Cassraw sat pensively in the room that served him as an office for dealing with the considerable workload that tending the Haven parish presented him with. It was a typical Meeting House room, plain and spartan, and, despite its high arched ceiling, its long narrow shape and the poor lighting gave it a somewhat claustrophobic atmosphere. Had Cassraw chosen to look from the window that was providing this inadequate light, he would have seen a fine spring day bustling about its rich and varied business, with a strong wind tousling the trees and shrubs of the large Meeting House garden and hurrying bright white clouds across the blue sky and over the mountains.
But Cassraw had little eye for such things. His gaze was on a far future; on a vision that had been given to him on the mountain and which grew daily. A vision of a Gyronlandt united again under the rule of the church, its various decadent and irreligious governments overthrown by a fervent people yearning to fulfil His will, yearning to come together into an army that would sweep His enemies not only from Gyronlandt but from all the lands where they were to be found. It was a heady prospect.
He reached out and laid a hand on his favourite copy of the Santyth. At first he had been concerned about some of the messages that had come to him in the wake of his fateful encounter on the Ervrin Mallos. Sometimes, albeit rarely, the voice within him spoke as clearly to him as if He were immediately before him. Cassraw’s legs shook even at the thought of the power that he felt when this happened. At other times the voice was distant and vague, its meaning obscure if not completely unintelligible. This must be a failing on his part, he was sure – a weakness of faith, something he must seek out within himself ruthlessly and destroy. And, strangely, he was having dreams now. Dreams full of strange shifting landscapes and black shadows that were not shadows, and where other things prowled, searching, watching, listening. He had never dreamed before.
Vredech.
The name came unbidden and, as was always the case these days when he thought of his old friend, he was filled with uncertainty.
At some time, in some place, he had disputed with Vredech, he was sure. He had declaimed his power and his transfiguration into the Chosen One. He had filled the world with his being. But Vredech, small and insignificant, had defied him – defied him, even though in the end he had reduced him to less than the merest mote.
The memory was vivid but the time, the place, were gone. It must have been in a dream, he presumed.
Cassraw set the memory of his friend aside. It had the quality of a tiny buzzing insect, offering no threat, but ever there, reminding him of something, though he could not say what. He turned his mind to the thoughts that had recently been tormenting him. Thoughts the like of which he had never before experienced, not even in his wild and angry youth. Thoughts full of lust and violence. Thoughts markedly at odds with the words of the Santyth. He had prayed desperately for guidance when these had begun to manifest themselves.
And his prayer had been answered.
‘You are the Chosen One. My vessel. You are not as others, nor as you were. All comes from Me. Obey. That which has been written shall be written anew.’
Cassraw patted a copy of the Santyth that lay on the desk before him. It was a frequent, reassuring gesture. Already he saw in many of its verses meanings that had previously been hidden from him. And he had been told that where there was obscurity, inconsistency, new verses would be given to him. A thrill passed through him even at the idea.
But now was not the time. Neither the church nor the people were ready yet for His new interpretations, still less new revelations. Now was the time for silently driving roots deep into the fertile ground of the Madren people. Roots that would grip firm and strong in the hidden darkness so that when the plant finally bloomed, no power of man would be able to draw it forth.
Little by little, His will would be done. With the patient inexorability that wore down mountains, each deed done in His name, however seemingly slight, would set in train irreversible consequences, like ripples from an idly-thrown pebble spreading across the silent surface of a mountain lake.
He looked up from the book and his eye fell on the glass-panelled door of a cabinet. In it, distorted and fragmented, was a reflection of part of the garden, and there, too, twisted and hunched by the irregular panes, was Dowinne. He turned to look at the true image of his wife through the window. She was standing motionless, apparently deep in thought, her hand resting lightly on the trunk of a tree, staring at a small ornamental pond.
She too had changed since that first night following his return from the Witness Hall. Throughout their married life it had always disturbed him a little that, though affectionate enough, there had always been a quality of uncertainty – dutifulness, even – about her lovemaking. Now however, there were times when she would seize him with a breathless, exhausting passion as if some wild and long-hidden creature within her had suddenly been released.
It is fitting, he thought. She senses His presence within me. She yearns to be one with Him, as I am.
