The Sword and the Flame

by Stephen Lawhead

  “Yes, leave me, you hounds! Go! Follow your chosen leader and find the sword if you can!” Quentin called after them. The huge door boomed shut behind them, and the sound filled the near-empty throne room like the crack of doom, or the axe falling upon the head of a deposed king.

  A young Curatak girl cleared away the dishes from the women’s midday meal while Esme, Bria, and Alinea talked with Morwenna, Elder Jollen’s wife. Over their meal the conversation had touched upon the continuing work of the Curatak at Dekra, and the progress being made in restoring the ruined city once more to glory.

  Esme said little, but found the talk fascinating. She listened intently and turned her eyes this way and that over the city from the balcony where they sat. Yes, she could almost imagine what it had been like, for out of the jumble of stones and pillars there rose wonderful buildings under the hands of skilled masons and carpenters who worked from ancient drawings in the great Ariga library.

  “You must see the library,” Morwenna was saying. “I am certain you would find it interesting.”

  “I would very much like to see it,” replied Esme at once. “All that I have seen of this magnificent city enthralls me.”

  “If you would like to go there now, I would be most happy to show you.”

  Before Bria could reply Esme said, “Oh, would you? I can think of nothing I would rather do!”

  “Yes,” agreed Bria. “I think I would like to see it once again.” She made to rise, but Esme was already on her feet. “You and I must hurry, Morwenna,” laughed Bria, “or Esme will be the one to guide us!”

  They started off together, walking along the wide, winding, cob-bled streets of Dekra. Grass grew thick and green between the stones, and moss roses of pink and yellow poked up through chinks in the paving. Blue-feathered birds hopped along the tile rooftops or flitted from street to eaves as the ladies passed.

  “Is the library as large as men say it is?” asked Esme. They had turned and passed beneath a standing arch that stood before a narrow courtyard. The courtyard was lined with doorways opening onto a common area dotted with neatly pruned trees and small stone benches.

  “That you must decide for yourself,” replied Morwenna. “I do not know what men say of the Ariga library, but the Ariga were very fond of books and were great scholars.” She waved her hand to include the whole courtyard. “There are thousands of books here.”

  Esme blinked and looked around. “Here? Where? I see no building capable of holding even a hundred books, let alone thousands.”

  Morwenna smiled and Bria explained, “You are standing on the library, Esme. It is underground.”

  “The entrance is there.” Morwenna pointed across the courtyard to a wide-arched doorway between two slim pillars standing guard before it. They crossed the commons and entered a great circular room of glistening white marble. On the walls were murals of imposing robed figures who watched the visitors with large, dark, serious eyes. “These we believe are some of the more renowned Ariga leaders, or perhaps the curators of the library.”

  “Where is the entrance?”

  “Beneath that arch,” said Morwenna. “Come.” She led them to where the marble steps descended into the underground chamber and pointed in the darkness. “There it is. Esme, would you like to lead the way?”

  Esme peered doubtfully into the darkened stairwell but gamely placed her foot on the first step. Instantly the stairs were lit from either side. “Oh!” she cried in surprise.

  “Mine was the same reaction when Quentin showed me,” laughed Bria. “It does seem most magical.”

  “Indeed!” called Esme, already springing down the steps to the chamber beyond.

  When the queen and Morwenna caught up with Esme, she was standing at the bottom of the stairs, gazing with open mouth at row upon row of towering shelves, each shelf bearing the weight of dozens of scrolls. Young men moved between the shelves with armloads of books, taking scrolls from among the shelves, or replacing them.

  “These are our scholars,” explained Morwenna. “We are translating the books. All we have learned about the Most High we owe to our scholars. The teachings of the Ariga are contained in the books.”

  “They are priests, then, your scholars?”

  “Yes, but not the way you mean, Lady Esme. The Ariga believed, and so do we, that the God Most High dwelt among his people and permeated all of life with his presence. Therefore there was no need for a separate priesthood—each man could be his own priest.”

