Errol was taken aback by the question, coming as it did out of nowhere.
‘The choosing? Are you old enough?’ He asked.
‘More’n old enough. Ye’ve gotta be fourteen but there weren’t no choosin’ last year. I’ll be fifteen next week.’ Clun replied.
‘What does Kewick think?’ Errol asked.
‘He don’t know. Nobody knows, not even da. Anyway, Kewick’d want me to go for the Candles. I don’t want to end up like him.’
‘What then, be a Ram like old Father Drebble?’ Errol tried to imagine Clun travelling the long road, teaching the words of The Shepherd and healing the sick. It wasn’t an easy task. That left only one real option.
‘Nah, I wanna be a warrior priest, join the High Ffrydd an’ fight,’ Clun said. Errol choked back a laugh but couldn’t help the smile from spreading across his face.
‘What’s so funny?’ Clun asked angrily. ‘You think I couldn’t make the grade?’
‘No, that’s not it,’ Errol said. ‘Well, maybe, but there’s still a few months to go before it comes around. I can help you with the tests, if you want.’
‘You, help me?’ Clun asked, incredulity on his face. ‘What would you know about it?’
Errol reached over to the table and picked up An Introduction to the Order of the High Ffrydd. He had made a half-hearted attempt to repair it but lacked both the materials and the skills.
‘It got a bit damaged in that fight when I broke Trell’s nose,’ he said, handing it over to Clun. The older boy took the book, opened it at random and peered at the tiny, archaic letters as Errol held up the fluttering candle for light. After a very short moment Clun snapped the book shut, inspected the scuffed, scratched cover and threw it down on the bed.
‘I can’t make any sense’ve it,’ he said. ‘An’ there’s pages missing.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’ Errol tapped his head with a finger. ‘I’ve got it all up here. I could recite the whole thing if I wanted. And Father Kewick never even realised it was in the library.’
‘Ye’d teach me, help me,’ Clun said. ‘Why?’
‘Why not?’ Errol said, wondering the same thing as he said it. ‘Like you said, we might well be step-brothers soon. And I’ll be fourteen in time for the choosing next year. I can join you then.’
~~~~
Chapter Six
In the earliest days of the Twin Kingdoms, King Brynceri was constantly under threat from marauding dragons. Perhaps the fiercest of these was Maddau, who lived in the mountains at the edge of the Graith Fawr. As was his way, Brynceri sought out Maddau and challenged the beast to combat. It was a fierce battle, and in the heat of the fray, the dragon bit off the king’s ring finger, swallowing it whole.
Now Brynceri was a powerful magician and skilled warrior, but he also drew power from the ring, passed down the line of kings from Balwen himself. It was said that The Shepherd Himself had given it to Balwen when he had gifted him with the knowledge of magic, and without it, Brynceri was momentarily weakened.
The dragon Maddau might have bested him, had not the wandering monk Ruthin chanced upon the scene. Focussing the essence of the grym into a pure blade of fire, Ruthin rushed to his king’s aid, and together they slayed the dragon. Brynceri took his sword and slit open the belly of the beast, retrieving his ring and severed finger. These he gave to Ruthin, marking him Inquisitor and charging him with exterminating every dragon in Gwlad.
Thus was born the Order of the High Ffrydd, and its sacred mission continues to this day.
An Introduction to the Order of the High Ffrydd by Fr Castlemilk
Spring turned to summer and then on towards autumn, time marching its unstoppable course marked out in the changing colours, smells and sounds of the land. Father Kewick began grooming some of the more capable students for the approaching choosing, leaning heavily on his own areas of expertise in bureaucracy. Too young to be included in this elite group, Errol spent most of his class time reading and re-reading the ever-decreasing number of books in the library. He suspected that Kewick was slowly working his way through them, cataloguing what was there and removing anything he thought unsuitable, which was almost everything that wasn’t directly relevant to the history or organisation of the Order of the Candle.
