Gareth looked closely at the Queen’s litter, for that was where Dagnarus usually rode, alongside his mother. The prince’s accustomed place was vacant, however, and Gareth was worried for fear that perhaps the prince had taken it into his head to refuse to attend. Then the cheers (halfhearted) that had greeted Her Majesty died away, replaced by a murmur and a soft sighing among the crowd.
Dagnarus walked behind his mother’s litter, keeping a good distance back of it, keeping another good distance between himself and the King’s retinue, which was following along behind. The prince walked alone on the rose-strewn road, waving his hand graciously to the crowd. His red hair shone like fire in the sun and would have sent the orken running, had any been there to observe it. He walked tall and straight and he was so regal for his age and so beautiful that the women cooed over him like doves.
Behind the prince rode the five Dominion Lords, each on a magnificent steed. Their armor—different for each lord and representing something of the character of the lord—was polished silver and gleamed in the sunshine so that it was almost painful to look upon their brilliance.
The Dominion Lords escorted Helmos’s horse, riderless, which was led by one of the prince’s knights. The sight gave Gareth a pang, for a riderless horse is always present in a soldier’s funeral procession, and he feared for a terrifying moment that something had happened to Helmos. Logic prevailed. It occurred to the boy that if such had been the case, the horse would have been draped in black, whereas for this parade the horse was garlanded in flowers, destined to bear his rider in triumph when the ceremony was concluded.
As for Helmos, he was inside the Temple, kept in sacred isolation, his time spent in prayer for the ceremony to come.
Following along after Helmos’s horse were the King’s Knights, twenty of them, in full regalia, riding matching black steeds and carrying their shields.
And then the cheers mounted until they must have deafened the gods.
King Tamaros appeared, riding in a chariot of gold and silver, drawn by four white horses. He drove the chariot himself, handling the warhorses with skill and ease. He was nearly lost to view in a blizzard of spring blossoms thrown by the crowd for luck. Crushed flowers were inches deep after he had passed; their perfume lingered in the air for days after.
Tamaros dismounted his chariot at the Temple stairs. The magi lined the stairs and bowed as he passed. Queen Emillia greeted him prettily with a kiss, which pleased the crowd. Dagnarus bowed to his father, which pleased the crowd still more. The Most Revered High Magus escorted the royal family into the Temple. The Dominion Lords followed, and the rest of the crowd came after in descending order. There were so many people that Gareth worried he might not get a seat, but his father said that seats were reserved for them and that there would be room even for some carefully selected common people to view the ceremony.
At last Gareth made his way into the Temple. Walking out of the bright, warm sunlight into dark, cool shadow, he was temporarily blinded and even slightly chilled, for he had been sweating beneath his heavy clothes and, in the coolness, the perspiration set him to shivering. Outside he had experienced the joy and excitement of the parade. Inside, all was quiet. The noise of the crowd was shut out when the great doors boomed closed, and he was forcibly reminded of the solemnity and gravity of the ceremony. The people around him were solemn and hushed; if they spoke at all it was only in whispers. He felt nervous, subdued, stifled.
The story of the Lord of Ghosts came to Gareth’s mind, and he glanced about fearfully, wondering if she were in attendance.
The ceremony of Transfiguration of a Dominion Lord took place in the great amphitheater of the Temple of the Magi. This was the first time Gareth had been inside the amphitheater, and he was overcome with awe and wonder. The theater was built to resemble a compass, with each of the four cardinal points being dedicated to the element it represented. North was Earth, the most important to the humans, for all human magic flowed from that source. The altar to the gods stood at the north end of the theater.
People moved quickly to take their places, stumbling over each other in the semidarkness, with whispered apologies. The gaiety of the parade still lingered with some; Gareth heard smothered laughter among the nobility; while the gallery that held the common people was alive with excitement—exclamations of awe, wonder, and good-natured grumbles as they jostled for a better view. But eventually the reverent atmosphere of the Temple’s interior, enhanced by the beneficent faces of the gods gazing down upon them all, began to affect the crowd. People hushed and fell silent.
