Erum desired no part in the triumph. He left his horse at the Gate, then quietly walked back to his old lodgings at the Mission. There was a smoky tang in the air of the City, a dull, dead, burnt smell or taste that suggested the aftermath of some great conflagration. As far as he could see, there was no rush, no sense of an emergency anywhere; and yet – he was tired, but still keyed-up, and his senses were alert – might there not be a deeper anxiety, a febrility greater than he remembered, in the constant muffled background roar? There certainly seemed to be more smoke, which was odd, because fewer chimneys seemed to be smoking; the street-lights that twinkled through the thick grey dusk seemed to be sparser and feebler also, the windows of the tall houses darker, the starlings and pigeons fewer. The people who hurried along the pavements were cold and preoccupied, as ever, but there were new multitudes of the Foro beggars, whose pale faces and beseeching hands seemed to appear and to reach out with a quality of threat. He saw no face that he recognised; he had no money to give; the one or two blessings that he tried to bestow were met with a curse or a hostile glare. So he too quickened his pace and assumed the aloof, eye-avoiding manner of the city pedestrian. And now, had his mind become deluded, or were these Dwarves whom he was passing? Small figures wearing hoods or metal caps, children as to their height, but walking with heavy and purposeful gait?
He shook his head. He stepped into a bakery and bought himself a loaf. The bakers remembered him at least, and welcomed him back, and would give him credit at any time. He came into Oldgarth Street. Somehow or other his own bunch of keys had stayed with him throughout his adventures; but now it seemed that his door-key would not be needed. A pony and trap were standing outside the office of the Mission. The front door was ajar. And there was someone waiting in the dark office.
‘Bishop, hi. Good to have you back with us.’
The speaker’s voice was well known to Erum. The last twelve months, full of stresses and transformations for so many, had strongly wrought, as has been seen, upon Swin, upon Melohtar, upon Gauriel and upon Erum himself; but none had been changed more than that snivelling catamite, the weakest and most degraded member of Ayarg’s band, for whom Clemo Bavour had once besought mercy. Dressed in a suit of well-cut black with a gleaming dog-collar, suave and self-assured, somewhat slimmer and fitter than he had been, Canon Melda was now the very model of the young city priest. Recognising him, and remembering the shame and the violation and all the agonizing inner turmoil, Erum stopped dead and swayed a little, his mouth half open. The loaf of bread slipped from under his arm and fell on the floor.
‘Whoops. Allow me. Are you all right?’
Another change in Melda, the effect of his immersion in the more-or-less civilised culture of the Temple, had been the expunging from his speech of the habitual obscenity which has hitherto rendered it unfit for the record. His words now have considerable interest. He came forward, picked up the bread and put it on Erum’s desk.
‘Bishop?’
‘Ah,’ said Erum. ‘Sorry about that. What can I do for you?’
‘You’re to come along with me now. Ar wants to see you straightaway. We’ve been hearing, like, sensational stories about you, though I guess they can’t all be the exact literal truth, right?’
Vaguely Erum peered about in the dimness. He thought: Where’s my lantern? Then he remembered that the lantern had been destroyed. He felt a great surge of loathing for Melda – his nearness, his arrogance, his over-familiar tone – but said merely, ‘I’m tired.’
‘Come on, mate, you’ve got no choice.’
‘How did you know that I was coming here?’
‘Oh, we didn’t. Ar sent out a bunch of us to cover all the places where he thought you might turn up. He’s annoyed with you already actually, which is kind of unfair... Bishop Erumardil, you will accompany me to my chariot now.’
The abrupt command had the authentic harsh coldness of the upper hierarchy. It also had a strange tingle of power. Erum perceived that Melda himself had made some progress in the Craft. There was a second rapid perception: to Melda he, Erum, was nothing more than an object, an almost negligible thing, requiring merely to be manipulated or pushed around. Erum felt a tingling begin inside himself, like the swift accumulation in a thunder-cloud. Strange words, broken syllables of old Elvish, rushed through his head as he raised his arm, with extended forefinger, to point directly into Melda’s amazed face. Melda was seeing him now. His eyes were wide – there was some kind of light in the room – and his hair was standing on end. The words that Erum then spoke were full of power, though hardly antique:
‘Fuck off!’
Melda’s head snapped back; his whole body was flung back against the desk, knocking it over; he hit the wall and seemed to stick there for a moment before subsiding in a heap.
