Chapter Eleven
THE CLEANSING OF THE TEMPLE
The stairs led down a short passage, at the end of which an archway gave entrance into a large underground chamber – a crypt. The air was cold and foul, strongly redolent of torture and terror, but with an underlying farmyard stench, as of pigs and goats, that seemed out-of-place. Swin staggered a little as he went onward. His arms had begun to feel tired. A glimmer of light came from beyond the arch.
The chamber was round. The wall of its circumference was shallowly recessed between round arches on columns of polished black stone. These glimmered a little in the light of the few candles, stuck in sconces, which had apparently just been lit. Carrying a lighted taper, the tall bulky figure of the Second Highest Priest was going down more shallow steps, let into the slope of a wide, round, smooth, shallow bowl – the receptacle, as Swin at once inferred, for that pool of water which had in bygone times been used for the Rite of Absolution. (It is about thirty feet across, and its midpoint, a shallower saucer, is eight feet below floor-level.) The surface of the bowl was artificial stone, cracked and discoloured in many places. Words and signs were painted around it in red and black runes, figures, lines of sinister cursive script. After a few seconds Swin’s eyes were just able to take in something that could have no connexion with the bowl’s original use: a tall tube of transparent glass, fastened to the central boss of the vault, depending from this and hanging steadily over the midmost point of the saucer. The grey glass of this vessel reflected the candle-light as thin gleaming lines and had an evil, shifting quality, as if it contained some poisonous mineral. Its lower rim was separated from the floor of the bowl by a short gap of, say, five inches. Besides this midpoint, Atan now – with considerable effort – squatted down. He began to pour liquid out of a jar that he carried: a viscous oil. It ran out of the jar with no splashing and collected in a round pool, exactly below the round glass rim.
Swin had an unpleasant feeling, the intuition of a trap being set for him. He gave a loud shout: ‘Cease!’ Atan looked up and waved, blandly acknowledging his presence. Then he reached forward with the taper and set light to the pool of oil. It quickly took fire, burning with a blue flame, rising and reaching up into the glass of the tube, until the whole vessel was lit up with a dim, shimmering blueness. Meanwhile Ar the High Priest was emerging from the obscurity of the far side of the chamber. It was dark over there: Aldred, who had come to stand behind Swin, could not make out much more than a suggestion of wire cages or pens, all of which seemed to be empty. But the door of one of these stood open. Ar was leading forth a small black goat. He held it firmly by both horns as he dragged it along.
‘Cease!’ Swin cried again, and despite the stifling horror of the place – the very air seeming corrupt, clotted, thick-brewed – his voice was fresh and strong, with a lively power of its own. ‘Go no further! Tell me what you are doing!’
‘Patience, Lord,’ said Atan. ‘Just let me come up, and I will explain all.’ He blew out the taper, stowed the oil-jar in a pocket of his robes and began to come up the steps. Impatiently Swin moved round to meet him. Ar had led the goat up to the edge of the bowl, just where there was another low pen, this one constructed of wooden bars. ‘Or better,’ said Atan, ‘sit down in one of the arches here, and see what may unfold. Please don’t be rash!’ The flesh of his heavy face looked greasy in the candle-light: he was weeping and trying to smile ingratiatingly at the same time. ‘Come, Lord Eofor,’ he entreated, ‘hasn’t there been enough bloodshed today? You desire enlightenment, and so you shall... For God’s sake put that thing down!’
Atan’s voice had risen to a scream of terror, for ‘that thing’ was Dagoruth, and the point was now close to his breast.
‘No! No! Let your colleague cease, at this instant, and you shall live! Let him desist from sorcery!’
Ar could not but have heard every word of this speech. Nonetheless he continued with his preparations. The goat’s head being now thrust forward over the bar at the front of the wooden pen, Ar fitted another bar over its neck. The two ends of this bar clicked into slots. The animal was now imprisoned, its head extended towards the bowl, its neck exposed. It opened its mouth and gave a bleat.
‘Lord Ar –!’ Atan’s last appeal was cut short as Swin lost patience and made a fast, hewing stroke. But Atan, being prepared for something of the sort, leapt backward with unexpected, clumsy agility, and Dagoruth swept in front of him, cutting through his robes, seeming to encounter little resistance. Atan then put his heel down on his back hem, stumbled, fell on his back, rolled over awkwardly and almost tumbled down the side of the bowl. He came to rest at the edge. He raised himself up on one elbow. But Swin, realising that every second and every tenth of a second were now precious, had already left him and dashed over to Ar. The High Priest had a small grey knife in his hand. He was ready to slit the beast’s throat.
