by Wilf Jones
‘Didn’t take much to persuade him then?’
‘Mador you mean? No. All he needed was to get free of the spell for him to get back to normal and start thinking straight. That’s the wonder of the Presence for you.’
‘And the wonder of good sense. I’m glad he saw it my way in the end.’
‘Your way? You didn’t notice he had the orders written before we got there then?’
‘Ah weel, mebbee. But he wouldn’t have sent us on if we hadn’t managed to do something about the spell.’ Tregar secretly felt a little put out that Mador had recovered himself before they’d ever had a chance to help. After his temporary desertion he’d wanted to prove his worth and his loyalty. Haslem the Great had beaten him to it.
They entered The Presence, literally staggered by the rush of determination and defiance. It buffeted them like a strong wind, it invigorated, it renewed. It was like walking into an explosion and the source of all this raw energy was thrillingly clear.
The Presence of Ayer was more than just a room, more than simply architecture. It had been built in power by Haslem. Yes the stone masons had done their work, labourers had carried, bursars costed but the true glory of the room lay in the magic that underpinned each layer of stone and gave unparalleled rigidity to each marble column. And there was a focus, a fulcrum to that energy. Without it, those lacking any sense of magic might see only the gaudiness of the room: the use of coloured marble in the pillars, the multi-coloured lanterns, the richness of tapestry and ornament and statuary that Edison had made so much of in his famous Geografi, was evident in every yard of the Approach. And yet even the most blockish of men would put all that aside when assailed by the crowning glory: the Partain Throne itself.
Four mighty columns of greenstone rose to the heights, octagonal in shape, banded with strips of gold and silver. High above great arms stretched from one to the other forming arches that were the main support for the Kings Tower. Below, set on a dais of white marble, stood the Throne. Made of the same jade as the columns, strengthened by the same spells, the Throne seemed to radiate power just as the sun gave off heat and light. And as the sun is sometimes dulled by the passing clouds or cooled by the change in seasons, the power of the Throne both waxed and waned. There were days when men bowed their heads, averted their eyes because something that penetrated sang out from the silver tracery in the surface of the jade, shone from the diamond and sapphire clusters, erupted from the golden diadem mounted above. Many people had come to that throne with untruths to tell, with treachery in their hearts, only for the lies and treason to be laid bare. It was almost impossible to tell a falsehood before it. The spells laid by Haslem required allegiance and truth and brooked no dissent.
But never had there been any day like this day; never had the Throne responded to threat in such a forceful manner. It was as though the Presence had declared war, its forces ready and resolute and needing only a word of direction to set all in motion.
And Ayer’s general in all this, King Mador Bhadrada, sat upon his throne in glory, unperturbed by event, and utterly assured that victory would be his.
‘He had never a doubt Tregar. As soon as he took to the throne. I think Mador can feel the power of it even more clearly than we can. The Throne was made to protect the King, after all. He could feel the strength coursing through him and he knew there was enough in that strength to defeat any force of magic.’
‘Aye, I’ll not deny that. But it’s not just about the power, is it. A sword is a grand weapon, Seama, but you still need a hand to wield it. The throne had all the power and the intention but it wanted direction. Without our guidance all that fizz and sparkle would’ve come to diddlyfart.’
‘Diddlyfart?’
‘Just a word ma fæther used. But d’ye not agree?’
‘The first step had been made and that was enabled by Haslem. Without the first step we’d have got nowhere. But yes we had to be there to push it to another level.’
Working together the wizards had invoked the Power of Ayer. Their spell had called upon the castle’s True Purpose – it wasn’t easy, stone is not quickly impressed – and they married that purpose to the raw energy of the Throne and the Presence; and they issued a Word of Growth, and a Word of Renewal to set against the Spell of Dissolution. They had done nothing to try and trace the spell. Mador and Ayer and Pars were a great threat to any enemy, they were the greatest defence against any invader. That their combined power was made safe was enough for now.
‘Neat trick that, getting the castle to save itself.’
‘I thought so. Anyway, it’s done now and we’re free to get on with everything else. And Mador’s free to be the King we know. It was painful to see him so affected. But I think he’d have held on a lot better if Xandra could have stayed with him. Not like your Iskandar, Tregar, Mador is seriously a King with just the one weakness, and anyone could forgive him for that.’
Tregar nodded. ‘We surely can. As ye know, I’ve any number of weaknesses mysel’, but that wee lass is certainly one o’them.’
‘Really?’
‘Ach, get away wi’ye. She calls me uncle and that’s good enough for me. She’s got a soft spot for you though.’
‘And now you’re being silly. It’s just she’s known me all her life – I’m a constant, like the castle walls or the sun coming up.’
‘Heap of stone with a sunny disposition eh? No, you’re right. Actually she doesn’t seem much onto men. Too much to do, I suppose. She’s still young, though. How many years now have ye been a friend o’ the family?’
‘Oh, since the marriage, I guess. Twenty-eight years?’
‘Twenty-eight years? More than quarter of a century.’
‘I can do the maths,Tregar.’
