight at Delamprey, she and her allies had fled into the north to find succour and no doubt try to regroup their forces. The captured king had been invited to ride in Duke Richard’s company. The plain truth was that the king was now as much in the duke’s power as he had once been in his wife’s.
‘What do you think Duke Richard intends?’ Will asked as they sat down. ‘Do you think he’ll play fair, or does he mean to keep the king under his thumb?’
The wizard drew a deep breath. ‘That is a most pertinent question. In truth, I am no longer able to read Friend Richard’s heart in matters of state. As for Hal, he wants little more than to be allowed to return to a scholarly cell and to peruse the parchments and papers that are his delight. But still he knows he is the king, and he may not prove as pliable to Friend Richard’s plan as the latter might wish.’
Willow frowned. ‘Do you remember what Mother Brig once told Duke Richard at the Ewle revel at Ludford all those years ago? She warned him that he’d die if ever he dared lay his hand upon the enchanted chair. Could she have meant the throne of the Realm do you think?’
The wizard became circumspect. ‘We all die – eventually.’
‘But she said more than that,’ Willow insisted. ‘She said that Duke Richard would die in his first fight after he touched the chair.’
‘You have a surpassing excellent memory, my dear.’
‘It was a surpassing memorable night, Master Gwydion. But tell us – did Mother Brig really mean the throne of the Realm? And is what she foretells bound to come to pass?’
Gwydion looked down the passageway towards the stables. ‘Brighid makes many a claim regarding future happenings. Some are important, while others are not. It is the way with seers.’
‘But all she says does come to pass, one way or another,’ Will said, not letting Gwydion off the hook. ‘I believe she swore a destiny upon the duke.’
But the wizard was not to be drawn further on the matter of great prophecies. Instead he said, ‘You know, one thing has already come to pass as you foretold – Duke Richard has given the Delamprey battlestone to Edward.’
‘A gift of thanks to recognize his victory, I suppose.’
‘Indeed.’
Since the fight, the battlestone had shrunk down twice. The first time was just after pouring forth its stream of malice, when it had transformed itself into a nondescript plinth of brown ironstone incised with words that even Gwydion could not read. Later it had shrunk again, once Will had used the remaining powers of the stump to burn away the manacles from Gwydion’s wrists. That time, it had been as if the very substance of the stone had collapsed, and it had faded to grey.
‘What can Edward want with it, I wonder?’ Gwydion mused.
Willow said, ‘I suppose he’s fetching it to Trinovant in hopes that it’ll be a touchstone to his ambitions. But isn’t it now drained of the power even to confer boons?’
Will nodded. ‘If I know Edward, he’ll delight in it mostly because his father has given it to him. He’ll value it because his father values the stumps of Blow Heath and Ludford, and he’ll tell himself it has virtues even when it does not.’
‘In that, then, he will be like most men,’ Gwydion said regretfully.
‘But aren’t you going to claim it from him, Master Gwydion?’ Willow asked.
The wizard shrugged. ‘I might have to.’ Then he took a draught of ale.
‘Have you had any fresh thoughts on the inscription?’ Will asked. ‘Or are you still, ah – stumped?’
Gwydion raised an eyebrow. ‘If that was meant to be a joke it was not very funny. But since you ask, I am no further forward. The verse is not written in any tongue that I have ever met with.’
‘At Delamprey you said that that was Maskull’s doing.’
‘It is one of his nasty little snares. His arrogance shines through in all that he attempts.’
‘And he knows you well enough to be able to pose a problem that you cannot solve,’ Will said. ‘But that in itself could be a clue, don’t you think?’
The wizard gave him a look that told Will it was a mistake to teach grandmothers to suck eggs. ‘Maskull has done enough dirty work – I could not read the marks I found in the stone.’
‘Well perhaps it’s only the script that’s unknown to you,’ Will said, hoping his optimism would infect the wizard. ‘The language itself may be one that you know.’
Gwydion stroked his beard. ‘True. It might only be a cipher that I have to crack…’ He fell silent, but it was a silence unlike the dark ones that had overtaken him lately.
Willow had taken out a heavy bronze coin and she had begun spinning it on the table top. Will watched it whirl faster and faster as it settled down. He picked the coin up and spun it again, fascinated for the moment by its odd behaviour, at the rising sound it made before it came to a sudden dead stop. Is that what’s happening to us, to the war? he thought oddly. Getting faster and faster until suddenly everything stops on doomsday?
Knives and trenchers were laid before them, and with more ale came pie and cheese and warm bread. As they ate and drank, they talked of lesser matters, and when Willow excused herself and Bethe briefly from their company, Will took the opportunity to ask a rather more pressing question.
‘Chlu’s true name, Master Gwydion – pronounce it again for me.’
Gwydion flashed a glance at Willow’s departing figure. ‘And give you a knife to fall on?’
‘I think I must have that knife, whether it is safe or not.’
‘Very well then – Llyw.’
‘Thloo.’
‘That will not do at all. It is a difficult sound for those unused to the language of Cambray. But see – put the tip of your tongue against the roof of your mouth as if you are making a luh sound, then breath past it.’
‘Dzzllll…’
‘Do not voice the sound! Just breathe.’
‘Shlllew.’
‘Almost. Again.’
‘Llyw.’
The wizard smiled. ‘You see? The rede is correct: practice does make perfect. But take care how you use your new-found knowledge, for there is danger in it.’
