by Jon Jacks
The hall erupted once again, this time with cries of agreement.
Nechtan smiled, Prytani noticed, yet his gaze remained narrowed and devious. The princess’s expression was hardly less false, her pleasant smile for the wizard somehow laced with suspicion and malice, seemingly hidden to almost everyone but him and Prytani.
‘Unfortunately, my dear wizard–’ she managed to deliver this last word with a most remarkable degree of scorn – ‘it isn’t a tale of bravery, courage, and fortitude against impossible odds, as we have just heard. It is simply one of a precious object reverently handed down through generations of my family.’
‘Oh, that’s such a shame, my lady.’ Nechtan pursed his lips in disappointment, as if dismayed that he’d been denied hearing a wonderful tale. ‘But…’ He paused, as if thinking this out carefully, as if unsure how to word his next question. ‘If you can’t really be sure about the sheath’s history, then…I mean, could it be possible that some ancestor of yours was misled about this sheath?’
He said it all with good humour, enough to raise a few laughs of agreement from amongst the crowd.
‘How many people here, promised heirlooms in last testaments, have discovered to their dismay that the object in question isn’t what they had hoped for?’
There were more chuckles, along with nods of recognition of the truth of this.
As he’d spoken, the princess had called over and spoken quietly to one of her personal attendants. With a nod of understanding, this young girl had disappeared at a fast trot, making her way through a door at the rear of the hall.
‘I assure you, wizard,’ the princess retorted confidentially, ‘that my sheath is the real thing, not some copy as you suggest.’
‘My lady, I assure you I was not in any way suggesting–’
The princess quietened Nechtan’s protests with an irately raised hand.
‘Fortunately, wizard, it is easy to vouch for the veracity of my sheath: for do we not have here its mate, its husband?’
She deftly moved her hand towards the handle of the great sword protruding from behind King Cadeyrn’s back.
The young girl attendant had returned with three other young girls. At first, they ran into the hall, only to instantly change their pace to one of a reverential procession. They carried between them a long, tapestry-wrapped object.
‘My lord,’ the princess said to King Cadeyrn, ‘if I may trouble you? Would you allow Siren to vouch for the honour of both me and my family?’
‘My lady, I–’
This time Nechtan’s protestations were halted by an indignantly raised hand from the king. As a part of the same move, King Cadeyrn reached over his shoulder, grabbed hold of Siren’s handle, and curved it up and over his head in one easy swing.
Nechtan stepped back anxiously as the blade swooped down only a hand’s length before his face.
The girl attendants placed their package down before the king, curling back the edges of the tapestry with a flourish. The tapestry was exquisite, a work of art involving gold and silver thread. It portrayed a famous scene from the legend of Sparta’s Sword, the one where the pregnant lady protects her lord with her own body, while he fights off streaming hordes of heavily armoured men.
Of course, even such a wonderful tapestry was hardly proof that the sheath was the genuine article. Anyone close enough to see the sheath, however, would later remark upon the similarities in its construction to that of the sword: perfectly utilitarian, perfectly simple. It had absolutely no adornments other than one that appeared to be a natural result of its legendary formation, a ripple-like pattern that engendered a sense of a multiple wrapping of veils melded together.
Yet there was a proof that this was the genuine article even greater than this.
As King Cadeyrn brought Siren closer towards the sheath, the blade sparkled, even vibrated excitedly.
Siren sang once more. And this time, it was a wooing, the whisperings of love.
*
Princess Sabea could have glared triumphantly at Nechtan.
Instead, she only had eyes for King Cadeyrn.
And King Cadeyrn couldn’t mistake what was in those eyes. Like Siren, her eyes had their own deep song: a love, a longing to come together as one, for marriage.
Princess Sabea took King Cadeyrn’s free hands in both of hers.
‘When you place your blade in its soft grip my lord, you will find it so wondrously tight fitting, such that it will be held lovingly and firmly in place.’
Letting go of his hand, she indicated with a wave of her own hands that her attendants should lift and bring the sheath up towards the king’s waiting blade.
Siren sang louder and more excitedly than ever. And then its glorious voice was first eased, then muted, then completely silenced as the attendants slowly slipped the sheath along its great length.
King Cadeyrn grinned exultantly.
‘Now, at last,’ he breathed excitedly, his voice deep and low yet still quivering with eagerness, ‘we can take on the Dead Legions without fear!’
While still holding Siren by its handle, he also grasped it by its sheathed blade, with the obvious intention of withdrawing it once more.
He frowned, perplexed.
He gave the sword another sharp tug, another attempt to draw them apart.
Again, however, the blade remained firmly embedded within the tight grip of its sheath.
‘What trickery is this?’ stormed Nechtan, voicing the fears of everyone in the hall.
‘The sheath merely ensures no one can take Siren from you, my lord.’
To ensure she reassured everyone, the princess spoke calmly, moved casually.
‘If I may, my lord?’
She tenderly placed her hands on the sheathed Siren, an indication that she wanted to briefly hold it.
King Cadeyrn let her take it from him. She brought the sheathed blade up to her lips, as if about to kiss it.
Rather, she whispered ever so quietly to it.
