It had been a very hot summer, far hotter than anyone in Ruminas could remember: stinkingly, swelteringly, suffocatingly hot. Erumardil feared that the fiery rays of the sun, pouring in through the golden glass of the Temple dome, must inevitably kill the ailing Tree, dutifully though he and his colleagues brought water to its roots at the daily service of Irrigations. Morning by morning the deacons picked up a greater number of sere leaves, to be stored for special reverent burning; and the motionless branches and twig-fingers seemed to express a continually deeper despair. The matter was not openly discussed, but in Refectory or during their hour of leisure the priests might mutter a word or two concerning the fate of the Tree – scion of the Tree of Kedral, avouched as a descendant of the Arboretum and seed of the immortal Mound. At such moments Erum saw his own anxiety reflected from every face. The death of the Tree would be a clear indication of Dru’s disfavour. What future evils awaited the City and the Realm? Or what could be done to propitiate Him? No-one seemed to have much idea. And such mutterings were dangerous, because they went against the current doctrine of the Temple and were frowned upon by the hierarchs. Week by week, in their addresses to tightly-packed and sweating congregations, Rudhol Ar the High Priest and Pureor Atan the Second Highest continued to expound, from the Elvish scriptures and the Atalantean texts, the doctrines of the Righteousness of Dru, the justice of Mindir, the unshakable destiny of the City and the holiness of the Temple Mission. The word ‘mission’ was now being heard more and more frequently. For a long time the service-rituals had included prayers for the Conversion of the Unwilling Heathens, the Foravari; but now the two chief priests kept hammering away, turn in turn out, on the theme of this obligation, this divine mandate: to spread the message of Dru and His Righteousness not only into every corner of the kingdom, but even unto all parts of Midyard itself, North, East, West – or South. Little as this mandate seemed to touch the lives of those who were actually hearing the sermons, the message was no doubt effectively conveyed. But ever and anon, as the preacher declaimed from the high carved pulpit, another wan yellow leaf would come floating down, twisting and turning through the sunbeams.
But Erumardil – Erum, as everyone called him – had other tensions to endure as well. The earliest of these, and for some time the most immediate, was the rapid incomprehensible preferment of Melda the acolyte – no, the senior acolyte, no, the sub-deacon now actually; and then, within three months, deacon-prebendary, sub-priest and priest-responsory. The latter rank was Erumardil’s own. He had devoted the last nineteen years, including all his adult life, to the service of Dru. He was a man of genuine humility. But he resented and knew that he was not alone in resenting this preferment of a person of no apparent worth. The Priesthood, however, had a principle of unquestioning submission to all decisions made by superiors, so complaint was unthinkable, even when the young man, Melda, proved incompetent at the Morning and Evening Responses, wandering from the note and repeatedly throwing the choir into confusion. After a week of this, Erum’s own immediate superior, Canon Alrod, informed Erum that he must carry out Melda’s choral duties as well as his own. Plainly this had not been Alrod’s own decision. His manner expressed full sympathy with Erum’s unspoken anger. For Melda was an impossible colleague, ignorant and lazy, yet smug withal, self-assured and smirkingly familiar, as if complicit with some failing or guilty secret of Erum’s own.
At this time it was a great relief for him to take off his official vestments, to light his silver lamp and to venture forth into the highways and byways of the City. The social work of the Temple, in which Erum had always been zealous, was now expanding in response to an influx of refugees. The whole North of Thandor had been suffering from dragon-sickness for the last two decades, but now the droughts and famines had become much more severe, even in the Pelduin region between the River Malog and the Black Mountains. Great numbers of Foravari were crossing the river, passing through Lord Lefnui’s barony, begging their way from farm to farm or setting themselves up as outlaws in the hills of Aduchel. Those who reached the City said of themselves that they were but a tithe of the ones behind them and still to come. The response of the Temple was twofold. On the one hand, the efforts and resources devoted to the soup-kitchens, hostels and dormitories which had traditionally been provided for homeless folk was increased; and large new encampments were set up along the shores of the lake. On the other hand the Foro were required to renounce their heathenish ways and to be baptized into the religion of Dru. Almost all of them, having indeed little choice, were now willing to do this; as Alrod and the hierarchs said, this was well and good, and it went a long way towards explaining how the benign Providence of Dru might allow such disasters to happen. But the explanation did not satisfy Erum. To him the growing numbers of miserable destitute folk were another cause of anxiety. As he took the pulse of some feverish child, or shone his lamp into the stifling darkness of an overcrowded cellar, or cautioned a pair of ingenuous head-scarfed girls in a street of the City’s brothel district, or said grace before the queue of people waiting to come up to the great soup-cauldrons, or spoke words of blessing, standing up to his waist in the waters of Aduchel, to another big group of candidates for Baptism – he was struck, over and over again, by a sense of terrible unspoken wrong. How submissive they all were! How he wished he could speak their language!
