| Chapter Three BACK TO THE CITY For the rest of the night Swin slept fitfully and was troubled by anxious dreams. As soon as the house began to wake up he rose and came downstairs again. The dog was sleeping – giving in his sleep the impression of one who knows his right to the best place – on the mat that lay before the hall fire. Swin spoke to the servants, who readily identified Sedro, Lord Melohtar’s favourite hound.
Melohtar himself soon appeared. His face was white, his eyes underlined with darkness, but he was unaffectedly delighted to see Sedro again. He hugged him in his arms, accepting all the unction of the long slobbering tongue.
‘Is that wise?’ asked Swin.
‘Undignified, no doubt, but who’s to care?’
‘No, I mean his jaw’s infected. His spittle may be unhealthy.’
Melohtar had not yet noticed Sedro’s wound. Where the wizard had struck, the side of the head had been impacted, the hairy skin torn; it was healed now, or at least half-healed, but the eye was oozing and crusted, and the teeth, some of them broken, leaned at odd angles from below the scarred and twisted muzzle. The saliva that leaked from that side of the mouth had a nasty yellowish look.
‘Oh, poor boy! Poor old boy! Let me see!’
Sedro allowed the close scrutiny and the touch of his master’s hand, shuddering and whining occasionally as Melohtar probed the damage. Swin summoned a servant; Melohtar called for warm water, towels, clean cloths, bandages and the best of soothing ointments. Sedro submitted to the cleansing. But just as the ointment was being applied he snarled with rage, jerked back his head and sprang to his feet.
‘Don’t let him!’ called a frightened voice from the doorway. ‘My lord, don’t let him! Swin, help me!’
Sedro made one bound, then a great leap that would have carried him clear over the table if Swin had not simultaneously dived forward and seized his collar. He wrenched Sedro’s head and brought him down. Mighty beast though he was, the force that now restrained him was far mightier. His head was immobilised on the floor, his neck throttled by the strength of Swin’s hands and arms.
‘Thank you!’ said Erum.
‘All right, I’ll manage him,’ said Melohtar shortly. ‘Thanks, Swin. Sorry, Erum.’
Sedro growled with hoarse fury as Melohtar dragged him out of the room. Erum came forward, still trembling, and sat down. ‘Thank you, my friend!’ he said again. ‘He really doesn’t like me. That’s the second time!’
‘Oh yes? When was the first?’
Over breakfast Erum told the story of his and Melohtar’s meeting with the Wizard and the Punchkins. With priestly decorum he refrained from passing on the Wizard’s last remark. ‘However,’ he concluded, ‘I think that you also need to beware of him. If I’ve understood the story correctly, it was him, not Gauriel but him alone, who led you into the dragon’s jaws.’
‘I can’t remember,’ said Swin, scratching the back of his head.
‘There’s a wicked spirit in him. But our good friend loves him with a passion. I do so wish he didn’t.’
Gauriel entered. She was already for the departure, with her hair braided and coiled, boots on her feet and a cloak slung over her shoulder. Somehow she looked even more magnificent than yesterday. The two men stood up to greet her. Swin rubbed his chin, conscious of being unkempt and unshaven.
‘What was all that racket?’ she asked as she seated herself gracefully.
They told her. She preferred to question Erum rather than Swin.
‘Well well,’ she commented, ‘dear old Sedro. My husband must be glad, for he dotes on him. How lucky that he arrived before we left.’
‘Seeing that he tracked us here, Ma’am, I’ve no doubt that he would have followed us and found us in the end,’ said Swin.
For a moment he experienced the icy blast of her contempt. ‘Doubtless,’ said she, spreading butter thickly on a slice of bread.
‘And your own preparations, Ma’am, are they complete?’ asked Erum.
