Cassraw stared up at the looming figure, his mouth suddenly dry and his insides hideously mobile. It did not matter that for the moment he had lost the wits to decide whether to remain silent, or to speak, or to call out for help, as his tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth.
One old habit did not desert him, however, and instinctively his hand groped towards his pocket to pat the copy of the Santyth there. The figure’s head inclined slightly, then there was a violent oath, a flurry of movement, and Cassraw found himself blinking into an unbearably bright light.
He raised a hand to shield his eyes, but something knocked it aside painfully.
‘Stay still,’ a powerful voice commanded. ‘And keep your hands where I can see them, unless you want your skull cracked.’
Cassraw could do no other, his fear having been supplemented by the pain in his hand. He screwed up his eyes and made to turn his face from the light.
‘Stay still!’
Something then struck his leg violently, numbing it, and something – a stick? – was preventing his head from turning. Then it was gone, but a hand was gripping his chin and forcing his face into the light. It was not a hand to be argued with.
‘Ye gods,’ came the voice again, now full of surprise and concern. ‘Brother Cassraw. What the dev… I mean… what are you doing here? Have you been attacked? Don’t move.’
The light was taken away from his eyes, and the hand that had been clamped on his chin was joined by its partner in urgently testing his limbs for signs of injury.
‘It’s Serjeant Skynner, Brother. Do you recognize me? Are you all right? Tell me what’s happened.’
The changed tone, coupled with the familiar name, restored Cassraw’s senses as rapidly as the Keeper’s sudden appearance and violent assault had scattered them, though he still felt assailed, albeit not physically. His mind raced. He must have a plausible excuse for being found here in this both ridiculous and suspicious position, or much that he had gained of late could be lost.
‘I’m all right, Serjeant,’ he said, struggling inwardly to set aside the eerie experiences of the last few minutes so that he could concentrate on a simple, legitimate excuse. ‘Perhaps you’d help me up?’
The request was scarcely made when he was hoisted to his feet as easily as if he had been a small child.
‘And can you look for my lantern for me, Serjeant?’ he asked authoritatively, looking to take charge of events before Skynner could recommence his questioning. ‘I dropped it when I tripped over something.’
Skynner’s curiosity was not so easily deflected, however, and he was asking questions even as he opened up his own lantern fully and began searching about the alley. ‘What in the world are you doing out here, Brother? It’s hardly the most sensible of places to be wandering alone.’
‘He is always with me,’ Cassraw replied, gradually gaining control over his voice again.
Skynner paused temporarily in his search then continued as if this had been a perfectly reasonable answer. ‘Thus let it be,’ he said solemnly, without looking up. ‘But, with respect, Brother, if you’re going to walk around here at this time of night, by all means put your faith in Ishryth…’
‘… but carry a big stick.’ Cassraw finished the saying for him.
Skynner found the lantern. He straightened up to his full height and looked down at Cassraw as he returned it to him. ‘Indeed, Brother,’ he said. ‘Ishryth helps those who help themselves, but this is a foolish place to be tempting Providence.’
‘I stand theologically chastened,’ Cassraw replied with a smile and a slight bow. He was relaxed now; he had his tale. He must set aside all consideration of what had really happened to him until he had convinced this astute and suspicious officer. ‘I’m afraid I allowed my pastoral concerns to sweep aside my commonsense.’
Skynner was genuinely curious but he could be nothing other than professional in his manner. ‘And what conceivable pastoral concerns would bring you to this alleyway, Brother?’ he asked sternly.
Cassraw had struck his lantern and was affecting to check it, carefully testing the shutter and adjusting the intensity of the light. Seemingly satisfied, he put a hand on Skynner’s arm and began moving him towards the street.
‘I was visiting one of my flock earlier this evening when I met a colleague of yours, Albor. We talked for a few minutes about this and that, and amongst other things, the topic of the murder of that poor young man happened to come up.’ Cassraw paused and looked thoughtful. ‘It was really very strange. Some impulse told me that I must not stand back from this incident. I think the church stands a little too aloof at times, don’t you?’ He did not wait for an answer. ‘So I told Albor that I would mention it at my next service.’ He became genial, aware of Skynner’s sudden startled glance. ‘I’m not quite sure who was the most surprised, he or I, but if there is someone amongst us who may be teetering on the edge of his sanity, then a voice from the church, by its very unexpectedness, may do at least as much as the posted notices and the reports in the Sheets.’ He waved his hand airily, indicating that this was, in any event, a trivial matter, not worthy of further discussion. ‘Anyway, after I’d visited my parishioner I set off towards home, having, I’m afraid, forgotten about my promise, when it all came back to me with terrible force. I was suddenly overcome by the horror and tragedy of what had happened.’