In early August he was summoned to a meeting with Alrod and Atan. Having commended him for his zeal and sense of local mission, they went on to inform him that a new church department or Office was to be created, one that would cater exclusively to the still-growing influx. It was a great problem: it should be regarded as a great opportunity. Erum was offered the job of heading this new Office of Mission. The job would carry the rank of canon-minister. ‘That is a very considerable promotion,’ he said with a gasp. ‘Deserved and overdue,’ said Alrod, smiling. Erum accepted it with little hesitation. He had loved the beautiful services in the Temple, but since these had been poisoned by the presence of his new colleague he should be glad to escape. For the next few weeks he grappled with the difficulties of the Office. As time went on he found himself able to deal with them fairly efficiently, though he regretted the loss of his frequent personal contacts with the refugees themselves. There was, however, one particular difficulty that soon revealed itself as a grim intractable problem, becoming his fourth great source of anxiety. He had never, never before in his life, had to worry about the price of provisions. He had taken his meals in the Refectory with his brother-priests, where the victuals were always ample. They came, he knew, from the Temple’s own woodlands, ponds and farms in the Vale of Belechel. Now, being in charge of the commissariat, he was having to approve expenses and sign drafts that mounted alarmingly, crazily, week by week. He urged his clerks and deacons to make their purchases more economically. They replied, with exasperation, that they were buying as cheaply as they possibly could, but they were having to buy more and more, and prices were going up and up. He went with them to the market-place to see for himself. There was plenty of produce available, but the prices were indeed very high; and there was no chaffering, no haggling over prices any more, only a hard-faced ‘take-it-or-leave-it’ attitude from the men behind the stalls. ‘Two silver pennies for a measure of barley?’ said Erum to his clerk: ‘five for a bushel of beans? What’s cheap?’ ‘Fish,’ was the answer, ‘but it’s not very fresh.’ ‘Too bad,’ said Erum. The sun was hot and bright, the marketplace crowded. While the clerk, a young man called Berven, was buying fish, Erum’s eye fell on a trim maidservant, a girl he recognised, who was loading her basket with luxuries from another stall. Ignoring the black looks and protests from the people waiting behind her, she counted out gold coins to the farmer in exchange for five pounds of fresh spinach, a large peck of peas, a bag of onions and various other good things. A burly man with a cudgel was hovering nearby. For a moment Erum felt concerned about the girl’s safety, but then he saw that the man was a servant whose job was to protect her. She gave him the heavy basket to carry, and came away. ‘Excuse me, Miss,’ Erum said, ‘you are Ristila, are you not? In the house of Lady Arloth?’ ‘Sir,’ she answered with a minimal curtsey. ‘I hope she’s quite well? Her pew’s been empty for a few Sundays.’ ‘She finds the heat unpleasant, Your Reverence,’ Ristila replied, looking him straight in the eyes – too straight – why? ‘Ah, yes, well, give her my regards. And if she’d like a priest to conduct private worship in her house –’ ‘I’m sure she’ll thank Your Reverence kindly for the offer.’ Maid and bodyguard turned away. Erum and his clerks drove back to the Mission-house in Oldgarth Street with their unpleasant cartload. Erum called the rest of his staff together. ‘You’ll all have to try going out to the farms,’ he ordered them. ‘I bet there’s hoarding going on. But don’t lecture the farmers. Don’t threaten them. Offer them two-thirds of market rate, whatever it is today, with Dru’s blessing and a free prayer-candle if they’ll sell to us.’ So in the afternoon the deacons and clerks went to hire wagons and buy-in the Mission’s own supplies. They had good success on the whole; they came back cheerfully with laden wagons, and Erum had the sense of a crisis resolved. That night there was a pleasant cool breeze and for once he slept peacefully.
He was very surprised, therefore, to be hauled into Chapter-meeting for a reprimand about it two days later. ‘There has been a strongly-worded complaint from the Lord Steward,’ said Atan. ‘The Temple is accused of disrupting the markets. Why have you abused our trust in this way, Canon-minister?’ It appeared that his action had led to some real shortages, which had in turn led, that morning, to a riot. Stalls had been overturned, an unknown amount of produce stolen and dozens of people injured. Erum gulped, recovered, pulled his wits together and began to justify himself. He was able to quote figures. He showed how much the purchase of provisions was taking out of his budget, and how much more was likely to be taken if he had to go on purchasing them within the City. He felt that his words were having effect. The frowns were softening. Finally there was a sense of grudging approval. ‘Well,’ said Atan, ‘the moral of the story seems to be that your Office must now heed Lord Ostendil’s regulation of the city markets, even though it’s really none of the Temple’s concern at all. You’ve explained your doings to us so well that I think you’re the right man to explain ’em to him too. I propose, reverend sirs, that Canon Erumardil represent us at the next council of Ostendil, which I believe is being held tomorrow morning. All agreed?’ And so next day, the first of September, Erum found himself walking between the great pillars and the stone eye-globes. He was shown into the room with the painted ceiling.
