'There are other realms beyond this one from which magic seeps. In ancient times, the bounds through which it flowed were porous, and it abounded. But by our very nature, humans are destructive. What was a gift from worlds far superior to ours was abused by war, avarice and revenge, and so the magical realms sealed their boundaries, though the passage of magic into this world could not be stopped altogether and it continues to this day to trickle through in places to be harnessed by those who know how. Nonetheless, magic quickly became little more than a vague memory, and those beings of a magical nature were removed from this world in what came to be known as the Banishment.
'Now, while magic was still in abundance, a great many texts and objects pertaining to it came to be housed at the library of Alexandria in Egypt. Alas, it was destroyed by fire, leaving no trace of what once had been. However, there was a man by the name of Amosis, the gatekeeper of the city of Alexandria. Though he was a simple man of no great status, he could read and write- an unusual skill among ordinary folk -and he spent every spare hour in the library reading through the manuscripts. After its destruction, he set about recording all he had learnt for posterity.
‘Amosis spent the rest of his life carefully relating what he had learnt for the benefit of others. After his death, he instructed his sons to have copies of his manuscripts made in order to preserve this world's magical heritage. The manuscripts were smuggled across Europe along with one curious object that had survived the library's destruction: a portion of a dragonskin.’
Emerson turned a few pages and stopped at the image of a dragon with its tail coiled around a sword stuck upright in the ground. ‘Greatest and most wondrous of all the library’s treasures: a skin of a dragon,’ he read aloud from the short passage beside it, then he shut the book and looked at me.
‘Dragons were created from the highest, most potent form of magic. Of all magical creatures, they were the most powerful. Upon their death, a tiny portion of high magic lingers in their skin. Tiny it is, though it is still more powerful than all the lesser magic in all the realms. The skins were highly prized for this purpose, and they were used for spell casting, for words written upon them are imbued with magic. That skin brought from Alexandria was the last remaining in this world. All the riches in all the world were as withered leaves in comparison to that small slither of skin, but alas it has now been lost.'
I glanced at Emerson. The sorrow in his face was unmistakable.
'Eventually, some sixty years after Amosis' death, the dragonskin and his precious manuscripts made their way to England. So was the Guild of Gatekeepers founded, presided over by the first Keeper. Small wonder the Guild should find its home in England, a land with an already rich magical history, where fairies, pixies and other wild folk haunted the deep forests or lonely crags and hillsides, a land dotted with barrows, standing stones and sacred groves left behind by people with a deep understanding of and profound attachment to magic. These people were our forebears, and we, the Guild, have existed ever since the most ancient past. When the Viking invaders first landed on the shores of England, we were there. When William of Normandy defeated Harold Godwinson, and when the Magna Carta was signed at Runnymede, we were there. We have been waiting in the shadows from the very beginnings of English society.'
Emerson paused and sighed deeply. ''Tis a curious thing that the things we least understand we fear the most. So it was with magic. After the Banishment, memories of magic quickly faded, and it came to be considered evil out of fear. Those that preserved what was left of it were ostracised, even killed. Europe was entering its dark age: Rome had fragmented, disease and famine were rife, and kings of petty kingdoms made war with one another while knowledge, learning and beauty fell into decay. A climate of fear and suspicion bred hatred of all that could not be explained, and those that still preserved magic were blamed for the peoples' woes. They were rounded up and executed one by one for witchcraft. Europe was tearing itself apart and sliding backwards into forgetfulness.
'The gatekeepers looked on in dismay as the magic they had so carefully preserved since Amosis' day was gradually being lost, remembered only in the ancient manuscripts held in the Gatehouse library. Like so much of the remnants of magic that still lingered in the world, in order to survive the Guild had no choice but to retreat into the shadows. The secrecy under which we have operated since that time has rendered us undetectable and therefore unanswerable.'
Emerson paused and gave me a wry smile. 'Of course, secrecy can only do so much, and it requires wits and plain good sense to survive in these troubled times.'