‘Stay,’ commanded Swin. ‘Offer no sacrifice.’
Ar sighed. ‘What would you have?’ he asked.
‘Drop your knife. I would have an explanation. The Temple must be cleansed; and here, plainly, is the source of the evil that must be cleansed. What is it? What are you doing?’
Ar stared beyond him for a moment. Then he made an odd sound, a quiet grunt as of genuine amusement. There was the ghost of a smile on his face, the dry smile that has been noticed before. He dropped the knife.
‘Good,’ said Swin, ‘but what’s funny?’
‘The animal sacrifice is needless now,’ he answered. ‘Look what you’ve done, young man!’
Swin looked back. The point of Dagoruth, its keenness undiminished by the many fierce blows it had delivered that day, had done more than cut Atan’s clothes: it had slit his belly like a sack. He lay on the edge of the bowl, shuddering convulsively, and with each shudder a few more of the dark snakes or sausage-loops of his intestines slid forth into view. Feebly he reached for them, as if he would restrain them with his hands, and then pushed himself into a sitting position; but this movement served to loosen the edges of his wound, so that the whole mass of entrails now fell out into his lap: sight vile and loathsome beyond description: be it noted, however, that some of the loops had been cut or severed, so that the slimy excrement of the Second Highest Priest oozed out of his tubes and added its stink to the miasma of blood and horrible ritual. He gestured uncertainly, then fell over again. He lay now on his belly, and the strings and garlands were strewn out from beneath him; his blood, having saturated the white chasuble, was pouring out in profusion, spurting forth and running down the slope of the bowl not in streams or dribbles but a veritable tide, ragged-edged and dark crimson in the uncertain light.
‘What must be, must be,’ commented Ar. ‘When the life-blood of a still-living creature touches the flame, the charm is completed. Then you shall see and understand.’
The red wave was about a third of the way down. Swin watched it in helpless anger. ‘I dislike the assumptions you’re making,’ he said, ‘and in particular I dislike your assumption of control over this present moment, which still feels like a trap! There’s half a minute left. I desire an explanation from your own lips, Priest, of this so-called charm: and then I’ll decide whether or not I shall stay to witness it.’
Ar looked Swin full in the face, his dark eyes full of scorn. ‘If it’s a trap, you’re already caught in it,’ he said. ‘Just sit down, calm yourself and –’
‘Speak, now, and explain,’ interrupted Swin, ‘or I will slay you!’
‘You young thug, I’m a servant of the Altar and a full adept of the Craft. Put that sword down. It can’t hurt me.’
‘No? Oh no? Let’s put it to the test,’ said Swin, and swept Dagoruth out once more, aiming for Ar’s neck. In the same instant Ar lifted up his own arm and spoke a word of power: and there was some truth in his claim to magical protection, for Swin felt his stroke parried by an invisible force. Yet the full strength of Yabeth was in him, and her power is greater than the power even of the blackest priestcraft. The stroke was deflected, yet continued a little upward, with the result that the edge of Dagoruth encountered not Ar’s neck, but the side of his head; and such was the fury of the blow that the head was cut in two, cleanly as a turnip, the top half flying away to land in a spatter of brains, the bottom half – with the earlobes and the end of the nose – remaining fixed in place.
For a count of several heartbeats the half-beheaded figure remained upright. Then it toppled sideways and fell on the floor.
Atan’s blood had lapped over some of the painted runes at the bottom of the bowl and was now reaching the flame. There was a faint hiss. A cloud of light bitter smoke sprang up around the glass vessel. The blue flame flared upwards; the smoke that was inside the vessel writhed and thickened; the smoke outside was drawn down again, its many white wisps and tendrils passing swiftly under the rim.
The fire died, the blue gleams faded and the surface of the glass also seemed to vanish. Soon all that could be seen was a tall pale column, rising from the pool like marsh-vapour but magically contained in a clear form, within the limits of which its puffs and eddies writhed, curled, strained more intensely, faded away in some parts and thickened in others, compelling the attention of any who might see it, so that neither Swin nor Aldred was able to look away; and finally presenting a likeness.
The likeness of a dragon-mask with empty eye-sockets.
The image had a certain similarity to the head of Fëaruk, and during the conversation that followed Swin was once or twice reminded of his talks with that crazy worm; but when it first spoke its manner had none of Fëaruk’s lofty arrogance, being rather simple and direct. For it addressed Swin in the language of the Knife, using the old-fashioned intimate forms, and he unwittingly replied in the same manner.
Greetings, Swin.
