XIII – Black velvet

Pelit walked along the wooden footbridge and crossed the narrow stream that wound its way at the foot of Mount Hasahor.

He halted upon the platform before the cavern’s mouth that gave entrance to the temple and lifted up his head.

'The refuge of light. Darkness shall not pass this way,' he read upon the carved rock, even as he had done so many times ere entering.

He felt those words lift the soot from his shoulders.

The temple’s entrance hall awaited him, but first he saw to it that the ropes holding the immense rock hanging over the opening were taut. He feared crossing there and having it fall upon his head, even though the mechanism could only be set in motion from within.

They had learnt through blood, following the brutal siege of Korkolat that culminated in Curktron’s death.

Lepontia, its inhabitants and the sacred knowledge sheltered there had come close to disappearing.

So, in the event of a threat, they had turned the mountain into a veritable bunker, where the temple served as the heart connecting five corridors, each with four chambers, and a sixth leading directly to the library.

In two of the great halls, fashioned to withstand assault, they laid in their winter stores.

Behind the temple they had contrived an artificial stream, fed by the meltwater that seeped through the fissures of the rock.

Water and sustenance: should they be compelled to take refuge therein, the folk and their knowledge would endure.

Narg’s emissary could not shake the thought that perhaps his king’s concern would culminate in their having to take shelter there. Yet, rather than waste time puzzling over what was afoot, he set about fulfilling his task: to summon the priestess.

To enter the temple in a state of purity, it was advisable to divest oneself of jewellery.

Adornments represented only the earthly presence of the being, and in that sacred place, it was the soul alone that should be revealed.

First, he removed his rings, necklace and the earring from his left ear, and placed them within the golden vessel upon the white wooden pillar carved with inscriptions.

Finally he wrapped himself in one of the thick, dark blue cloaks hanging from the wall and entered, covering his head as he did so.

The path was lit by bands of colour emanating from thick wax candles.

The first began at the entrance and was orange, representing the dawn of life.

The second, in blue, marked the beginning of the path in search of knowledge.

The third, yellow, signified readiness to find the truth.

And the last—in the deepest part of the mountain, where the altar stood—shone violet, for the soul prepared to transmute.

With every coloured line he crossed, it felt as though he were passing through a veil where the energy shifted and grew ever more distant from that perceived without the temple, as if each one divided, albeit invisibly, the worlds.

Until he reached the altar. There, the vibration was neither good nor bad, neither of peace nor of war, neither of pleasure nor of pain; it simply was.

Upon the long, rectangular altar rested the carved wooden figures of the gods Thor, Odín and Tyr, and at the foot, kneeling on a silver tapestry, Pelit found Celtión.

With soft chants, the morning prayer drew to a close.

She repeated the rite four times each day.

At dawn, to shield the earth from the clash of energies wrought when light strives to overcome darkness.

Again at midday, that all the light might reach the most remote places and empower the flora and fauna.

The third was in the afternoon, when the moon and the sun shared the sky, to help the forces of good survive and be able to wage a new battle at the next dawn.

The final ritual was performed at dusk, to beg the forces of darkness for mercy.

She repeated this every day, regardless of fatigue or illness; humanity depended on it.

Pelit drew nigh and waited, playing with his fingers resting in his lap to control his impatience; to pass the time, he scanned the altar in the distance and espied an inkwell and several pieces of paper, some crumpled.

He was about to draw near, curious to know if these were prophecies received by the priestess during her long hours of trance, but just as he was about to pry, Celtión’s voice called out to him.

'My lady. The king requesteth thy presence in the library,' he whispered. Although they were alone, something prevented him from breaking the silence.

The countenance of Celtión surprised Pelit. He was aware of the family feud that had driven Narg to send his only daughter to be consecrated. Five years on, as far as he could tell, Celtión had not forgiven him.

'It is none of my business, but thy father needeth thy aid. It is a fair opportunity for thee to make amends.'

'You are quite right, it is none of your business,' she snapped, and Pelit lowered his gaze. 'Tell the king I shall be with him shortly.'

She tarried until Pelit had departed, then drew near the altar.

She lifted the hollow image of Odín and drew forth a bundle of cloth from the opening at its base.

She unwrapped the handkerchief, yellowed with age, and spread it upon the pyre to inspect its contents.

A wildflower, with white petals and a yellow centre.

She caressed it with her fingertip. Though it was dry, the memory of her last first kiss lived within it.

Beside it lay a small, crystalline stone, covered in facets and edges that sparkled in the play of light from the candles. 'It is time,' she thought, and gathered it into her fist before heading for the temple door.

From thence she beheld the city below. Upon her right she cast her eye aloft and traced the narrow paths leading to each of the dwellings built upon the hillside.

She turned towards the vale, the castle’s rear court, her garden with its hedges and shrubs.

She turned, and to her left she beheld the temple’s painted glass and, beyond, the steep path leading to the Ilmanur Bridge that linked Móntria with Tloston across the strait.

She took two steps towards the footbridge and, leaning on the railing, beheld her reflection in the calm stream.

Five years, and despite the burden of being a priestess, she loved the folk of Lepontia, for they loved her, yet the hour had come; Gwion awaited her. A deep sigh accompanied her back within.

The lever of the locking mechanism glowed in her slender hands due to the incantation she was uttering under her breath, her eyes closed, but a murmur interrupted her.

She did not grow wroth; she could not, when innocent laughter spread like an echo as the children, hidden and spying on her, realised she had discovered them.

She hesitated to proceed—and did not. She might have done so, yet she would not. There were too many lives, too many innocents. There would be another way, or there were others she did not count among her friends.