When she took hold of Siren’s handle, the sword came easily and willingly from the comforting warmth of its sheath.
It sang with contentment, with pleasure.
As the princess raised the bared blade, however, those amongst the crowd who had smiled with relief as blade and sheath parted now gasped in horror.
Even King Cadeyrn glanced edgily at his princess and the raised blade.
With an innocent smile, the princess passed Siren to King Cadeyrn.
The king took hold of the great sword’s handle with a relieved smirk.
‘We should remember that it is because the sheath is wedded to the blade,’ the princess said, handing the sheath back to her assistants, ‘that they draw their remarkable combination of talents together.’
King Cadeyrn grimaced in frustration as he forlornly watched the princess’s attendants tenderly wrap the sheath in its tapestry covering. He looked out towards the crowded hall.
‘Then our wedding must take pace sooner!’ he declared. ‘Send messages out to my lords immediately; I expect them to attend our wedding a month earlier than originally intended!’
*
Chapter 17
That night, when Prytani and Tamesis merged, the girl asked the little vixen what she had discovered in Nechtan’s room.
She saw everything as if through Tamesis’s eyes.
The frantically squawking Cructan, flying as far as his restraining jesses would allow him.
The low angle, a view almost from the floor, as Tamesis moved swiftly yet silently around the room.
First, there was the mysterious stone.
Taking a corner of the veiling blanket in her mouth, Tamesis moved the covering aside, revealing the stone’s elaborate carvings. They portrayed a stylised tree, with three branches to either side, and a serpent coiled around its trunk. It was shown growing from a shortened triangle at the base of the stone, as if this were the top of a mountain or some similar structure.
The top of the tree its
elf was graced by what could have been a bull’s horns, partially wrapping around a full disc that could itself have easily been mistaken for a representation of the sun.
Prytani knew differently, however.
It was a symbol of two of the most important phases of the moon: the full, brightly illuminated moon, together with the crescent formed when the sun’s light only strikes the moon’s base. The rest is only dimly lit by the Earth’s reflected light, giving the impression that the moon’s face is veiled.
Using her teeth yet again, Tamesis pulled the covering back over the stone.
Cructan continued to squawk in protest at the little vixen’s action. Tamesis ignored him, realising that there was little he could do while he was still firmly tied to his perch.
Let him squawk!
Let him tire himself out with his useless, frantic fluttering!
Tamesis leapt up onto a nearby table.
Cructan squawked all the louder. He vainly tried to fly towards the little vixen, but was brutally dragged back each time by his restraining jesses.
There were a large number of scrolls and parchments on the table. Of more interest to Tamesis, however, were a number of discs made of ivory, brass, stone. On each of these, there were similar symbols to that carved upon the stone: a raised pole, with the crescent and full moon image gracing its very top. In a few cases, the moon appeared to be emanating seven rays, making it look even more sun-like: but these, Prytani realised once more, were just depictions of the moon encircled by its seven dove-like stars.
Nearby, there were notes that appeared to have been made by Nechtan upon a scrap of parchment. Prytani could read these, having gradually yet almost instinctively learnt how to read when studying the lady’s tapestries.
Nechtan knew, it seemed, that the carving and discs were representations of the moon.
‘The queen who remains invisible, sought by the king’s sons.’
‘When only partly visible, it is the daughter of the king himself, taking up residence in the lower world, having been exiled there.’
‘The daughter rules in the lower world, but really belongs in higher realms.’
Once again, Prytani somehow recognised these odd statement as being references to phases of the moon.
Reflecting the light of both sun and stars, the moon acts as a funnel, collecting energy and pouring it out over the earth. For three days, though, it is dark, a descent into the underworld before its resurrection as the new moon on the third day.
Death and rebirth. Waxing and waning. A steady, inexorable rhythm. An unvarying cycle of order, wisdom, fertility, immortality. Rhythms, according to further notes of Nechtan, ‘tied in with the natural blood sacrifice of women’, its ebb and flow ‘controlling the spume of sea and man’.
Prytani didn’t understand everything Tamesis uncovered or looked over. In fact, she understood less than she did understand. Tamesis leapt from table to table, from one wooden chest to another, everywhere she wandered encountering ancient texts carelessly scattered or even left open, as if Nechtan was constantly referring to them in an agitated search. Everywhere, too, there were hastily scribbled notes he had made.
One whole table was given over to Nechtan’s search for the meaning behind a legend of a ‘Halo Crown’. His notes were florid, rushed, as if with particular elation or, in some cases, frustration, the sentences angrily crossed out, or endlessly corrected in ever darker, more heavily put down words.
The notes made little sense to Prytani. Many of the scrolls or texts lay partially open, but as they all lay partly on top of each other, only the odd line or paragraph was clearly revealed to her. In most cases, each explanation of how to call forth a guardian, or how to answer the questions he would ask, confusingly completely contradicted each other. Other texts claimed that the wearer of the Halo Crown had been a Roman, who had used it to defeat a vast Persian army. Another spoke of a Gaul who had wiped out the invading Roman legions.
They were speculations, that was all. Not one of the authors seemed to know for sure, despite his protestations to the contrary.