And she pleases Him.
A discreet tapping on the door drew his mind back to matters of the moment. A servant entered. ‘Heinder Drommel is here, Brother Cassraw,’ she announced.
He nodded and made a small hand gesture by way of reply. The woman bowed and backed out of the doorway without comment. Cassraw flicked open the Santyth and began studying it earnestly.
‘Brother Cassraw?’
Cassraw smiled broadly as he stood up and extended his hand towards the speaker, a tall, thin man whose naturally straight posture was exaggerated by a nervous stiffness. ‘Heinder Drommel,’ he said warmly. ‘Thank you for coming to see me.’ He motioned him to a chair.
‘Who could refuse an invitation from the church’s most famous preacher?’ Drommel said, sitting down a little awkwardly as if reluctant to bend any part of himself.
‘You’ll have me guilty of pride,’ Cassraw replied, raising one hand in denial while the other came to rest on the open Santyth. ‘I but spread the Word that He has left for us, and tend to the spiritual and moral needs of my flock.’ Drommel looked as if he was about to say something, but Cassraw forestalled him. ‘You, on the other hand, tend to their…’ he paused. ‘… their secular needs. You strive to keep justice in our laws, to ensure that our streets and highways are kept free from danger and open to the passage of the worldly goods that we require. You look to the safety of our borders, situated as we are, small and weak amid decadent and godless lands.’
Slightly unsettled by this last reference and by the apparent trend of the conversation, Drommel intervened.
‘What we might look to do and what we can actually do are, sadly, two different things for a small party such as ours. Whenever possible, we try to bring a little morality into the proceedings of the Heindral but, alas, we are not often successful. Matters are often arranged for the best interests of the few rather than the many.’
‘We live in an imperfect world, Heinder.’
A thin humourless slit cut Drommel’s face. It was a smile. ‘Rendered thus by ourselves, if I remember my Santyth,’ he said.
Cassraw waved a conceding hand. ‘Indeed,’ he said. ‘But remediable by us also.’
He leaned back in his chair, his face suddenly serious and controlling the silence that hung between the two men. After a moment, he spoke. ‘You’ll have to forgive me, Heinder, if I’m a touch hesitant about what I’m going to say next, but just as you risked venturing into the Santyth just now, so I’m going to risk venturing a little way into your territory.’
Drommel’s eyes widened slightly. He was intensely intrigued. The church was not above discreetly meddling in politics, but it concerned itself strictly with the realities of Canol Madreth’s political life and only made its wishes known to either the Castellans or the Ploughers, whichever happened to be in power, and then only through its Covenant Member. Despite the fact that the Witness Party was often praised for its moral stand on various issues and even had Preaching Brothers amongst its ranks, it was never seriously expected to actually do anything, so it was never even approached. What, therefore, could Cassraw be up to?
‘This business with Tirfelden,’ Cassraw said, his voice intense and powerful. ‘I’m no expert in these matters, but I have the feeling that your party was expected to disagree with both sides and thereby ensure that no real action would be taken.’ He looked straight at his guest. ‘Why did you support the Castellans?’
Drommel managed to disguise a nervous start as a look of attentiveness. Whatever he had been expecting from this interview it had not been an interrogation. He was half-inclined to be indignant, but even though he began weighing the consequences of risking a quarrel with a man who could possibly rise to become Covenant Member in due course, it was Cassraw’s actual presence that deterred him.
He settled for a haughty line. ‘A man was killed, Brother – a respected man who had travelled abroad in the quite legitimate pursuit of his business affairs. One of many such whose activities benefit us all in one way or another by helping to preserve our prosperity. This is not a matter for foolish political games. A strong response is necessary if our people are to feel safe as they go about Gyronlandt on our service.’
‘He was in his cups,’ Cassraw said sternly.
Drommel responded in like manner, pointing towards the Santyth that lay under Cassraw’s hand. ‘An activity of his own choosing, which though perhaps foolish, is legal both here and in Tirfelden, and in any event not one that deserves the death penalty.’
Cassraw’s expression did not change, slightly unnerving Drommel. Untypically, he blundered on rather than risk trading silences with this unexpectedly powerful individual. ‘The Ploughers with their foolishness would merely have injured us all. Such things as we trade with Tirfelden can be obtained from other countries, albeit more expensively. They would simply turn away from us and trade elsewhere.’