‘As you see!’ she answered with a light laugh. ‘Though I’m used to travelling with a great baggage-train, like a respectable princess, today I’ve nothing to take from here save a couple of spare travelling-dresses. Yet that reminds me, Your Reverence,’ she went on, now more kindly, ‘that my debt to you is greater than I realised at first. I have to thank you not only for releasing me from the spell and returning me to my rightful shape, but also for what seems to the weakness of a poor woman a favour almost equally great: doing it away from where I’m best known. Far, far better to return to Ruminas in my true form, even with scanty baggage, than in that horrible cage.’ Her head drooped; she took a handkerchief from her sleeve and wiped her eye. ‘I have to thank you, my lord Bishop, for your stern yet compassionate exercise of power. And I desire to recompense you. When we return to the City you may command me in anything.’
‘Not I, Your Highness,’ Erum returned pleasantly, ‘but that One who is above us. He, not I, directed the place, the time and the season.’
The other three ladies entered, and the talk became general. Swin finished his breakfast, feeling quite downcast. No, really badly downcast. What about her thanks to him? There had been so much to talk about yesterday, and it was only yesterday that her transformation had been achieved; fair enough, she had scarcely had opportunity, she could hardly have collected herself sufficiently to thank him then; but what about now? Did he deserve no gratitude at all? His own contribution had been less magical than Erum’s, but it had sprung from a deeper commitment and had involved, or seemed to have involved the most unimaginable and mind-boggling sacrifices. His commitment to her had been truer even than her husband’s, and far more costly. He felt like howling out, with the tears of a small child, ‘It’s not fair!’ He sighed, and tried to eat another slice of bread, but it was tasteless in his mouth.
Melohtar, when he returned, went some way towards remedying his wife’s ungraciousness. Certainly he himself was not lacking in gratitude to Swin. After the servants had cleared the table Melohtar laid down on it three objects he had brought: a book, a sheathed sword and a harp.
‘Before we leave the house of my ancestors,’ he said, ‘Lady Gauriel and I offer you these gifts, my friends, in thankfulness for all that you have done.’
The book, which he placed in Erum’s hands, was a copy of the sacred text, Olos Minyarion, bound in white leather and clasped with gold. ‘Thank you indeed, my lord and lady,’ said Erum. ‘Where does this come from?’
‘It comes from old Onduial,’ Gauriel answered.
Erum bowed his head. ‘Nothing so precious and so sacred have I owned before,’ he said.
The sword and the new harp were for Swin. He could see that they were both beautiful: surpassingly excellent, no doubt, each one, in its way: but they did not make him feel any better. ‘Where are these from?’ he asked lamely, as it seemed to be the right thing to say, but he paid no attention to Melohtar’s answer.
The last preparations were soon completed. The travellers received the farewells of Mareth, Miriel, Alquessiel and Feima with the two little babies; and the married couple bestowed gifts on all the people of the house. Grooms led six horses forth from the stable. Melohtar considered that a small escort of two riders would be sufficient, and Gauriel had firmly declined to take a maidservant with her. The travellers mounted and rode forth with a lively clatter of hooves. Sedro ran beside Melohtar’s horse, a chain being fastened to his collar with its other end secured to Melohtar’s gauntlet. Thus Melohtar son of Ostendil left his ancestral home; and he never came back there again.
It was a good road, a well-paved street that ran down the Breglin valley and then out into the open plain. Here the countryside was well-tended and well-peopled, with an inn to receive the travellers at every stage of their four-day journey. No robbers attacked them, no mishaps of any kind befell them. Nevertheless they rode gloomily, their hoofbeats sounding loud in a silence that was unbroken by song or mirth.
