Not until the first glimmer of dawn, on the morning after his two trials, was Swin shown – by Lady Arloth in person – to a bedchamber. It was richly furnished and the bed was soft, as he discovered by falling into it at once. He was plunged into deepest slumber, so that he did not see the lady take the light away, nor feel her kiss on his cheek before she left. He slept until the afternoon. On waking he found his own clothes set out for him on a chair, all mended and freshly cleaned. As he finished dressing someone knocked on the door. In came Ristila with a heavy tray. Her manner was cheerful and she exchanged pleasantries with him, but Swin became aware of a quality of respect that she had not shown him previously – a deeper respect that almost bordered on awe. ‘My mistress has told me to tell you that you can leave this house whenever you like,’ she said, ‘but she advises you to stay here, and stay quiet. She’s working with the lawyers to get you cleared.’
‘Tell her, thank you from me.’
She turned away, uncertain, hesitant – not wanting to go?
‘Oh, and there is tea if you’d like it.’
‘What is tea?’
‘A hot drink of herbs. But Feima thought…’
‘No, this is fine. Delicious.’ As indeed it was: a nice loaf, butter, the choicest of cold meats, beer in a jug, and a bowl of apples. After the girl left he ate hungrily and then went over to the window-seat, quite content to sit down for a while and not attempt to achieve anything further. The house was high up and near the western edge of the City. On one side the roofs of the houses – slate and red tiles – descended towards its midmost region, where rose up the great bulk of the Erumar, many-buttressed and many-windowed, with its glittering dome and vacant pedestal at the summit. On the other side the view was partly blocked by other great houses; between them brushed the waving boughs of young-budded trees, with here and there a glimpse of crenellations of a great wall. And beyond the wall, more trees, and perhaps fields, and the intermittent blue line of Aduchel, the great lake. Swin laid his head on his fore-arm and dozed. He was woken by a dull throb of pain in his fore-arm. Presently it faded away. He lay down on the bed and slept again, and this time he dreamed.
He was standing alone in a flat plain that was lit by the colours of a fiery sunset. From the distance a line of figures was slowly coming towards him. They were veiled women. One by one they approached. The first one came up to him and raised her veil. He recognised her as Brydda, a maid of Garholt who had some tenderness for him. He stepped forward to embrace her, but she shook her head, smiling, and turned away. The following figure came up, unveiled herself and was found to be Lady Vornis, haggard and austere; she frowned and pointed behind her to the next dark figure. This was one whose name he did not know, but whose face he seemed vividly to remember. Her look was stern and he was afraid to look at her; he was even more afraid to look at the next one who came, but she gripped his fore-arm very tightly, so that he must look; she began to unveil and he glimpsed her horrible ugliness. There was a sound of thunder. He woke up with his heart beating fast. In his mind a thought also pulsated, a dream-sentence that filled him with dread: ‘That one was not the last of them.’
Another knock fell on his door. ‘Come in,’ he called, getting up from the bed. His arm was hurting.
A man came in, a tall elderly man with a stoop: the Advocate.
‘Lammanwe,’ said Swin: ‘Hi.’
‘Congratulations,’ said Lammanwe, coming forward to shake his hand. ‘Your sentence has been annulled. Not quashed: the correctness of the verdict is not in question. But you are officially pardoned by Lord Ostendil. It took some work, you understand. Your judge is a stubborn young princess. If she had appealed to His Majesty, Ostendil’s pardon might have been overruled in turn. But we managed to persuade her. I myself had some hand in that.’
‘Well, thank you,’ said Swin, as this seemed to be called for. ‘Er, what about your fee? Do I owe you anything?’
‘It’s been settled,’ said the other, in the expressionless voice of a perfect servant.
‘Then what about my sword?’
‘Your chattels are here, brought over by order of Her Ladyship. I am to accompany you now to the house of Ostendil. My Lord Melohtar doesn’t want you getting into more trouble on the way.’
