It was a moving experience, made all the more memorable by the company he was keeping. Once the meal was over and the gathering had begun to mingle and separate into smaller groups, Luther had made a special effort to seek him out.
Evidently, he thought it important that Zahariel should properly enjoy the celebrations.
‘Yes, your face,’ said Luther, still laughing.
Sar Luther had a good humour to him that immediately put Zahariel at ease. ‘Really, it’s a shame you couldn’t see it for yourself. At first, when you were grabbed, you looked like you thought they were going to kill you. Then, when you realised what was really going on, I swear you looked even more frightened. At one stage, I thought you were about to piss your robes. Probably a good thing you didn’t though, considering you were in mid-air at the time.’
‘It was just… it caught me by surprise,’ said Zahariel. ‘I didn’t think—’
‘What? That we’d have a sense of humour?’ chuckled Luther.
He put a hand to his eyes as though wiping away tears of laughter. ‘No, well, people don’t. That’s what makes it so funny. By the way, you know I wasn’t joking when I called it a tradition. Granted, it’s not the kind you’d hear tell about from your masters or from Lord Cypher. But in many ways, the business of throwing the new initiate into the air like that is as much a tradition as anything else we’ve put you through over the years. We call it the “invisible springboard”. Think of it as an antidote to the dour seriousness of the initiation ceremony. It’s how we welcome you to the family.’
‘The family?’
‘The Order,’ explained Luther. ‘Do you remember what Lord Cypher said during your first initiation ceremony? We are brothers, every one of us, and brothers don’t spend all their time sitting around looking po-faced or bemoaning the hardships of the world. Sometimes, we need to blow off steam. We laugh, we joke, we play pranks on each other. We do the things real brothers do. Look around this room, Zahariel. Any man in here would be willing to die for you, and they’d expect you to be willing to do the same for them. Caliban is a dangerous place, and any of us could be called upon to make the ultimate sacrifice for his brothers. That doesn’t mean we can’t all laugh together at times. It helps to keep us sane. We all like a joke.’
‘Even him?’ Zahariel asked, glancing over at Lion El’Ionson standing head-and-shoulders above the other knights around him. There was a brooding sense of aloofness about the Lion that seemed more pronounced when he was seen from a distance. Zahariel remembered the conversation he had passed with the Lion atop the fortress tower, and the sense of isolation was curiously more palpable when the Lion was surrounded by people.
‘No, you have me there,’ Luther said. ‘My brother is a man alone. It has always been that way with him. It is not that he lacks a sense of humour. If anything, the reverse is true. You must remember that he is as much a genius as he is a great warrior. His mind is a subtle and complex instrument, and his humour is shaped by the same brilliance he exhibits in everything else he does. When my brother makes jokes, no one understands them. He tends to pitch them too high for us rough-house types. They go over our heads.’
A look of sadness briefly passed across Luther’s face as he gazed at the Lion. Spotting it, Zahariel felt as if he had inadvertently intruded into a private sorrow. It made him more acutely aware of the strength of the bond between the Lion and Luther, an emotional attachment that reminded him of his bond with Nemiel.
It was clear that Luther was a remarkable man, perhaps more so even than most people gave him credit for. He possessed phenomenal talent in a number of fields, not least as a leader, a warrior and a huntsman. With the exception of Lion El’Jonson, Luther had completed quests against more great beasts than any man in Caliban’s history.
In any other era, Luther would probably have been acclaimed as the greatest hero of his age. He was a tireless champion of the people of Caliban, marked out as much by his inner qualities of humour and cool thoughtfulness in times of crisis as he was by the valour of his deeds. It had been Luther’s tragedy to be born in the same era as a man against whom all his endeavours would be judged and forever found wanting in comparison. From the day he had encountered Jonson in the forest and decided to bring him to civilisation, Luther had sounded the death-knell of his own legend.
From that point on, he had been condemned to live in the Lion’s shadow.