Erum was not gloomy, but he had begun to consider his own future very seriously; he was trying to imagine how his forced departure from his bishopric and the miracle he had wrought would affect his standing in the priesthood. Meanwhile he was afraid of Sedro, and insisted on keeping Swin between him and Sedro and Melohtar. Sedro behaved quietly, and Melohtar insisted that Erum had no longer any reason to be afraid, but when the dog looked up at them with his red eyes and grinning, misshapen jaw, Swin felt that Erum’s uneasiness was amply justified. He himself, though he rode ever vigilantly, keeping one eye on the horizon as well as on the threatening beast, was sliding deeper and deeper into a mood he had seldom experienced before: depression. On the first day Melohtar asked him for a song on the harp. Obligingly Swin unhooked the harp from his belt, ran his hand over the strings and attempted to strike up a melody. Then he faltered and ceased. ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘somehow I haven’t got the heart for it.’ The request was not repeated. But Swin was not displeased to have Erum riding constantly beside him. He felt Erum’s compassion and was now aware of the great strength of Erum’s spirit. He began haltingly to speak to Erum about what troubled him, and Erum was always very ready to listen. Unfortunately these confessions were usually interrupted. Melohtar – it is safe to say, the most deeply unhappy member of the party – was forever dropping back to join in the conversations between Swin and Erum. It may be suggested, with the utmost respect, that he was jealous of their still-growing intimacy. Meanwhile Gauriel’s hostility to Swin also seemed to be growing, and her husband’s firm attachment to this slighted friend did not please her. On the third day of their journey Swin looked at the lately-united couple, where they rode together some way ahead: saw the erect back of Gauriel, her restrained but vigorous gestures, and the sagging shoulders of Melohtar: read the language of their bodies. ‘They’re in disagreement,’ he said: ‘She’s nagging him!’ And Erum nodded ruefully. Yet despite whatever dissatisfactions Gauriel might have been feeling, she was in good spirits and the most vigorous health. Tireless in the saddle, she often set the pace, and of them all she was the eagerest, the first and the gladdest to set eyes on that distant golden dome.
‘It puts me in mind of something,’ said Erum to Swin on the last afternoon: ‘the Rite of Absolution.’
‘And what may that be?’
‘Something that used to be done in the Temple. It’s dead out of fashion now. You should understand that fashions come and go in our worship just as in ladies’ dresses at court.’
‘But what is it?’
‘When the Temple was first consecrated, and especially after the Dragon came, there was a great deal of devotional emphasis on sin and expiation. People saw the Dragon as a scourge from Dru – a punishment sent upon us for our misbehaviour – for the kingdom’s pride and arrogance, as it might be, or for the immorality of folk in the City. Consciences became very tender.’
‘What are consciences?’
‘Bless me, Swin, don’t you know? A man’s conscience is the voice of Dru speaking to him in his soul, his own little interior lawgiver that speaks to him of right and wrong. We’ve all got them, but at some times consciences may get withered and shrunken; and sometimes they get inflamed. I think yours is very tender and inflamed just now. As I was saying, in the aftermath of the Dragon coming, many of the most devout folk in the City began to search their consciences. And the Orondili, the priests of that time, devised a set of actions, a ritual – that is to say, a vehicle or vessel through which Dru’s mercy might directly touch the afflicted, just as you saw it touched that young lady, through my own actions, the other day. The ritual was made available to people who felt that they had sinned, who thought that their sin might be part of the reason why Dru was angry with the whole kingdom. I myself would be very cautious about any such interpretation – but after the event, of course, we can all be more relaxed.’
‘But what was it?’
‘Patience! Now, my friend, I think that there are few who, if they knew all the facts, would reproach you for the things that trouble your conscience. I myself have rebuked you, I know, but that ought to suffice; and yet you continue to rebuke yourself. You’re suffering from guilt. A heavy load of guilt. Now the ritual I’m speaking of, the Rite of Absolution, was designed to ease such burdens. It went like this. The penitent – that’s you – brings a small sacrificial offering: a kid, maybe, or a lamb, or a couple of pigeons. The offering is placed on the altar. There’s no fire under the altar for this rite. The penitent kneels before the priest, and in a distinct, audible voice, and before at least three witnesses, confesses the sins that are on his conscience. The priest asks if he’s truly sorry for them. He says he is. Then the priest slits the throat of the animal that’s been offered. He fills a container with the blood – a sort of watering-can called an aspergill. He sprinkles all the blood over the penitent’s head. It’s quite messy and gory, I imagine, quite ugly-looking, but that’s all on purpose. Then – this is the exciting bit, and I’d like to see it done – the altar is swung over. There’s a hinge in the floor, and the whole thing can be opened up. There’s a hole underneath, with steps leading down. Into water. The penitent walks down the steps. Under the surface of the water there’s a doorway and a short passage. He has to make his way along this, all under water, swimming or walking as best he can. There’s a light at the end of the passage, and steps leading up again. He comes up into a lighted room. It’s warm and pleasant, and his three friends are there to welcome him. They strip off his wet clothes, and the blood’s all been washed away; and the priest dresses him in a white robe. And then they sing a hymn – it can be done as part of a service. And that’s the end of the Rite.’