‘Right,’ said Erum. ‘You will return to the High Priests now and inform them that I’ll come in to a late breakfast in the Refectory.’ He stepped forward menacingly. A light still seemed to gleam out of him. Melda squealed. ‘But you will first express contrition to me, on your knees, for your atrocious manners!’
‘All right, all right, so sorry!’ Melda at once got up on his knees. He was snuffling and spluttering through the blood from his broken nose. ‘I didn’t do nuffink! Don’t hit me again! Sorry sorry!’
‘Out!’
A moment later he was gone. The two-wheeler clattered away, and the room was dark once more.
Erum left the disorder as it was. He groped up the dark staircase to his own little room; fumbled for tinder-box and candlesticks; found a jug half-full of dusty water, a mug and a plate. He sat down to eat his bread and to drink his water, which was all he wanted. Having finished his slow meal, he took from his back-pack the copy of the Olos Minyarion. He washed his hands, unwrapped the volume, said a prayer and began reverently to read. The beautiful illuminated capitals and borders glowed in the candle-light. Once again, however, the reading failed to soothe him. He went to bed feeling sad and lonely.
Next morning he arose in time to make his way to the Temple for the service of Orisons. The sky was lowering, dark and grey, and quite a lot of the smoke of the City seemed to have got inside the Temple. The candle-flames struggled to light up the dim spaces between the many-pillared columns, and the chanting of the choir sounded flat, uninspiring. The service ended. Erum went through the Melangali to the communal eating-room. He received a bowl of porridge and an apple, and stood hesitating for a few moments, wondering where to seat himself; but then a group of his old colleagues hailed him.
‘Erum! Welcome back! Come and join us!’
There were three or four of them in the group, or five maybe, or possibly six. He says that he now finds it hard to recall them as individuals, and he certainly has no wish to embarrass them by giving their names.
‘So we hear that you gave Canon Melda a punch on the nose last night?’ said one.
‘Finest strawberry I’ve ever seen!’ said another.
‘Not I,’ said Erum demurely, raising his spoon to his lips, ‘but the power of Dru that worketh through me.’
‘Absolutely!’
‘Amen to that!’
‘Amen!’
There was hearty laughter. Of course no-one liked the upstart. The true reasons for his rapid preferment and his true relationship with Atan were now somewhat better understood than before. Erum joined in the laughter, though it sounded over-loud, before asking, ‘Well, gentlemen, what’s the news?’
Faces at once became grave.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asked. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Witchcraft,’ said one.
‘Black diabolism, I’d say.’
‘The Punchkins have summoned up some kind of power,’ said a third.
‘When? Where?’
They gave him an account of the Battle of Bigginton as it had been reported by the losing side.
‘Poor old Ostendil,’ said Erum.
‘Yes: it wasn’t fair to send him out against some kind of magical adversary, but how could the King know? That’s what I say.’
They all agreed that neither Lord Ostendil nor His Majesty was to blame for the defeat.
‘I think I’ve met him,’ said Erum thoughtfully.
‘Who?’
‘The Punchkins’ Wizard. They call him Mr. Brown.’
‘Oh, really. I say, myself, we ought to let wizardry well alone.’
‘Surely not! Whatever grievances the Little Folk had, by stooping to black magic they’ve effectively aligned themselves with the Southrons and the Dark Power of the South. They no longer merit the protection of the Shield. We have to deal with them.’
‘But seriously, can we? Can the King’s troops invade again? Can witchcraft be beaten by force?’
‘Didn’t you hear me?’ said Erum. ‘He’s a Wizard, not a Witch. He’s quite a nice old boy. I think he’s one of the Six Wizards of the last Age. I think I can even guess his true name.’
‘Yes, well, that’s a neat theory –’ ‘Theory?’ ‘– but we’ve got to think deeper into the issues here. The Wizards were raised up in the second Age to help the free peoples of the world against Sorgrim. That is, their role was essentially adversarial. So how do we relate the concept of adversariality to the present-day order as defined by Doctrine? Isn’t Dru established for us as the supreme guarantor of peace, one who has forever done away with the primitive concept of righteous bloodshed? In this light, how does the adversarial principle appear?’
‘As hair-splitting,’ retorted another voice. ‘Olostur says it’s vain to do with more, what can be done with less. It suffices that the enemy was transformed into the likeness of savage beasts. This can be considered only as an operation of sorcery. Therefore, it is to be condemned. The real question is, how to deal with it?’
