Viviane bowed. The bride’s sisters continued to weave long ribbons into her hair and fuss around her. All around the paraphernalia of childhood was still evident: the dolls lying on the pillows; a fading nosegay of wild flowers picked with the stems too short; a large play-ball of unspun lamb’s wool covered with triangular pieces of different-coloured cloth. And all of this overlooked by those depraved carved figures on the walls and ceiling.
Viviane’s sense of unease increased. There was something out of harmony here. She wanted to leave, but she was not sure how to do it politely. At that moment one of the sisters came up to her and suggested she might like to borrow more suitable clothes than the ones she had on, for the wedding. Viviane tried to refuse, but the woman took her arm and propelled her to one side of the room, where gowns of every kind and colour were hanging.
‘This one, I think,’ she said, taking down one of blue silk and holding it against Viviane.
‘I would really prefer to stay in my own clothes,’ Viviane protested. But the sisters crowded round, as if to imply that it would be an insult to their parents if she appeared in her travelling clothes.
‘You must stay for all the celebrations,’ the young bride cried. ‘There’ll be feasting and dancing and music and juggling and clowns and acrobats . . . everything!’ Her face glowed with delight at the prospect. ‘It should go on for days and days!’
Viviane’s protests were ignored and she found herself being stripped, swiftly and efficiently, of everything she had on, including the Green Lady’s cord. The whole thing was done with such apparent good humour – the faces around her never ceasing to smile, the voices crooning sweet compliments – that she did not know what to think.
It was only when the hands of the smiling women around her began to touch her body a little more than they need – a casual brush against the breast here, a stroke of the thigh there – that she realized that if she were not careful she would be taking part in a scene that would not be out of place if carved on the wall in this oppressive chamber.
She began to push away their hands, but when she did so, the smiling ceased and their gropings became rougher and more insistent. They were no longer playing games, and she was no longer fooling herself. Sir Lionel was no way-guide, but one of Ny-ak’s men. She was now sure of it. The separation of their little party had been deliberate. She began to fight to get away, but they restrained her. She thought she would appeal to the young bride, but she was preening in front of the mirror and seemed neither surprised nor concerned at what her sisters were doing.
There was no mistaking their intentions now and Viviane was revolted at their pawing and their lascivious cries. She fought fiercely and broke away at last, running from the room naked, but clutching her clothes. One last backward glance, to ascertain whether she was being followed or not, revealed the sisters busy with each other, the bride still twisting and turning and admiring herself in the mirror.
She must find the others. Where should she begin? The corridor was deserted but she could hear the hum of voices not far away. She pulled on her clothes hastily, and then paused just long enough for the agitation of her breath to subside before slipping quietly out to join the throng of people making their way noisily towards a chapel where the marriage ceremony was presumably about to take place. The people around her looked ordinary enough and she could not decide whether or not they were involved in Ny-ak’s plot. As with her own wedding, the servants and peasants and tenants stayed outside, while the lords and ladies, the companions and relatives of the bride and groom, finely dressed, went into the chapel. She saw no sign of her companions and assumed that they must have already gone into the building. From outside it looked larger than any of its kind she had ever seen, but when she stepped inside she caught her breath. She had never seen anything like it. Tall, slender columns seemed to reach up forever. She looked up and up, and still her eye travelled, to a ceiling . . . no, to a tree canopy made of delicately carved stone. The walls were almost entirely of glass, so brilliant in colour that it would seem some amazing craftsman had sliced through giant gemstones and fitted them piece by piece to form pictures fit for angels. Surely this must have been designed as the most holy place on Earth? Surely here one’s heart would soar easily to the Most High with the sheer splendour and magnificence of it all. How different from the lowly stone chapel of the hermit at the Community of the Fish.
Almost dwarfed by the loftiness of the nave, the people crowded in, and, as she was carried along in the stream still pouring down the aisle, she found it very difficult to see if her travelling companions were there. The feeling that they were all in danger would not leave her, and she sent out anxious calling thoughts.
