The logical part of Gareth knew that believing in orken omens was tantamount to believing in such silly superstitions as avoiding black cats and expecting money when your palm itched. But the part of him that always tossed spilled salt over his left shoulder took hope. If the omens had been bad, the orken would not have come. Therefore, the omens for Dagnarus’s Transfiguration must be good!
Lethargic from the heat, the procession crawled toward the temple. Gareth entered the shaded portico thankfully, mopping sweat from his face with the sleeve of his robe when no one was looking. He and the other members of the prince’s household took seats of honor in the very front row of the vast and echoing auditorium. Silwyth left to go pay his homage at the elven altar.
Conscious of their importance, the nobility settled into their seats with quiet dignity. The chamberlain had asked them to maintain a proper and respectful silence, in the hope that this would influence the rest of the crowd. The hope was a forlorn one. Excited by the parade and the prospect of the ceremony, the common people—though somewhat subdued by the reverential atmosphere as they entered the Temple—took their seats in the gallery with much talking and the occasional smothered laugh.
Gareth was thankful that he wasn’t obliged to speak to Silwyth or anyone. The faces of the gods represented above the altar seemed to stare down at him in reprobation. He told himself this was nonsense, as silly as believing in orken omens. He tried not to look at them, but his gaze was drawn in their direction, and every time he glanced up he found them staring sternly back. He squirmed in his chair until his neighbor—the prince’s cupbearer—frowned at him and shook his head.
Silwyth returned and took his seat. The elf, whose face was generally expressionless, looked unusually grim.
“What?” Gareth whispered, plucking at the sleeve of Silwyth’s ceremonial robes. “What is wrong?”
Silwyth barely glanced at him.
“Tell me!” Gareth insisted, a prey now to wild terror.
Silwyth’s lips compressed, as if he were bracing himself. Then he said, very softly, in elven, “My offering was rejected.”
Gareth stared at the elf, appalled. He wanted to speak, to question further, but he lacked the power.
“It is not a bad sign for His Highness,” Silwyth said, his voice tight. “The bad sign is for me. I must think what this means.”
“What does it mean?” Gareth demanded, but Silwyth had withdrawn into himself and would say no more.
Gareth huddled in his seat, dismayed; so frightened that he was physically ill. He looked up at the awful figures above the altar and cowered beneath them.
Bowing his head, hoping to avoid that terrible gaze, he prayed, the first prayer he had made to the gods from his heart since he was ten. “If the prince dies, punish me as well, for I am as guilty as he!”
The crowd was eventually settled. The ten High Magi filed in, to take places of honor upon the stage in the ten high-backed wooden chairs provided.
It would not be long now.
Gareth’s hands were icy cold; his fingers had lost all sensation. He chafed them and, as he did so, he felt the back of his neck along the upper part of his spine start to tingle with the feeling that someone was watching him. He turned around, searching behind him, and saw no one. Then he looked to his right and his eyes met the wide and frightened eyes of the Lady Valura.
She was seated on the other side of the aisle from him, but also in the front row, for her husband was a Dominion Lord and would be participating in the ceremony. She was extraordinarily pale, so pale that one of her servants was gently fanning her. Valura’s hand was wrapped tightly about the necklace she wore, the turquoise stone given her by Dagnarus. Oblivious to her ladies, to the crowd around her, to her husband, who was taking his place with the other Dominion Lords near the altar, Valura gazed intently at Gareth. So eloquent were her beautiful eyes that he understood her as well as if she had shouted. She was asking him for reassurance.
He had none to give. He tried to smile, but his smile must have been sickly, for it did not help her. Lady Valura sank back in her seat, her eyes now closed. Her maid plied the fan a little harder.
The crowd cheered the entrance of the Queen and her ladies. The cheer grew louder—a roar of affection—when the King entered. Clad in robes of velvet trimmed in ermine, he walked unassisted onto the stage. He had seemed feeble and frail during the procession, but perhaps that had been the effect of the heat. He shed the weight of old age inside the Temple. He stood taller than usual and walked with a firm stride.