They descended a broad staircase. Arloth was standing in the wide entrance-hall, composed and gracious. Heathogrim, in its scabbard, and Swin’s other things were waiting for him, arranged on a great black polished table. The front door stood open, and warm spring sunlight came in, with a faint chirping of birds.
‘Farewell, brave warrior,’ said she. ‘We’ll meet again, no doubt, at the wedding.’
‘And if Your Ladyship should require an escort…?’ he suggested – boldly, but in the unemotional tone that was appropriate to someone else being present. ‘The service would discharge some of my debt to you. Many thanks, and farewell!’ She smiled faintly, and he bowed.
The two men came down the outside steps. Arloth’s coach and horses stood waiting in the street. They drove off, and the lawyer began to point out the sights and places of interest. They passed the Erumar and in due course made their way along the crowded Elessarmen. Swin admired the long broad vista. ‘This leads all the way to the walls, I see.’
‘Yes,’ said Lammanwe: ‘if your eyes are keen, you can make out the golden spikes – that’s Treatygate North.’
‘It’s very pretty,’ said Swin. ‘But tell me, why do you have such flimsy ornamental gates for such a strong city wall? Or are they stronger than they look? …Magical wrought-iron, maybe?’
‘The Dwarves made them,’ answered Lammanwe. ‘They date from the time of the Regency. You’ll notice other examples of that period scattered about the City.’
‘So they are strong?’
‘Quite the contrary, I fear: they are weak by design. Why so? During the last decade of the fifth century, the period sometimes called the Years of Attrition, when Ruminas was repeatedly attacked by the Dragon and his armies, the strong gates, with their gate-houses, were the principal points of defence. The gate-houses contained powerful engines of artillery which kept the foes at bay and actually wounded the Dragon twice. So he conceived a special dislike for them. The gates were eventually smashed, but shortly after that he was persuaded to agree to a permanent peace. This peace was enshrined in the Treaty of Lhygost, year 497 by the King’s Reckoning; one of the concessions he forced on the then king, Kedrahil II, was that the old defences should not be replaced. The new iron gates were erected by the Regents who followed Kedrahil. They wished to honour the treaty, and so they offered these visible gages of trust in Fëaruk’s goodwill.’
‘How interesting,’ remarked Swin. ‘But still, suppose other enemies should come?’
‘None can,’ said Lammanwe. ‘There are no enemies within our borders, nor does any alien tribe dwell within scores of leagues. The only nation strong enough to menace the North-Kingdom is Turmal; but that is closely bound to us, and to our prosperity, and to the Dragon, by trade. War with Turmal grows ever more unlikely.’
‘Thank you,’ said Swin politely.
The horses had been driven off the street and between two great stone pillars, the entrance to a great mansion. Each pillar was surmounted by a whole globe of jet-black stone, polished and inlaid with mosaic, grey, black and white, in the form of an eye. The wooden wheels of the coach rolled over the flags of the sunny courtyard. A footman came forward to open the carriage door. Swin said goodbye to Lammanwe, who remained in the carriage and was driven away. The front of the house was more stately than any Swin had yet seen, but before he had time to begin to feel shy a figure emerged from the main front door, waved a greeting and then came hastening down the right-hand side of the double stairway. Once again Swin felt the pain in his arm, now severe. He advanced to meet his old friend; the two Men embraced at the foot of the steps.
‘Welcome, Swin. Welcome,’ said Melohtar over Swin’s shoulder; tears were in his eyes.
‘Yes,’ said Swin. ‘Hi.’
They continued to embrace, both feeling an increasing discomfort.
‘Melohtar,’ said Swin, ‘is your arm hurting you?’
The thought occurring to both of them at the same moment, they stripped their sleeves to the elbow and then linked hands, pressing forearms together as they had done before, flesh to flesh. At once there was a feeling of coolness, and relief, and peace.