  Esme cocked her head in an attitude of puzzlement. “That must be very confusing.”

  “Not at all! Though I will admit that it does require men to take responsibility for learning the ways of the god and living before him accordingly. This is why we have elders, to help us and instruct us and lead our worship of the Most High, Whist Orren.”

  The three began to walk along the rows of shelves in the immense underground chamber. Esme had expected a dark and musty dungeon-like place, and was surprised to discover how dry and pleasant the immense library was. As the other two talked, she wandered alone among the books, stopping now and then to finger an interesting scroll or to try to make out the words written on the hanging ribbon that identified each one. The words, though she could not read them, charmed and fascinated her, so gracefully were they written.

  She came to a nook lined with more honeycombed shelves containing extremely large scrolls rolled in fine red leather. A low wooden bench sat within the nook; so Esme, feeling herself invited, stepped in and withdrew one of the bound scrolls and settled herself on the bench to unroll it.

  She could still hear Bria and Morwenna talking in low tones nearby, so she thought she would take a quick look at the book for curiosity’s sake. It was bound with a leather thong, which she untied; then she care-fully drew off the cover to reveal a fine white parchment, yellowed at the edges with age, but undamaged for its years. With trembling fingers, Esme took up the carven wooden knob at the end of the rod and began to unroll the scroll. She held her breath, for there before her eyes were the most beautiful drawings she had ever seen.

  The drawings, she guessed, were illustrations taken from the accompanying text, for beneath each was a double column of the wonderful Ariga script. Each illustration had been rendered in delicate colored inks, the colors scarcely faded since the artist had dipped his brush to them long ago. There were exquisite renderings of tiny colored birds and forest creatures, depictions of everyday life in the Dekra streets, a long scene of a river alive with fish of many different kinds, and quaint little boats with fishermen in them, trying to catch the creatures with nets, and many other delightful images.

  Esme gazed at the scroll in rapt wonder, feeling as if she were a child once again and had been given a rare and costly gift of a book from a far-off land. As a little girl growing up in her father’s house, she had had many picture books that she loved dearly and pestered her nurses to read to her constantly. At this moment she entered once again into that special time. Her surroundings faded from view, and she became once more the little girl transported to a distant time and place.

  35

  When Quentin returned to his apartments, he found Oswald the Younger waiting for him in the antechamber. One glance at his servant’s deathly pallor told him that some dire event had overtaken them which he now must hear.

  “Well, what is it?” the king demanded. Theido entered behind him at that moment, and Oswald, relieved not to have to deal with this foul-humored monarch alone, breathed more easily. He shot a worried glance at the gaunt knight, who returned it with a nod as if to say, Proceed.

  “I am waiting,” said Quentin. “Out with it!” He then saw the flat, folded packet the chamberlain carried and snatched it out of his hand.

  “It came only a moment ago,” said Oswald, fear making his voice hollow. “A messenger, Sire.”

  “Whose messenger?” Quentin raised the packet and studied the seal. “The high priest?”

  “He did not say, Sire. I thought it fr
om one of the noblemen, but . . . he was already gone when I saw the seal.”

  Embossed in green wax at the fold of the message was the cipher Quentin knew well: the bowl with tongues of fire above, the symbol of the High Temple employed by the high priest.

  The king broke the seal and tore into the packet, unwrapping it to find a lock of hair, a bit of blue cloth, and a note. Theido stepped close, and Quentin, staring at the objects he held in his hand, thrust the note at him. “Here, read it!”

  Theido took the note and opened it. With an effort he held his voice steady as he began to read:

  Your son is well for the present. What happens to him now remains for you to decide.We are holding him captive within the High Temple, and are prepared to release both the prince and the Lord High Minister Toli upon receiving your sword, Zhaligkeer, called the Shining One. You are required to surrender the sword in person to the High Temple at midday on the last day of this month, or the prince and the high minister will be killed in that same hour.

  “Is that all?” asked Quentin, his tone hard and flat.

  “There is no signature,” replied Theido.

  “The messenger is gone, you say?”