Gareth stared straight ahead at the altar, but he did not see it. He saw nothing, felt nothing, not fear, not despair. The chill from his hands had spread throughout his body. People moved and spoke, but they were puppets performing at the fair, their wooden bodies small and grotesque and bound up with strings.
King Tamaros took his place on one side of the altar, opposite the High Magus. The crowd gave a final rustle, a final cough, and then fell silent. The High Magus rose to his feet. He bowed to the King, then pronounced the words that would begin the ceremony.
“Let the candidate be brought forward.”
Two Dominion Lords—one of them Valura’s husband—left their posts, moved to the back alcove. A door opened. Gareth recalled with vivid clarity the Transfiguration ceremony of Helmos, and it seemed to him that he was watching two ceremonies at once—the one he had witnessed years before imprinted over the one happening now. Helmos had paused in the doorway, the light had streamed around him.
Dagnarus did not pause. Never noted for his patience, he must have been pressed against the door, for as soon as it started to move, he shouldered his way out, not even waiting for his ceremonial escort, but leaving them to catch up. He was in fine spirits, smiling triumphantly.
The Most Revered High Magus frowned, and even Tamaros looked grave and shook his head slightly, rebukingly.
Dagnarus realized instantly that his haste was unseemly, his exuberance misplaced. He slowed his pace, waited for his escort, and managed to contort his face into something more closely resembling humility and contrition. He came to stand before the altar.
A murmur swept through the crowd. Dagnarus had never appeared so regal, so handsome. His face was suffused with victory and joy; he was not in the least afraid. He made a low bow to the people, who loved him for it. There was scattered spontaneous applause, which drew a shocked and reprimanding look from the High Magus. Turning, Dagnarus walked over to his father, knelt before him.
“Father, I ask your blessing,” he said, his voice carrying clearly, echoing from the high-domed ceiling.
King Tamaros, touched and pleased, placed his hand upon his son’s bowed head, stroked the auburn hair with its crisp curls. Only those in the front row could hear his reply, but all could feel it in their hearts.
“I grant my blessing, my son. You have made me very proud this day.”
Dagnarus rose to his feet and turned to face his brother.
Helmos, clad in the armor of a Dominion Lord, stood beside his father. The Dominion Lords did not wear their helms, but Helmos might as well have had his on, for his face was hard and colder than steel. The Most Revered High Magus looked uneasy, the crowd tensed in nervous anticipation, expecting, fearing, hoping for an unpleasant scene.
Dagnarus knelt again. Lifting his head, he looked up at his half brother.
“Helmos, I ask your blessing. I will not go forward with this ceremony unless you grant it.”
Dagnarus was noble, beautiful, humble, earnest, solemn.
Helmos was moved; he could not help himself. He hesitated, as if he might truly refuse his blessing, gazed searchingly at Dagnarus as if he would plumb the very depths of his brother’s soul. Dagnarus met his brother’s gaze unflinching, unwavering.
Gareth, who knew it was all an act, who knew that Dagnarus was secretly laughing at Helmos, writhed in his seat and covered his eyes, unable to watch, unable to bear seeing Helmos made sport of, made the fool.
; “Deny it!” Gareth prayed, but he knew Helmos would not, that he was charmed by Dagnarus as the mouse is charmed by the snake.
“I give you my blessing, brother,” said Helmos at last, his voice breaking with emotion.
“Thank you, brother,” Dagnarus said, and everyone in the crowd pulled out their handkerchiefs and dabbed their eyes.
Gareth sighed and lifted his head.
Last, Dagnarus went to his mother, who leapt from her seat and flung herself upon him, hugging him and weeping over him until he appeared somewhat put out and, disentangling her arms from around his neck, handed her back to her ladies.
He turned his gaze then, looked out into the crowd one last time. He looked straight at Valura, looked at her so long that Gareth knew that their love must be revealed to everyone in the building, and Silwyth murmured in elven, “Do not do this to her, Your Highness!”
Gareth could not see the Lady Valura, who had shrunk into her seat, surrounded by her women.
Dagnarus at last broke off his gaze, stepped back to take his place by the altar.