Alderman Clusster had gone very quiet following the incident at Jagged Leap, and Trell’s position as Father Kewick’s favourite, picked for special attention and extra tuition, meant he had little time to bother Errol. Tom Tydfil glowered at him every time he passed by the smithy, but Martha must have told her father what had really happened that night as no more was said of the incident. Martha herself disappeared, and it wasn’t until a month of frustrated looking had passed that Errol found out she had been sent away to stay with her aunt for the summer.
And so Errol spent most of his free time with Clun, much to Godric’s delight since it gave him plenty of opportunity to walk up to Hennas’ cottage in the forest and pay his respects. For her part, Errol’s mother seemed to be slowly relenting to the man’s persistence and more than once Errol heard her whistling a simple tune to herself as she went about preparing her healing herbs or simply cleaning the house. She tended to shout at him less often for neglecting his chores and would often just tell him to go out and play.
An Introduction to the Order of the High Ffrydd had not said anything specific about the choosing, and the two boys would spend long hours debating exactly what form the tests might take. Clun was of the opinion that they would be physical.
‘They’re a fighting order,’ he said one afternoon as they sat on the banks of the river some way downstream of Jagged Leap. ‘They’re bound to want to know how good ye’re inna scrap. Yer’ll have to beef up a bit ‘fore yer choosin’ or they’ll laugh yer out ‘a the first test.’
‘There’s more to fighting than brute strength,’ Errol said, flicking a stone into the water. ‘You need an appreciation of tactics, good intelligence. And besides, you have to be able to use the grym. That’s all to do with sharpness of mind, not the size of your muscles.’
‘So ye keep on saying,’ the older boy said. ‘But I can’t see any use ‘a this grym of yours. It’s jes’ lines onna ground.’
‘At least you can see them now,’ Errol said. ‘That’s got to count for something when the Inquisitor comes.’ Having spent so long trying to see the lines himself, Errol was amazed and a little jealous at how easily his new friend had acquired the skill.
‘I guess,’ Clun said, his usual cheery demeanour dropping away suddenly. ‘Then again it might all be a waste ‘a time.’
‘What do you mean?’ Errol asked.
‘Da say’s there ain’t gonna be no warrior priest this year, no Coenobite neither. Just a Predicant from the Order of the Candle. Kewick’s fixed it so’s only his own order’s represented. He’s been coachin’ Trell and Wendell and the others to be good little book-keepers, jes’ like himself.’
‘They’ll come,’ Errol said, not knowing how he knew it was true, but certain nonetheless. ‘You’ll get your chance, Clun. And you’ll be the first to make the order from this village in over thirty years.’
Clun smiled then, but it was a weak thing, smothered in self-doubt.
‘I’ve gotta go,’ he said, scrambling to his feet and brushing the dirt from his trousers. ‘Da’s got a shipment comin’ in from Candlehall this afternoon and he’ll want help with unloading. Yer wanna come?’
Errol considered for all of three seconds. A hot sunny afternoon spent hefting wooden crates off the back of a wagon and into the gloomy storeroom at the back of Godric’s shop was not his idea of time profitably spent, even if he would earn a coin or two in the process.
‘No thanks,’ he said. ‘I think I’ll just lie here in the sun and meditate.’
‘Suit yersel',’ Clun said, and with no more than a backward glance he trotted off down the hill towards the village. Errol watched him go for a while and then settled back against the warm rock, his bare feet dangling into th
e cool water. It was almost perfect, he thought, as he closed his eyes and let the sun warm his face. There was just one thing missing.
‘Errol!’ The voice was loud. As if it was right inside his head.
‘Martha?’ He opened his eyes, tried to leap to his feet, and only then remembered where he was sitting. Scrabbling for a foothold, or something to catch with his hand, Errol plunged once more into the cold waters of the river.
*
Inquisitor Melyn strode through the long stone corridors of the monastery in a terrible rage. Novitiates darted into alcoves and side rooms at his approach, and even battle-hardened warrior priests flattened themselves against the walls, their heavy leather boots cracking against the polished tiles as they came swiftly to attention. He ignored them all, too annoyed even to take out his anger on his subordinates.