‘When you’ve finished the bonding,’ said a woman’s voice from above, ‘I mean, take your time, please, there’s no hurry – tea’s ready.’ She was standing behind the balustrade, in front of the grand ornate portal. She was now dressed in white and pale delicate blue, and her long hair, all unbound, streamed back from her head in the bright dry breeze. Melohtar took Swin’s hand and led him up the stairs for formal presentation to the betrothed, which went like this:
‘Swin, Nometh.’
‘Hi,’ said Swin gravely.
‘Hi,’ she responded, offering him her cold hand and allowing it to rest inertly within his.
‘Given the lamentable circumstances of your first meeting,’ said Melohtar cheerily, ‘I can’t see any way for this second one not to be incredibly difficult. So let’s just go and have a cup of tea and all feel awkward together.’ He motioned them to enter. Within the doorway two footmen impassively bowed, one on either side. The entrance hall was somewhat like Lady Arloth’s, Swin thought, apart from the ceiling, which was painted with many figures. Melohtar went on talking smoothly: ‘The done thing would have been for us both to keep ourselves in the parlour and wait for you to be announced, but, plague it, I said to myself when I heard your carriage, I simply cannot wait to see him, not one second longer than need be. So here we are. Swin, make yourself comfortable. Darling, would you do the honours?’
The great room, more like a saloon than a parlour, was lit by three bay windows, south-facing and looking on to the internal garden of the house. Light was streaming in, and some of it was reflected upwards by flat or tilted mirrors, inconspicuously arranged among the furniture, so that the ceiling was bright. To Swin it seemed at first that the room had no ceiling at all: that he had been transported, lifted up among the glowing piled-up clouds and the jostling company of winged men and gods; for a few moments he was simply there among them, enraptured and glorying in the sunset.
‘Swin?’
He dropped down, as one might say, to earth. ‘Oh, I see,’ he said. ‘It’s all painted. Quite astonishing. I’ve never seen anything so beautiful.’
‘Glad you like it,’ said Nometh. ‘Milk and sugar?’
‘Thank you,’ said Swin vaguely. ‘Who are all the bright people? What’s going on?’
‘Eangil’s arrival in Pelmar,’ said Melohtar. ‘You know the story?’
‘Of course. The fellows soaring up into the light, with the bird-wings, are his transformed crew, and the ship is Starflower. And the bright figure is Eangil himself.’
‘Here. I put in three spoonfuls.’
‘Thank you,’ said Swin, leaning across. He took the porcelain cup and saucer. He at once deduced that the handle was to be used to raise the small hot vessel. ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘delicious. Lovely and sweet.’
‘Not too sweet for you?’ said Nometh.
‘No, not at all, thank you.’
‘Shall we start again? Shall I make you another cup?’
‘No thank you, this is perfect.’
He took a second sip. Aldred is of course reconstructing this scene from subsequent tellings and from his own stay in that same house. Yet the picture that arises before his mind’s eye is so clear that it seems to be present in his own memory. Swin Guma’s son sits upright on the edge of a plush sofa, his buckler resting on the old polished wood of the floor, his helmet set beside him on a green cushion; his scabbard pokes down at an angle and his cloak is swept back. Delicately he holds up the cup and saucer as if to the manner born, and continues to discuss fine art with his host and hostess. He is bigger than the absurd contradictions of the scene: he is able to transcend them.
‘Father had it done for my mother, bless her,’ said Melohtar, ‘shortly before they got married. Eangil and his Bride was her favourite one of all the stories.’ Despite his words about inevitable embarrassment, he too seemed to be quite at his ease. ‘But now, let us leave all that. Tell me of yourself. And how are they all at Garholt?’
For a while they talked of Swin’s homestead, of births and deaths and all the doings of the years since Melohtar had sojourned there. Nometh kept silent, and the sunbeams slowly traversed the room. One fell toward the front of Melohtar’s chair, illuminating the colours of the tea-cup he held, and the whiteness of his strong fine hands. His dark eyes, free of the glare that was now falling on Nometh and vexing her, continued to watch the others from his handsome, kindly face. ‘The light’s bothering you, my darling,’ he said. ‘Let me draw the curtain.’