“I am ready, Revered Magus,” he said, and his voice was a paean of victory.
The ceremony proceeded as it had with Helmos. The High Magus sat down in his chair. The vellum scroll was placed before him, along with the brush and the jar of lamb’s blood. He was prepared to receive the will of the gods, write down the title Dagnarus would henceforth bear as Dominion Lord.
“Let the Miracle of the Transfiguration begin,” pronounced the High Magus.
Dagnarus knelt before the altar. King Tamaros came forward, rested both hands upon his son’s bowed head, and called for the gods to grant to this candidate the wisdom and power accorded to a Dominion Lord.
“Are you willing, Dagnarus, son of Tamaros, to dedicate your life to the service of others? Will you be prepared to sacrifice that life, if need be, to save another?”
“The gods please, I am,” Dagnarus replied.
Tamaros stepped away from the altar.
Dagnarus turned and faced the audience. He crossed his hands over his breast, his expression confident, serene, certain. Gareth ceased breathing, waited for the expression of pain to cross Dagnarus’s face, the expression that would signal the beginning of the transformation.
Dagnarus stood quite still, his head bowed.
Nothing happened.
He stood longer. Still nothing.
The ten magi in the back darted quick, uncertain glances at each other. The Dominion Lords stared straight ahead, faces stiff, though here and there a jaw muscle twitched. King Tamaros frowned. His hands tightened over the arms of his chair. He shot an angry glance at the Most Revered High Magus.
Reinholt repeated nervously, not with any certainty, “The Miracle of the Armor commences.”
Only it did not. Nothing was commencing, nothing at all.
Dagnarus stood before the altar, before the people of Vinnengael, and nothing was happening to him. The lead actor in the play who has forgotten his lines. The lead actor who has been upstaged by the gods. The Transfiguration was going to be denied him.
A low muttering came from the audience. King Tamaros was livid with anger. Helmos gave his brother a pitying glance. Queen Emillia could be heard crying shrilly, “What’s going on? I don’t understand!”
Dagnarus lifted his head. He was enraged. His rage flowed from him, twisting like a cyclone. Gareth felt the blast of that terrible rage strike him, press him back into his seat. He was not alone. People throughout the temple gasped, children began to cry, the lights on the altar candles wavered and flickered.
The Most Revered High Magus rose to his feet. His face was somber and stern. Nothing like this had ever before occurred. Reinholt looked at the King apologetically. Tamaros glared at the Most Revered High Magus, but there was nothing to be done, and the King knew it. The gods had spoken.
“I am deeply sorry, Prince Dagnarus,” the Most Revered High Magus said, “but it seems that the gods have rejected your candidacy.”
Dagnarus’s hands fell to his side. His fingers clenched into fists. He literally shook with anger and thwarted desire, his face flushed almost black with fury. He bit his lip through, in his rage; blood trickled down his chin. Not only had he been denied his heart’s dream, he had been humiliated before the entire kingdom, before his father and mother, before Valura, before his brother.
“No!” Dagnarus shouted, and his shout swelled to a shriek. “No!” Turning, he smote his clenched fist upon the altar. “The Void take the gods! I will have this!”
Shocked to the core of his being by the sacrilege, the High Magus extended his hand to the prince, endeavor to remonstrate with him. Crying out in pain, Reinholt snatched back his hand as if it had been burned.
Dagnarus’s body erupted in flame.
The Most Revered High Magus stumbled backward, horror-stricken. The Dominion Lords stared, appalled and shocked. Wild-eyed, King Tamaros started up out of his chair and ran toward his son, with some idea of trying to beat out the flames using his own frail hands.
“Stand back!” The High Magus cried in a terrible voice. “This is the will of the gods! We may not interfere!”
Helmos caught hold of his father, restrained him. Tamaros collapsed in his son’s arms like a broken toy, unable to move. Queen Emillia was screaming over and over on one note, like a rabbit being torn to pieces by the fox.
At Helmos’s command, the Dominion Lords gathered to help the stricken King. They took him from Helmos’s arms and, supporting the limp body, eased him back onto the throne.