  “Yes, Sire, gone before I could stop him.” Oswald looked helplessly at Theido, who watched the king closely, fearing what he might do. “I sent one of the gatemen after him, I . . .”

  “He must be found—put more men on his trail.” Quentin turned, and his eyes held a distant look. “Leave me now. Both of you.”

  “I would stay, Sire,” replied Theido. “Allow me to help—”

  “No! Go and find that snake of a messenger if you would help. Leave me!”

  Without another word Theido and Oswald left the antechamber, shutting the door quietly behind them. “What are we going to do?” whispered Oswald fearfully.

  “Do as he says,” replied Theido absently. He was already deep in thought at the unexpected appearance of the ransom note. “Find the messenger. He cannot have gone far. I will send some men to you at once.”

  “What are you going to do, my lord?”

  Theido glanced up quickly. “Do not worry after me! Get moving! Hurry!”

  Oswald opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it, and closed his mouth again with a snap. Theido called after him as he dashed away, “Oswald! Tell no one what was in the note. Do you hear? Repeat to no one what you heard in the king’s presence.” Oswald nodded and scurried away as fast as his feet would take him.

  “Now, to work,” said Theido to himself, taking the folded message once more from his hand where he had hidden it. “Ronsard must see this.”

  “The viper’s brood!” exclaimed Ronsard as he quickly scanned the ransom letter once again. “The cold-blooded arrogance! We should pull down that serpent’s nest upon their wicked heads!”

  “And upon the heads of Toli and the prince as well?” replied Theido. “No, they have doubtless considered that in their plan, my friend. They know that as long as the king’s own son is tucked out of sight within their walls, the king can do nothing against them.”

  “Then what can be done?” asked Ronsard, raising hopeless eyes from the crumpled message in his fist.

  “Find the sword,” said Theido.

  “Aye, find the sword. The whole kingdom will soon be searching for the Shining One—if not already!”

  “We must pray, brave sir, that we are the first to find it—and soon. You saw the date? Only five days from now.”

  “Little enough time to scour the whole kingdom—we’d have a better chance of finding a pearl in a pigsty!”

  “Then we waste time talking. Assemble the men at once—every household in Askelon, and the villages beyond, must be searched.”

  “If we do that, the whole world will know the king has lost his sword.”

  “He will lose his son and servant if we do not. The world will know soon enough anyway, my friend. Lord Ameronis will see to that!”

  Ronsard nodded sadly. “We must pray that there are still those loyal to the Dragon King. We can count on the common folk to help, I think.”

  Theido turned to leave and replied, “The common folk destroyed the King’s Temple not two nights ago, remember. We may have a difficult time convincing them to help him now. But we will do what we can.”

  Esme still sat with the scroll in her lap, her eyes drinking in the marvel of the colored drawings of the Ariga book. As she studied the tiny intricacies of each picture, she began to grow sleepy. Though Bria and Morwenna still talked somewhere nearby, from her nook Esme could not see them, and their voices began to drone like the buzzing of pollen-laden bees on a lazy summer day.

  She yawned, suddenly overcome by the need to sleep, as if a thick, woolen blanket had been drawn over her. She yawned again, laid the scroll on the floor at her feet, and then stretched herself on the bench, her cheek resting on her arm. Her eyes closed, and she was instantly asleep.

  To Esme it seemed as if she had entered another world as soon as her eyes closed upon this one, for she found herself standing atop a high plateau in a dark and featureless land. She turned and saw men laboring nearby, bearing heavy burdens on their backs, passing by her to the very edge of the plateau. She followed at a distance and soon came to a great pyre; the men carried bundles of firewood that they dumped onto the mound and then took their places in a ring around it.

  Next to the pyre stood a man with a torch in his hand. When all had thrown their wood upon the stack, the torchman thrust his torch into the tinder; but though the flames from the torch licked out and leaped among the ricks, the fuel did not ignite. The torchman withdrew his flame in frustration and called out, “More wood!” The laborers disappeared in search of more firewood, leaving Esme alone with the torchman.