With her head covered by the wide black velvet hood, the small crystal stone in one pocket of her tunic and the daisy wrapped in a handkerchief in the other, she set off down the corridor leading straight to the library.

Torn pages, shattered tables, and collapsed bookshelves littered the library. Beside his desk, lying in Cheas’s arms within a pool of blood, Tros struggled to breathe. He grasped his staff tightly, as if it were the last thing keeping him tethered to this world—and it was.

Gregor, having just raised the alarm, returned agitated after failing to apprehend the fugitive who had vanished.

Tros had fought back, there was no doubt of it, he observed as he stood beside them.

He realised that perhaps the librarian’s own attack had wrought the destruction, for, from there, a circle was drawn around him, like a barrier shielding the desk.

Cheas, desperate to find the wound, tore open the black velvet cassock to expose his chest—but found nothing. Dark and powerful magic stained his skin purple, and, like a leech, it seeped blood from every pore.

'Why thee?' asked Cheas as he embraced him to transfer his vitality, feeling his waistcoat soak through with his tutor’s blood.

'The book,' murmured Tros, pointing to the frame hanging behind his desk.

'In plain sight,' quoth Gregor as he took the painting down, 'the best place to hide something.'

'Thy father’s diary belongeth to thee.'

Cheas snorted and shook his head. His father’s diary, and the notion that he might have been involved with the darkness, were driving him mad, but a spasm in the frail body culminated in a cough of blood-flecked spittle that splattered his face.

'Thou shalt recover,' he whispered, stroking the librarian’s wrinkled brow. 'Hold fast, for thy king, for Old Minister, for me.'

Gregor, a witness to the inevitable, thought he could feel the cold taking hold of the place. 'The ice bridge descending from Valhalla,' he thought—and, to guide him on his way to Odín, who was coming to fetch him, he began to light the pistils of the Water Candle one by one.

'On the night the sand in the hourglass ceases to fall, thou shalt require this,' said Tros with his last ounce of strength, raising his staff.

Cheas, the remembrance of what had transpired there two nights earlier still fresh in his mind, closed his eyes and screwed up his face, bracing himself for the wave of desolation that would wash over his soul.

But Tros ran his fingers along the wood from top to bottom—and in response to his touch, the dry, intertwined branches came to life.

One by one they untangled, green and alive, and fell away until the glass sphere was released.

For two seconds it floated, suspended as if tethered by an invisible thread.

It was then that Tros, with the little breath he had left, blew upon it.

The explosion echoed through the castle and beyond.

Hundreds of tiny shards of glass scattered along with the thunderous roar.

Arwel, who had but newly arrived in the kingdom and was hastening down the corridor towards them, alerted by the belief that they were still under attack, kicked the door open and, armed with Owin’s sword, entered.

Golden sparks were still floating in the air when Tros felt around upon the floor and, amongst the broken glass, picked up the gleaming little whitish stone and placed it in Cheas’s right hand.

'Thy father is proud of thee. He hath entrusted me with thy care, thy destiny and thy secret.'

Cheas, between sobs, besought him to be silent, to conserve his strength until Owin returned to deliver him by some spell.

'He hath not abandoned thee—he is near. I helped him transcend.'

He coughed again and his chest creaked like rusty metal. It was the end; he knew it, and so did Cheas.

'Find Tyr’s golden cup,' he whispered, and a groan of pain cut him off. 'The cup. Perkolon.'

Cheas refused to accept it, but his pupils clouded over and went still, his chest ceased its rising, as did his heart, and the strength with which he grasped his hand vanished. Desperate, he shook the body, though he was already gone.

'We shall give him a grand farewell, but first we shall bring him justice,' said Gregor, scanning the hall.

'By the sharp-edged sharpness of Tyr’s sword!' exclaimed Arwel. 'They are desperate, taking such a risk, out in the open.'

Every mortal hath a limit, and Cheas’s had now been exceeded.

With his tutor now lifeless in his arms, a thorn in his heart and the seed of doubt within his mind, he turned to that part of himself which protected him, the part that had kept him alive despite life itself.

As the man he was, he compelled himself to gather his wits and to shut out with his mind that which his body felt.

The anguish yielded, and his eyes absorbed the tears.

He laid Tros upon the ground and rose to his feet, wiping the blood from the white gem. He studied it for a few seconds. It had belonged to his father; he remembered the caution with which he had hidden it amongst his clothes, and he, like a good apprentice, did the same.

'Tyr’s cup may be the one the manuscript spoke of,' quoth Cheas, pointing at the painting.

Gregor handled the frame with care and drew forth the volume.

The three beheld the cover whilst Cheas, with the tip of his index finger, traced the circular symbol embedded in the black leather.

Arwel, incredulous at what he beheld, struck his breast with the piece of bark he bore from the forest where the great Oak of Brimmon stood.

Overwhelmed by surprises, they could not refrain from comparing the symbols. They were identical.

'Have you seen Bartón?' demanded Arwel, his jaw clenched.

'Have you seen Windar?' Cheas asked back, his eyes wide.

The answer was a resounding no.

They prepared the defence troops and formed three search parties.

The first, led by Arwel, would head north to the great Oak of Brimmon to find Bartón.

The second, numbering fifteen and commanded by Gregor, was charged with pursuing the assailant and determining whether they might come across another identical symbol.

The last, under Cheas, would endeavour to discover Windar, driven by suspicion veiled as concern.

Ere departing, goaded by the intrigue gnawing within him, Cheas opened his father’s diary. The first page made his blood run cold—and the trumpets that echoed throughout the castle, his heart.