They had reached the comparative brightness of the street now, and Cassraw felt easier with each step he took away from the intense gloom of the alley, although he had to resist the temptation to keep turning round in response to the feeling that something there was still watching him, calling out to him softly.
He forced himself to continue. ‘I felt that in some way I had died a little with that youth – indeed, that the whole of Troidmallos had died a little. I knew that I would not be able to rest until I had done something. The Lord moves us in ways we can’t begin to understand, Serjeant. Sometimes we must simply follow. So, I followed my instincts and they led me here. I thought a prayer… a blessing on this awful place, maybe… to exorcise some of the terrible memories that must be lingering here. I don’t know… I was far from clear in my thinking. Unfortunately, I was also far from clear about where I was walking and I tripped over something and went headlong.’ He chuckled. ‘I seem to be doing that a lot lately. Lost my lantern, my dignity and my pious intentions all in one go.’
Skynner smiled tentatively, then Cassraw staggered slightly and caught his arm. ‘I’m afraid my leg’s still a little numb, where you kicked me,’ he said. ‘Are you always so rough with your… clients?’
Skynner cleared his throat awkwardly. ‘I didn’t kick you, Brother,’ he lied. ‘That’s against regulations. I hit you with my stick.’ He cleared his throat again. ‘And to be honest, with all due respect to your calling, you’re lucky I wasn’t a great deal rougher, dealing with someone loitering down an alley where there’s just been a particularly nasty murder.’ He allowed his professional manner to falter a little and his voice became genuinely alarmed. ‘You frightened me half to death, Brother. If you’d made any attempt to get to your feet before I recognized you, I wouldn’t have been bothering too much about regulations, I can tell you.’
‘We must thank Him for His guidance in bidding me stay still, then,’ Cassraw said. Skynner grunted, non-committally.
They were nearing a more brightly lit part of the town and both pedestrian and road traffic were increasing. ‘I can get one of the Keeper Wagons to take you back to the Haven, if you wish, Brother,’ Skynner offered.
Cassraw shook his head. ‘No thank you, Serjeant,’ he replied. ‘I’m still troubled by this unhappy business. I’ll think as I walk.’ He raised a hand in reassurance. ‘I promise I’ll go down no more dark ways tonight.’
‘Or any other night preferably, Brother,’ Skynner said.
‘I must go where He leads me, and He is everywhere,’ Cassraw said.
Skynner came as near as he dared to rebuking a senior member of the church. ‘That’s your province, Brother, and I can’t debate it with you, but these streets are mine, and there are places where your cloth won’t protect you.’
Cassraw looked as if he wished to dispute this point, but he simply said, by way of parting message, ‘I’m indebted to you for your vigilance, Serjeant. I could well have been injured back in that alley and your appearance was most timely. And I’ll certainly forgive you the blow you struck. There was no true malice in it. Now I’ll take up no more of your time.’ And he turned and walked away, still limping slightly, before Skynner could pursue the matter.
Skynner took a step forward as though to follow him, then stopped. He watched Cassraw until he disappeared into the evening traffic however, and he was frowning. He was sure he’d heard more than one voice down that alley. But he’d seen no one running away, and there’d been no one else hiding there, he was sure. He’d had quite a thorough look when he was pretending to search for Cassraw’s lantern.
Must have been cursing to himself, he thought. Even a cleric’s entitled to the odd oath when he barks his shin on something. But he was uneasy. Cassraw’s tale was bizarre, to say the least. It wouldn’t be a complete lie, he was fairly certain about that, and he fully expected that a word with Albor would confirm some of it – although the idea of a murder being mentioned in a sermon was startling enough in itself. But it was not the truth either, or he wasn’t a Serjeant Keeper.
It was not a happy conclusion. Skynner was a moderately devout follower of the church, despite his constant contact with the darker side of human nature, and Cassraw was one of the Preaching Brothers for whom he had a genuine respect, even though he did not particularly like him. But if he had not been telling the whole truth – and he hadn’t – then what in Ahmral’s name had he been doing down that alley?