To Zahariel’s mind, it spoke even more highly of Luther that his affection for the Lion seemed genuine and unforced. Many a man in his situation might have been tempted to succumb to jealousy and begun to resent Jonson’s achievements. Not Luther, he was not of that ilk.
With true brotherly devotion, he had turned all his energies to ensuring that the Lion’s schemes met with every success. Luther was as much responsible for the campaign against the great beasts as Jonson, but as the campaign drew to a close it was not Luther who was receiving all the plaudits, but Jonson.
Zahariel could sense no bitterness in the man, for Luther had evidently accepted that his role in history was to be the bridesmaid to his brother’s triumphs.
‘My brother is a gifted man,’ said Luther, his eyes still on the Lion. ‘I suspect there has never been any other man like him. Certainly, no one alive today can match the range of his accomplishments. Did you know he is an excellent mimic?’
‘The Lion? No, I didn’t know that.’
‘He can imitate the sound of any animal on Caliban, from the hunting cry of a raptor to the mating call of a serynx. He also has a wonderful singing voice. He knows all the old songs, the folk melodies of Caliban. If you heard him sing Forests of My Fathers it would bring tears to your eyes, I promise you. As far as I know he has never tried to create original musical works of his own, but you can be sure if he did the results would be inspiring. My brother excels at whatever he turns his hands to, that is his tragedy.’
‘His tragedy?’ asked Zahariel, wrong-footed for a moment. ‘How is it a tragedy to be good at everything?’
‘Perhaps tragedy is too strong a word for it,’ Luther shrugged as he turned back towards Zahariel, ‘but you must remember that my brother is unique. He never speaks of his origins: they are as much a source of mystery to him as they are to everyone else. One might almost think of him as some god or demi-god fallen to earth, rather than a man born of woman like the rest of us. My brother is set apart through no fault of his own. His intelligence is so dazzling, so extraordinary, there are times when even I cannot follow his line of reasoning, and I have known him for years, long enough to grow accustomed to his thought processes.
‘Think how boring it must be for him,’ continued Luther. ‘Don’t misunderstand me: my brother loves Caliban and he loves the Order. But sometimes it must feel to him like he is a giant in a land of pygmies, both physically and mentally. Lord Cypher says that intellectual stimulation is based on the free discourse of ideas between equals, but my brother has no equals, not on Caliban. Here, in the Order, we give him an outlet for his energies. We give him camaraderie and a sense of purpose. We give him our devotion. We would follow him unto death, but these things are not enough in a man’s life. Even surrounded by friends and followers on all sides, my brother is still lonely. There is no one on Caliban like him. He is the loneliest man in the world.’
‘I never thought of it that way before,’ said Zahariel.
‘You probably shouldn’t think of it again,’ said Luther with a shake of his head. He raised the wine goblet in his hand and sniffed at it in mock appraisal. ‘Listen to me, it is a celebration and somehow I manage to make it mournful. I shall have to have words with the Order’s master vintner about the wines he serves at these functions. This one certainly inclines men to pensiveness where they should be jolly. To compound its flaws, it also leaves behind a vinegary aftertaste. And to think, when I came over here to talk to you, my only intention was to apologise for playing the devil.’ ‘Playing the devil?’
‘When you first joined the Order
and you were originally initiated,’ said Luther. ‘It is part of the ritual. You are asked questions by three different interrogators. One of the interrogators is given the task of trying to undermine and belittle the candidate for knighthood. He is expected to find fault with anything the candidate may decide to say or do. The negative interrogator is called “the devil”. It’s all symbolic of course, based on some old superstition. Lord Cypher could probably tell you more about it. I just wanted you to know that there was nothing personal in the fact that I played the devil at your ceremony. It is a ritual role, that’s all. It is chosen by lots, so it was sheer chance I happened to be called upon to do it. I never had any doubts about your abilities. I suspect you will go on to be one of our best and brightest.’
Luther extended a hand to clasp Zahariel’s forearm just below the elbow and Zahariel did likewise. It was a traditional gesture of friendship on Caliban.