At last she spotted them – just as the trumpets sounded for the arrival of the bridal procession. They were standing near the front, beside Sir Lionel. Caradawc had turned round, and was straining his neck to peer over the sea of heads. When he saw her his face lit up and he nudged Olwen beside him. She turned at once, but Idoc did not move. She tried to signal them to join her but Caradawc indicated that it was impossible, hemmed in as they were.
Viviane then looked over her shoulder.
The young bride was coming up the aisle, and a shower of white rose petals was falling on her from every direction. The silver sound of the trumpets reverberated in the high, fine vaulted ceiling. Every head was turned to admire her. Behind her walked her five sisters, dressed magnificently, their faces calm and composed, giving no sign of what had occurred in the bride’s chamber such a short while before.
As the party neared the space in front of the altar, the groom rose and stepped forward. Curious to see what kind of man would marry such a green child, Viviane stood on tiptoe to catch a glimpse of him. As he turned to face his bride, she saw with horror that it was Gerin.
She looked quickly at Olwen and by her expression knew that she had recognized him too. White-faced, Olwen had lifted her hand to her mouth and was biting into the knuckles.
If Viviane had not already sensed that there was something very wrong with their visit to this castle, she would have had no doubt now. Even if it was conceivable that Gerin should rush off and marry the first woman he saw in order to forget Viviane, these elaborate arrangements could not have been made in the short while since he had ridden so angrily away.
Viviane made a decision. She stood up on the bench and shouted as loudly as she could.
‘Gerin! Gerin! This is a trap. You mustn’t go through with this wedding!’
Startled, he swung round and their eyes met. For a moment she thought he would not even recognize her, but his feelings for her were still so strong that they broke through the spell he lay under. From his suddenly changed expression she could see that he had woken up – that he saw her and he knew who she was.
‘Run!’ she called urgently. ‘Caradawc! Olwen! Idoc! Run!’
She herself leapt down again and pushed her way through the astonished crowd. She hoped that if they moved quickly enough, they might just make it to the door before they were stopped.
But what actually happened she did not expect. Something in her voice, the vibrations of urgency, of sincerity, of love . . . something she might have learned in that ancient life as priestess which she now no longer consciously knew . . . this something must have affected the source of the energy that held the whole elaborate scene together. For suddenly everything seemed to tremble, shimmer, disintegrate . . . The tall windows of jewelled glass disappeared, and there were gaping holes now between fragments of ruined stone walls. The altar crumbled to dust, the shining trumpets vanished. Above them on every jutting piece of stone or broken candlestick perched the voyeurs, crowing with delight.
The bride? Ah, the bride! She was no lily virgin now, but a crone older than the hills.
Viviane, Gerin, Caradawc and Olwen were almost at the door when Viviane realized that Idoc was not with them. She turned immediately. Sickened as she was by the scene before her, she could not abandon Idoc. He
was kneeling where the altar rail had been, a huge figure in a cloak of shadows holding a crown above his head. Viviane saw the jewels flash, the gold glimmer. Shafts of light streamed through the broken roof, illuminating the scene, dust motes in the air catching the light and making its rays seem almost solid.
Caradawc put his hand on her arm.
‘You can do no more for him,’ he said. ‘He has chosen. Let him stay.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘He hasn’t chosen. It is Ny-ak who has. See, Idoc is in a trance. He has been tricked like we were. I will not leave him!’
As she began to run back, the voyeurs nearly fell off their perches attempting to get a better view.
Her hair streamed out behind her like fire.
‘Idoc!’ she called. ‘Idoc!’
The huge figure in front of Idoc put up his hand. She could not see the face under his hood, but she knew that his eyes could see the end of the world, and that she was of no more moment to him than a mayfly on a summer’s day was to a man who lived three score years and ten.
She suddenly felt the force projecting from his hand. She could move no further forward.