‘But what comes of it?’ asked Swin seriously. ‘What fruit does it bear?’
‘The fruits of the spirit,’ answered Erum. ‘Peace, joy, new life. The penitent feels cleansed, unburdened and joyful. So long as the officiating priest is properly qualified by the church, Dru’s grace never fails.’
‘I should like to try it,’ said Swin.
‘Well, as I said, it hasn’t been done for many a long year – but I’ll make inquiries for you, shall I? The City owes you a favour.’
‘It certainly does,’ said Melohtar; he had dropped back once again, leaving Gauriel to ride on alone. ‘I didn’t hear what you were talking about, but whatever it is, I fear you’ll be disappointed. You may encounter ill-will. But at least the King ought to be grateful.’
‘Why do you say that?’ asked Erum, as Swin made no reply.
‘I came to tell you a thought I’ve just had. I think you need to be on your guard, Swin: to keep your hand near your sword-hilt. You may have made powerful enemies.’
‘...Who?’ asked Swin eventually.
‘Why, you’ve planted cuckold’s horns in the heads of at least two barons – two of the most powerful men in the kingdom! Lefnui is generally very fair-minded, but Megiluin is not. Either way, such lords have great pride, and we know that the whole City has been laughing at them. Soon, if not already, they must know that you’re alive and well and returning.’
‘...So you think they’ll want to kill me? What do you think, Erum?’
Erum looked grave. ‘I think Lord Melohtar is right,’ he said.
‘A treacherous attempt,’ said Melohtar with perhaps a little too much relish: ‘a sudden arrow, or a knife in the dark, or poison in your food. The King, as I say, will have no wish for your death, but Megiluin is too strong to need fear the City’s justice. Stay close to your friends!’
Swin gave a despondent sigh. ‘All right,’ he said. And the dog Sedro grinned up at him as if fully aware of all that had been said.
They rode forward to join the Princess, who had reined in her horse at the top of the last rise and was now lit up by the rays of the setting sun. As the followers reached her, they heard many rapid hoofbeats from the direction of the City, which was now only a few miles away. Twenty riders in black and golden armour were galloping along the wide straight road. Wearily Swin laid his hand on his sword-hilt. ‘No need of that now, I think,’ said Melohtar kindly. ‘This looks like a guard of honour come to meet us.’
He was right. The guards cantered up to the travellers, then formed a ring around them with lances raised high. Captain Crabanir rode forward and respectfully greeted Melohtar and Gauriel. Then a trumpeter blew a blast, and the whole band, twenty-six strong, urged their steeds forward. They charged down the hill, the travellers’ tired horses responding to the sense of the occasion. Up ahead the gate-wheels were squealing, the great Gates being flung wide, the City Guards clearing the Westway that led into the Elessarmen, so that there was no check or hindrance as the travellers thundered through the gateway and into the heart of the City. Tremendous cheers rose from the crowded streets. In hardly a minute, it seemed, Melohtar, Gauriel and Swin were reining in before the imposing front of the palace. Rapidly they mounted the stairway and passed through the wide vestibule, the long halls and the ante-chambers. Ladies and gentlemen-in-waiting swept forward to help the travellers make their hasty toilette and put on fresh garments; for the King was holding court in his throne-room. Trumpets sounded again, and the three names were cried in a loud voice. Footmen opened the doors. The travellers advanced toward the golden throne, Melohtar and Gauriel holding hands, Swin walking a step behind. Every one of the richly-attired courtiers bowed or curtsied deeply. The King was sitting on his throne. His daughter and son-in-law knelt before him. He welcomed them, and blessed them, and bade them rise; and he himself descended the steps of the throne, and embraced the Princess, and kissed her. Those who stood near saw that he trembled and was deeply moved. Her misfortune and absence had been a great cause of grief for him, for in truth he loved her no less than any father might love his daughter.
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