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‘You seem pensive. Scared perhaps. Are you expecting Chlu?’
Will grimaced at the wizard’s imputation, and said uncomfortably, ‘The only reason I escaped from the Spire is that Chlu fled his true name.’
‘You should have told me that sooner.’
‘Should I?’
‘Do you feel him now in the crowd?’
‘He dare not attack me here.’
‘I agree. But only because there is no clear shot of you. He will not keep away for long.’
‘I hardly need you to tell me that.’
‘Nor will the fact that you know his true name afford you even a meagre measure of protection for long, for sooner or later Chlu will speak with Maskull about the matter and Maskull will tell him the truth.’
‘Which is?’
‘That you can only use his true name to destroy him by destroying yourself. He will gamble that you have not the skill, or more likely the courage, to use a power like that.’
‘Then he’ll be wrong!’ Will said, but he instantly regretted his unconsidered reply.
‘Is that so?’ Gwydion nodded judiciously, absorbing the remark and weighing it carefully. ‘Is that truly so, Willand? For, if it is, then you are as great a fool as any that I have ever met.’
But now the music had grown louder and the ironcollared dragonets were roused to groaning and flapping their stubby wings. The keepers at the capstans heaved on the bars to make the silver beasts draw back into the depths of the gatehouse and the stalls where they were out of sight.
High up between the towers of the Luddsgate itself stood a great, weathered statue of the ancient Brean king, Ludd. Men had climbed perilously to bedeck it with garlands and oak branches, and now sweepers were rushing to clear the way below. Fellows from nearby chapter houses came with incense burners and sprinklers of rose-water to disguise the air so the horses would not bolt at the stink. And then, almost too suddenly, the waiting was over. Three heralds in royal tabards came in sight. Then Duke Richard of Ebor appeared, bare-headed, sitting astride his famous white warhorse. Save for his helmet, he rode in full battle armour.
Through that tremendous portal Duke Richard passed in splendour, but it was not his own sword that he raised aloft, but rather King Hal’s. He lifted it up like a sign – or perhaps a boast – while a few paces behind, on a little bay horse, rode the quiet, plainly dressed figure of the king himself.
Duke Richard’s intention, Will knew, was to show himself to the people – this was Richard of Ebor, the king’s great saviour and Lord Protector once more. He must be seen to be the hero who had saved the sacred sovereign from the grip of greedy friends and a wicked wife. But Will read another message, for in the middle of it all the humble, pale-faced figure of the king seemed hemmed in by gaolers – Sir Thomas Cyrel and Lord Bonavelle, square-chinned men who sat upon massive chargers, and who else but the iron-handed seneschal, Sir Hugh Morte, loyalest of Ebor retainers, bringing up the rear?
Yet, imprisoned though the king was by these huge forces, a moment came when, to Will’s mind at least, everything was stood upon its head and Hal appeared to be the serene embodiment of kingship. The whiff of dragonet made the larger destriers skittish, and though they were blinkered and under short rein it was only with difficulty that their illtempered riders were able to control them. Yet through the commotion the little bay walked on at ease, as if enfolded by the mystic aura that only a true king possessed.
And then clarions called – the sound of silver trumpets recognizing the return of the king to the City, and Will tried to gauge how much of the cheering proclaimed the arrival of the king and how much his captor. There were many in the crowd who waved wreaths of victory, or pinned on their breasts the badge of the fetterlock and falcon. They called out loudly, ‘A Ebor! A Ebor!’ But despite their raucous shouts, Will still detected King Hal’s subde empowerment, for many more of the people were glad to have their monarch back than cared how his deliverance had been accomplished. And Will shook his head in amazement because although Duke Richard knew it not, the truth was that he had placed himself wholly in the king’s power.
As the leading columns of the duke’s formidable army entered the City, drums were beaten at their head and the penetrating buzz of crumhorns and the drone of bladder pipes waxed suddenly loud. Pans of sorcerer’s powder flared up in shows of light and smoke, and petals scattered down from the arch upon the helmeted heads of the soldiery. Suddenly, the whole scene became a riot of flags bearing the colours of the victors. Helmets and bright armour glittered as ranks of mounted knights came on steadily, five abreast. There was a clattering of hooves on flagstones. A great cheer was raised and all the ghastly, glorious panoply of war came surging through the gate, edged weapons displayed to awe the minds of those who gazed on.
Will frowned as he saw the train of great guns. The three greatest of them were named ‘Toune’, ‘Tom o’ Linton’ and – perhaps worryingly – ‘Trinovant’. They had been named for three cities by way of a warning, for these three had the strongest circuits of walls, and the names were a boast that nothing could withstand the might of these engines of war.