‘I congratulate you, Sar Zahariel,’ he said, gazing over Zahariel’s shoulder at the knights around them. ‘I suppose I should take a stroll around the room. There are several other knights I need to see.’
Luther turned away, only to glance back at Zahariel before he went.
‘Oh, and Zahariel, if you ever need advice you know where to come. Feel free to call on me at any time. If you have a problem I will always listen.’
NEMIEL HAD ALREADY spoken to Zahariel that night, as had Master Ramiel. Nemiel seemed thrilled that his cousin had finally become one of the Order’s knights.
Having no great head for alcohol, Zahariel had sipped sparingly at his wine, but Nemiel had indulged his thirst more liberally.
Apparently, while Zahariel had hunted the Beast of Endriago, Nemiel had requested a beast hunt of his own. As if to prove that their competitive games were as alive as ever, Nemiel had returned to Aldurukh barely a week before Zahariel.
He was slurring his words by the time they were able to have a proper conversation, his friend holding forth with grandiose visions of both their futures.
‘You’ve made your mark already, cousin,’ said Nemiel, breathing out wine fumes as he swayed unsteadily on his feet, ‘we both have. We’ve proved we’ve got what it takes. This is only the beginning. One day, we’ll rise as high in the Order as it’s possible to go. We’ll be like the Lion and Luther, you and me. We are brothers in all of this, and we will re-make our world together.’
Master Ramiel had been more circumspect. As ever, Zahariel found it difficult to read his master’s face. After Nemiel had staggered away to slump into a nearby chair and fall asleep, Ramiel had come to offer further congratulations to his former student.
‘Sar Zahariel,’ his master said. ‘It has a pleasing ring to it. Remember, though, it is when a man has been made a knight that the hard work begins. Until this point, you were only a boy who wanted to be a knight and a man. Now, you will learn just how heavy both those burdens can be.’
Ramiel said nothing more and excused himself, leaving Zahariel to ponder the meaning of his words.
Zahariel wondered what his mentor had meant, recognising a sense of restlessness within him, something different from any subtle disquiet his master’s words had caused him.
Having devoted so many of his energies for so long towards becoming a knight, he felt a rumbling sense of discontent, a feeling of being incomplete.
He had achieved the ambition of his boyhood.
What new ambition would he find to guide his life?
LATER IN THE evening Zahariel found himself in conversation with Lord Cypher, the old man similarly in his cups and waxing lyrical on the subject of the various ranks and positions within the Order.
What had begun as a conversation on the solemn vows he would go on to swear as a knight had evolved, largely by the artifice of Lord Cypher, into a discussion of the upper hierarchy of the Order and his position within it.
‘Of course, that is why some think Ramiel will be made the new Lord Cypher when Jonson ascends to become Grand Master.’
‘I thought it was only rumour,’ said Zahariel, ‘about the Lion being made Grand Master, I mean. I didn’t think it had been confirmed?’
‘Eh?’ said Lord Cypher staring blankly at him in confusion. Eventually, after a pause of a few seconds, understanding dawned on his face. ‘Ah, I may have been too loose with my secrets, really, an unforgivable mistake for a man in my position.’
Lord Cypher sighed. ‘I must be getting older than I thought. Still, there’s no making a young man forget something once he’s heard it. Yes, you’re right. It hasn’t been confirmed, but the decision has been made, we just haven’t announced it yet. Jonson will be the new Grand Master and Luther will be his second-in-command. As for me, I shall be retiring from my duties in a couple of days. Then, it will be down to Jonson to choose my successor. Really, I have no idea who he’ll pick, but Master Ramiel would be a good candidate, don’t you think?’
‘Very much so,’ nodded Zahariel. ‘I think he would make a fine Lord Cypher.’
‘Yes, he would. That opinion is for your ears only, Zahariel, as is everything else I have just said. Don’t compound the dual faults of an old man’s memory and a slip of the tongue by telling everyone about it. It would only embarrass me, and make the Order’s hierarchy think they should have got rid of me a long time ago. Can I rely on your good intentions in this?’