Queen Emillia and Dagnarus entered, escorted by His Majesty’s knights. They took places of honor in the very front row of seats, facing the altar, which was raised on a stage.
Gareth stood up to catch a glimpse of Dagnarus. The prince looked pale and unusually solemn; the reverential nature of this ceremony had finally impressed him. His head lifted when he felt the eyes of the crowd upon him; as he gazed out upon that sea of expectant faces with calm dignity, murmurs of admiration rippled through the audience. Gareth’s mother twitched at his tunic, told him to sit down and behave himself. Gareth sat down reluctantly, but he discovered that by scooting over close to his mother and peering out between the shoulders of the people in front of him, he had a good view of the prince.
The ten High Magi and the Most Revered High Magus filed in and took their places on the stage in high-backed carved wooden chairs ranged alongside the altar, five on either side, facing the audience. Then came the Dominion Lords, who formed a guard of honor around the altar. Last entered King Tamaros. He sat on one side of the altar, opposite the Most Revered High Magus.
All was in readiness. The crowd was silent. No person coughed, no child whimpered. The High Magus, who was then the great wizard, Reinholt of Amrah’Lin, rose to his feet. He bowed to King Tamaros, then spoke in low, solemn tones.
“Let the candidate be brought forward.”
Two Dominion Lords left their posts and walked to a back alcove, shrouded in deep shadow.
A door opened, emitting a bar of light. Silhouetted against the light was Helmos, a figure of darkness. He didn’t remain in darkness long, for the light of the candles on the altar illuminated him as he took a step forward. The Dominion Lords shut the door behind him. That door led to the interior of the Temple, where Helmos had completed his Seven Preparations and spent the night in the sacred Portal of the Gods.
Helmos came forward and the crowd breathed a sigh, all of the people as one.
He had always been comely, but his days of prayer and now the prospect of the completion of this honor, which had been his one goal since he could first speak of it, made him radiant. Clad in plain white robes, he shone with an inner light that seemed to lift the oppressive darkness of the Temple’s interior and bring the sun among them. Helmos was not excited, he was not afraid. He was not among the people at all, but was walking with the gods. He had no more knowledge the people were there than if they had all been as small as the rats that lived in the Temple and had been displaced at the crowd’s arrival and could be heard (and occasionally felt) scrambling to find their holes.
His honor guard escorted Helmos to a place before the altar, a marble edifice devoid of decoration, covered now with a white cloth of finest linen, which had been sewn by his mother during her lying-in, in anticipation of this glorious day. As he came to stand before the altar, Helmos reached out his hands. Clasping his father’s hand in his right, Helmos placed his left hand upon the cloth. Both his parents were with him in that moment.
Gareth’s mother found and held his hand tightly. She was weeping silently, as was nearly everyone in the theater. His father wiped his eyes and put his arm around his wife and child. They were more a family in that instant than they ever were before or after.
King Tamaros bowed his head, quite overcome.
Queen Emillia gave a loud, gushy sob and clutched at Dagnarus. He sat bolt upright, rigid, refusing to look at her or acknowledge her.
His face was pinched, his gaze fixed on his brother. Gareth could tell that the prince’s very soul was consumed with envy.
Helmos lifted his head. He stepped back from the altar.
“I am ready, Most Revered High Magus,” he said.
Two Dominion Lords came forward, removed the white cloth from the altar, and reverentially folded it and handed it to one of the magi to hold. The High Magus sat down in a chair placed behind the altar. Two of the magi brought forth a scroll of fine vellum, wrapped around rods of solid gold. Unrolling the vellum, they spread it out before the High Magus. He was given a brush and a small jar of lamb’s blood. He dipped the brush in the ink and held it on the parchment. When the time came, the High Magus would be imbued with the presence of the gods and would write down upon the parchment the title Helmos would take as Dominion Lord, whether it be Lord of Chivalry, Lord of Justice, or whatever the gods chose for him.