‘No, I’m fine.’
‘I was thinking: perhaps you’d like to have one of the other ceilings done, as a present from me?’
‘Mythology doesn’t interest me all that much,’ she answered. ‘Look, Swin.’
‘Yes, Nometh?’
‘I’m not going to apologize to you about yesterday. If you were wondering whether or not I knew that you had been specially invited to our wedding, the answer is, Yes. I did know. And it should have made no difference. If there’s one unjust tradition that with all my heart and soul I’m dedicated to abolishing, it’s privilege – the idea that there should be one law for the rich and another for the poor. That the powerful should escape punishment for their crimes. That just because you come amongst us, who are rich and powerful, you should get away with murder. And some of your killings were murders. You killed men who were defeated. The fight was over and they were no threat to you. They were bad men perhaps. Ayarg’s kidnapped a few travellers and I’m sure I don’t know what our highway guards have been doing about him. But he and his band were Men, not orcs or trolls out of some old story-book! Men, human beings, individuals – can’t you see this? – each one unique! And so, though I suppose you’ll sneer at me for saying this, each one valuable! Having his own meaning! That is what I believe! That is the justice of this City! There could have and there should have been another way to deal with them, a better way than mere senseless slaughter! Such a bloody, barbarous failure of imagination! And that is why you deserved to be punished, you murderer!’
Most of this speech had been addressed to the space between Swin and Melohtar, but during the last few sentences she looked Swin in the eyes. He gazed steadily back at her, untroubled by her vehemence but disliking the redness of that bloodshot eye. She gave a short sob, and then seemed for a moment to collapse into herself, gasping as if impaled on some interior stake or spear. Yet immediately she took a handkerchief from her sleeve, wiped her eyes and regained her composure. Now holding Swin’s gaze, she continued:
‘Well, I fully expected my betrothed lord to be upset about it, but I was confident that he’d appreciate my reasons and my principles –’ ‘As indeed I do, my dear,’ interjected Melohtar – ‘but somehow, by some quite unfathomable means, you’ve managed to get another influential person on your side: a Council member. So your advocate on Arloth’s instructions is drawing up an appeal against my verdict, and Lord Ostendil’s secretary receives it even before Melohtar arrives home, and I have to allow that the arguments look convincing, quite good enough to stand for the record. And to cap it all, this man threatens me that the wedding’s all off if I don’t allow the pardon to go through. And that would be very tiresome and very humiliating. So there you are, got out of jail, free. Just don’t murder anyone else, at least not while you’re here, all right?’
‘My dearest,’ Melohtar said quietly. He moved to sit beside her and took her hand. ‘Now’s the time to let go of all bitterness. I want the two whom I love best to be at peace with each other.’
‘Best? I thought you loved him more than me,’ she said, bursting into tears.
‘Well, unfortunately I can’t marry him, and that being so, there’s no-one I’d rather marry than you. I love you, Nometh, and more than that, I fully respect you. And now you must say sorry to him.’
Her voice was muffled behind her handkerchief. ‘I said I wasn’t going to apologize.’
‘No, not for yesterday, for just now. For your disrespectful word to him, at the end of what you were saying.’
‘Oh.’ She put down her hanky. ‘Sorry,’ she said to Swin with a woebegone air.
‘Bring a chair over here, my friend,’ said Melohtar.
Swin brought a chair and sat close to them. Melohtar, holding Nometh’s left hand with his right, reached out his left hand to Swin, who saw his intention, took Melohtar’s left and held out his own left hand to Nometh. After some hesitation she took it. The three sat together, not saying anything. Swin thought he understood Melohtar’s wish and meaning, but he felt uncomfortable. The sun was shining into his face too. However, instead of saying to himself that the reconciliation was forced, the triangle tense and strained, he attributed his discomfort to shyness, or to inexperience, as it might be, before a different culture and a foreign kind of friendliness. Without abruptness he disengaged his hands and moved back to his previous place. Melohtar and Nometh remained sitting together.