One person was there before him, a man who stood bent over a map. When the servant announced Erum’s name this man at once came forward to shake Erum’s hand. He was tall, dark, very good-looking; Erum knew him well by sight, and he had heard the whole sad tale – as who in Ruminas had not? – of the unsuccessful quest for his transformed wife. But there was no time for Erum to say much to him, for Quendil, the scribe from the Palace, was then announced, and a man called Bartrob, and several other persons, and finally Ostendil himself, Lord Chief Steward of the City.
The old nobility, those few of them who had survived the Usurpation, were formidable, and none more so than the Lord Chief Steward. With the appearance of a vigorous man of three-score years, he was known to be almost a hundred. He traced his descent to Kedral II, collaterally through Atanindur, younger brother of Keldur and Olostur I. Silver-haired, unstooped, he wore a plain dark-blue robe, short-sleeved, with a silver chain around his neck. From the chain hung the badge of his office, a small gold eagle. He advanced into the room and sat down at one end of the table with the maps. Erum was presented to him by Melohtar and calmly welcomed. All of Ostendil’s features were large: the gaze of the large grey eyes was hard to look away from. The meeting began with an apology from Lady Arloth for continued absence. ‘Still unwell, is she?’ said Lord Ostendil. ‘Now, Canon, about these Foravari.’ Erum had the idea that he would be expected to justify his doings, as in the Chapter-meeting yesterday; but the matter had already gone beyond that: for twenty minutes he was keenly questioned about the numbers of the incomers, the rate at which they were arriving, the amount of room judged to remain for them both within the City walls and in the camps along the lakeside, the number of them who had found employment in the City, the numbers of the women and children, the state of their health, the mood of the camps and so on. The quills of the palace scribe and Ostendil’s own scribe steadily flickered and scratched as they wrote their shorthand accounts of the meeting. ‘Their plight, then,’ said Ostendil, bringing the questions to an end, ‘is hard, but bearable for now, thanks to the Temple’s good work.’ ‘That is so, my lord,’ agreed Erum, ‘provided that the cost of food rises no further.’ ‘I am afraid that it will. And you must confine your purchases to within the City walls. We have already counted every grain that the farmers can provide.’ ‘Very well, my lords, gentlemen,’ said Erum, rising and bowing. ‘My report, it seems, was merely a necessary preliminary: do you still require me?’ ‘Thank you, Your Reverence: we do not,’ said Ostendil, looking him in the face: the last three words, which might easily have sounded dismissive or contemptuous, came from his mouth as a simple and compassionate statement of fact. ‘Many thanks for your good help.’ He rose to his feet, forcing all those present to make the same gesture of respect, and Erum humbly withdrew.
To his surprise Lord Melohtar came after him. Melohtar said no word until they reached the front doorway. Outside the sun glared fiercely in the dusty courtyard; Erum lingered in the shade for a moment, curious to know what Melohtar had to say.
‘The Temple has found a good servant in you,’ he began. ‘And so, for that matter, has the City. The council were impressed by your answers, Canon-minister.’
‘Thank you, my lord,’ said Erum.
‘But it’s been a hard task, has it not? And it will get harder.’ Erum said nothing, and Melohtar continued: ‘Men of ambition are often fitted to bear such responsibilities – men such as Bartrob, the Reeve of the Demesne. His work is difficult. He must be cruel to the Punchkins. Not being cruel by nature, he hardens his heart and averts his gaze from their suffering. He knows that there are good reasons for what he does. The City must not starve! And he hopes for the King’s favour when he has finished his term of the necessary work: for increase of his own wealth and power. Are you such a man?’
‘No, my lord. I serve Dru in all things. Dru commands us to be kindly and open-hearted to all men, but especially to the poor and down-trodden.’
‘Then you’ll suffer – especially if, as I very much fear will happen, your Office falls into a void between the Temple and the City. You may find yourself being kicked back and forth like a football. How leathery is your hide? But this is what I have to say to you, Canon: if you need support, counsel, help of any kind, come to this house. Come to me.’