The voice was low and thin, and reduced like the voice of one who is heard through a glass window-pane. The mask-image did not move as it spoke, but the movement of the vapours that composed it was subtly varied, slowing or scurrying, adding a suggestion of mood to the toneless voice.
‘Who art thou?’
I am Sorgrim.
A mask, as has been said, was what Swin feared above all things. Down the back of his neck and body the sweat grew chill, and his hair moved on his head. But he mastered himself and stood up firmly, and his tongue found a ready reply:
‘A ghost thou art, then, as I perceive. Those who summoned thee are dead, and this Temple shall now be cleansed: so get thee gone. Thy time is at an end.’
Another thing that he had unwittingly done was to step to the edge of the bowl, so that he now stood just behind the round kerb-stone.
What power shall banish me, Swin Gumasson? Say, how shalt thou cleanse the Temple?
‘In the power of her whom I serve, Lady Yabeth, who hath given me the victory and delivered the City into my hand this day.’
The smoke thickened intensely, gathering itself together in mid-air, so that the mask now appeared solid. The blackness of the sockets was profound, horrifying, infinitely dark and empty.
She loveth not thee, Swin Gumasson; she hath used thee as her instrument, and now she will cast thee aside; she will help thee to no more victories, and what remaineth of thy life will be short; and death will be fiery agony to thee.
Swin shuddered.
‘Nevertheless,’ he replied, with some difficulty, taking a step down the slope of the bowl: ‘she pretendeth not to be the Goddess of love, but of desire: all desire is of her, and is hers: and my will now being surrendered to her, she will aid my true desire, which is to take up my kingdom, and to rule justly, and to see life return to the land.’
Justly? inquired the ghost. Desire I grant thee indeed, but what knowest thou of justice? Slayer of thine own blood-brother and dearest friend –
‘Stop!’
Betrayer of them that love thee, ruin to them that aid thee, continued the ghost, irresistibly, wanton begetter of bastard children, abominable rapist, treacherous invader, stealthy undeclared foeman and murderer of defenceless servants: what justice from such as thee?
‘STOP! Then what shall we say of thee, O Sorgrim, corrupter of the Temple, cruel artificer and tyrant that thou wast when alive? Who made thee my accuser?’
Not thy accuser, but thy deliverer, it answered. Alive I was then, alive I am yet, being of immortal kind: and my hand alone can save thee from the black bog that awaiteth thee, the everlasting darkness that thou hast prepared for thyself.
Swin had walked into the blood, and was now standing at the bottom of the bowl. The mask hung over him like a grim idol. ‘Well then?’ he said.
Hell gulpeth for thee, Swin Gumasson, and thy legs are already enmired, but deliverance thou shalt have: so but that thou shalt bow down and worship Me.
And Swin paused, and did bow his head, looking thoughtfully down at the slime of burnt blood and oil; and a terrible moment passed. But then he looked up again, and he lifted up his sword.
‘Nay,’ he said, ‘for ever thou wert a liar and a betrayer, even as our histories tell; and though thou hast truly declared my misdeeds, and even though I might accept thy foretellings as true also, yet do I perceive that all these truths are but woven as a cloak for a lie, and that the worst and greatest of falsehoods. If Yabeth should discard me, then I will continue in the religion of Dru, whose house this is, whose servant I also am. Never will I enslave myself to any foul demon. So go away, Sorgrim: get thee hence: get lost. Thou art forever banished.’
The shape began to slide slowly down through the air, and now for the first time its expression changed. The mouth widened, the corners of the mouth slid back and the eyes were narrowed to slits. Banished? it said. Banished? There was a ripple of evil laughter. How thinkest thou to banish me, Sorgrim the Great, Emperor of Midyard, Master of the Fates of the World, Prince of the Void, adorned with the highest star of the morning? Bethink thee, mortal, and see reason: how shalt thou banish Me?
‘Enough talk,’ Swin answered. ‘Thou art wicked, thou art altogether corrupt: I despise thee: get back to Hell where thou belongest, bloody spook, for thus do I banish thee!’
He swung Dagoruth again. The substance of the vessel came back into being as the sword-edge arrived at the smoke, and there was a sudden crashing and shattering of glass. The mask-face of the ghost took on a dismayed, anguished expression as the sword passed through it. Three blows Swin struck, back and forth, heedless of the sharp fragments that rained around him: the first blow at waist-height, the second at head-height and the third as high as the point of Dagoruth could reach. Then there was nothing left of the vessel but a jagged stub, with a faint grey vapour that hung in the air, then slowly dissolved.