Casting a grim, defiant glance at the High Magus, Helmos himself ran to Dagnarus, prepared to risk his life to try to save his brother. He could not come near enough to rescue him; the heat of the infernal fire consuming Dagnarus’s body drove his brother back.
The flames whirled around Dagnarus. His flesh, blackened and charred, could be seen withering in the heat. Since that last defiant “No!” he had not spoken. He had not screamed or cried out. His limbs curled in upon themselves in his excruciating agony, yet he made no sound.
A few people in the audience panicked, fled the building screaming. Others sat stunned, watching the terrible spectacle in awful fascination.
One heart-rending cry had come from Valura, but she had then fallen silent. From the sound of the scream, which seemed to have torn out her heart, she might well have died.
Gareth was stricken with horror, unable to move, to speak. He could not catch his breath and, recalling his vow, he thought that perhaps he would now die with his prince. He did not fight his fate; he did not want to live. The torment of his guilt and the knowledge that his complicity in this terrible tragedy must be revealed made death seem welcome by comparison.
The flames died suddenly, as if blown out by a blast of chill wind. A charred mass of blackened flesh, unrecognizable as a human being, lay before the altar. The magi and the Dominion Lords stared at it in horror. Reinholt snatched off the altar cloth, thinking to cover the body. He started forward, only to fall back in shock.
The charred mass had begun to move. Arms extended outward. The head lifted from the floor. The body that was twisted and burned began to straighten.
The magi gasped and cried upon the gods for mercy.
Blackness took shape and form: breastplate, leg guards, and bracers for the arms, hands gloved in black. The armor glistened in the light, a black carapace, with tendons and ligaments clearly visible against bone and muscle of black steel.
The ten High Magi huddled together like chicks in a storm. The Dominion Lords, recalling their duty, moved swiftly to guard the King and Helmos from this apparition. The audience might have been turned to stone, so silent were they as they watched this dread miracle.
The black-armored figure had now gained his full height. He gazed as if amazed at his hands and his arms, his face—covered with a black helm whose features were those of a ravening wolf—turned from left to right. His fingers flexed. He took a pace or two, testing his ability t
o move. He drew the shining black sword from its sheath and swung it experimentally, several times, testing his strength, his flexibility. And all the while, his mind must have been wondering, doubting, and at length understanding, accepting. Reveling.
He turned toward the audience and lifted the visor of his helm. The face of Dagnarus, pale, but handsome still, his eyes dark with the remembered pain, glittered with vindication. Gareth’s eyes filled with tears. He did not know whether they were tears of joy or of bitter sorrow. He did not know whether to offer thanks to the gods or curse them. He dashed the tears away impatiently and jumped as a cold hand closed over his forearm.
“Be alert,” Silwyth whispered. “Be ready. That is, if you are still loyal to him.”
Gareth understood. He would have a choice to make. There was no question. He had made the choice long ago, when he had chosen to remain in the playroom, the prince’s whipping boy.
Dagnarus smiled, a mocking smile and, hand on his sword hilt, he turned to bow to his father.
Tamaros sat huddled in his chair. He did not move, he did not speak. His skin was ashen, his eyes wide and staring. The eyes were the only thing alive about him. The rest of him might have been a corpse. The right side of his mouth sagged, his right hand had slipped from the arm of the chair, dangled at his side.
“Father.” Dagnarus made a flourish with his black-gloved hand. “It seems you have a son to rule the day, and now one to rule the night!”
Tamaros did not move. He tried to speak, but the only sound that came from his shattered body was a guttural cry, like that of an animal pierced by an arrow.
Dagnarus cast him a disdainful glance, then turned to his mother. “Well, Mother, this is what you always wanted. Are you proud of your son?”
Emillia stared at him, blinking. The shock had capsized a mind already adrift. She had no notion of what had transpired. All she knew was that she had seen her son die, and now he was alive. She gave a little twittering, gulping laugh and reached out a hand to touch the black armor.
“You are a Dominion Lord, my son. And someday you will be King. I always knew it. Oh, how elegant you look!”
Well of Darkness Page 41