They parted: Melohtar to return to the meeting’s unknown but evidently highly important business, Erum to the demands of the dusty City and the squalid camps. These demands continued daily to grow. And almost at once he received a second admonition from the Chapter: if the price of provisions was rising in the City, and the Lord Steward had commanded him not to buy them outside the City, how could he have failed to secure a promise of monetary help from the Lord Steward? The souls of the Heathen were the Temple’s business, of course, but it could not accept responsibility for their whole bodily sustenance. Erum wrote to Ostendil asking for money. The first answer was a private letter from Melohtar, merely acknowledging the request but also inviting Erum to supper a week hence. The following day he received the official reply from Lord Ostendil’s scribe. The beautiful handwriting and sonorous formal language softened, for just a few moments, Ostendil’s final and unconditional refusal to bestow any such aid. No sooner had Erum read to the end of it than Berven came in with news of commotion in the camps. Together they hurried off. Erum has never told much about the ordeal of that September, but Aldred gathers that he would certainly have collapsed if it had not been for the irregular but fairly frequent visits he made to Ostendil’s house. He never saw him again, but Melohtar was always there; Melohtar’s kindly manner encouraged confidences; and over supper Erum could indulge in a cup or two of wine (forbidden to the priests by temple law, although some of the seniors were well known to imbibe), unburden himself of his terrible pressures and anxieties and even, as he came to trust Melohtar more and more, do what was in all other surroundings quite impossible: criticize those seniors for their inflexibility, their aloofness. Melohtar listened kindly, attentively, discreetly. Once or twice he was able to suggest a solution to a practical problem. Once, at the moment of Erum’s most agonizing difficulty, he handed over a bad of gold from his own treasure-chest. After such evenings Erum always returned comforted to his plain and comfortless room.
Of course it had been clear from the outset that this kindness of Melohtar’s sprang not from his own bosom but from the behest of his father. Amid the mysterious tensions that were racking the City, Erum’s work was vitally important. He must not be allowed to snap. Erum’s appreciation of this political providence did not make him any the less grateful to the older lord; and he found himself liking the young lord more and more. He was too modest to wonder whether that liking might be reciprocated, but meanwhile he was becoming more and more aware of Melohtar’s melancholy, of the strain and preoccupation that lay beneath the kindness, the courteous bearing and the scholarly wit. One evening, as the two sat over their wine, Erum was emboldened to ask:
‘Is that the Black Hound of the prophecy, my lord? The one you followed?’
Sedro lay before the empty fireplace and gnawed on bones from their supper. The evening was cool, a great relief after the sultry day. Only one pair of candles had been lit. Erum had spoken quietly, without naming the beast; nonetheless, hearing himself spoken of, Sedro raised his head for a moment and grinned at Erum. His eyes had a red gleam.
‘Why, yes,’ said Melohtar, ‘if it was a prophecy. But what kind of prophecy is in itself a principal cause of the event foretold?’
Erum quoted the words thoughtfully.
The white wolf will run to the worm
And the black dog will follow the wolf
And the red boar will follow the dog
And the white worm will vanquish the boar.
‘Is that how it went?’ said Melohtar. ‘Fëaruk would never have taken us prisoner if he hadn’t been disturbed by the riddle. And Swin would still be alive.’
‘And – no news of your own lady, my lord?’
‘None.’
For a moment the noise of Sedro’s gnawing and slurping was loud. The candle-flames flickered in a faint breeze.
‘My lord,’ said Erum, ‘here now for many evenings have you been listening, in the kindliest spirit, to my complaints and sorrows; yet never a word have I had to hear of your own. If it would at all ease you to speak of them…’
Melohtar heard the invitation; considered what to say, and then spoke with firmness:
‘The book that lies on the top of that pile is one that found its way here last week. It’s Aldred Sherling’s account of Swin – of the end of his life, from the Punchkins’ meeting with him on the City Road, to his coming to the end of Formenand Street with me. Aldred heard the end of the story from me. I told it to him in this very room. And I had already told my father, of course, and I had to report to the Council, and then there was a private audience with the King. He’s missing her very much. All in all, I feel I’ve spoken of it quite sufficiently. Nevertheless…’
The firmness weakened; his voice died away in turn. While waiting for him to continue Erum picked up the book. He turned the crackling, closely-written pages. ‘Bless me!’ he said. ‘It seems I come into the story too.’
‘Yes, they appreciated the help you gave them. Borrow it, if you like.’
‘I’m sorry: you were going to say –?’
‘If you read to the end, you will find there, faithfully reported, things that could get me into trouble with your superiors. The common people, if they dare to say such things, are whipped and put into the stocks. Atan couldn’t do that to a man of rank, but he might order the book to be burnt. It’s a matter of blasphemy.’
‘Indeed?’
‘Disbelieving in Dru!’ Melohtar’s smile was full of the most heartbreaking sadness.
‘I’m very sorry to hear that, my lord.’