The discussion continued but Erum ceased to pay it any attention. Beyond the tall lancet windows of the Refectory the sky was black: rain was lashing down, and there had come a grumble or two of thunder. To Erum it seemed that he was enduring repeated strokes of lightning, somewhat like yesterday’s discharge of power. First stroke: none of his colleagues was interested in anything he had to say. They cared nothing for him. If it was a friend’s part to show compassion for pain and grief, or to rejoice over another’s achievements, then these men, whom he had once thought of as friends, were nothing but... Second stroke: why? Because what he had to tell was unspeakable. They knew this. Not for no reason was the Craft kept secret. It lay beyond their theology. The Erumar was dedicated to dogmatic descriptions – of the power of Dru, the mercy and justice of Dru, and so on – yet wholly unable to deal with the realities indicated by the dogmata, the rich landscape pointed at by the complex finger-posts. Third stroke: Erum himself no longer desired to confide his story to them. These colleagues now appeared to him as a gang of youths, overgrown, over-clever, shallow and smug. He had moved too far beyond them to be able to converse with them on any kind of equal footing. Last stroke: he was, therefore, completely alone. From now on, he would always be completely alone! And with that thought the flames of the lightning began to rise up within him, filling him with a fiery ecstasy. It was not that he had no friends at all. The companions of his journey were still in Ruminas. But there was no-one with whom he would ever be able to share the mystery of the solitude, the fire, the terrible searching, the divine compassion. And in a sense the story of Erumardil, the true inner story, must end at this point. To be sure, there is plenty more to narrate, and no doubt he himself will disagree: reading these words, Erum, you may smile, and think, ‘No: all is yet to be done: this is but the beginning.’ Which doubtless is true from a divine perspective. But Aldred can follow you no further.
A hand fell on Erum’s shoulder.
The other priests had all stood up.
He turned in his seat. He looked into the face of Ar the High Priest.
‘Bishop Erumardil,’ said Ar in his dry voice. ‘Thank you for joining us.’
Erum stood up and faced him. They were both short, approximately of a height. He stared into the High Priest’s eyes. There was power, there was understanding; there, however, was a complete absence of loving-kindness, of any kind of human quality; there instead was visible a strange dark laughter like a black flame.
‘I’m so sorry I couldn’t come last night,’ said Erum, keeping his tone studiedly free of the very least hint of sorrow. ‘I was tired, and I really needed a rest. And may I say, my lord Ar, that you might have chosen a less insolent messenger?’
There were one or two gasps from the other side of the table. Atan the Second Highest, who was standing just behind Ar, went red in the face. Another man, Quendil the palace scribe, made a little, tight-mouthed, raised-eyebrow grimace. But Ar gave a quiet chuckle. ‘Well, he’s been adequately rebuked,’ he answered. ‘But the matter is urgent. May I request you to bring your tray over, and join us? Gentlemen, will you excuse him?’
The senior party moved over to the dais. Ar seated himself opposite Erum, who at once took one of the fresh white rolls and spread it with butter and jam. ‘And another cup of tea for us all?’ he suggested. ‘Quendil, would you pour out?’ Ar gave no sign of resenting this display of independence, though Atan, at his side, got redder and redder. Erum saw that he, Atan, was, unlike Ar, secretly afraid. ‘For you, my lord?’ said Erum: ‘Blackcurrant or rhubarb?’
‘You have heard the news of our defeat,’ said Ar. ‘The situation is very grave and very urgent. Our friend Quendil is here at the King’s behest, for advice – an immediate pronouncement – on whether or not the Temple considers it can deal with this new magic of the Punchkins. Time really is running out, you see. In these circumstances, any additional information... Kindly make your report.’
‘Did you get my January letter?’ asked Erum. ‘Well, carrying on from there –’ He told of the last expedition that Melohtar and Hrem had led, of the encounter of the Punchkins and the Wizard, of the death of Hrem, of the separation of Melohtar and himself from the party, of their journey and their rescue by Swin; and of the hunting of the wolf.
‘I think that will suffice, Lord Bishop,’ said Ar.
‘Yes, my lord,’ said Erum, thinking: even he doesn’t want to know anything about the Disenchantment. Well, of course he doesn’t.
‘Your latest achievement is known to us,’ said Quendil tactfully, ‘and His Majesty is deeply grateful. I’m commanded to deliver this invitation to you.’ He handed Erum a stiff white envelope.
‘Friends in high places,’ said Ar with a rusty smile. ‘Now go back to your meeting with the Wizard.’
This time Erum described the encounter in full, omitting only one detail. Atan and Ar asked many questions and both priests made notes on their tablets.