Still Cassraw’s expression did not change. ‘But your way might lead to violence,’ he said.
Drommel shook his head. ‘Violence is begotten only by violence, and we shall be using none. We’re a civilized people, after all. There’s no reason why expulsion of their people should not be conducted in an orderly and peaceful manner. And such assets as are seized will be released in due course, after an appropriate deduction to compensate the victims’ families.’ He gave a slight shrug, which seemed to use the whole of his upper body rather than just his shoulders. ‘Besides, I doubt it will come to that. If we remain resolute then the Felden will behave in a sensible manner before the matter goes too far.’
‘And if we don’t?’
Drommel’s nose twitched. ‘You mean if the Castellan Party retreats from its position? Then everything will be as it is now. Neither we nor they will vote for the Ploughers’ ridiculous scheme. Put simply, nothing will be done.’
‘You will not retreat from yours if they hold?’ Cassraw said quietly.
Drommel was pondering the question even as he was shaking his head. He could not read this Preaching Brother, and the whole atmosphere of the room and the interview was disturbing him profoundly. His every political instinct was crying out to him to be alert.
To his relief, the old servant interrupted the proceedings at this point, entering without knocking and bearing a tray on which stood two glasses.
‘A fruit juice,’ Cassraw said as he took the tray and silently dismissed the servant. ‘My wife has a rare way with the trees in our garden and an even rarer one with their fruit. This will refresh you – keep you in good voice for the PlasHein.’ He smiled disarmingly. To Drommel it was like the sun emerging from behind a dark cloud and his mood relaxed, although little of it showed in his rigid posture.
He murmured his thanks as he took the glass and followed it with a compliment after he had drunk a little.
‘You will not retreat from your position?’ Cassraw said again as he settled back in his chair.
‘No,’ Drommel said, seeing little alternative. ‘Our people must be able to travel abroad in safety. They must know that their government will act firmly should anything happen to them.’
Cassraw laid down his glass and tapped the Santyth thoughtfully. Drommel waited, still wondering why he had been asked here and what Cassraw’s true interest was in this affair. He was, after all, neither merchant nor trader.
Cassraw’s voice was reflective when he eventually spoke. ‘You recall, some weeks ago, dark clouds coming over the land, plunging us into night in the middle of the day?’ he said. Drommel nodded, disconcerted by this abrupt change of direction. ‘And I’ve no doubt that you heard about my own little escapade?’ Drommel nodded again and made to reply, but Cassraw raised a hand to stop him. ‘For a while, after my tumble, I lay in the darkness, stunned, in some pain and, I’ll be honest, frightened. I did not know how badly I’d been hurt, but it felt bad, and I realized that my colleagues,’ he smiled again, ‘not the youngest or the nimblest as you’ll appreciate… I realized that even if they managed to get up the mountain to look for me, they might well not find me in the thickening gloom. And if the threatened storm broke, then I could well die where I lay. As it transpired, of course, I was only a little cut and bruised, and, to shame me for my lack of faith, my colleagues did in fact venture into the darkness to seek me out.’ He leaned forward a little, and his presence filled the room. ‘But in that brief time, thoughts and memories cascaded through my mind like a river in spate. Many happy ones, some sad. Some regrets for things I’d done that I shouldn’t have but, worst of all by far, regrets for things that I had not done when I should have. They tore at me, Heinder. Ripped away much that I had taken for granted about myself.’ He paused and Drommel found himself struggling not to turn away from his piercing gaze. ‘Evil prevails when good lies abed,’ he concluded, simply and starkly.
It was an old Madren saying, but from Cassraw’s mouth all triteness left it. It was as alive and true and vigorous as the first time it had been uttered. More, it was a call to arms. A small part of Drommel ruefully noted that it was fortunate that Cassraw had never entered politics, for he would have been a formidable opponent. The greater part of him however, was simply swept along.
‘It was almost as if He Himself had led my feet astray and plunged me low so that I could learn that lesson.’