It was always this way when he returned from Candlehall, Melyn fumed. Having to deal with the soft city bureaucrats and their endless meetings wore him down to the point where he needed to lash out at things, and the long, tiring ride back to Emmass Fawr didn’t help. He longed to drag old Padraig up here, to the roof of the world, the border with Llanwennog. No more than a day’s hard trek from the monastery to the outer watchtowers and the senile old seneschal would be able to see for himself the steadily growing population on the Caenant plain. But the stupid old man insisted on pursuing his diplomatic insanity. Could he not see that there was no future in it? The only way to be properly rid of the Llanwennog menace was invasion. And if they left it much longer old Ballah would have his forces ready for them, ready to make his own foray through the uncharted rim mountains, deep into the Ffrydd and on down into the Hafod and Hendry. Then they’d sit up and listen to him, with violent death at their doors.
‘Fetch the medic, Usel,’ Melyn ordered one of the guards who stood at his door. The man nodded a hasty salute and dashed away on his errand as the Inquisitor pushed through into his personal quarters.
It was a sparse room, austere like the man who occupied them. The furniture was old, simple and utilitarian: a couple of hard wooden chairs beside the open, unlit fireplace; a wide desk, placed to get maximum light from the two windows at the expense of the view out over the top of the monastery to the rugged mountains beyond; a small table pushed up against one wall, with a pewter jug and two goblets sitting on top of it. A curtained-off alcove held his bed. Melyn did not agree with Inquisitors of old, who had pampered themselves with large suites of rooms. He bathed in the communal baths, ate in the great dining hall where his subordinates could see him. All he needed to run the Order of the High Ffrydd was in this one small room, most of it in his head.
He went to the table and poured himself a goblet of rich, dark wine. He took a long swig and then, with a thought, released the spell he had cast on himself days before. He set himself down in one of the chairs by the fireplace, stretched his legs out uncomfortably, grimacing at the pain in his right knee, not wanting to look at the damage. A knock at the door was the perfect distraction.
‘Come.’
The door creaked open and a tall, slim fellow stepped in. His face was smooth and he had a crop of sandy hair that seemed out of place in a monastery where all the novitiates and warrior priests were cropped severely short.
‘You wanted to see me, Inquisitor,’ the man said. ‘Is there a problem’
‘Yes, Usel. It’s my knee. I wrenched it a couple of days ago.’
The medic crossed the room and knelt down beside the Inquisitor without a word. Melyn felt a spark of anger at his disrespectful manner; most members of the order would have at least bowed to their Inquisitor, or offered to kiss his ring of office. Usel treated him as no more or less than any other patient. If the man hadn’t been such a good battle surgeon, Melyn thought, he’d have had him flogged for insubordination years ago. As it was he tolerated the medic’s eccentricities, for now.
‘I’ll need to see it, sir,’ Usel said, indicating that Melyn would have to remove his breeches. Trying not to show how much it pained him, the Inquisitor complied, seeing for the first time the livid, purple, swollen mess where his knee should have been; a sharp contrast to the pale white wiry muscle and flesh of his legs.
‘You should have rested this as soon as it happened.’
‘I’ve been healing it myself as best I could. It doesn’t seem to be responding as well to the grym as I’d hoped.’
‘There are some injuries that no amount of magic will heal, especially if you keep stressing them by, oh... riding a horse all day and late into the night.’
‘I was in a hurry to get back.’
‘Well, you’d better not be in a hurry to go away again. I’ll make up a poultice and strap this up, but it’s going to take weeks to heal, even for an adept as skilled as yourself. May I be blunt with you, Inquisitor?’
Melyn looked at Usel with an instant of surprise.
‘You mean you haven’t been up to now?’
‘You’re not as young as you once were, sir. I don’t mean to say you’re not still far more capable than any of us. And most men your age would be happy to be able to clamber onto a horse, let alone ride one to battle. But your body is beginning to show signs of that age. You need to treat it with just a little bit more respect than you’re used to.’
Melyn looked at the medic. He hated the man, it was true. His first instinct was to conjure a blade of light and strike him down where he knelt for daring to even think the things he was saying. But there was a grain of truth in Usel’s words that couldn’t be denied. Perhaps that was why he hated him, because he was right, and because every time he had to consult him, it was a reminder of the passing of years, the frailty of old age.