It could be morbid curiosity, of course. Murder held a fascination for the oddest people, and this crime was still being gossiped about extensively, not least because no culprit had yet been found, nor even a suspect. But it did not seem conceivable that Cassraw would have succumbed to such prurience. Besides, wandering about round there at night took no small amount of courage for someone who was not familiar with the area and its denizens.
There were a few other possibilities, each of them improbable: a woman; a secret meeting in connection with church politics; even that Cassraw was the murderer. Skynner let them all go. It seemed that his judgement about Cassraw’s honesty might have been wrong. Perhaps he had told the truth after all.
But Skynner’s instinct cried out against this. His judgement was sound enough. A lot of strange things had happened lately – all since that damned black cloud had appeared over the town. Poor old Jarry, thinking that the devil had come again and rambling about it still, by all accounts. People claiming that voices had told them to do things. Others saying they were being followed by strange shadowy figures. It seemed that every eccentric in Troidmallos had become more so. And Cassraw’s escapade had to be put with these until he found out otherwise.
A crier sounded the time, startling him a little. On an impulse, he decided to pursue the matter immediately.
As he strode through more familiar streets, Cassraw did as he said he would: he thought about what had happened. Or rather he watched as the events of the last hour tumbled through his head over and over. At first the dominant feature was the most recent, and most physical: his encounter with Skynner. This had shaken him badly. He had felt an aspect of the man’s power which he could never have known under normal circumstances. For a moment, he had been a criminal, and as such he had been seized, quite literally, by the law. His leg was still sore where Skynner had kicked him, and his jaw was aching a little where it had been gripped. And he had no doubt at all that he would have been brutally beaten if, in panic, he had tried to flee. Yet, oddly, the experience had been exhilarating. The intensity of the focus of an unyielding intention had stirred him in some way. It had the purity of simplicity. The simplicity of the mailed fist. Thus we learn. A new element entered into deepening resolutions. He would become His mailed fist. Iron, implacable to those who opposed His will. And so, too, would be his men; his iron fist writ large.
Hismen. He relished the thought. His contact with Skynner was swept aside by visions of the future of his Knights of Ishryth, transformed – no, revealed in their true splendour – to bring order to His followers and terror to His enemies. It was a heady vision, in which the steady rhythm of his feet on the roadway became the marching feet of thousands.
Yet amid this rapture came memories of the other events that had occurred in the alley. The terrifying, primitive emotions that had possessed him as he had stumbled to the ground and into the lanternless darkness; the burning desires of the flesh and the fearful, murderous bloodlust, hideously intermingled; that strange figure which had peered into his eyes as if searching out his very soul.And then rejected him! Cassraw clenched his fists and his jaw tautened.
Rejectedhim – the Chosen One – as if he had been some unwanted cur. It was intolerable. Rage filled him.
But other questions still burned through his anger. Who had he been? For a brief moment, Cassraw shook violently as it occurred to him that the figure might have been the murderer, returning to the scene of his atrocity. Yet, that could not have been. There was no one else in the alley – Skynner would have seen him for sure. Besides, their mysterious meeting had not happened in the alley – they had been somewhere else. An inner certainty of this allowed Cassraw no reasoned reservation. But if not the alley, then where? Where could such a land, with its luring shadows, be – other than in one of his strange new dreams? That there could be no answer merely served to heighten the power of the question.
And had the figure been as real as it had seemed, or was it just a figment of his imagination? But why should he create such an illusion? An illusion that had judged him with such withering contempt. His mind twisted with fury again at the memory. Yet if it was not an illusion, what was it?
Then, blindingly: It was a test!
How else could he have been so powerfully drawn to that place? How truly impulsive had his decision been to visit Yanos? And how accidental his meeting with Albor? And how else could his unthinking footsteps have carried him there? Even the alley itself had lured him like a dark beacon. It had been a test, beyond a doubt.
But had he failed or had he passed? Or was judgement still pending?
He gripped the copy of the Santyth in his pocket, hoping for guidance. He tried to recall the figure that had appeared to him and the words that it had spoken. But no face came to him, and only fleeting hints of a lean angular form, shielding its eyes as it peered into him, and then prancing grotesquely away. Some of the words it had spoken he remembered, though they meant nothing to him: abomination; demon guide; night eyes. But the contempt he recalled in its entirety, and as he recalled it so his fury returned and was fed.