Close after the guns came Lords Sarum and Warrewyk, and riding between them Edward, Earl of the Marches and heir of the House of Ebor. Will saw his wife’s eyes as her head turned to follow the duke’s son. Edward was handsome, a manly figure, made even more attractive – or so it had once seemed – by a cultivated air of superiority that was copied from his father. It had been a youthful jealousy of Will’s that Willow must have been in love with Edward.
How easy it was now to see that the lorc had exploited in him one of the three human weaknesses. But back at Ludford Castle he had been ready to kill the heir of Ebor. Despite their boyhood friendship he had been ready to run his heart through with a dagger. Though the murderous impulse appeared ludicrous in hindsight, still he had been scarred by the incident. He had been left with a feeling of shame that was unearthed each time he thought of it.
In response to the burn of embarrassment, Will opened his mind to draw an inner breath and so quench it. Now that Willow had seen the results of Edward’s headstrong, even merciless, nature, the notion that she might ever have harboured desire for him seemed doubly absurd. Before the battle at Delamprey Edward had promised to give common quarter. Yet he had regarded that undertaking so lightly that an unthinkable crime had been allowed to pass. Willow had seen the freshly stained grass, the bloody beheading block, and Will had noted the disgust written in her face. So many captive noblemen had died at Warrewyk’s hands in that hour of madness that a continuation of the war had been virtually guaranteed.
But that’s how ill-wielded magic breaks back, Will thought ruefully. In truth, it was all my fault, and not Edward’s or Warrewyk’s. That’s how the Delamprey stone succeeded against me in the end; though I managed to curtail the fight, I continued the war.
‘There’s Edward,’ Willow said, squeezing Will’s hand. ‘And to think you two were schooled together. Little good it did him, the oathbreaker.’
‘Don’t blame him so easily,’ Will said. ‘It was his bad fortune to have tangled his destiny with the battlestones. The lorc lays out many pitfalls to swallow the unwary.’
She scowled. ‘I suppose Warrewyk and Sarum are bound to be bad influences on anybody.’
‘That’s right enough.’
‘How d’you think Lord Dudlea has fared?’ she asked, scanning the knightly host. ‘Has he kept to his word and thrown himself on Duke Richard’s mercy?’
‘I doubt it. I expect Master Gwydion’s warnings will all have washed off him along with the first shower of summer rain. And even if he does as he promised, Warrewyk will probably take him aside and talk him into some other kind of skulduggery.’ Will’s eye followed Warrewyk and Sarum. ‘Look at them in their finery – they think they’re so important and grand. Yet for all their vanity they’re as driven by the lorc as straws are before the wind – and the joke is they don’t even know it’s happening to them.’
Will looked around at the crowd, then raised a hand to his temple and winced as if afflicted by a sudden pain.
‘What is it?’ Gwydion asked, concerned.
‘Nothing.’
‘Your manner belies your word, my friend. Have you seen some stir among the red hands?’ he asked, looking around. ‘Tell me quickly now!’
‘No, no…’
Gwydion looked beyond him at the crowd. ‘Then is it Chlu? Did you feel him?’
Will gave no answer except a scowl which was meant to tell the wizard that he had again shot wide of the mark. But the truth was that he had indeed felt Chlu.
Gwydion clapped a hand on his shoulder. ‘I think it is time we were gone from here.’
‘Gwydion, no!’
But this time the wizard was adamant. They slipped away, following Gwydion along the City wall and down beside the Luddsgate. As they went out through the paupers’ passage, a new concern overtook Will. He remembered his so-far unfulfilled promise to Lotan.
Master Gwydion must have laid a powerful spell on himself, he thought, one that turns aside seekers after unwelcome favours…
But Will knew he was making excuses. Gwydion was four paces ahead and striding out. Will could easily catch him up and tell him about Lotan right away, but he made no effort. Instead he half convinced himself that he would make a better job of it once they had a little privacy.
The wizard strode on ahead as they made haste across the Hollbourne and along the West Strande towards the main road junction at the Charing Crossroads. There stood the infamous monument, a miniature spire, before which was a place of ashes. From time to time, unfortunates were dragged here in chains by the Fellowship and slowly roasted to death, a punishment reserved for those suspected of being warlocks, though sometimes visited upon the heads of those who voiced open criticism of the Fellowship and were then found to have intractable natures.
Happily no such grim entertainment was in progress now. All along the way there were men-at-arms in steel bonnets, leaning on their pole-arms as they waited to march into the City. Will noted that the soldiers were all wearing either red and white or red and black, and upon their breasts were the devices of the white bear of Warrewyk or the green eagle upon yellow of Sarum.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ Willow asked, seeing his face.
‘I have the strongest feeling that I ought to tell Master Gwydion something.’
‘Then you must, and right away.’ She stared at him. ‘What is it?’
‘Something that might seem unimportant now, but which might just turn out to be otherwise. Come on.’