‘Absolutely. You have my word that I will never repeat this conversation to anyone.’
‘Excellent,’ said Lord Cypher. ‘I am glad to see you understand the value of discretion.’
He gazed around for long seconds, his failing eyes taking in the scene of knights enjoying wine and conversation with each other. Then, without warning, the Lord Cypher turned away to leave the gathering.
Unaccountably, Zahariel was put in mind of an old bear shuffling into the forest to die.
‘The Order is in good hands,’ said Lord Cypher, offering the words as a parting shot over his shoulder as he moved away. ‘Between men like Jonson, Luther, Master Ramiel, and even youngsters like you, I am confident it will continue to thrive in the decades ahead. I doubt I will live to see it, but I am content all the same. It is time for one generation to give way to the next, as is the way of things. I have no fear for the future.’
IT WAS THE last time Zahariel would ever speak to the man who had been Lord Cypher at the time he joined the Order. For that matter, it was the last time he would ever see him.
In a few days’ time, a quest would be declared against another beast in the Northwilds in the vicinity of a settlement named Bradin. Having retired from his duties, the ex-Lord Cypher would petition the Order’s hierarchy to be allowed to take on the quest. They would accede to his request and the old man would ride quietly from Aldurukh early one morning while most of the fortress was still sleeping.
He would never be seen again.
Some would claim the beast he was hunting had killed him: others would say he had more likely been brought down by a pack of raptors before reaching the Northwilds.
The truth would never be known, but in the wake of his disappearance a place of honour would be set aside for him in the catacombs beneath Aldurukh. It was a small space, a rocky shelf no more than a third of a metre wide and half a metre tall, large enough to hold an urn full of ashes or some of the old man’s bones if his body were ever found.
His name would also be carved into the rock by the Order’s stonemasons.
This was the shape of days to come. Zahariel could not know what would happen in the future, any more than he could know he would never see the Lord Cypher, or rather, this particular Lord Cypher again.
Another individual would wear that title in the Order, and his true character would always be a mystery.
It was all a matter of the future.
For the moment, as the knights of the Order drank and celebrated together, the only thing left to complete Zahariel’s ascension to knighthood was to have his status confirmed by the Lion.
‘IT HAS BEEN a mome
ntous night for both of us,’ said Lion El’Jonson. ‘You have become a knight, and I have learned I am about to become its new Grand Master.’
‘Our Grand Master?’ asked Zahariel. Mindful of the promise he had made to Lord Cypher earlier, and shocked that Jonson would even consider mentioning such a thing to him when the news was not yet common currency, Zahariel was lost for words. ‘I… ah… congratulations.’
‘Don’t act so surprised, Zahariel,’ said Jonson.
His tone was neither chiding nor unkind as he steered Zahariel away from the gathered knights towards a secluded corner of the great hall. Firelight and shadows played across the great warrior’s face, and Zahariel realised with a start that he doubted whether he had ever seen the Lion in daylight or without the refuge of shadows close by.
The revelries were dying down as the wine did its work, and as the Lion had approached him, Zahariel knew his part in the festivities was almost concluded.
‘Let’s not pretend you don’t know it already,’ said the Lion. ‘I couldn’t help but catch some of your conversation with Lord Cypher earlier. I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but my senses are sharp, especially my hearing, almost preternaturally so. I heard Lord Cypher’s slip of the tongue. I know that you know I am to be made Grand Master.’
‘I am sorry,’ said Zahariel, bowing his head. ‘My finding out about it was entirely accidental. I assure you, I won’t repeat it to any—’
‘It’s all right, Zahariel,’ said Jonson, holding a hand up to silence him. ‘I trust your discretion and I realise you were in no way at fault. Besides which, it is already the worst-kept secret on Caliban. People tend to forget how good my hearing is. I have heard my impending promotion discussed by at least three dozen different people in the last few days, all when they think I am out of earshot.’
Descent of Angels Page 14