By now he had stopped walking and was standing rigid with tension in the full glare of one of the street lights. It took him a wilful effort to release his clenched fists and the knuckles ached as he did so, as did his jaw and almost every part of him as he forced muscles and sinews into movement again. Then, aware of his visibility, he brought his hands together and bowed his head as if he had suddenly been inspired to pray, looking about him surreptitiously as he did so to see if anyone had been witness to this silent outburst.
Satisfied that his strange behaviour had gone unnoticed, he set off again. Had that perhaps been the purpose of the test – to give him a true measure of his righteous anger when assailed by doubters and scoffers? If so, then it had been successful. He would know how to deal with such in the future.
The conclusion brought him back to his plans for Yanos and the Knights of Ishryth. A sword must be forged that would sweep all before it. A sword that could glisten untarnished through an endless bloodletting, should His will be defied. Once again, the sound of his footsteps became the feet of thousands, and he was oblivious to all things until he found himself passing through the tall iron gates of the Haven Meeting House. His soaring dreams faded sourly, however, as he approached the darkened doorway to his private quarters. A lamp should have been burning there. He must rebuke the servants tomorrow. The Meeting House should be a constant source of illumination in every sense. It should shine through the night of Troidmallos as it should shine through the spiritual night of Canol Madreth and the whole of Gyronlandt and beyond.
He paused as the thought took wings. His eyes were drawn upwards, towards the invisible bulk of the Ervrin Mallos. There was the place for a true beacon, one that indeed would light the whole land and act as focus for the many powers that he could sense hovering about him, awaiting that single tiny grain that would coalesce them into a mighty whole.
There was a stirring within him. A listening? A prompting?
Then, as if clouds were slowly being blown away to expose it, there came to him a vision of a great place of worship rising out of the jagged peak of the mountain; a many-towered temple, glittering arrow-sharp and sunlit against the grim black clouds that presaged the coming of His chariots.
Cassraw stood silent and awe-stricken before the ramping splendour of this sight, then sank to his knees, his hands clasped. ‘Thus let it be, Lord. Thus shall it be. Through such shall the One True Light be drawn down amongst us again, to spread across the worlds.’ His voice was hoarse with emotion.
He knew that in some way he did not understand, he had been tested and found whole, and that this vision had been granted him to show him the way forward. With this single binding thread, the tangled weave of careful plans, vague hopes and fanciful speculations that had been shifting and changing within him since his encounter on the mountain, came together to form a tapestry, in whose pattern, at once subtle and open, delicate and iron-shod, the entire future could be read.
He knew, too, that though this present intensity must surely pass, the vision would remain with him for ever and that, as with the Santyth, he had but to look into it to see what he must do. Indeed, he had but to be aware of its existence to know what to do.
He had no conception of how long he remained kneeling on the stone pathway, but slowly he became aware of normality re-forming about him. And, too, there was a presence. He looked about him as he stood up. A figure was standing nearby. Unlike the figures he had met in the alley, this one he recognized, even in the dim light that was reaching him from the street. She was standing as she had been when he had seen her earlier that day, her head slightly bowed.
‘Dowinne,’ he said quietly.
‘Enryc,’ his wife replied, almost formally. ‘I had no idea how late it was.’ She hesitated and inclined her head a little as if listening to something. When she spoke again her voice was low and full of messages that of late had become very familiar to him. ‘I was beginning to be concerned about you. The servants are long asleep.’
Cassraw felt his chest tighten. He reached out. His wife’s hand closed about his purposefully.
‘This has been a rare day, wife,’ he said. ‘Such things have happened as I can scarcely believe. Such visions.’
‘I feel the change in you,’ Dowinne replied, almost whispering now, leading him forward. ‘Words are not necessary.’
‘But I must tell you,’ Cassraw insisted as they stepped through the doorway into their private quarters.
Dowinne closed the door behind them. ‘Yes,’ she said. Her arms folded irresistibly about him. ‘But not yet. They are words of power and success, I can tell. But behind them is the spirit which is beyond the words. Let that possess me as it now possesses you. Share it with me, here, now.’