‘Swin.’
After such a victory, surely no new enemy could threaten him now?
‘Swin.’
It was Aldred’s voice, a wretched croak that Swin had failed to hear. Aldred sat collapsed in the archway, drooling and pissing himself with new terror. He rallied his forces and cried out desperately: ‘Swin! Behind you!’
No. It seems, after all, that you cannot simply banish evil with a sword. For while the ghost was still taunting Swin, the body of Ar the High Priest had risen to its feet. The top half of the skull was still missing, the lower half empty like a red dish; but it was aware of Swin, and it came stepping noiselessly down behind him, and as he stood still looking up at the fading smoke, the half-headed corpse reached out to seize him by the shoulder. But then Aldred was able to shout loudly enough. Swin whirled round and dodged away. The High Priest’s body made no further move. It stood erect and motionless, with one arm outstretched. But what remained of the face was alive. The mouth grinned, and for a moment the tip of the tongue came out, and a gout of blood dribbled from the lips to fall on the gore-spattered vestments.
Swin straightened up slowly. He confronted the obscene thing; he stood his ground; but this was too much at last, finally too much to endure. His spirit was cowed, his strength gone, his tongue at a loss for words.
‘Everlasting darkness.’ The body of the High Priest spoke in a deep throaty voice, with the suggestion of a thick chuckle. The first and second fingers of its right hand flicked out, and the hand made a jab forward. Then, though some distance away, Swin felt a terrible stabbing pain in his head, as if the points of a pair of scissors had been driven deep into his eyes. And Aldred saw the bursting of the eyeballs, like two small sudden red stars.
Sigehere’s men had been allowing people to leave the building, but most of the congregation were still present, sitting or standing in a mood of scared stubbornness. These were the ones, as Aldred reminded himself, who were less likely to support Swin’s claim to the throne. Thank God for Oswine and the escort. They formed a guard about Swin and got him out of the building safely, but not without everyone seeing the stained bandage round his head.
Swin remembered the untreated wound, the gash in his side. It too was throbbing with pain. He was weak and blind and almost spent, yet there were still a hundred vitally urgent tasks, including the most difficult one of all, the one thing that could no longer be delayed.
‘Whither now, Lord Eofor?’
‘To the palace!’
They rode back through the streets. More people were out, and cheers were raised, but the sight of Swin’s bandage turned the gladness to disquiet and murmuring. He was now attentive with the utmost capability of his ears. He was aware of the muted response of those close at hand, and also of disturbed undercurrents farther off: footsteps running, distant shouts, hints of breakage and anger.
But they arrived at the palace safely. Sarvad’s men were on the gate, and Swin’s banner was at once raised over the battlements. He had himself led to a suitable apartment. He ordered a doctor to be summoned, with water for washing, clean clothes and food.
‘Where’s Lefnui gone?’ he asked suddenly.
‘He went to one of the guest-chambers in the east wing,’ answered Sarvad. ‘His injuries were troubling him.’
‘He oughtn’t to have gone without leave,’ snapped Swin. ‘Fetch him back. No. Wait. Was that the real reason, Thoronhir, do you think?’
‘He’s disturbed by your affliction,’ said Thoronhir. ‘He’s not sure, now, whether or not you’ll be able to rule. He’s wondering if he should still be supporting you.’
‘He doesn’t actually like you very much, does he?’ said Aldred.
Swin made no answer. He fumbled for the bread and cheese, brought them up to his mouth and gnawed at them hungrily.
‘Swin?’ asked Aldred.
‘Yes?’
‘Will you be able to rule?’
‘Here’s the doctor,’ announced Sarvad.
‘Well, that wasn’t much help,’ said Swin. ‘I’ll see – I’ll talk to the young lady now. When she comes, everyone go out except Aldred. Keep a strong guard on the door.’
‘Your Majesty?’
‘Mr. Gumasson. Pray be seated.’
‘I trust that Your Majesty continues still to enjoy good health?’
‘Thank you.’
Silence.
‘Well, Gauriel, that was my attempt at at sociable courtly small-talk.’
‘A sincere one, I’m sure.’
Silence.
‘You’re angry with me, I think,’ he said.
‘How should I not be?’ was the icy reply.
He sighed a little.
‘Your Majesty’s widowhood has opened up, er... a new prospect in the governance of this realm.’
‘Widowhood? You talk to me of widowhood, you the slayer of my husband? What is the purpose of such talk, if not mere cruel senseless insult? And what is the reason for this interview?’
‘I can see that you have no inkling. Let me then approach the subject from another side-path – pausing only to notice that you evidently grieve for him less than I do myself.’