‘You invited me to speak, if speaking would ease my heart. Beyond that, you have a positive duty to convert the heathen. Such a one am I!’
‘Then say on.’
‘Isn’t it written in one of the Scriptures: The Elves have deceived you, putting forward the name of Dru, a phantom devised in the folly of their hearts, seeking to enchain Men in servitude to themselves. For they are the oracle of this Dru, which speaks only what they will.’
‘Yes. The words are spoken by Sorgrim, mind you.’
‘Then who or what sent the words of the oracle that sent my friend to his death? No, don’t speak now! Hear me! All that the priests teach of Dru – his providence, his justice, his goodness, his loving wisdom – was not all this simply invented by King Olostur who founded the Temple? What do the Scriptures themselves actually say about Dru? Little! There’s the short creation-fable of the Song of the Gods. Later Dru rebukes Auland for creating the Dwarves when he shouldn’t. And the only other thing he ever does is to smite Atalantis when the King’s ships invade the Blessed Realm. Hardly the most distinguished career! And I know what your theology has to say about that: the lesser Gods, the angel-powers or whatever they are, Mindir and the rest, are emanations from Dru, their thoughts are his thoughts and their hands perform his work. To which I reply that the Gods themselves are also pretty far off: whether or not they exist, why should we expect them to have any benevolent intention towards us either? Prove to me that we are not all enchained! Prove to me that we have not all deceived ourselves and wrapped ourselves in lies! Show me what good we have done to the other peoples like the poor Foro! Show me one contention, out of those preached by your masters, that isn’t a base slander on the Heathen! Show me a human sacrifice, or a blood-drinking witch, or a necklace of skulls! Convince me of the justice of what we’re going to do!’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean that we’re going to march into the South. Soon. That’s why there are so many troops in the City and it’s one reason for the shortages. It’s also why Ar and Atan have been preaching on about Thandor’s duty to convert the Heathen of all lands. It’s all bullshit propaganda.’
‘My lord!’
‘Forgive me. I'm sorry. You could not set such an expression pass. You’re a loyal servant. And you believe the doctrines, don’t you?’
‘With all my heart.’
‘But what about your head? How much have you thought about them, in relation to what’s going on?’
‘I’ve thought of little else, as you know, for the last two months…though I admit I’ve hardly had leisure to consider the wider issues.’
‘Then let me tell you what they are. Our dragon is as enslaved to rock-blood as any old toper to his bottle. There’s now little of it left in the wells of the North, for he has drunk it all. He now threatens to destroy this City and wither the whole Realm, if fresh supplies of drink are not brought to him; and so he will, out of mere spiteful rage. However, in the nick of time we have had confirmed reports that there are wells of rock-blood in the unexplored country of Daelum. His Majesty will annex the territory. Whatever inhabitants live there, monsters or lovely elves or wise woodmen, they will be killed or enslaved. We will take the rock-blood and refine it for the dragon, and in doing so we shall pollute and poison the land, so that all the other native creatures will also die. The land will die. The dragon will consume all of the rock-blood with reckless gluttony. Then he will demand more again. And where shall we go next? But that is a question for the future, and no-one in Ruminas is now thinking beyond the next few months. Fair and jocund will the springtide be! Meanwhile it is I who am to be the military commander of the expedition.’
‘…I can see, Lord Melohtar,’ said Erum slowly, ‘having heard of the rivalries of the Barons, and the jealousies within the Arostiri, why you might be most acceptable to the Palace as the leader for such an expedition – setting aside the question of your capability, which no doubt is good. But I cannot see – forgive my foolishness, but I simply cannot see why, knowing what you know, and feeling as you feel, you should have accepted the commission. Or has His Majesty found means to compel you?’
‘Knowing what I know, my friend, and feeling as I feel, I find myself with no alternative. The invasion will happen. It must happen. The justifications, which differ from the true reasons, have been supplied. I have a duty to His Majesty and a deeper loyalty to my homeland. Moreover I don’t want the command to be entrusted to Crabanir or some other greedy soldier of fortune, which is what will happen if I decline it… And so, knowing what I know, I come back to the question of your theology. It really would be a most welcome simplification to know that Dru exists and that we’re on his side against the wicked. Instead of which, I believe that we’re walking forward, step by step, into a terrible trap – a snare worthy of Sorgrim himself, a snare more subtle than the wit of Man could invent. There are moments when I wonder if we are not devising the ruin of the whole world.’
Erum shook his head several times. ‘That I do not believe, my lord, but at this hour I can’t offer you the counter-proofs you’ve asked for. I’m tired, and you have somewhat overwhelmed me. Yet I thank you for the honour of your confidence. I’ll take Aldred’s book, if I really may –?’
‘Of course.’