  “What are you doing, sir?” Esme asked.

  “I am building a beacon fire,” answered the torchman, “that the people of the valley may see it, for they travel in darkness with no signal to guide them.”

  “Why did you not light the signal, then?”

  “I have tried, but the fuel is old and damp, and will not catch,” the torchman told her sadly. “I have called for more wood, but it is sure to be too wet as well.”

  Esme was overcome with the utter futility of the enterprise and turned away. At once the landscape shifted. The dark land faded, and she found herself on a cliff near the sea where the waves rolled endlessly, tearing themselves against the rocks and washing onto the shore with a sigh. She looked and saw a tower rising up and workmen on scaffolds laying stone, building the tower higher.

  She moved closer and watched as the masons raised row upon row of stonework while the quarrymen piled fresh materials beneath them on the ground. Then, without warning, a portion of the wall leaned out precariously and split away from the tower wall. The men on the scaffolding screamed in terror as the stone rained down.

  The whole tower quivered, and portions began crumbling away; the workmen leaped from the scaffold and ran to get clear of the falling rock as the walls collapsed with a thunderous crash and stone plunged into the sea.

  When the catastrophe was over, Esme approached the ruin and spoke to one of the workmen. “Why did the tower fall?” she asked.

  He shook his head and pointed with his finger. “See, the foundation is old and soft; it crumbles away when we build on it.”

  “If the old foundation will not hold, why do you not build a new foundation?” It seemed obvious to Esme, though she knew little about such matters.

  But the workman threw up his hands and wailed, “We have no master to show us how to lay a new foundation!”

  “Where is your master mason?” Esme glanced around and saw no one who seemed prepared to assume leadership of the workmen. The man did not answer, only shrugged and shook his head. So Esme told him, “I will find a master mason who will show you how to build aright, and I will bring him to you—” Esme stopped speaking, for the work-man and the tower had vanished like smoke on the wind, and she stood now not on a cliff
by the sea, but in a busy marketplace where farmers sold their produce and merchants their wares.

  The market bustled with buyers and sellers, and she heard around her the babble of voices haggling over prices and the quality of goods bought and sold. She passed by the butcher’s stall and saw him cutting up a carcass, slicing meat from a large bone. With a wink to her, the butcher, dressed in a long dark robe, took the bone and tossed it out of the stall, where instantly it was pounced upon by hungry dogs who came running from every corner of the marketplace.

  The dogs fell upon the bone and began fighting over it, first one dog snapping at it, then another. One dog would succeed in snatching it up in his jaws, only to have it taken away by another, larger dog.

  A crowd gathered to watch the fight as savage snarls and growls filled the air. “Stop it!” shouted Esme. “Please, somebody stop it!”

  But the onlookers did not heed her, and the dogs fought ever more fiercely. She buried her face in her hands and turned away, but the terrible sounds grew louder and when she looked again, she saw not a long, clean length of bone on the ground, but a square of cloth in the jaws of the dogs. Each had a corner of the cloth and was pulling on it, worrying it in his teeth in a furious effort to free the cloth from the other dogs. And on the cloth Esme saw a device: a red writhing dragon.

  “Stop it!” she cried. “Stop!”

  36

  Bless me bones, Tip, but this trip is further than I remember, eh? Yes, quite right. It always seems further when ye’re in a hurry. Quite right.” Pym cocked an eye skyward and gauged the day by the sun. “Nearing mid-day, Tip. Right enough, an’ I’m hungry. We’uns’d ought to a’ thought to bring a bite to eat. Some of Emm’s fresh-baked bread and a noggin of the dark would hit the spot, eh? And a soup bone for ye, Tipper. Yes?”

  The black dog wagged her tail to the sound of her master’s voice and walked along beside him, lifting her ears now and then when a rabbit or squirrel rustled the leaves of a holly bush near the road as they passed. But Tip did not give chase, content merely to pad peacefully alongside her master, to press her head into his hand now and then to receive a loving pat or a scratch between her ears.