The High Magus being ready, he said, “Let the Miracle of Transfiguration commence.”
Helmos knelt before the altar. King Tamaros came forward, rested both hands upon his son’s bowed head, and called for the gods to bless this man and grant to him the wisdom and the power accorded to a Dominion Lord. In return Tamaros asked Helmos if he was willing to dedicate his life to the service of others, willing to sacrifice his life if need arose.
“The gods please, I am,” Helmos replied simply.
Tamaros stepped back from the altar.
Helmos turned and faced the audience. His eyes gazed straight ahead into the smoke-tinged darkness of the amphitheater. Where his soul looked, no one knew. Crossing his hands over his breast, he waited.
People stared in rapt fascination. Gareth held his breath, for fear that even a small involuntary movement on his part must have a negative effect. He had heard descriptions of the Miracle, but no one and nothing had prepared him for what he was to witness. It is doubtful if anything could have.
“The Miracle of the Armor commences,” the High Magus announced.
A spasm of pain contorted Helmos’s face.
“What’s happening?” Gareth whispered frantically, sliding from side to side on the bench, trying desperately to see.
“His feet,” said his father in a voice his son didn’t recognize. “Look at his feet, Gareth.”
Helmos’s bare feet and legs were as white as the marble of the altar. Or rather, they were marble. He was being turned to stone.
A shudder shivered through the boy. “It’s killing him!” Gareth whimpered.
“No,” said his father. “This is the Miracle.”
“Don’t look, Gareth!” his mother hissed urgently. She held her hands over her eyes, but he noticed that she was peeping out through her fingers.
Gareth wanted to close his eyes, for the sight of Helmos’s agony was terrible. But he kept them open, as a tribute to his hero. If Helmos could endure this pain, the child could endure the pain of watching him suffer.
Gasps and murmurs and one loud, awestruck, “Gods help him!” from the commons’ gallery swept through the crowd.
Gareth shifted his gaze from Helmos for only a moment, and that was to look at Dagnarus.
He was very pale; his eyes were round, but wide-open. He sat very still.
Helmos kept his eyes on his father the entire time, drawing strength from love. Tamaros did not flinch, or cast down his gaze. He smiled at his son reassuringly, his faith in the gods unshaken, and gave his son the support he needed to endure the agony. The Transfiguration was swift, thank the gods. It was over in less than a minute, though it seemed to Gareth to take several lifetimes.
The body of the young man was white marble beneath the cloth robe, stone cold, rigid, immovable. Thus appear the carven figures of the kings and queens, the noble knights and lady wives, and honored magi which adorn the coffins that rest in the Hall of Eternity, far beneath the Temple.
The stone eyes remained fixed on Tamaros. Helmos’s last sight was that of his father’s loving face, still smiling, though streaked with tears.
Rising to his feet, Tamaros walked over and laid his hand upon the cold edifice that had been his son.
“Oh, gods of Earth and Sea, Fire and Air, bless this, thy servant.”
Tamaros stepped back.
The stone figure of Helmos began to glow; orange at first, then red as molten magma. The light illuminated the Temple. The heat from the stone figure radiated outward until some in the first rows were forced to avert their faces.
Not Dagnarus. He had not moved since the ceremony began. His lips were slightly parted, drinking in all he saw, making it a part of his very being.
The light given off by the stone grew increasingly bright. Now it shone with a blue-white brilliance that was painful to the eyes. Gareth blinked constantly, wiped away tears, but continued to watch.
The white-hot rock began to alter shape.
As a smith makes armor from only the finest, strongest metal, so the gods make the armor of a Dominion Lord from the finest and strongest within the candidate. The armor of a Dominion Lord comes from the heart and from the soul. The gods give the armor physical form, using what is within the body to shield the body. From that moment on, the Dominion Lord has only to call upon the armor to protect him and it will do so.
