by Ross Lawhead
“A question out of order!” shrilled one voice.
“But a vital question—most vital.”
“A good question indeed. We break you out—abscond. We search for the survivors of Niðergeard and wage righteous war on our erstwhile comrades.” There were grunts of agreement from those with the speaker.
“Good. Let’sh . . . do it.”
_____________________ VI _____________________
“We must be methodical, Freya,” Vivienne told her, nodding her head in earnestness. They stood in the Langtorr greeting hall. “Floor by floor, room by room, and always together.” Freya had thought this went without saying, but she nodded anyway.
The dining hall and the adjacent kitchen had revealed nothing of interest. The long hall was just as Freya remembered it, with the metal tables and benches perfectly aligned—bare and waiting to be used. The kitchen was just as barren. It was a sort of tragedy, even when she’d first visited it. She’d never seen any Niðergearder eating anything—that was something that they sacrificed along with their mortality, their right to die and their need to eat.
And yet, here was a kitchen, fully equipped, but not manned by any cook or chef.
There was a pantry with dry, stone walls and barrels that contained salt and some sort of dry, thick-sliced meat that was not rancid, as far as either of them could tell. Freya had remembered it from her first trip, and after Vivienne had seen Freya gnaw off a piece, she tried some as well. There was also some dry, dark, cracker-like bread in a wooden box on a shelf. They both selected some meat and bread and stuck them in their backpacks.
Back in the kitchen, they went to an iron pump that was set into a wall. They gave the handle a few turns and were surprised to see it cough up clear, cold water that jetted out and soaked Vivienne’s leg. They took turns pumping and cupping the icy water to their faces to sip it. The water was slightly sweet beneath a metallic taste, but it was very refreshing. When they had drunk their fill, they emptied their warm water canteens and refilled them.
They continued up the tower. The next floor was made up of several curved reception rooms. Freya had not been in these before. There were large fireplaces that would have held Ealdstan’s enchanted fire, but they were cold and dark. It was then that Freya realised she hadn’t seen any of the pale, slightly lifeless flames anywhere in the tower’s hearths. The lamps still burned, but not the fires, and this allowed a frigid, penetrative damp to invade the tower.
On the next floor were the guest rooms, nine of them, which included the rooms that she and Daniel had stayed in, long untouched. She even recognised the way she had folded the top bedspread at the foot of her mattress. Eight years of mold and dank dominated the room. They passed on to the next floor. More rooms. Just as well furnished but of more utilitarian designs. Servants’ quarters? There had to be twelve rooms on this level. Freya had only ever seen Frithfroth and Cnafa and Cnapa around the Langtorr. Were there more, once, or had the total vision for the tower remained yet unrealised?
The fifth floor up contained the map room as well as other adjoining rooms, connecting through wide arches. Stone tables and metal chairs. Meeting rooms? Again, for whom and for what reason?
The double-helix stairway ended here—the corkscrewed design had been narrowing and coming close together and actually met to finish in a round hole. The next level was not immediately above the fifth. In fact, neither Freya nor Vivienne properly thought of it as a level since it was just a single room with two smaller ones attached. There was an iron bed, an iron washstand, a cold fireplace, and a metal stool, appearing as if they’d never been used.
Following a single, rough stairway, they arrived at Ealdstan’s rooms, which brought them to a stop. They had not taken a break in their long explorations, but before they did so, they decided to right the large stone table that Freya, Daniel, Modwyn, and the knights had sat at eight years ago. Then they sat and started going through the scattered documents.
Bundles of paper were piled on the top shelf of a thin bookcase carved into an alcove next to the window. She pulled one of them down. It was a stack of thick, brittle pages—vellum—bound with string, or more likely, dried gut, with two wooden panels for covers. There were hundreds of them.
Freya and Vivienne rested their legs and slipped their throbbing feet out of their walking boots, pressing hot soles on the soothingly cool stone floor.
“So what’s the plan now, Aunt Vivienne?” Freya asked. They were both looking at the shelves full of books and papers. “Start at the top and work our way down?”
“Not exactly . . . I’ve got an idea, but let’s first make a quick inventory of what is here. I’m not sure what of use there is to find. We want to find anything that might put a perspective on Ealdstan and what the extent of his underground operations are. If there are maps of sleeping knights, or lists perhaps . . .”
“Or information on Gád and Kelm?”
Vivienne nodded. “Mm-hmm.”
And so soon they were sitting amid piles and stacks of papers and books. The situation struck Freya as surreal. Here they were, perhaps half a mile underground, in a tower surrounded by attackers, deciphering ancient books and papers. She was not badly prepared for this task—she had been obsessing over old manuscripts ever since she’d left this place. The book presently before Freya seemed to be a sort of inventory log. The writing started right in on page one. She puzzled out the unfamiliar script, wrangling the obscure sentences into some sort of sense, and then marked down a contents description of the book next to a physical one.
Vivienne seemed consumed by the books. With a pair of reading glasses perched on the end of her nose, she fell into a deep fixation with them, marvelling and gasping over them in a way that she did not in their exploration of the tower—so much so that Freya wondered if the books were not her real reason for coming here. Freya was as much a supporter of the academic process as anyone, but what was in these ancient accounts that could have any bearing on their situation?