‘Thank you, Bishop,’ said Ar at last. ‘I think that will be all.’
‘Have you any orders for me, Lord Ar?’ asked Erum.
‘Orders? Me? Heavens, no,’ answered Ar. ‘But we’ll meet again soon. I think you’ll find that your experience, your contacts and your remarkable skills have made you indispensable.’
‘But what am I to do now?’
‘Whatever you please, my dear sir. Oh, Atan, I believe that the Bishop may be under a false impression. Would you correct it?’
‘You’re, ah, dismissed from the Temple service, Erumardil,’ said Atan, trying for but not quite achieving the tone of blunt contempt. His eyes were shifty and nervous.
‘Oh indeed? Why?’
‘Dereliction of duty,’ said Atan.
‘I believe I’ve made it plain to you that Lord Melohtar and I were forcibly separated from Lord Lefnui and all the others.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Ar mildly: ‘but come on, Bishop, you’re no fool. You must appreciate that there are certain realities. And that you’ve gone altogether too far.’
‘And my bishopric?’
‘Plenty of suitable candidates. Oh, you can go on using the title if you want to. There’s no question of your being demoted.’
‘Thank you very much,’ said Erum with open sarcasm. ‘What about my salary?’
‘How much are you owed?’
‘From the beginning of last September.’
Atan glanced at Ar, who nodded. ‘You can instruct the treasurer,’ said Atan. ‘You’ll have to be paid at the rank of a canon-minister, mind: not having been formally consecrated.’
‘Even so, I’ll need your seal of approval.’
With a bad grace and a heavy scowl Atan pulled a ring from his finger. ‘Bring it back to me at once,’ he said unnecessarily.
Ten minutes later, seeking solace in prayer, Erum sat down in one of the congregational parts of the building. He then suddenly remembered about Swin’s request and the undertaking he himself had given: to explore, with one of the superiors, the possibility of reviving the old Rite of Absolution. Erum was not the man to shrink from such a task, even if hopeless. When he went to return Atan’s ring later on, he compelled him to hear the request, which produced a fairly predictable reaction, a compound of astonishment, irritation and heavy theological disapproval.
‘The time for that’s all gone and long past!’ Atan threw himself back in his chair, and ran his hand through his thick dark hair, glancing nervously from side to side, or at the candle-clock, or at the ceiling – at anything but Erum’s face. ‘Your friend sounds like an earnest soul, yes, an excellent convert, but I can’t believe he’s so much more of a sinner than any other candidate for baptism! Tell him the water of Aduchel’s clear enough to wash his sins away! Now, my dear chap, please do go. I’m trying to write a most important sermon for Sunday morning, and good Heavens! You come badgering me with talk of absolutions at a time like this! Quite the wrong note. It’s not we who stand in need of atonement!’
So that was that. But when Erum had opened the envelope he had found himself invited to an informal supper at the Palace next day. The company was to include His Majesty, with Their Royal Highnesses the Princess and the Prince Consort. The invitation said nothing about Swin – who, so far as Erum knew, was lodging at the Palace – and Erum suspected that he would not be included. Erum therefore set out early, arriving at the great gates somewhat damp from the rain but with forty minutes in hand. He was escorted by a palace footman to the great library in the west wing of the building: this, apparently, was where Swin was being kept. Erum was somewhat surprised, as his escort also seemed to be, by the sight of two Arostiri, big men in full armour, standing guard outside the library’s closed door. They lowered their spears and Erum had to explain himself all over again. But the door was opened from the inside before he had finished speaking. On the threshold stood an old man: Sadron Parmandur the King’s Librarian, brother of Engwe Parmandur the Lord Secretary. Sadron was stooped, and he wore a black robe, and his thin beard fell down to his waist; but his voice was soft and gentle, and his eyes were bright. ‘Very good,’ he said. ‘His Reverence may be admitted... I find myself in an unaccustomed role,’ he continued, addressing Erum amiably: ‘I’ve never had to guard a prisoner before... A pleasure to meet you, Lord Bishop... Yes, you’ll find him up at the far end.’