As they went, a rambling assemblage of buildings grew up around them, sprawling royal mansions, all of different sizes and styles and apparently put up at quite different times. Ahead, Gwydion had already turned off the common highway. He came now to an arched gate where they were given access by the palace guard, but only after Will showed Captain Jackhald’s men the warrant that carried the seals of the royal household.
‘Gone are the days when such as I could come and go without let or hindrance,’ Gwydion muttered.
‘So you’ve noticed the way our liberties have been boiling away?’ Will said, half jocularly.
The wizard scowled at him. ‘It is no laughing matter. What is to become of this city? We need a king, Willand, one who has the courage to set things to rights!’
Will made no reply, for he knew the barb with which the remark was set.
Within the walls lay smooth-scythed lawns, a little brown in patches now, and two large oak trees. There were tiny, neat hedges. Beds of roses and cobbled quads were surrounded by turrets of red brick and stone that rose up in some places four floors high. In one of the two towers a statue of King Dunval stood in a niche, holding, Will presumed, a scroll of law in his hand, and in the other tower, facing the royal lawmaker of old, was the great dial of an engine of time.
This clock was the latest thing, Gwydion said, sent as a present to the king a few years ago by Duke Richard. ‘To remind Hal that time was passing, but perhaps not passing swiftly enough.’ It had come from near the town of Awakenfield in the north, in lands where the Ebor writ ran more strongly than the king’s. It had been made in the workshops of the famous Castle of Sundials, and its chime was loud and commanding.
Will drew a deep breath and looked around. Many centuries were piled up here, the newer parts scrambling over the old like ivy in the place where Brea had first raised his halls and houses of carved oak so long ago.
But the chief splendour of the present palace was the White Hall. This huge oblong of pale limestone carried mock battlements at roof level and a series of pinnacled buttresses along each side. Its most arresting aspect was its lights. Each panel was artfully made to be both tall and wide, and was gorgeously decorated with what must have been an acre of coloured glass. All was ingeniously supported by traceries of lead and narrowly cut stone, and each panel told in pictures a history of a different Brean king. Will recognized in the first of them King Bladud the Leper in conversation with his unforgiving father Hudibrax. The next carried a portrait of the long-beard, Old King Coel, with night to his left and day to his right to show the passing of his one hundred and twelve years. Then came Gurgast, being eaten by the dragon, and after that a grave depiction of King Sisil leaving Queen Meribel and his infant son to sail off into the Western Deeps to search for the land of Hy Brasil. But what caught Will’s eye most were the bright greens and yellows shining from the last panel, for it showed Leir and his three daughters, two of them undoubtedly wicked, and a third who could do no wrong.
Perhaps it was just a trick of the light or the position of the sun, but Will had the impression that the king winked at him. And it was easy to imagine that a dozen gargoyles made faces and rude gestures as they passed below, showing that even here the traditional humour of the masons’ guild had not been forgotten. And though Gwydion insisted there was much dark magic still waiting to be swept away, there was much here also that seemed benign.
They went straight up to the small, comfortable apartments that the royal chamberlain had grudgingly afforded them – through an arch, up some stone stairs and along a cool passageway onto which three doors opened. By the time they came to their own door, Will had decided he must speak urgently to Gwydion of the strange Fellow who had stepped forward to save his life.
But no sooner was Will’s decision made than it was dashed aside, for as their own door opened they found a surprise waiting for them.
‘Now then! Ha-har! And look who’s here to greet you!’
‘Oh!’ Willow cried out. ‘It can’t be!’
‘Wortmaster?’ Will said, equally delighted. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Where else should I be? Hey? Answer me that! I’m come down with the rest of my Lord of Ebor’s people. And just lately I have been as busy as a bee in June! Ha-har! Look at you!’
Gort opened his arms in a wide embrace and hugged them left and right, until Bethe started up such a howling at being pressed into the face of so bewhiskered a monster that Gort was driven into retreat.
‘There, there, kitten! Oh, she doesn’t know me…’ Gort said, dabbing a fond finger at Bethe’s nose. ‘Do you, hey, little poppy-kin?’
‘Aye, and maybe she knows you too well, Wartmonster,’ Will said, grinning.
‘Oh, Will! How can you say such a thing?’ Willow patted Bethe’s back until she drew breath. Then Willow began to grin and coo in the way that mothers do to disconcerted babes everywhere.
‘That child has lusty lungs,’ Gort said, poking a finger in his ear.
‘She’s tired.’
‘Maybe she’d like a nice piece of cheese. I’ve fetched down a fine Cordewan Crumbly for you.’
‘Not for Bethe, I don’t think. But I’ll take some of it gladly. Here, have a chair, and tell us your latest news.’