The hours accumulated. Freya’s eyes became bleary, and it was hard for her to focus on the faded scripts before her. “Should we come back to this?” she asked Vivienne.
There was no reply from the woman who was now studying and comparing two separate books. She had a hand in each, her fingers tracing lines on the pages, her head wagging back and forth between them.
“Vivienne? Vivienne? Hello—Vivienne?”
The older woman’s head finally rose to look into hers, blinking a question.
“Shouldn’t we be exploring the rest of the tower? We can come back here, but there are more floors—more doors above us that we haven’t looked into yet.”
“It’s quiet; why don’t we let sleeping dogs lie? Here, I want to try something with you . . .” Vivienne bent down and rooted around in her backpack. She pulled out an object wrapped in bits of sacking that, when removed, showed a sort of metal base with a polished silver tray area on top. Vivienne unwrapped a second object, an onion-like metal sphere that had closely spaced vertical slots and ornate carvings. It had a stud on one end and was attached to a frame by a thin silk thread. A triangular metal stand rested on the tray so that the round object, which Freya thought must be some sort of top, just touched the slightly curved surface.
“What is it?” Freya asked as she watched Vivienne set up the strange object, wondering why it was important enough to carry all the way down here. The top looked to be extremely heavy—possibly solid brass.
“This is what some have described as a ‘pansensorum,’ also a ‘synatheauraliser.’ Those are long, complicated names made up by people without the slightest idea of what this object is. It was discovered in the mid-1700s in a small village in Midlothian. It was believed to have been created before 1500, but although it is referred to in certain texts, it is not named. It is a sort of . . . meditation device, although I dislike that term—it sounds too New Agey, and this is definitely Old Agey, if anything.
“There is a theory that the universe is
made up, on one level, of vibrating strings. I don’t know if that is true, but if it is, then it partly explains how this device works, which is through sound. It’s hard to explain—far easier to show you its use. When in operation, you will hear a certain tone, a pitch. The sound will move inside you, or if you like to think of the vibration explanation, the noise will penetrate your perceptions and what you read and hear will come to life with a new vibrancy and intensity.” She peered at Freya over her glasses, perched on the end of her nose. “Would you like to try it?”
“Me try it? What do you mean? What do I do?”
“Very little. I will operate the device; you simply have to continue reading. But after a time it will not even feel as though you are reading—the visions will come shortly after that.”
“Visions?”
“Very vivid visions. Try it once. If it’s not your thing, then . . . well, we’ll figure out something else.”
“Um, okay,” Freya said.
“Wonderful. Here, since you’re so fluent at reading this ancient script, you should have no trouble at all.” Vivienne pushed a codex across the table to Freya.
“When I start this in motion, just flip it open and start reading.”
Vivienne pulled a couple earplugs out of her jacket and inserted them into her ears, which Freya found disconcerting. Then Vivienne wrapped a thin leather strap around the upper part of the top and pulled it, setting the brass orb spinning.
The holes on the side uttered a harmonious buzzing sound, which, to Freya, seemed to make the entire room vibrate. The walls started to sway before her eyes, bulging and billowing like they were melting.
Alarmed, Freya looked to Vivienne, who pointed urgently to the book she had given to Freya.
Freya looked down, read the first three words written on the page, and then the dim room exploded into daylight.
CHAPTER FOUR
Pens and Pendulums
_____________________ I _____________________
Winchester
April, 891 AD
His fingers running along the page of script and his lips moving in a quiet murmur, Ælfred read until he came to the end of the page. Frowning, he sat for a moment in thought, his eyes halfclosed and fingers pulling at his lips.
When he opened his eyes again, he looked frankly at the nervous bishop standing in front of him.
“Your craft in scribing is very accomplished, Werferþ,” he said seriously. “I think I have told you this before.”
“Yes, my king,” the bishop replied, bowing.
“But the art with which you form your letters is small when compared to the art in which you form your words and phrases. You have captured the sense of dear Saint Gregory perfectly. Well done, my friend. You have pleased your king and, I truly believe, our God by your labours.”
“Oh, thank you, my king,” Werferþ said, beaming, wringing his hands in obvious relief and delight. “I’m so glad you like it. Translating this work has been such a joy of edification. I read a few of the dialogues out to a parish church back in the diocese, back in Dudley, the parishioners of which have never heard of the divine Gregory, and let me tell you . . .”
Ælfred indulged the bishop a short while. He liked to see the otherwise harried and anxious churchman in a more relaxed and happy mood.
“But now.” Ælfred rose from his wooden throne and waved away a servant who approached to help. “Turning now from Dialogues to Pastoral Care, I wonder if you might care to look over my translation and answer a few questions I have about chapter four. My Latin, I believe, is still not as good as yours.”
“Oh, I doubt that, my king. But of course. Anything, my king,” Werferþ responded, still beaming.
Ælfred led him into his private writing room that held a small desk and a functional stool opposite a kneeler and lectern. They discussed Gregory and Latin, and Werferþ studied Ælfred’s work until bells were heard in the distance.