The armor is magical, a gift from the gods, and therefore invulnerable, impervious to attack from ordinary weapons. The armor of each Dominion Lord is different and unique from the armor of any other Dominion Lord, for the armor is forged from the different strengths of each person.
“Forged from the strengths, it protects the weakest parts until those can be transformed into strengths,” was how Evaristo later explained it.
The radiance was like the sun’s reflection shining from a thousand mirrors and so dazzled the eyes that the audience was effectively blinded. Gareth was forced to close his eyes, but the light continued to beam through the lids; he saw it shine yellow, through a red web of his own blood vessels.
And then the light died. And then he could see.
The Miracle of the Armor was complete. A helm of wondrous beauty covered Helmos’s head. The sides of the helm were formed in the shape of the silver wings of a swan, the crest of the helm was the graceful swan’s neck and proud head.
Helmos’s hand moved, lifted to his face. A collective sigh breathed through the audience, for this was a sign—the first sign—that he was alive. Tamaros was the only one of all those in attendance who did not appear vastly relieved. His faith had never wavered.
Helmos raised the visor of his shining helm, revealing his face, a face imbued with awe. As he slowly descended from whatever blessed realm he had traversed and became aware of his return to more mundane surroundings, he saw his father, whose face was suffused with pride. The son’s awe melted into joy.
The two clasped hands. The audience, tension eased, gave a thunderous cheer, which reverberated off the high-domed ceiling, shook the walls, caused the candles to flicker, and boomed against the altar with the force of a tidal wave.
King Tamaros presented Helmos to the people, who responded with another deafening roar. Gareth clapped until his hands stung; his father shouted himself hoarse, and his mother waved her handkerchief as did all the ladies, making it seem as if a flock of white birds were fluttering through the Temple.
King Tamaros raised his hand, and the cheering ceased. The people settled back down into their seats, for the second part of the ceremony was about to commence. The King and Helmos both turned to face the altar, where sat the High Magus. He had not joined in the celebration; nor had any of the other magi, being intent upon their communion with the gods.
The High Magus sat with eyes closed. The audience rustled and shuffled, coughed and whispered, and eventually lapsed once more into reverential silence—a silence that was slightly tinged with impatience—for the main spectacle was over. This was only the formal presentation of the title, which most had determined would be Lord of Justice. Everyone was eager to move on to the many parties
being held in the new Dominion Lord’s honor.
The High Magus, his eyes tightly closed, stretched forth his hand. One of the other magi assisted the High Magus to dip the brush into the lamb’s blood. The High Magus put the brush to the vellum. Holding his hand still, he allowed the gods to guide it. Gareth could see red letters flow from the brush, but he was too far away to read them; nor could he have read them, since from the child’s vantage point, the writing was upside down. But he saw and everyone watching saw the magi who had assisted the High Magus stare at the words written in blood, give a perceptible start, and take an involuntary step backward.
The other magi now craned their heads to see, and they appeared shocked and troubled, looked to each other or to the King. Tamaros’s position was much like Gareth’s; he was viewing the words from the top down and could not make out what they were. He felt and saw the unease of the magi. All of the audience could sense it, and began to murmur in doubt and foreboding. King Tamaros stolidly kept his place at the head of the altar, standing beside his son, though he must have longed to rush around and see for himself what had everyone so upset.
The High Magus was completely unconscious that he was writing anything disturbing. He opened his eyes, smiled at King Tamaros and at Helmos and then, quite confidently, looked down at the vellum. His own astonishment and shock were evident to every person in the Hall. There are some who whispered later that he must have known what he was writing; some even went so far as to say that he wrote what he did on purpose, that it was politically motivated.
“If so, then he must be a consummate actor,” a bitter Evaristo told Gareth later. “Even to the point of causing his complexion to drain of blood, for he went so pale that if the Lord of Ghosts was truly in attendance, she must have thought she had discovered a companion.”
Well of Darkness Page 12