‘May it kindle my thoughts to provide a beacon for you who walk in darkness.’
‘Amen,’ said Melohtar. Irony and sincerity were both in this response, but the proportion of the one to the other could not be discerned. The two men’s eyes met. Melohtar’s handsome, troubled face was smiling again. Erum came toward him with outstretched hand – and was startled by a brief embrace, and a formal, or apparently formal kiss on both cheeks. He went out of the door, carrying the book under his arm and the prints of those lips on his cheeks, which were now burning. Common usage among the nobility, he assured himself, and therefore to be taken as an honour; startling only to us priests who modestly shrink from touching of bodies.
He walked (as was his invariable custom) back to the office of the Mission and the small bare room, or cell, that was now his home. The smells of the streets and gutters assailed his nostrils, the clamour of the City hummed and throbbed in his ears, but the heat of the night was less smothering than it had been. The long hostile summer was giving way to autumn at last. He entered his room, drank a mug of tepid water and sat down, tired but wakeful, on a hard chair. He laid Aldred’s book on his desk, and opened it, and tried to read; the snowy night and the arrival at the rustic village inn were uninteresting; yet he longed for snow, for some kind of touch of pure coolness. His eye fell on the old silver lamp that he used formerly to carry. His old night-forays into the alleys and byways, his unofficial ministry to the poor and outcast now seemed more worthwhile than the visits and exhortations and correspondences that had been consuming all his strength. The lamp itself seemed to reproach him. He took it down from the shelf. The silver was dusty and tarnished, the glass blackened, the reservoir empty. He rummaged in a cupboard for the pot of horn-shavings and a rag. He polished off the dark stains. The action was a slow inarticulate prayer to Lord Dru. Peace returned to him. He cleaned the lamp thoroughly, put in a new wick and poured in a supply of the now horribly expensive rock-oil. For this lamp only the best would do. The recharged lamp shone, though unlit, with a soft glimmer. He placed it on his desk and went to bed.
The next week was fully as exhausting as the previous ones, but by the middle of October it was clear that the worst was over. Fewer people were arriving. He and his deacons had coped. The City was full, and the tents and booths and shanties spread far along the shores of Aduchel, and no-one could imagine how the next wave of arrivals, that was expected next spring, would be accommodated; but the granaries were full enough for the coming winter, and about half of the refugees had found some kind of employment, and, what was the greatest relief of all, there had been very few outbreaks of disorder. In fact the Foro were being received with considerable kindness. One reason for this was the pleasure of seeing numbers of children in the streets once again. Any who held up little hands or a small begging-bowl were sure of a generous response from the City’s childless matrons, and some had already been adopted into the wealthier homes. But another reason, as Erum dimly perceived, was his own doing. He had laboured strenuously to convince the Foro that their only hope, both for this world and the next, lay in submission to the religion of Dru and the law of the City; whether or not they believed the message, they had certainly taken it to heart. Humble as he was, the Canon-minister began to expect some reward from his superiors, or at least some official notice of his good work. But it was slow in coming.
Meanwhile he read Glimpses and wondered if the Punchkins were carrying out the promise that he himself had advised them not to take too seriously: their promise to disseminate the religion of Dru in their own land. He wrote a report and took it in. The High Priest received it as if he were conferring a favour on Erum by doing so, and would answer no questions about the future of the Mission. Erum’s feelings of tension and anxiety returned, formless now and objectless, but almost as troubling as before. One day, a Sunday, at leisure after participating in the morning services, he began to feel terribly ill-at-ease. He spent the afternoon reading, but the old words and legends now seemed barren, void of meaning. The disbelief of Melohtar came back to haunt him. Still, he was tired after all, and in need of human warmth. He thought of his colleagues, the men of his own rank whom he had previously thought of as friends, and realised that he had somehow become estranged from all of them. If Melohtar was his friend, was Melohtar his only friend? How could things have come to such a pass? He went to bed very early; he lay awake for two hours, unable to sleep; then he rose, put on his old workaday vestments and lit the silver lamp.