She drew herself up to her full height and silently commanded her body to stop trembling.
‘Ny-ak,’ she cried out fiercely. ‘You cannot have this being. He has his own destiny.’
It seemed to her that every creature in that vast shell of a building screamed with laughter. The little watchers beat their sides and rolled about, some even falling from their vantage points to be smashed to death on the paving stones far below, unnoticed and unmourned by their fellows. The larger creatures thronging the floor of the ruined church slapped each other on the back with delight.
With a great effort she did not waver. ‘Idoc, look at me!’
Slowly he turned. His eyes shone strangely. ‘You are wrong, Fiann,’ he said. ‘He has the emerald. See – in the crown. I will make my vows to him and I’ll be saved.’
‘Idoc, look again! He offers you nothing. See how all his finery has turned to ugliness and dust. That is not the true emerald. Look again!’
The splendour of the building had seduced her too – but now she saw that it had been an illusion hiding the worst evil of all: the misuse of the Name of the Nameless One. Behind Ny-ak were the shadows of the stake, the rack and the gibbet, but he had hidden them well . . . His familiars were dressed in the vestments of the true priests and so were almost indistinguishable to the casual observer . . .
How she wished she had her amethyst with her now so that she could show Idoc by clear-sight just what that crown really was. But she had nothing left of all the gifts she had been given. The rose-crystal sphere had served its purpose. The power of the quartz crystal had sent the black knight’s charger fleeing, and broken Idoc’s scrying mirror. And without the amethyst the dark tower would still be standing. The crystals had served her well – but she had none left. Even the Lady’s green cord, which had given her courage and led her out of the labyrinth, was gone, lost to the bride’s grotesque sisters . . . Alone, what could she do?
But Brendan had taught her a great deal in the brief time she had spent with him. She had no power crystals now, no talismans, no spells, no charms . . . but she had her Self – grown slowly to strength through trial and pain. She was no passing shade, but a true being, heir of all the realms . . .
She pointed at the crown, concentrating everything she had ever learned of truth and light in the long centuries of her life.
She held steady till Idoc looked back to where she pointed – and saw Ny-ak’s giant form begin to shake with the strain of meeting the accusation of her eyes . . . The shining crown began to lose its lustre, its golden glory – until it was no more than a lopsided ring of rusty iron. The ‘gems’ oozed from their settings like some disgusting liquid, burning the fingers that still clutched them. Then the fingers themselves began to break away – to fall, knuckle by knuckle, until the mighty hands that had held the crown were no more than dry bones in dust.
Suddenly a wind sprang up – strong and dark and fierce. The creatures of Ny-ak howled as they were torn from their places and hurled across the cavernous building . . . battered against the ruined walls . . . trampled underfoot as they tried to run . . .
Viviane leant against the wind, fighting to keep her place . . . her long hair pulled and tugged and swirled around her . . . but she did not take her eyes off Idoc, nor drop her pointing finger.
She saw the desolation in Idoc’s eyes. Once again he had been duped; once again he had chosen the shadow rather than the substance. At last she lowered her hand and reached out her arms to him . . .
* * * *
The five of them found themselves standing alone at the place where the two roads forked . . .
They looked at each other in awe.
They all remembered quite distinctly and separately what had happened – and yet here they were back where they had started . . . but this time Gerin was with them.
Chapter 14
Despair
They decided to allow no more diversions, but to head straight across country towards the ridge of hills behind which they hoped to find the lake. Viviane and Idoc rode ahead, keeping very close together, deep in conversation – Caradawc behind them, morose and brooding, wondering if he would ever have Viviane to himself or indeed if they’d ever be free of Idoc. Olwen followed Caradawc silently, busy with her own thoughts. They questioned Gerin about his role as bridegroom. It seemed the bride’s father had offered him lands and riches beyond his wildest dreams, and he had accepted without even seeing the bride.