‘Aye well, it’s just, what with ye looking so young an’ all – my maths must be a bit off.’
Seama didn’t like the way the conversation was turning but there seemed no way of stopping it. In the end he was surprised only at the roundabout route Tregar took in getting to the question that so clearly troubled him.
‘Y’know, there’s a tale in my family,’ he began, ‘In everyone’s family, I should say, back in the Spurling Isles. A lifetime away it seems now, but tales were bread to us then. I remember them all, right down to the last word. But this one was about a wizard who came to our shores, once upon a time; he came to our rescue, saved us from a monster o’ the seas. Now then, this is how they’d tell it – translated for ye. It may seem a little odd in places: we have a few words in Spurlese you lot don’t seem to have bathered with.’
‘I’m sure it’ll sound fine.’
‘Mebbee. Well, here goes.’ Tregar began the tale in the style of his fathers and Seama remembered it well.
‘A deep-swimming Kræken, an’eldvildret monster,
crawlt forth upon the slakit lånd,
defiled the shore and the shoreline,
and a’the fields beyond the shore,
and a’the hames beyond the fields.
The Kræken spoilt the food in its spite,
poisoned the clean wæter;
and the people could nothing but hide.
No wåpon had they to pierce that hideous skin,
no power of magic had they to dismay.
When a’then seemed lost,
and the monster devouring e’en the childer o’ men,
then he came to them:
then the mighty wiezart,
come for their succour,
alone and unbidden
when a’had seemed lost.
Come to the Spurl, he did,
come to the sunnert Spurl.
Dreight o’er the Miedden,
he came to the heart and the soul of the Spurl.
Warrh-Mester they calt him:
he faro’emed a’ff the seas of the world,
and where he wish’e’at the seas wud not hinder him,
and a’the winds ran for him:
his sail nea’loost
in the seas of the world
‘The Elders begged handr’o’him
and clear did he answer then:
‘I’m come t’dreither this fiend, naught an’less.’
On an evil day darkling, alone he set onward,
striding to meet then his foe in the dale,
and none dared come near then for fear of his ean’.
Some watchet from a distance, lang i’the lea,
and after described the battle so grim:
They saw the dun shadow,
fell shape o’the monster,
one full quarter filling the far Westring vale,
and små’there below him,
the små’shape o’a man,
hard to be seen in the deep dackle dale.
This man he cried out then:
a voice that rent clouds then,
and a’the folk watching a’feared for his ean’.
Again he cried out, and as he cried out
the Mester o’ Warrh took fire in the dale.
Then through the reeking
watchers in wonder
saw now the wiezart with flame at his hand.
Held he a fiery wånd,
star-bright to blind them,
star-bright and dinning
in the darkness of the vale.
Fierce as a beacon
advanced on the Kræken,
and ever he came,
and the Kræken wud’wane,
wary and feared o’the terrible flame.
And then wi’ a rush
the Mester he caught him;
the fiend was frozen wi’ fear and misdoubt.
He thrust then his brand,
his fiery, keen brand sharp
into that cold and aughlit maw.
Watchers saw then a terrible sight:
like rags tæken oil,
the sluhlik beast took flame.
In vain the beast sought,
in pain the beast havered,
but ne’er could regain
his hame in the warrh.
The heat of the blazing
reached those in their hiding,
found them in wonder,
and fear of an eand;
but the wiezart undaunted, ran clear of the fiend,
and left him to fate in that dra’briht dale.
With the flame fierce and death to him
the Kræken was strackert:
and the Wiezart’s draht rran’flam’
had lendert his ean’.
‘Told!’ Seama was impressed. ‘You’ve done that one before.’
‘Aye, in ma heed anyways. Ye ken we have this saying, a request really: ‘Tell me the story, and please lie!’ A good tale should never be hampered by the truth. But I’ve to tell ye, Seama, there’s not much o’a lie about that one. Or so I’m told. Fact is, it was a favourite tale of my growing years. A wiezart alone against all the odds: setting out for the good o’ common folk. Not just a warrior, but protector and healer too. He fought the evil, he watchet it die, and when the fight was finished he set about curing the ills that evil had brought. He doctored the people and the fields, made the waeter clean again. It was a tale to stir my youthful heart. Since I was wee I’d carried just a little o’the power but I’d not known what it was for. Now I wanted to be just like this Warrh-mester, travelling the world, fighting monsters and righting wrongs. Ye know: a boyhood fantasy, I suppose. And so I set mysel’ for the College, and I worked as hard as I could, and eventually I got part of the way to where I had wanted to be. And luckily that proved to be far enough, and now I am easy with what I am. Never a doubt, though, I owe a deal o’thanks to that tale, and as the tale was true, Seama, the debt is owed to the hero.