He says, now, that he did not search to discover his own inner motives as he walked towards the wickedest part of the City. Suffice it to note that they must have been tangled and various. To himself he merely said that this was a way of shedding the burden of the last two months, of returning to simpler ways, of re-immersing himself in the grace of Dru that had always protected him amid the risks, the shadows and the scarlet fires. His blood quickened, as before, in the streets of peril and temptation; a pair of watchmen, City guards, recognised him and saluted him respectfully; the streetwalkers’ mocking laughter was not without a trace of affection. He shone his light into black doorways and down littered streets; he spoke to a young man lying drunk in an alley, found him unharmed and unrobbed, and left him with words of caution and blessing; for a quarter of an hour he watched the dice in a gambling den; he accepted the free mug of beer that was brought to him by the lady of the house, he chatted with bruisers and bullies and had from them what his soul so craved, a sense of being liked and accepted. That it should be here – only here – from such men – his throat clamped shut, and the light of his lamp became blurred; he brushed away a tear and moved on. He noticed a furtive figure slinking away from him on the other side of the street. The figure was accompanied by a large dog on a leash, and was dressed like one of the Foro, in shirt, baggy trousers and embroidered sash. The clothes were wrong. Erum knew that he had seen the man recently in other guise. He began to follow him down the street. The light from an uncurtained window, a room of display, fell on the young man’s face as he went swiftly past, hardly glancing at the women who sat inside. He was Melda. And the dog was Morni, the old bitch, Sedro’s dam, from the kennels of Atan, the same one that Fortinbras, Waltrot and Tim had once seen. Taking his dogs for walkies was a task that Atan not infrequently imposed on his subordinates; nevertheless, Erum felt sure that Melda’s errand was not an innocent one. He hastened after him, intending to challenge him at once. Melda and Morni disappeared into a narrow side-passage. Erum followed them. The fetid passage led to a dead end. There were three doors on one side of it, two of them closed and lightless; a faint light and sound of voices came out from the one that stood ajar. Erum knocked on it boldly. ‘Hello there,’ answered a man’s voice. Whose voice could that possible be? Erum hesitated. ‘Come up, Canon-minister,’ called the voice. ‘Shut the door.’ Erum recognised the voice. For a moment he stood perfectly still. Then he entered. His lamp showed him a flight of carpeted stairs. There were hairs on the carpet, and a strong smell of old dog. Erum went up quietly. Across the landing was a door which also stood ajar. Something had been chalked on it, a single elvish rune, graceful and sinister: minyaith. Erum could not remember what it meant: something between ‘beginning’ and ‘solitude’. He opened the door and found himself entering a furnished room.
Three people were in it, with Morni lying on the rug. No, four. The fourth was a tall heavy-set man who at once moved behind Erum, closed the door by which he had entered and stood in front of it. He was one of the Arostiri, a palace guardsman who regularly served in the Temple. He was called Edhanc. His head was bald, his face flat and impassive. He wore a leather jerkin and a sword-belt, and his right hand rested on the hilt of a sword. A woman was setting out glasses and a bottle. Erum had not seen her before. Atan the Second Highest Priest was relaxing on an upholstered couch. Like Melda, the fourth occupant of the large, richly-furnished chamber, he was dressed in heathen fashion, but more gorgeously and flowingly. Melda was sitting on a cushion on the floor, and Atan was stroking his hair.
‘Good evening to you, Atan-Hostakyermo,’ said Erum formally. ‘Pray tell me, what does this mean?’
‘Nothing more than good fortune,’ the Second Highest replied in his booming genial voice. ‘Or perhaps it is Providential. Thank you, Iarwen, I think we can manage by ourselves. Melda,’ he said as the woman left the room, the guard standing aside to allow her to pass – ‘do offer the Canon-minister a glass of wine.’ Edhanc closed the door again. Erum realised that he had let slip a chance of escaping. ‘No thank you, no wine for me,’ he said. ‘Remind yourself of your obedience, Canon-minister Erumardil,’ was the solemn response. ‘Accept it.’
Shocked, Erum took the glass into his hand.
‘Yes, it’s a singularly fortunate chance, or else the hand of Dru himself at work,’ mused Atan. ‘I can’t tell you how much pleasure this meeting gives me. A toast, then. What shall it be? I know: to the conversion of the unwilling.’
‘The conversion of the unwilling,’ repeated Erum mechanically, and sipped from his glass. The wine was good. Melda came back to his place without joining in the toast. He cast another sly glance at Erum and drank from his own glass.
‘I mentioned pleasure. But there are several pleasures. Sit down, Canon-minister. Come, I shouldn’t have to repeat an instruction!’ Melda pushed forward a large short-legged stool towards Erum with his bare foot. Erum sat down on it. ‘First, it’s a great pleasure for me to be able to tell you at last that your excellent work has been recognised both by the Temple and by Lord Ostendil himself. I know it seems to you that you’ve been left dangling; you’ve had to be patient with us. But now Ar has a new appointment in mind for you, that you’ll soon be told about. Well done, very well done indeed, and many congratulations.’
Morni farted in her sleep, and Erum took another nervous sip.