‘You’d marry a total stranger?’ Olwen asked in astonishment.
Gerin shrugged.
‘You’d do better to marry Olwen here,’ Viviane suggested quietly, and Olwen had flushed scarlet.
Gerin looked at her then, long and steadily, as though seeing her for the first time. And then he turned, away. ‘Olwen deserves better,’ he said. ‘I could give my wife no love.’
* * * *
When they reached the ridge their progress was slow, the horses having to pick their way carefully among the loose boulders and rock stacks. Sometimes it seemed as though they would not be able to find a way, but then one of them would notice a break in the rock and they would pass through, only to find that still ridge after ridge confronted them. Though not high, these were difficult to negotiate on horseback, so for a while they walked and led the horses. But even this was slow and tedious work. Viviane was looking very flushed and out of breath. Twice Olwen asked her if she felt all right, and twice she replied rather sharply that she did.
At last they decided to rest, Idoc’s beast having developed a slight limp. Gerin and Caradawc attended to it while Viviane sank thankfully to the ground, resting her back against a rock. Olwen climbed up a little further, to see if they were any nearer their goal. She was just out of sight of the others when she heard a sound to her left and spun round. On a flat platform of rock near by stood the three mysterious young women she had seen in the farmer’s barn. Gossamer fine, their silk robes floated out on the breeze, almost transparent with the sunlight shining through them. Their bones seemed like rock crystal, their eyes like amethyst. Their thin hands reached out to her, and it seemed that they were trying to speak but could bring no earth-sounds from their slender throats . . .
‘Who are you?’ she whispered. ‘What do you want with me?’
There was now no doubt in her mind that they were beseeching her for help; but she could not understand what help they expected her to give. ‘If only Viviane were here,’ she thought. ‘She’d know what to do.’
‘Wait here,’ she then said softly. ‘Wait while I call my friend.’
But their agitation only increased and they fell down on their knees before her, arms reaching out in supplication. Olwen trembled. Instinctively she sensed that they were the soul-forms of the three infants whose lives she had saved on the farm. As soon as this thought took hold, she could see the relief on
the faces of the three beings before her. They rose and beckoned her to follow them. She took a step towards them, but already they were fading and dissolving like mist at the touch of summer sunlight.
Olwen stood still for a few moments, her heart pounding, wondering what she should do. Was it the wind through the holes in the rocks that made that sound of mournful sobbing?
She scrambled down and hurried back to her companions. It was clear to her now that the three infants were in danger again and she must go to them.
* * * *
Viviane opened her eyes and looked up at Olwen in surprise when she announced breathlessly that she must leave the group and return at once to the farm. For some hours now the princess had been feeling ill. Her forehead was burning, and her hair stuck to it damply. If Olwen had not been so agitated herself she would have noticed that her mistress’s eyes were shining feverishly.
Viviane had never felt so much in need of Olwen’s care and attention, but she said nothing to hold her back when she heard what Olwen had seen.
Caradawc at once suggested that Gerin should accompany Olwen for her protection.
‘I think we should stay together,’ Gerin replied quickly.
Viviane looked at him impatiently, her face very flushed. ‘Go with Olwen,’ she said curtly. ‘Such visions are not sent lightly.’
She could see that her brusqueness had hurt him, but she felt too tired to try to repair the damage. He turned sulkily away from her and, seizing the reins of his horse, started down the rocky hillside.
Olwen gazed after him sadly. She could sense his reluctance to accompany her, and she herself felt reluctant to leave Viviane.
‘For God’s sake, go!’ Viviane snapped. Another few moments and Olwen might notice how ill she was and refuse to leave her at all. Much as she longed to keep her friend with her, she knew that the sending of the soul-forms must have been a truly desperate measure, and that something very important hung on Olwen’s answering their appeal for help.
Olwen gave Viviane one last tormented, apologetic look, then hurried after Gerin.
The Tower and the Emerald Page 23