‘So, to come to the point,’ he said, looking to find something in Seama’s expression, ‘While I took pilgrimage and suffered training for vocation’s sake, I had always the idea of seeking out this great wiezart. I wanted to know just who he was, and where he’d come from; I wanted to hear all about his adventures, I wanted to learn all there was to know. Not that I hoped to meet him: I expected to find him in the books, in the stories of the masters. But no matter how often I tried I was always disappointet and not a word of the tale did I find; there was never even a mention o’that name we’d given him.’ Tregar rolled his eyes and shook his head. ‘Honestly, I cannot believe I was so stupet. D’ye know, it was only in this last year I finally got it straight. Mador was after showing-off his favourite landscapes, yet again, and there was one canvas I came across that was new to me: a view of the Old Docks on Errensea. ‘This by Dossena?’ I asked him – of course I’d seen some of the series back in the College gallery when I was a student. ‘Yes,’ he says, ‘Had it in store. A jubilee present for my father, from the Council.’ Well that seemed fair enough and it was all I needed to know but then: ‘I was only nine or ten,’ he says, ‘I remember being so excited, it was such a grand occasion. They all came up for it: Ordolan from Aegarde, and Erling – Sirl’s uncle, Beladaer of course, and a whole lot of people from the Isles. Beltomé,’ he says, ‘made the presentation.’ Well that’s natural enough I thought. ‘That’ll have been Seama’s fæther, then?’ says I, not doubting I was right for a second. But Mador just looked at me as if I was dim-witted. And that’s when it finally clicked. Honestly, Wave-Master! I ask ye! I know I was a sumphety lad, but growen up you’d’ve thought I could’ve got there by mysel’.’ Tregar twisted about in his saddle, the better to peer intently at his companion’s face, the better to challenge him. ‘Come on now, Seama, tell me the truth,’ he demanded, ‘Back on Spurl: that was you, was it not?’
Seama couldn’t easily reply. He knew what the answer should be, but it all seemed so long ago, as though it was just a story he had heard. But yes, he was the wizard of the tale. And also he was not. Then he was a young man eager to prove himself against the mightiest. It was his first campaign, the first of the many times he would risk his life to conquer death. But when it was over and done the glory he had sought didn’t seem to matter so much to him and actually he had felt humbled by the experience. It was the children who had died despite all he could do and the courage of their parents that changed him. Seama Beltomé was now a man of wisdom, of experience, a man of strength and decision: a different man. But the answer Tregar sought was more straightforward than that.
‘Yes, Tregar, I was the Warrh-Mester. It was quite a name; I was proud of it. But I have gained in perspective over the years. Seama’s a better name. It’s very popular in the Isles, given for sailors’ sons and fishing men. A name with humility and that’s how it should be. It’s no wonder you couldn’t trace the story, though. By the time I came back to the College I’d had enough of the all the blaether, as you’d say. It didn’t seem right. Don’t tell Holander but I laid a spell on the Chronicle: the entry’s there but no one’s going to find it. And that’s what I want. Never let yourself be fooled by pride, Tregar Mac. Don’t be a seeker after glory or honour or fame. Life has a way of finding out your true worth. Oh yes, and try to avoid lecturing people, it is a form of pomposity! You’ll have to forgive me, but after a while you get to thinking yourself wiser than you really are.’
‘Ach, nae mind that. You may feel free to lecture me whenever ye like. But Seama, how old are ye? I’m hardly a stripling but that tale I told was told to my fæther afore me.’
‘Do you really want to know?’ Seama hated this; he wanted Tregar to drop it. People became uncomfortable when they discovered his age or even guessed at it. They were always looking for signs th
at said his features were mere illusion. They weren’t. For that matter, Seama himself became uncomfortable at the thought of it: he felt guilty to possess a gift he could not share with others. And he had learned that endless youth made old men jealous. ‘You know yourself,’ he said, ‘how to keep off old age to a limited extent? Yes, and you will use that knowledge more as the years pass. I have no superior wisdom to lend you. I’m just better at it. There is something in me, in how my body is made, in the power inherent I possess, that allows me the skill. I can’t explain it. Let’s leave numbers aside, Tregar. Honestly, I try my best to forget the years, to live a day at a time. I see little point in keeping a tally.’
There were people in the wide world who were as old as Seama: he was only one hundred and eight years of age. But their bodies knew the cruelties of time. Seama, however, seemed no more than thirty years old and no illusion was involved. Since the age of sixteen his body had aged only one year for every seven winters. The episode on Great Spurl was ninety years ago when Seama was eighteen years old. He didn’t normally care to look that far back. He began now to think of those frantic days when he had so much to learn, and lost in memories said no more. Tregar decided not to press the point and he too found thoughts enough to keep him quiet.
Seama wished he could just sit down and talk with this bear of a man. Talk as he had never talked to anyone before about his life, about what it was to be Lord Seama Beltomé, the renowned wizard; what it was to be one hundred and eight years old. He never spoke about the loneliness. It was true he had many friends still living, and many more were now dead, but there was and had been, he felt, something lacking in his friendships. Jealousy about age and health was not the only stumbling block. Without exception his friends considered him something greater than themselves: they held him in reverence. And because of this he didn’t seem eligible for the normal relationships enjoyed by others. He had never married. Though there had been several opportunities he had always found an excuse and backed away. He couldn’t do it. It wouldn’t be fair on any woman, he decided, to see him ever young as she grew old. Not fair at all.