I felt a little overwhelmed. None of Emerson's talk about libraries and history conveyed much to me, but the mention of dragons had piqued my curiosity. I had always thought of them as nothing more than the stuff of legends, even in spite of the image of St. George slaying the dragon depicted so vividly in the stained glass of the window in the vestry of the church of St. Osmund back home.
‘Sir, if the dragonskin was so precious, how did it come to be lost?’ I asked.
‘Alas, that remains a mystery,’ replied Emerson. ‘It would take a creature of pure magic to find the dragonskin now, if it even still exists. Before the Banishment, this world was inhabited by numerous magical beings and creatures besides dragons, but they have long gone. Only one now remains.'
'And what is that, sir?' I asked.
'The Shadow Horse,' he replied. 'Come and see.'
I peered over the book he had opened in front of him and gazed at the image on the page. It was a horse of the most marvellous sort, drawn by hand in coloured ink. Its coat was silver-grey, extending to the darkest shades of night in its mane and tail. Its wide nostrils blazed with white flames that swept around the long, graceful muzzle, and from its mane, white flames also streamed.
‘'Twas a creature both beautiful and terrible,’ said Emerson. ‘It could outrun even a falcon on the wing for days without rest on account of the fire that burnt within it. It was known to kill young dragons, such was its strength, yet the lightness of its tread and its ability to render itself almost invisible by night with its changing coat earned it the name of the Shadow Horse. The pure breeds have long since vanished from Earth; the last one lies enchanted upon White Horse Hill in the parish of Uffington. It escaped the Banishment and was put into an enchanted slumber by the founding Guild members, only to be awoken if the very survival of magic is in jeopardy. Thus, it appears as a figure cut into the chalk of the hill, but its mixed-blood descendants still roam the far northern wildernesses on the shores of the Arctic Sea. They have not the power of their ancestors yet still retain their wildness and ability to pass unseen at will. When a new initiate makes their pledge to the Guild, it is weighed against a single hair from the mane of the last true Shadow Horse. Those whose pledge is heavier than the hair are deemed to be untruthful and are put to death. You will see tomorrow when you take your pledge to the Guild.'
I gulped. I hadn't yet escaped the threat of imminent death it seemed. I gazed at the exquisite drawing before me. The image seemed to lift off the page and burn into my mind. It filled my vision as the horse galloped across the surface, its mane of flames streaming out behind it. I shuddered and forced myself to look away.
'Please, sir,' I asked. 'Why was I brought here? I meant to return the box to the cave.'
'You saw too much. The Guild has survived thus far solely on account of the secrecy it maintains. I saw you upon the beach, and you saw me though you did not realise it at the time. I could have killed you there and then, but I don't like to kill unless absolutely necessary, especially considering you were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time- or the right place at the right time as it may turn out. Only time will tell, I suspect.' He had a strange gleam in his eye as he spoke.
'Sir, what was in the box?' I asked, emboldened by Emerson's candidness.
'Private business I am conducting on behalf of the Keeper,' he replied brusquely. He shut the book and quickly replaced it on the shelf.
>
Chapter 7
'I will show you to your accommodation. Your initiation will be at dawn tomorrow. I shall discuss what will be required of you before then,’ said Emerson as he led me out of the library and back into the hall. Beneath one of the arches on the opposite side, he opened a door and showed me into a long dormitory furnished with rows of beds and a washstand below the window. Like all the rest of the windows in the building, it too was shuttered. On top of the washstand, an empty basin and jug for water had been left.
'You may stay here or go back into the library,' said Emerson. 'Do as you please, but I recommend you acquaint yourself with some of the books in the library.’
I nodded. Emerson stopped in the doorway.
'I will have food sent to you; you will be hungry after our journey, I expect. Use this time wisely. I will be back after sundown to discuss the initiation ceremony with you.'