They all sat down. Bethe’s storm of tears dried up and soon she was at Gort’s knee and smiling up at him as he cut pieces of Cordewan Crumbly.
‘Did I tell you the young victor of Delamprey has brought the stump away with him?’ the Wortmaster said.
‘The battlestone?’ Will asked with sudden interest. ‘We thought he might do that.’
‘Hmmm, well he has. It came south in Edward’s own baggage train. It’s being heavily guarded.’
Will got up and began to walk about. ‘You’re going to have to speak to Edward, Master Gwydion. How will we ever be able to decipher the stone if we can’t get to see it?’
Gort waved a hand towards the window. ‘It’s sitting down there in Albanay Yard, Master Gwydion, but they won’t let me near. Me, or anyone.’
‘Edward will quickly tire of it.’ The wizard tossed his head in dismissal. ‘But Wortmaster, surely you have news of greater import than this?’
‘Oh, I’ve been much abroad since last we met, Master Gwydion, and busier still since the king was taken – going here and there, sowing appleseeds and bringing to mind things once said by Semias.’ He grinned and looked out from under the overgrowth of his eyebrows. He cast a meaningful glance at the wizard. ‘I did as you wanted.’
‘Then you have brought it…’ the wizard said, as if hardly daring to believe. His eyes roamed to every corner of the room, but evidently did not find what they were searching for. ‘Well? Where is it?’
‘I have it. I have it indeed. It is here somewhere,’ Gort said distractedly. ‘And I have something else too!’
Gwydion’s expression grew suddenly suspicious. ‘What else? Wortmaster Gort, what else?’ He wagged a finger. ‘I hope you have not gone beyond my request and made a tomb robber of yourself.’
‘Pooh!’ Gort took the comment like a slap, and said to no one in particular, ‘Did you ever hear such a charge? And me a right stout and dependable spirit when it comes to the doing of favours for people, hey?’
Gwydion closed his eyes, and a look of sorely-tried patience came over him. ‘Wortmaster, what have you done with the staff?’
‘Have no fear. It’s been well looked after. There now! You can’t see it because it’s packed up small in your old crane bag! Appleseeds, appleseeds, appleseeds…’
Will and Willow exchanged uncertain glances as Gort bent down and began to rummage in a small bag that suddenly appeared from under the skirts of his robe. Will recognized it from his first days travelling with the wizard. When the Wortmaster straightened up he had in his hand a gnarled stick of wood. It was a full fathom in length and it gleamed and sparkled. Under ordinary circumstances it could not possibly have come out of a bag so small, but Will knew the crane bag was no ordinary scrip.
‘Master Gwydion, is that your staff?’ Will asked doubtfully. Then he turned to the Wortmaster. ‘Have you remade it, Gort? It seems different.’
Gort shuffled and shrugged. ‘Not I. Making staffs? I’m not suited to that kind of work. Oh, not me!’
‘No one is these days,’ Gwydion said, taking the staff and looking it over closely. ‘This is not mine, Willand. Mine was broken, and no power in the world can remake it.’
‘Then whose is this?’
Gwydion’s eyes looked far away and he seemed to be seeing the ghosts of a distant time when the world was yet young. ‘This is quite a piece of work. It once belonged to Maglin whose self-sacrifice is famous – he who was Phantarch after Celenost failed and went into the Far North.’
‘Maglin?’ Will said uncertainly, hardly knowing why he felt dismay at the name. ‘The second phantarch? Wasn’t it Maglin who presided over the Ogdoad during…the Age of Giants?’
‘Maglin’s rule was sorely troubled,’ Gwydion said, ‘for it was his lot to steer the Isle of Albion through turbulent waters. In Maglin’s time we of the Ogdoad were much taken up with the healing of the world after a great mishap befell. We repaired the fabric – plugged a hole you might say, through which all the magic had been draining. We seven guardians stood our ground, and Maglin was our champion. There was a furious fight, and though in the end we succeeded, it was a costly victory. Maglin himself closed up the hole, but he had to give too much of himself. You may judge the bitterness of his fate for yourself, for though he was phantarch for a thousand years, yet in all that time no men dared come into these Isles.’
Gort shook his head at the memory. ‘During Maglin’s phantarchship the last of the First Men died, you see? Only wyrms and giants thrived here after that.’
‘Until King Brea came?’ Willow asked.
‘Until King Brea came.’
Will looked at the staff with new eyes. ‘So is this the Staff of Justice, then?’ he asked in amazement. ‘The third of the Four Hallows of the Realm?’
Gwydion was quick to undo that idea. ‘Oh, this is not the hallowed staff. This is just an old wizard’s helpmeet. But well-fashioned and supple enough still, I hope, to do daring deeds when put into the right hands. I asked the Wortmaster to bring it out from a place that you know well, Willand.’