‘Before we leave the subject of what happened yesterday,’ said Swin, ‘—would there be another cup of tea in that beautiful pot? – before I really can forget all about that, there’s something you need to explain. Not say sorry for, just explain. Why was everyone in such awe of my helmet?’ He held it up and once again the little boar-image sparkled in the sunlight.
‘Oh yes. Such a lot of silly rumours going around,’ commented Melohtar. ‘I hope Lammanwe warned you.’
‘He said something about not wanting me to get into any more trouble.’
‘That’s your grandfather’s sword too – Heathogrim, isn’t it? I remember that. The famous elvish blade.’
‘You ought to remember, then,’ said Swin, slightly nettled, ‘that it’s not elvish at all. It’s a copy. It was made by the Dwarves. As I seem to keep on having to say.’ He drew Heathogrim forth and handed it to his friend for inspection. Melohtar’s strong arm easily accepted the weight. A reflected blade of light glanced back and forth, over the walls and bookcases and ceiling, as he tested and weighed the sword.
‘Excellent, if not elvish. Anyway, the servants are saying, and the people in the market are saying, and the citizens of the town are saying that the eagle’s prophecy has started to come true. The red boar with the elvish sword has come to restore the old royal line, tra la, so the Princess had him locked up in prison. But he’s escaped already.’
‘What prophecy?’
Melohtar’s account was more or less the same as the one Mr. Gough had given to the Punchkins, until he came to the words spoken by the statue. ‘I’ve wondered since then,’ he said, ‘whether the statue actually used the common speech or something more ancient and powerful like Old Elvish: something that revealed itself immediately in our minds and caused us to clothe it in words, each of us as best we could. This is how I myself though it went:
The apple is taken from the tree
For a white worm is killing the tree.
The white wolf will run from her lord
And a red boar will follow the wolf.
The boar will carry an elvish sword
To slay that worm, and shall come to the throne
That the golden apple may be restored.
But I have heard other versions.’
‘So if people think you’re the red boar and you’re going to slay the worm, you’d better look out,’ put in Nometh. ‘Never mind that bit about coming to the throne.’
‘The worm, meaning the Dragon?’ asked Swin.
‘Whom else?’ answered Melohtar. ‘Fëaruk the White, mightiest dragon of Midyard! Founder of all our prosperity!’
‘The lawyer talked about him to me, but he didn’t mention him being founder of your prosperity,’ said Swin. ‘In fact I still don’t understand whether he’s a danger or not.’
‘Our dragon, who dwells in the city of Lhygost, on the cape of Forograst in the far North,’ explained Melohtar, ‘can produce a very hot magical flame. It is by the aid of this flame that the people of that city, chiefly Dwarves, are able to make metals and artefacts that surpass all others in the world. They are able to make them in large quantities. We sell some of them here, but most of them go down the road to Turmal, which pays generously for them and trades them on to the rich kingdoms of the far South.’
‘And what does he get in exchange, this benevolent worm?’ enquired Swin.
‘He consumes great vats of ligond, the black blood of the rocks; we distil it into a spirit that is like a wine for him. It is found at Lhygost and also at the northern end of the Black Mountains, at Beraid Moreithel and beyond Orogor. He gorges himself on it – so much so that I believe the wells are running low, and the King is having to send out prospectors to seek for fresh sources. And the dragon has grown very large; and the air around Lhygost is said to be foul and somewhat poisonous.’
‘So you’ve not been there?’
‘I have not had occasion to go,’ said Melohtar. ‘And you can’t journey to Forograst without special leave of His Majesty. The dragon – you understand – is our ally, but not quite our friend. He’s not a tame worm. There have been, shall we say, misunderstandings.’
‘Visitors from this City have been eaten,’ said Nometh quietly.
‘So those who go there, and those who live there, need to be well acquainted with the ways of the worm,’ said Melohtar.
‘Neither of you sounds quite convinced,’ commented Swin.