There was one thing they did all appear to agree on, however.
If anyone summoned the guardian and answered his corrections correctly, they would be anointed with the Halo Crown.
And that would give him command of one of the most feared divisions of the Dead Legions.
*
Chapter 18
‘He wants to know more about you.’
‘Does he now, little fox?’
The lady gave an amused smile.
‘He sees knowledge as power,’ she continued as she worked on her tapestries. ‘He sets out to find out everything he can about everything, everybody. And I, of course, am no exception.’
‘He’s also interested in something called the Halo Crown.’
‘Yes, yes; this is what I feared.’
Her smile vanished.
‘And this girl, this Princess Sabea: he wants to know more about her, yes?’
Tamesis nodded.
‘And yet he has no interest in the boy, as yet?’
The lady said it more as a statement rather than a question.
‘Which only goes to show how little he really knows!’
She chuckled gaily.
‘The Halo Crown; does it exist?’ Tamesis asked worriedly.
The lady half spun around on her seat, her hands never leaving off from the way they so deftly flowed over the tapestries coming to life beneath the whirling moves of her fingers.
‘Little fox! You disappoint me, for once. Even you think this is more important than the boy?’
It was an admonishment, but one lightly, laughingly delivered.
Tamesis remained silent, hanging her head ashamedly.
‘But, in answer to your question – and of course, I understand why this would be of importance to you – yes, I’m afraid this Halo Crown really does indeed exist. And yes, it gives the wearer command of a Dead Legion.’
‘Why, as a wizard, would he want this power? Does he intend to grant the crown to King Cadeyrn?’
The lady chuckled again.
‘Secretly, our wizard laughs at his king and his foolish bravado with his wolf pelt and great sword. Nechtan knows that these are relatively minor items in the great, supernatural armoury available to those who seek out its more powerful devices. His loyalty is only to himself: yet, for the moment, he relies on the king’s patronage. Therefore he fears that this princess might come between him and his king.’
‘So how do we distract him from achieving this crown?’
The lady stared at Tamesis with a playful pout of disappointment.
‘Little fox! Again you fail to see which are the really important issues at stake here! We can use his seeking of these mystical powers to distract him from his demands that you find out more about this girl.’
Tamesis was perplexed by the lady’s reply, yet trusted her enough to know she shouldn’t question her judgement.
‘Nechtan’s more recent acquirements from Joseph include this stone carving and the great testament relating the history of Joseph’s own religion. So, how happy will he be when you return with the secret knowledge that links them both?’
*
Chapter 19
Prytani and Tamesis were once again woken up by the banging of a door carelessly thrown open.
Once again, too, an armed man strode into the small cell they’d had to sleep in once more.
‘Saddle up!’ the man gruffly ordered. ‘You can ride, can’t you?’
He didn’t wait for an answer. He immediately strode out of the cell, obviously expecting Prytani and Tamesis to diligently follow him.
They did, and in a rush too. Out in the yard, a large number of horses were being prepared for a patrol. Many of the riders had already mounted up, including an exhilarated King Cadeyrn and a miserably scowling Nechtan.
Prytani was directed towards a thankfully small horse. Even so, she needed help to get onto its ba
ck.
Outside the stockade, a low, morning mist hung like a grey veil over the ground. The sun had hardly risen, it’s already dim glow further muted by the mist, spreading the yellow light out across the land as if it were a dreadful disease.
Both men and women, even children, were already out in the field, sowing the furrows they had carefully tilled. A few of them, generally those children on the cusp of adulthood, were cutting sprigs from hedgerows bursting with blossom. Some bushes were burgeoning into the succulent berries they would tempt the gathering birds with.
‘Why we’ve been conscripted into this fool’s mission, I don’t know,’ Nechtan grumbled as he rode alongside Prytani, his own mount having to nervously avoid stepping on the closely following Tamesis. ‘But, knowing our king, it doesn’t bode well.’
He added his last comment in a whisper, ensuring no one nearby could hear it. They were all heavily armoured and armed men, as if heading out to battle.
Riding far up ahead, near the front of the column, the king had Siren sheathed across his back. He wasn’t wearing his wolf pelt, however; this, Prytani reasoned, was stored in the package wrapped securely to his horse’s flanks.
‘The king…’
Prytani began to speak unsurely. She was even more uncertain about continuing, but forced herself to come out with the question that had been troubling her since the meeting in the hall.
‘He’s not the wolf troubling the villages?’
She chose her words as carefully as she could. Despite this, as she’d feared, Nechtan appeared to deliberately misinterpret her question.
‘You do realise,’ he chuckled mischievously, ‘that to accuse your king of such a thing is treachery?’
‘He’s not my king.’
Even as Prytani said this, she knew it would be regarded as a moot point easily dismissed by any trial.
‘A werewolf cannot control his change, which happens every full moon,’ Nechtan pointed out. ‘The king is in full control of his own transformations.’
‘Where did he get this magical pelt?’ Prytani asked.
‘I think, girl, that you seem to have forgotten how our relationship actually works!’ Nechtan snapped. ‘I’m the one who asks you the questions: such as, what did you learn last night, on your visit to the tower?’