‘And the second pleasure is one even closer to my heart.’ Atan sat up and laid a hand on Melda’s shoulder. All of a sudden there was a glint in Melda’s smirk, of such sinister malignity that Erum shuddered with fear. ‘I see that there is prejudice still to be overcome,’ Atan went on. ‘Priest-responsory Melda has been suffering, for too long, from unfair discriminations on the part of his peers. Possibly there’s some excuse for them. His qualities – his really tremendous aptitude and vocation – are not, perhaps, so evident at first glance. And so it’s a pleasure for me to take this opportunity to correct whatever erroneous views you may have formed, Canon-minister, as to his fitness for the priestly calling. Have you got any such views?’
‘None, Atan,’ said Erum with a gulp.
‘None at all?’
‘None at all.’
‘Well, isn’t that simply splendid! Doesn’t it bear witness to the Providence of Dru that we should find ourselves unexpectedly in such accord? Now, as to the third pleasure. We’re indebted, you and I, to a very creative suggestion from Melda himself, that a statue of you might be placed in the Temple, in honour of the great work you’ve been doing.’
‘A statue?’ said Erum, flabbergasted.
‘Comes as a surprise, don’t it. Finish your drink. Good man. I must admit that the suggestion took me a little by surprise also. But the more I thought about it…’
‘Nude,’ said Melda, grinning.
‘There’s a wonderful ingenuity about you, Canon-minister, a nakedness of thought and intention, for which the best symbol surely would be bodily nakedness – decently draped, to be sure, so as not to offend sensibilities. Provided, of course, that you measure up to the necessary standards! Canon-minister Erumardil, you will now allow the Priest-responsory to divest you of your clothes.’
Erum said nothing. But when Melda came across and stood before him, his leering face aroused in Erum a desire to strike out with his fist, such as he had never felt before.
There was a rasping sound behind him. Edhanc had drawn his sword out of its sheath. The point was a couple of feet from Erum’s back.
‘Your habit, or should I say your unauthorised custom, of undertaking private missionary work in the lower parts of the City,’ Atan continued smoothly, ‘has long been a source of concern to us. It does put you in danger. So that if your head and body should be found, separated from each other, in some dark alley, it would be cause of great grief, and a really tremendous sense of loss – I speak for myself, and for Ar, and for all your colleagues – and yet it would not come as the greatest of surprises. But that, I’m afraid, is what most undoubtedly will happen, if you should hit your colleague, or in any other way transgress the discipline that’s now laid on you. Stand up!’
Erum stood. Melda undressed him carefully, taking off everything but the round white collar and folding the garments neatly. Presently Erum was naked in the warm glow of the candles, while his own lamp still stood burning, disregarded, on a side-table.
Pureor Atan-Hostakyermo, Second Highest Priest of the Temple of Vinya-Ruminas, arose from his couch and came towards Erum. His dark hair was slick with grease and his face was gleaming. Erum saw his heart fluttering under the white linen of his shirt. ‘Very gratifying. Most gratifying indeed,’ he said. ‘Quite reprehensible, on my part, to have failed to create some such opportunity long ago.’ He kissed Erum on his lips and fondled him obscenely. ‘Well! Time for the cleansing. You’ll now bend forward and spread your buttocks.’
Erum’s resistance was all gone. The strong sweet wine had had a powerful effect on him; maybe there had been some ingredient added to it. He complied, and went on obeying all the orders he was given. He caught a glimpse of Melda approaching with some large tool or instrument, and then felt the sudden shocking inrush of cold water. After the enema he was anointed with rose-scented oil. Then he was raped.
‘Before we continue,’ said Atan’s voice after a few minutes, ‘I’d like to offer you a thought. Are you listening? …Now that you have been, in a very real sense, buggered by the Church, you have a profoundly spiritual choice to make. You may choose to see this as a mere thoughtless abuse and cruelty, or – you may see it as a potentially growthful experience: your induction into that esoteric part of the service of Dru which may, not unfairly, be termed magical.’
‘What do you mean?’
It was not a sincere question, for Erum knew very well what Atan was talking about. It was called Priestcraft, or the Craft. Relevantly, the correct translation of the elf-rune popped into Erum’s head: initiation. Shuddering, jerking, seeming to rend and to split, the assault continued. While it was still going on, Melda came and positioned himself before Erum’s face. Melda’s trousers and under-drawers were lowered. His small penis stood forth in a cloud of fair hair. Erum was commanded to take it into his mouth. Such wickedness could not be possible, he thought; but it was: it was real, it was happening. Memory became disjointed. After a final, hideously painful spasm, Atan retired. His place was taken by Edhanc the guard. Erum gagged and gobbled and retched. Tears flowed freely down his cheeks. He has only one more memory of the evening, at least only one that he is willing to recall. He remembers seeing Atan blow out the silver lamp and dash it on the flat stones of the hearth. Edhanc then stamped on it with a heavy boot, so that the silver frame was buckled and flattened, the glass mantle ground into shards.
Continue to Part Two, Chapter Two