Melohtar and Nometh looked at each other. ‘What I’ve told you is true,’ he said, ‘and it’s all that’s known outside the Council; but there are unpleasant tales. Nevertheless, friendly co-operation with the worm is the King’s policy. As for us, we are His Majesty’s loyal subjects and we both occupy positions of high rank.’
‘Yes, I see. It’s the same in my land. The Queen’s councillors must especially do her bidding.’
‘Moreover,’ said Melohtar, ‘it has never been questioned that this alliance with the dragon was necessary to end a ruinous war. And the benefits that have flowed from it, the peace, prosperity and security we now enjoy, are ungainsayable. And now, do let the matter be: at least for the present time. When you have lived among us longer, you will understand more. We began this subject by talking about the prophecy, and it’s the prophecy which may have put you in bad odour with the King. But in fact there’s nothing at all the matter bar a lot of daft rumour-mongering. Keep youself here, in this house, in my father’s protection, and you’ll be perfectly safe.’
‘All right: if you’ll kindly send someone to the inn, to let my friends know I’m safe and well.’
‘Which inn are they at?’ asked Melohtar, making a note on a silver-framed tablet and ringing a handbell.
‘The Dragon’s Head. Can’t seem to keep off the subject, can I? But, without requiring you to turn an awkward disloyal shoulder towards your Lord – may I not know more? At least of the history?’
‘You’re keen to learn,’ said Melohtar with a smile.
‘But so were you, always, as I remember. And you have many books here,’ said Swin, looking round. There were many beautiful and costly things in the great room, among them scores of books in book-cases, or lying on tables, large volumes wrought with gold. ‘The alliance you speak of – that was made by Kedrahil Leucamel in the four hundred and ninety-seventh year of the present age, wasn’t it?’
‘How do you know that?’ asked Nometh, startled.
‘Lammanwe spoke of it just now, but I knew it already. We barbarous folk learn and remember things also, Lady Nometh, even though we may not write them down.’
‘I believe you’re right,’ said Melohtar. ‘One moment.’ He handed the message to the servant who had answered the bell. He then moved to the end of the room and began to move books off the top of one of the piles.
‘And you also, Princess, love books – love the learning that you find in them?’
She looked at him without smiling but with a gentler expression. ‘We have that in common, he and I. He reads history, and the writings of travellers, and in the dead languages; and he loves maps. I read in law and politics. But I believe that my lord cares for learning above all other things. Never come between him and his books!’
Melohtar had found the book he wanted and was now turning the crackling, cream-coloured pages, beautifully written in black and red.
‘Politics. That, as I understand it, signifies kingcraft. And law. And thus you hold the office of a magistrate,’ said Swin, pursuing a thought, ‘and thus you aspire, following the King your father, to rule this land as a Queen of exemplary justice?’
She nodded slowly, seeming almost to bow her head to him.
‘But, Lady, what of home and hearth? What of childbearing? Does not Melohtar –’
‘I don’t desire to have children,’ she said, interrupting him coldly with a return of her earlier manner, ‘and it is well for me that I don’t. Learn before you judge! Since the sickness of the worm that came when we were young, few children have been born in the cities of Thandor.’
‘Here we are!’ Melohtar set the book open on a wheeled lectern, which he drew round to Nometh’s seat. ‘Read us a few pages, my dear, would you? This is the first part of the Araquenta Formen Ereinion, The official history of our realm. It’s by Lord Engwe Parmandur, the Secretary of our Council, sometimes called the King’s Mouth. We can’t very well go wrong with what he gives us.’
This time Swin did not notice the ironies wavering through Melohtar’s tone, for he was recalling the name from recent memory. Engwe Parmandur was the husband of…of Lady Vornis, that was it, the sad lady whom he had met in the houses of Arloth. Then other memories rushed in tumultuously, so that his attention briefly lapsed. Nometh began to read.
To find the extract from the Araquenta that Nometh reads to Swin and Melohtar, go to the Prologue of Book Two. To continue with the story, go to Chapter Ten