“Ah,” remarked Ælfred, “that is for nones—I had a heart to attend today. You may stay if you like. Would you excuse me?”
“Hmm?” Werferþ answered, caught up in one of his king’s paragraphs.
Ælfred stepped out of the room and started down the hall.
He strode across the courtyard, pressing a hand to his belly. He was feeling his chastisement sharper than usual today. Once again, as he did every day, he considered asking the Lord to remove it and give him another, but he only took a deep breath and set his jaw. This was for his sanctification.
He was muttering under his breath, “Ut nemo moveatur in tribulationibus istis . . . ” when he caught sight of a man in a red robe standing near one of the stone doorways.
Frowning, he changed his path and met the man at the edge of the courtyard.
“Ealdstan. What brings you to Wintanceastre?”
“No greeting, my king?”
“You are welcome, of course, but you have only ever appeared when you have need of something I can provide.”
“And you find this a peculiar position for a king to be in?”
Ælfred turned his grimace into a grin. “There are few who have the ability—and even fewer the imagination—to extract so much as you.”
Ealdstan turned his face to the ground. “Few have the ability to comprehend the true nature of the world.”
Ælfred sighed. “I was just about to go to prayers—will you accompany me?”
“Of course. It would be a joy,” Ealdstan said, although he stood the whole time at the back of the church.
When the short daytime office ended, they emerged and started walking aimlessly along the outer paths of the burh. Ælfred said, “I am meeting with my councillors when I return. Would you speak of your desires with them?”
“I would not. I have need of stonemasons.”
“Stonemasons? What do you need stonemasons for now?”
Ealdstan told him.
“How many?”
“A great many. As many as you can muster, for a very long time.”
“How long?”
“You would never see them again.”
Ælfred shook his head. “We need to continue to build England’s defenses. Even a modest stone fortress is preferable to the strongest one of wood, especially in the outlier burhs.”
“There is peace with the Vikings, King Ælfred. They are cowed from their defeats and submissive since institution of the treaty. They have lands now; they are sated.”
“They never wanted our land, Ealdstan. Guðrum died this winter; did you know that? God’s truth, I miss him more as a brother than a leader, but more men than I may feel the loss of his kingship in the days to come. While he lived, the Norsemen were pleased to look on the northern settlements as their own and overlook the settlements there. But with him gone . . . ? I wist we have not long to wait before another war band arrives. Meotodes Meahte,” he said quietly. “Where do they get their energy from? They crash upon us as inexhaustibly as waves on the beach. In the name of heaven, what do they eat up there?”
“This talk is not for now,” Ealdstan said with a flit of his hand. “These are maybe-fights and perhaps-battles. I look forward to the inevitable battle that will decide the outcome of eternity.”
“That battle is already won,” Ælfred said.
“But it has yet to be fought!” Ealdstan insisted, banging his staff upon a rock. “We have discussed this at length, and I felt you had been made to understand me.”
“It is a thought I continually turn over in my head and discuss with the Almighty much in my prayers. I’ve received no conviction in the spirit that my present course is incorrect. My bishops support me in this.”
“They support your indecision, is what you say. I care not for the grumblings of bishops and abbots, nor those of a king who trusts more to pens and pendulums than to swords and fire. I was ancient when your father was young. I taught Bede his letters; I watched the boats of the Lædenware depart from this island. Of these isles I was the first disciple of the new faith
. Do not presume to school me on spiritual matters, young Ælfred.”
The colour rose in Ælfred’s cheeks. “Watch yourself, wizard. I am not so old that my writing hand has forgotten how to grip a blade. The Lord gave this earth to mortals.”
“Great king,” Ealdstan purred in a low voice, “after so much already done, do you still question? So much persuading and convincing by me, and of all the work that we have already done—of the warriors already laid to rest, and provisions already made—why would you not ensure the protection of these costs and lend me enough stonemasons to hew a stronghold underground, a secret place of safety for the hidden ones, to ensure they are able to return at the right time?”
Ælfred rubbed his chin and then crossed his arms. “You may take from the land all whom you can persuade to your cause. But this is the last debt to you that I will honour. Consider yourself paid in full.”
Ealdstan nodded and without any more words between them, he departed, never to be seen by Ælfred again. Some months later the first reports of stoneworkers gone missing came to him. Some vanished along with their families, others not, and Ælfred assured those asking after them that they were completing vital work for the safety of the kingdom, for there was little else that could be done. Soon, stonemasons could not be found for love or money, proving that Ealdstan had done his persuading very well.
_____________________ II _____________________
Freya’s eyes snapped open and her head jerked back. She shook her head and rubbed her eyes as she tried to remember where she was and what she was doing. The Langtorr, her mission, Aunt Vivienne, and the device gradually rolled back to her, like waves of the tide.
She yawned. She felt like she’d just woken from a very deep and satisfying sleep. Ealdstan and King Ælfred—had she really seen them as they were? That had to be the most vivid dream she’d ever had in her life if she hadn’t. It felt like she’d remembered real voices, real conversations. Like she could close her eyes and see the burh, like she could close her eyes and see the vague image of a room she had just left.