By now Willow was coming back, so they made ready to go. Gwydion steered them away from the stables, out of the inn and then onto the high road, saying that he had arranged for their horses to be left at The Bell Without and now they must walk.
They had almost reached the moated bastions that flanked the triple arch of Eldersgate. The soaring stone structure, deftly wrought and set with dragons, seemed dour and unwelcoming. A group of travellers waited gloomily beside a barrier.
Will waved a hand in front of his face as he caught his first clue that this was no ordinary gateway – the smell took him back to the wyvern’s cage he had seen at Aston Oddingley. He now understood why Gwydion had left their horses at the inn. All travellers wishing to enter the City were made to dismount fifty paces before the Eldersgate. Stolid Midshires cart horses stamped their shaggy hooves as they approached the drawbridge. Even brave warhorses were unharnessed and led aside to be specially blinkered and let in by a side arch so they would catch no sight of the dragonets.
Will saw that this brought good trade to the gate-keepers and porters who dealt with the animals or worked in gangs to pull carts and wains in through the main arch. It gave them the opportunity to charge twopence a time for their labours, and Will smelled more than the stink of wyrm about it.
Once they were nodded through the barrier he glimpsed the two dragonets that were chained inside the middle arch. They were not great dragons, being only about the size of bulls, yet they seemed to be more dangerous than lions. They were flighdess wyrms, specially bred to their task, small-winged but powerfully clawed, with barbed tails and flickering red forked tongues. Their hides shone like quicksilver as the muscles beneath rippled. They snarled and trod back and forth fearsomely.
Willow clutched Bethe to her as she approached the gate. Gwydion walked beside her. ‘It is best not to look the wyrms in the eye,’ he said. ‘Such beasts as these have attended the gates since the time of King Ludd. They are supposed to safeguard the City against the entry of people of ill purpose, for it is said they can smell guilt in the sweat of a man like dogs can smell fear. But over the centuries their keepers have fallen into sorry disrepute. For a silver coin they will give an easy passage to any wayfarer who happens to rouse the guardian beasts to wrath – which you will see happens most often whenever a wealthy person arrives. Do you see that merchant in the blue hat? Watch how they winch the chains back so there is a wider way for him to pass. They drive the animals back with those white shields quartered in red.’
The keepers set up a loud banging on their shields, hitting them with red-painted truncheons shaped like short swords until the dragonets turned their heads aside.
‘The keepers seem careless of the danger,’ Willow said.
Gwydion surveyed the goings on in the gatehouse. ‘The colour red and the number four are held to be worrisome to the beasts. They are said to shy away from the good-hearted, but it is just the loud noise and how these rogues have trained them, for they are also the ones who give them their feed.’
Then, all of a sudden, Gwydion cast up the wing of his travelling cloak and ushered Willow and Bethe past the beasts. The nearer of the two dragonets was momentarily quieted, and Will saw in his black eyes a spirit more touched by sadness than rage. On an impulse, he put out his hand to the creature and felt its moist red tongue flicker with interest over his palm.
‘It wants for salt,’ he said, pitying it its life trapped in this acrid stall. ‘And it wishes for a run in the fields.’
‘Get on by!’ one of the keepers shouted. ‘No lingering! No loitering!’ He shoved Will through the door and spat insultingly when he saw he was not going to be offered any coin for his assistance.
‘Beggars coming through!’ the head keeper shouted. ‘Get you gone out of the City quickly again. We already have too much vagrancy here!’
‘And too little respect!’ Gwydion told him. ‘This outrageous preying upon travellers goes too far. I shall speak to the king about it!’
But seeing no staff in his hand, the keeper said, ‘Oh, my lord, so sorry! Come here and I’ll give you a kick, and you can pass that on with my compliments to his grace the king when next you see him!’ And he laughed them away with the usual welcome he kept for customers who made no donation.
‘Is everyone so rude and ruffianly here?’ Willow asked.
‘It is a game they play hereabouts.’ Gwydion gestured up at the tall dwellings that made a deep gorge of the street. ‘And is it any wonder they keep rough manners, when they must live piled one atop the other like bees in a hive? The lives of too many here are ruled by greed and false ideas about the getting of gold. You will soon see how it is.’
He hurried them on until they had passed inside the gates, and Will began to savour the curious character of the City. He reacted to it with an odd mixture of disgust and delight. The place was filled with people, yet it seemed dirty and dangerous. There seemed to be countless shining possibilities to be found at every turn, but no easy way for him to get at those possibilities without a purse full of silver. The great heap of buildings stretched as far as his eye could see in every direction. There were throngs of people, but not a tree or any splash of green. A tumbled roofscape blocked the view of the River Thamesis, which Gwydion said was also called Iesis. There was one landmark that could be plainly seen – a huge black steeple of sinister aspect that rose high above more humble rooftops and made Will’s spirits dip. The sight of the great Black Spire of Trinovant struck him with an immovable dread.
Gwydion followed his gaze. ‘No taller tower was ever made in the Realm. It stands six-score times the height of a man, and is guarded by special Fellows who dress in robes of grey and yellow. They are called Vigilants. You will see them, for we must go by that place. But first, we must go another way – not a pleasant way, for it is now the junction of two vile sewers. I knew them long ago as pretty brooks lined with willow trees. The Wall Brook drains the Moor Field. It meets with the Lang Bourne, and goes thence down into the Iesis and so carries with it all the refuse and offal and filth that the population of a city such as this cares to throw into it.’
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