It was a large and splendid room, lined with bookshelves from floor to ceiling and partitioned with many screens of twisted and fluted pillars. The pillars were all painted in gold and blue, green or scarlet: in the dimness these colours seemed to diffuse a rich light of their own. The ceiling coffers were each adorned with a flat gold star on a blue background; the oaken tables were covered with smooth red leather, and the table-lecterns that stood ready to receive the huge volumes were all beautifully carved and gilded. Erum went up to the far end, his boots making little noise on the patterned carpet. He heard a murmur of voices. Here a wooden staircase led up to a raised area, closed off by a reredos of wrought and painted iron; Erum saw Swin looking through this, and the impression was of a captive looking through prison bars. Erum went up the steps. Quendil was there too, sitting opposite Swin at a smaller table. A single candlestick burned between them, and there were some small books, a slate and a slate-pencil, and a chess-board with a game in progress. The slate was blank, the books all shut. Swin and Erum greeted one another, and considered whether to shake hands, or not, or what; then, recklessly, they embraced.
‘Dear Swin! These two days have been a long time! Whatever are you doing here?’
‘I’m in disgrace,’ said Swin.
‘Oh really? So am I. Good evening, Master Quendil.’
Quendil bowed. ‘A glass of wine for you, Your Reverence? And Mr. Gumasson?’
They said Yes to that. ‘Quendil told me about your dismissal,’ Swin said. ‘I don’t pretend to know anything about the ways of the Temple, but even so it sounded rather – well, shocking.’
‘Thank you. To me, who do know something about the Temple, it was more of a shock than a surprise. It hurt – yes, that I can’t honestly deny – but it’s also a relief. I expect Dru will provide some new opening for me... But what’s the matter with you? Why are you here?’
‘Gauriel and Melohtar believe that all these books will have a civilising effect on me. Thanks: your good health, Quendil!’
‘And yours, Mr. Gumasson.’
‘And both of yours... You don’t need civilising! You’re splendid as you are! But I’m sorry to say – about that idea of ours – Atan turned it down flat. I thought he would. But you can be baptized, if you wish.’ Swin nodded. Quendil discreetly withdrew to another table and began to read. ‘What’s happened, my friend?’
Swin shook his head despondently. He and Erum sat down in adjacent chairs. Outside the rain was beating heavily against the stained glass of the windows.
‘If you don’t wish to tell...’
‘The Princess thinks I ought to be in prison.’
‘Why?’
‘I killed a few men today.’
‘A few? How many?’
‘Four, I think.’
‘But why?’
‘They were trying to kill me.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, reasonably sure. In such circumstances, you understand, one has to make one’s mind up and fight back rather quickly: and so it’s hard to be fully reasonable. In fact it seems to be rather unreasonable, this notion of hers, that you calmly weigh things up and decide on the precise judicious quantity of reasonable force. But that’s what she says, the stupid bitch: I was entitled to use reasonable force! How can you be reasonable when you’re fighting for your life?’
‘I’ve no idea. How did it happen?’
‘I was attacked! I went out by myself this morning, just to get a breath of air, or whatever it is that passes for air in this damned City; and they all jumped me in an alleyway! Granted, I could have been a lot more prudent. There’s too much to take in: it’s not like the open country: my, my sense of things was overloaded and I suppose I was foolish, walking around with my eyes full of the sights and my mouth hanging open. I could have been killed. You heard Melohtar warn me. He was quite right. At least I’d had the sense to do what he said, and take a sword with me. But it seems using a sword isn’t reasonable force. I was supposed to disarm them all with my bare hands, was I?’
‘So you think it was one of those mentioned in the letter, whom we talked of, who fancies he has cause for hatred, and sent the men to ambush you?’
Swin sighed. ‘Melohtar still thinks that. I expect he’s right. If the guards manage to catch either of the men who got away, we should find out –’
‘Even if there’s no likelihood of them being charged?’
‘Right. They all had masks on anyway. But what makes our dear Princess so angry is that it all happened before: and she did have me put in jail last time, but I got out somehow, and that infuriated her, and now this time the King and Melohtar won’t let her punish me at all, and that’s made her even madder. And it’s made me really confused and depressed. I still can’t remember anything about this last time round, and my head hurts when I try to think of it.’
Erum thought for a moment. ‘But, what you call last time – that didn’t happen in the City, did it? A bunch of bandits...’
Swin shook his head violently. ‘Bandits, robbers, assassins, what’s the difference? They’re all subjects of the King, it seems, good worthy folk with legal rights that Gauriel has generously pledged herself to uphold. Unngh!’
With this last wordless grunt Swin hunched forward over the table, screwing up his face, baring his teeth and digging his nails into the palms of his hands. Erum watched him carefully until he relaxed. Then he put his arm round Swin’s shoulders.
‘She’s not been very generous to you.’
‘No. She’s damnably ungrateful. And it bloody hurts.’
‘And you’re confused and depressed, you say.’