‘I’ll take it under advisement,’ Melyn said through clenched teeth. ‘Now go. I must pray to the Shepherd for a speedy recovery.’
‘I’ll bring the poultice later tonight,’ Usel said, standing to leave. ‘It’s best applied before you sleep. You do sleep, don’t you?’
Melyn stared at the door as it closed, then looked down at his swollen knee. He reached down and prodded it, then wished he hadn’t as a jab of pain shot up his leg and into his groin. Slowly, he stood again, pulling up his breeches and fastening his belt. He was about to leave the room and head to the chapel when another knock came at the door.
‘What is it now!’ Melyn could feel the rage building in him as a surging power, ready to be tapped, controlled, used. The door creaked open and a stooped figure came in. There were several thousand novitiates, quaisters and warrior priests based in and around the monastery complex, any of whom he would happily hang in the dungeons for a week without food and water if the mood so took him, but this wasn’t one of them.
‘What is it, Andro?’ He asked, letting the untapped power of his anger seep out into the surrounding walls. If Usel thought that Melyn was starting to get old, then what would the medic think of the master librarian? His face was skeletal and those once piercing blue eyes were now starting to cloud. Blood spots disfigured his dry, leathery skin and his hair was white as the snow that capped the nearby peaks all year long. But then Andro had been old when Melyn had been just a novitiate. It was a miracle he still lived at all, or at least it was a testament to the old man’s skill at magic.
‘Walk while you tell me,’ the Inquisitor said, guiding his old friend out the door and limping slowly along the corridor. ‘I must get to the chapel and pray.’
‘The choosing, Inquisitor,’ Andro said, struggling to keep up with even the reduced pace. Melyn slowed further, secretly grateful.
‘Is it that time already?’ Melyn asked, genuinely surprised. ‘How the years get faster as we grow old, eh?’
‘Indeed, Inquisitor,’ Andro smiled, displaying a complete set of teeth still strong though yellowing with age. ‘And it’s true that Seneschal Padraig will ever play his games. I’ve been over the lists and he’s cut us out of yet more towns this year.’
Melyn let out a short laugh, more of a bark than any sign of humo
ur.
‘Ha! Is that all, old friend? You know as well as I do that we could recruit more than we can train even without the choosing. We don’t need it and he knows as much. Padraig only does it to provoke a response.’
‘Of course, Inquisitor,’ Andro conceded. ‘You yourself were not picked at any choosing. But knowing your interest in such matters, I thought I should bring to your attention the, ah, geography of the situation.’
Melyn stopped and faced his old tutor. ‘What exactly are you trying to say, Andro?’
‘There are a number of villages on the edge of the forest, close by the old hunting lodge at Ystumtuen,’ the old man said. ‘Predicants have been given sole responsibility for all of them this year.’
‘And do you think this a coincidence?’ Melyn asked after a short silence.
‘No, Inquisitor, I don’t,’ Andro said. ‘It’s not just the choosing. Padraig has put his Predicants in every village from Candlehall to the edges of the Ffrydd itself. He’s a canny operator; he’s taken years over it, but every time a village priest dies his replacement is drawn from the Order of the Candle. I dare say old Cassters of the Ram should be more concerned, but he’s always been happy for his lot to do pretty much as they please.’
‘The Rams are wanderers and healers,’ Melyn said. ‘They make good enough teachers but by the time they settle down in one place they’re almost all near gathering. Padraig’s probably putting his people in as much to cut down on the paperwork as anything else.’
‘So you’d consider it of no importance, then?’ For an instant Melyn was transported back to his childhood classroom. One of a hundred novitiates desperate to make their mark, to be noticed, to succeed. That questioning tone, just waiting for him to make a tactical mistake, waiting for him to leave a small opening, was unmistakeable.
‘Ah no,’ Melyn smiled, stopping at the door of his private chapel. ‘Archimandrite Cassters might not mind the Candle taking over his order, but I’m not so forgiving. No, I’m minded to visit these small villages myself this year. It’s been too long since I attended a good choosing. Arrange it for me, will you Andro.’
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