With that, he left, shutting the door behind him. I perched on the end of one of the beds and looked about. An oil lamp sat in an alcove, but I could find neither tinder box or matches with which to light it. I was considering going back to the library when there came a knock on the door followed a moment later by a girl about my age who bobbed into the room holding a candle and a tray laden with bread, cheese and a mug of beer.
She was quite small and delicate-looking, with an angular face into which were set two round eyes of the clearest blue, but her complexion was that of one who is rarely outdoors. Her hair was tucked into a coif which was fastened beneath her chin, but a few flaxen wisps had escaped and framed her smiling face.
'Hello,' she said, setting the candle in the alcove and the tray on the edge of one of the beds. 'I'm Eliza Ellery. You must be Tom Wild.'
'Yes,' I replied. 'Are you here to be initiated too?'
Eliza laughed and sat down on the bed beside the tray, drawing her knees up under her chin. 'Oh no,' she said. 'My father is the weaver, and I am his apprentice. He is at market buying cloth and thread today. Here, you must be hungry.'
'What does he weave?' I asked, digging in eagerly.
'Has Emerson not explained?' asked Eliza.
'Explained what?' I asked with a mouthful of food.
'Oh well, I may as well tell you. They are scarcely likely to throw me in the labyrinth for it if they want to keep their apprentice weaver! Guild members are each assigned a discipline. The three senior members are assigned one of the high disciplines: alchemy and rituals, astronomy, and divination and illusions. Emerson is the Guild's alchemist and rituals master, a man named Clement Atwood the astronomer, and the Guild's only female full member is Bridget Blyth, the illusionist. She is a gifted artist and can bring her creations to life with magic.
'Besides those three, there are seven junior members: one for each of the seven mechanical arts. My father is the Vestarian, the weaver. He weaves all the Guild's textiles: cloaks that protect the wearer better than plate mail, dowsing threads- whatever is required. He is weaving a set of sails that will make the ship that bears them unsinkable. He is purchasing the sea silk that will be used to weave them today.'
'What do the other junior members do?' I asked, intrigued and thoroughly delighted to have encountered someone so forthcoming with information about the shadowy group I had found myself entangled with.
'Let me see,' said Eliza. 'There is the Metallician, or the iron magician, whose weapons are unbreakable and horseshoes never need replacing. The Venatorian studies hunting magic- do you know there are paintings in caves from thousands of years ago which were painted as part of magic spells to ensure a successful hunt?'
I shook my head.
'Then there is the Agriculturian; he mostly studies plants and herbs, and he grows everything needed for spells. I believe he's also dabbling in a bit of weather magic too.
'The last three are the Architecturian- the first Architecturian of the Guild built the labyrinth below this Gatehouse -the Coquinarian, who cooks all of our meals, and the Mercaturian. He used to trade for the Guild all over Europe and the East, but he died a few months ago and has never been replaced. I don't know why. I liked him; often he would allow me to watch him at work in his study. He was the best magician of all. He made spy lenses that could see around corners and magnify objects that were invisible to the naked eye, and he used to make the most wonderfully accurate watches, compasses and astrolabes for his travels. Far better than anything even the King's navigators possess! Touching on the King, Devere was his private magician until lately on account of this awful business with the war. I don't suppose Emerson told you that either?'
I shook my head. The more I learned, the more extraordinary the Guild of Gatekeepers seemed.
'Come,' said Eliza, jumping to her feet. 'I'll show you the weaving room.'
She led me back out into the hall and along the vaulted passageway.
'Eliza, what is the labyrinth? Both you and Emerson have spoken of it, and Emerson said I would meet my death there if I didn't become his successor.'
Eliza paused at the door she was about to open. 'It is a maze below the Gatehouse that is said to house an unknown terror. Members or initiates who break the Guild's code of secrecy, or anyone who falls foul of the Guild, is sent there to their death.'
'Does anyone know what the terror is?' I asked.
'The Keeper does, but no one else knows for sure. Some say it is a monstrous beast. Come, let me show you this!' said Eliza, evidently done with the conversation.