‘Yes.’
‘Is that all, or is there more?’
‘Oh, it’s the...feeling of being at a dead end. I can’t even understand it. Since I came away from Garholt, if you look at things on the surface, everything seems to have gone right – gone luckily – gone brilliantly well. First I save you two, then I help to organise the hunt, then we catch her without even one man being hurt, then you pull off that amazing transformation, then we all get safely back here and the King’s reunited with his daughter. Yet on the underneath, for me, everything seems to have gone awry. It’s as if I’ve wandered into a dark cave, and I’ve got lost inside a mountain, and I’ve taken one wrong turn after another; and now I’m at a dead end. I’m stuck. I’ll never get out.’ He gave a choked sob.
Erum waited until he was sure that Swin had finished speaking. ‘I know what you’re talking about,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ve been in those caves myself. But Dru will lead you forth, if you trust in Him. I want to ask you two more things. The first is this. I don’t ask: are you sorry you killed those men? but: do you sincerely regret that you had to do it?’
‘Oh, certainly.’
‘And the second is this: will you be baptized?’
‘All right.’ He squeezed Erum’s hand, so strongly that Erum thought his fingers might break, and then they let go of each other. They made a tryst for the ritual on the shore of the lake. ‘And talking of appointments,’ Erum said, ‘I’ll have to be going in a few minutes. Sorry, but have you been invited to this supper-party?’
‘No.’
‘Thought not. Still, things will start to move again soon. Everyone says so. Meanwhile I could almost envy you, being shut up in his magnificent place.’
‘I don’t like it at all,’ said Swin moodily. ‘It seems like more of the same craziness.’
‘What same craziness?’
‘The craziness of the City, and the noble Lords, and your own High Priest and Second Highest Priest, and the Princess.’ ‘Say more.’ ‘Oh, words are for thoughts, and thoughts belong inside our heads. The Cities spew out more and more and more words: they’re like a landslide of writing, they’ve risen up until they’ve covered your heads, and your own words are all you can see.’
‘There’s something in that,’ agreed Erum.
‘I’d burn this whole library down if I had my way.’
‘Oh. Will you?’
‘No: I’ve promised Gauriel and the King that I’ll be a very good boy. I believe he rather likes me.’
Quendil, sensitively aware that the conversation had relaxed, had come up with the decanter and was offering refills. ‘Mr. Gumasson has placed me in an awkward position,’ he said, with a slightly grim smile. ‘He undertook to accept my teaching him his letters. At least, to making a start. But since we began he’s been disputing with me. He’s even half-persuaded me that the whole enterprise of literacy is pointless. In the end we started a game of chess, and he appears to be beating me at that too. So what am I to say to Her Royal Highness?’
‘You’ll say I’m too thick to learn anything. It’s what she believes anyway.’
‘Whereas, Your Reverence, Mr. Gumasson is fully fluent in the common tongue as well as his native tribal dialect. He knows a great deal of elvish also, including the whole of ‘Liberation’ and the ‘Lay of Eangil’, and he even has some acquaintance with the old-elvish forms. Then he knows all the legends of the Nibyth, the dirges and the tales and poems of his own tribe. But what I find most impressive is his history. He can reckon the whole history of his own people by the traditional dating of the kings’ reigns, and yet relate these accurately to the events of the present Age and the Olosturian calendar. I can understand how you might have picked up everything else except this last. Your Bard must be a man of very great learning.’
‘He is, I suppose,’ said Swin. ‘They most of them are. As for the history, I sort of figured it out by myself.’
‘Oh yes?’ asked Erum.
‘Go on, ask me a question.’
‘Er... Date of the Battle of the North Downs?’
‘King’s Reckoning 308,’ said Swin promptly. ‘That was in the seventh year of our own King Walda, two years before his death.’
‘You see?’
‘Remarkable,’ said Erum.
‘So what am I to do with him?’ asked Quendil.
‘Fill up my glass again, that’s what,’ said Swin. ‘I’m going to trounce you at this game and then I’m going to drink you under the table.’
Presently a servant came to conduct Erum to the King’s private apartments. The supper-party turned out to be a very pleasant gathering. Besides the King and Melohtar and Gauriel, there were present Lord Lefnui, Lady Daeranna and Lady Arloth. Talk flowed easily. When the news of Erum’s unfair sacking came out, he received a good deal of kindly concern. The food was delicious, excellently cooked – but it included no meat or fish. The Princess had lost no time in re-imposing her strict vegetarian principles.