‘I grieve for him deeply.’
‘Very good. Now, Lady Gauriel, I should be king of this realm by right, and despite this new disability I intend to make myself king in fact, however long and hard the struggle may be.’
‘And me?’
‘Well now, suppose I put you in a dungeon; keep you there. The men of this City are divided. Some support me, others don’t. The City Guard is depleted and no doubt divided also. There will soon be riot and disorder. I shall have to hang the rioters, impose a curfew, use a heavy hand. Then – it is now the third hour of the afternoon, and by now the rest of Your Majesty’s great forces have begun to arrive. They far outnumber mine, but the gates have been fortified, and I am strong enough to keep this City in my grasp if I am besieged. What then? Dreng, my Marshal, will make his way hither from Dunbury. He will be able to raise new strength as he comes. I will get reinforcements also from the Demesne and the lands of the South. Your legions have no strong commander now, merely lesser barons who may fall out among themselves. One way or another, I will win through. I have come so far: Your Majesty may be sure that I shall win through to the end. Yet the cost in your subjects’ lives, who are to be mine also, and in waste, and famine, and general misery, will doubtless be very great...
‘Are you listening? Have you heard me?’
‘I have heard you.’
‘Yet there is another way. A way for you to keep your throne and your full dignity. A way to bring this war to an end at once. A way to avert every evil consequence.’
She lifted her head and frowned at his blind face.
‘Declare yourself satisfied as to my right, Gauriel, and then become my wife. Become my Queen.’
She sat rigid, frozen stiff.
‘Gauriel?’
‘I have heard your astonishing proposal,’ she answered.
‘Must I say more? Well, there isn’t very much more to say. Our marriage will end the disunity. You’ll be able to disband all your troops at once. The Kingdom will have peace. The old line will be united with the new. I want to try to rule justly: you have great knowledge of jurisprudence and some experience of ruling: in this you may guide and assist me, if you will. Though your pride has been hurt, I appeal to your good sense, and more, to your discernment for what must be best for happiness, for peace and prosperity – for the best good of your people.’
‘A fine excuse,’ she muttered viciously.
‘I did not hear that remark.’
‘I said, a fine excuse!’ Her cheeks were flaming now, and her voice was full of the old contempt. ‘Fine words! Talk of subjects’ happiness and peace and good – a fair pretext for your designs on an undefended woman!’
‘Madam, you misconceive me. It is a grief to me that the misunderstanding which has always lain between us must be worse confounded. I put my worse cause first, and deliberately; but the truth is that I love you and have loved you long. How long I know not: but since that last strange meeting of ours I have known that you, beautiful Gauriel, loveliest of queens, are the one woman in all the world whom I shall ever desire to wed.’
‘Don’t you bring that up!’
‘But haven’t you pondered it? Haven’t you reflected on it at all? I think it held great import for both of us. But be that as it may, policy now stands between me and the true feelings of my heart. I cannot go down on my knees to you, and woo you with more passionate words; that is, no, I can, or I could, but not without insincerity, your freedom already being so much imperilled.’
She bit her lip.
‘There is a balcony to this room, and the courtyard below; and the people can easily be gathered. Take ten minutes. Then, I hope, we may go out and announce to the people.’
‘So that’s my choice, is it? A prison-cell, or your marriage-bed?’
‘No!’ said Swin, his voice now rising in anger. ‘Madam, you mistake me again! What is wrong with you? The choice is to be made in the light of your responsibilities as a queen! Neither you nor I, in this, can please ourselves as though we were private persons! Which means, since you force me to it, that though we be married, you shall be entirely free of my bed, to enter it, or to withhold yourself, for as long as you wish; for as long as your heart refuses me. For ever, if it so must be.’
‘Oh!’
‘Have I not said that I truly love you?’ And two wounded tears came down from the bandaged eyes. And the Queen saw them, though Swin could not see her response; but Aldred did. He saw the tear that stole down the Queen’s cheek, from below her eyepatch, and that it also was tinged with blood.
In the evening Swin talked to the palace officials about his coronation.
‘Very good,’ said Quendil. ‘And may I ask: in what name does Your Majesty intend to rule?’
He pondered, and they waited respectfully. Then, with a grim and rather sad smile, he answered: ‘We take the name of Kemendil.’
This is the end of Aldred’s second narrative, Light and Darkness.
The story is continued in the Book of the Acts of Kemendil, so to find out what happens next, go to Acts, 1st Extract. Alternatively, to follow the order of the printed-paper version, go to the Last Extracts.