Then Drommel felt the pressure leave him. Cassraw was leaning back in his chair again, relaxed and smiling. ‘You are right to do what you are doing in this matter of Tirfelden,’ he said, reverting to their previous topic as suddenly as he had left it. ‘And I shall say so. I am no politician, nor do I want to play any politicians’ games. But right is right and I can no longer lie abed when wrong is liable to be done.’
‘I’m at a loss to know what to say,’ Drommel stammered. ‘We always think of ourselves as a party that in many ways represents the ways of the church in politics, and your support for our cause will be welcome. But in all fairness I should warn you that you will risk being severely rebuked, censured even, if you attempt to bring the church into the arena of politics.’
‘I understand what you say, Heinder,’ Cassraw said. ‘But unless something is done, my heart tells me that the Castellan Party will find a way of retreating from their declared intention, and that will be a step into the darkness for all our people.’
‘A little strong, I think, Brother,’ Drommel ventured.
The presence returned. ‘No,’ Cassraw declared. ‘There is little to be gained from euphemism. As you said yourself, a man has been killed. A family has been deprived of its heart, its support. Our society has been lessened by the loss. Those that the people have acclaimed must not betray the people by inaction. And theywill retreat, won’t they?’
There was such force in this last question, that Drommel almost stammered his reply. ‘They were taken aback by our support, without a doubt,’ he said. ‘And I know there’s been a great many hasty meetings of their senior officers and ministers of late.’
‘You mean yes,’ Cassraw said, still forceful.
Drommel hesitated. He was becoming increasingly concerned by the tenor and direction of this conversation. It was all very well for some preacher to theorize about what a government should or should not do under ideal circumstances, but he was a politician, and pragmatism was everything. He had to deal with the realities of balancing the innumerable and, not infrequently, incompatible claims of individuals and groups whose support was necessary if he was to retain office. And retaining office was essential… if he was to be able to do anything at all of value. The last thing that was needed now was this Tirfelden business being inadvertently stirred up by someone like Cassraw careening about recklessly. The only reason that the Witness Party had supported the Castellans’ blustering nonsense was to put them in a position where they would have to back down, thereby enabling the Witness Party to point out their weakness and indecisiveness during the approaches to the next Acclamation. The whole notion of expelling foreign residents was, of course, fraught with hazard, and could not be allowed. If circumstances arose that obliged the Castellan Party to maintain its stance, then the Witness Party would in the end have to withdraw its support, thereby leaving them open to the same reproaches. It was not a happy prospect.
Yet, for some reason, he could not take this man head on. He had such force about him. Then, he reflected, a man who had risen so quickly through the church would necessarily have exceptional powers of eloquence. Drommel found himself thrashing about in search of a way to avoid a confrontation and to escape this man’s alarming presence.
Then his years of experience in the PlasHein came to his aid. He was concerning himself unnecessarily. What could this man do? Preach a passionate sermon, perhaps? But that would serve little purpose. It would be a rare sermon indeed that prompted people to take real action about anything. And even if he did so animate his congregation that they began to pester their Heinders, what would that mean?
Nothing, of course. Heinders were being pestered all the time and all were masters of the noncommittal response that enabled them to avoid any issue. He began to feel easier. Let this man rant. He might perhaps have some sway over the minds of a few people, but he had no control over their actions and that was what mattered.
‘I do mean yes,’ he replied. ‘You must forgive me if I have a politician’s gift of using four words where one would suffice. But, in that one word, yes, theywill step back from their original proposal now that our support has made it possible.’
Cassraw nodded. ‘We will not allow it,’ he said softly.
To his considerable surprise, Drommel found himself almost rallying to this unexpectedly gentle declaration. He crushed the response swiftly.
‘I doubt we can stop it, Brother Cassraw,’ he said without risking any amplification of the conclusion.
Before Cassraw could reply, the delicate chimes of a distant bell percolated into the room. Cassraw looked surprised. ‘I’d no idea it was so late,’ he said, standing up. ‘I get so engrossed when I start talking. You’ll have to excuse me but I’ve another visitor due any moment, I’m afraid.’ He shrugged apologetically and held out his hand. Drommel needed no urging. He was more than relieved at being given the opportunity to leave this place. As he held out his hand, Cassraw took it in both of his in a powerful encompassing grip which was both intimate and determined. It was almost as though he were accepting a pledge of fealty. And though Drommel was a full head taller than him, he nevertheless felt measurably smaller.