She pushed open the door and stepped aside. I glanced about at the workshop I now stood in. A weaving loom, spinning wheel and stool stood in the centre of the room, surrounded by baskets of un-spun flax, and from hooks in the ceiling hung several great swathes of cloth. Their threads shimmered with colours of every hue as they swayed softly in a barely perceptible draught. I gasped as Eliza held her candle aloft and realised the different cloths were in fact all one, though where the light of the candle shone upon it, it seemed to vanish, rendering the cloth invisible.
'It is an optics shroud,' said Eliza. 'It works by reflecting the light around it to make whatever it covers appear almost invisible.' She placed her hand beneath it, and at once both it and the shroud disappeared, leaving behind only a faint impression that shimmered slightly in the candlelight. I stepped forward for a closer look, but I dared not touch the cloth.
'It works better in natural light,' she said.
'Does it work at night?' I asked.
'Only by moonlight, though the effect is not as good as by day,' replied Eliza. 'You can see even by candlelight it does not render the thing it covers completely invisible. Likewise, by night it leaves only a faint, ghostly impression rather than producing full invisibility.'
'Is it real?' I asked. 'I mean.... the magic- is it really just a trick?'
'No, it’s not a trick,' replied Eliza, 'but I suppose magic is the wrong word for it. All of the mechanical disciplines of magic were practised thousands, even hundreds of years ago. It is only because people have forgotten and therefore don't understand it now that it seems magical.'
'What is that?' I asked, suddenly distracted by the scent of a summer garden which came wafting through the room.
'Oh, that is just something I made. I embroidered some of the threads my father had finished with,' replied Eliza, lifting a small square sampler out of a sewing basket to show me. Upon it, she had embroidered rows of roses, lavenders and daisies.
I lifted the cloth to my nose and sniffed.
'How does it work?' I asked, bewildered.
'Magic!' Eliza grinned. ‘Come, I'll introduce you to the other junior members. I’m afraid the senior members will be holed up with the Keeper for hours yet.'
'What about Emerson? He said I should use this time to study in the library'
'Never mind that,' replied Eliza. 'I’ll take you back to the library afterwards. Follow me.'
Chapter 8
Eliza led me back into the passageway and stopped before the next door along. She knocked, but there was
no answer.
'This is the Venatorian's workshop,' she said, opening the door and standing aside to let me pass.
'Should we be here while he is gone?' I asked.
'He is rarely in his workshop,' replied Eliza. 'His is not the sort of magic one can practice indoors. He is more often away in Epping Forest hunting.'
My eyes scanned the room before me and settled upon a shelf heaving with jars filled with pickled heads, some vaguely human in appearance, others unlike any beast I had ever heard told of. I shrank back and almost tripped over my feet as I made for the door. Eliza laughed.
‘Don’t worry, they’re long dead. They are the heads of all the monsters every Venatorian in the Guild’s history has caught.’
I grimaced, embarrassed to have taken fright in front of Eliza. Anxious not to let her think me a coward, I strode towards a table where an array of books lay open beside a brass bugle. Along the wall above, a rack was furnished with pistols, spears and bows, and an array of knives. It was an unnerving sight in a room I wasn't certain I should be in. Nonetheless, the topmost book on the pile had caught my attention with its richly illustrated pages. I leaned over to admire the image of a group of men upon horseback riding alongside a pack of hounds. The foremost man held a bugle to his mouth, and in the trees ahead, a hart stopped in its flight and turned its head to listen to the sound.
''Tis said no animal can resist the sound of that bugle,' said Eliza, joining me at the table. 'The Venatorian enchanted it to hypnotise any beast he pursues.'
'Does he still hunt monsters?' I asked.
'No, there are few left in the world now. He mostly hunts game or treasure and even enemies of the Guild if the Keeper orders him to. That is a more specialised sort of magic, but he is excellent at it. He could track a mouse from London to York on a week-old trail.’
A Skin of a Dragon (The Guild of Gatekeepers Book 1) Page 3