‘Thank you for giving up your time to come and see me,’ Cassraw said, ushering him gently towards the door. ‘It’s been both helpful and instructive. I see we’re of like mind. You may count on my support, and I, presumably, on yours.’ Far from certain what this last remark meant, Drommel made a vague gesture as he opened the door. A cat was standing in the doorway, its head inclined to one side.
‘Ah, I think that belongs to my next visitor,’ Cassraw said. ‘It’s apt to follow him about.’
Drommel did not like cats at all. And, as he had feared, it stepped forward and rubbed itself affectionately against his leg.
His skin started to crawl. Then the sensation was suddenly gone, for Cassraw’s hand was on his shoulder, like a healing touch. ‘You must be with me, Heinder Drommel,’ he said softly, ‘lest you find yourself alone in the darkness one day with the dogs of your conscience baying for you. You must be with me. We are at the beginning of great changes.’
Drommel moved quickly away from the Haven Parish Meeting House, telling himself that he’d best avoid encounters such as that in future. Amateur politicians could be lethally dangerous. But, despite himself, his heart was singing out. Here was a man of fibre. Here was a man of true power; a man who knew Ishryth’s will and would speak it against all the urgings of compromisers and backsliders.
Cassraw bent down and picked up Leck who looked at him through half-closed eyes. He chuckled. ‘Weak, weak, weak,’ he said as he stroked the cat. ‘He’s ours, cat. As will they all be in time.’
Two men rode out of the bleak mountains that formed the northern border of Gyronlandt. At first glance they appeared to be ordinary travellers, if such an expression could be applied to the few people who traversed the mountains, but a close examination would have shown that their horses were particularly fine and their clothes, though simple in style, were both well-made and practical. And it was some measure of these two that they had passed through the mountains in the winter and emerged not only alive, but looking substantially untroubled by the journey.
One was similar in both age and build to Vredech while his companion was a little shorter and more heavily built, and nearer to Horld’s age.
The younger of the two spurred his horse alongside his companion. ‘You’ve been very quiet these last few days, Darke,’ he said. ‘Is something bothering you?’
The older man reined his horse to a halt, gazed out over the rolling foothills that marked the north of Gyronlandt, then turned in his saddle and looked back at the mountains. He did not speak for some time but his questioner did not press him.
‘I was wondering why we ventured through those mountains at such a time,’ he said eventually.
‘What?’ came the disbelieving reply.
‘I said…’
‘I heard you,’ the younger man interrupted, though not unpleasantly. ‘It’s an odd time to be asking that question. We came here to find out about this place and its people, as we’ve done everywhere else.’
‘We could have gone east or west at that mountain range. Why did we head south?’
‘Because we’ve been in the saddle so long our brains are addled. We could also have gone back home.’
Darke laughed a little at his companion’s manner. ‘True, Tirec,’ he said. ‘And we will, one day. But…’ The laughter faded.
‘Something is troubling you, isn’t it?’ Tirec said, more soberly.
Darke frowned, then rolled his shoulder as if it were stiff. Tirec noted the gesture and his eyes narrowed in concern.
‘You’re getting sharper in your old age,’ Darke said.
‘It’s the company I’ve been keeping,’ Tirec retorted. ‘And you’re the one who taught me to listen to the voices that whisper in the silence.’
Darke looked pained. ‘It’s… nothing,’ he said after a while, though with some effort.
‘It’severything, if it brought us through those mountains in winter,’ Tirec insisted. ‘And you don’t need me to tell you that, do you? Speak it before we ride another pace.’
For a moment, Darke seemed set to dispute the younger man’s command, then he said, ‘I haven’t the words yet. Just…’ He patted his stomach. ‘Bad. Very bad. I…’ He abandoned the sentence and clicked his horse forward. ‘We’ll carry on, south,’ he said purposefully. ‘Mark the way.’
Tirec, now openly concerned, watched him for a moment before moving after him. ‘As soon as you get some words, speak them,’ he said, frowning.
Darke nodded. ‘Of course.’
Then he looked at Tirec penetratingly. ‘And you, stay quiet.’ He patted his stomach again, then his head. ‘Be aware.’