‘Your Mostfull,’ he said at once, bowing. ‘You do us great honour.’
Oblong moved closer but said nothing, and as he did so he observed Bartolamy’s youthful good looks etched with fatigue, doubtless from unholy fornication with a King’s nursekeeper, he thought.
‘Your presence is good timing, Your Mostfull,’ said Bartolamy, ‘for we have just found something of interest to your cause. If I may be permitted?’
Oblong nodded.
Bartolamy placed his finger on the page and then read aloud.
‘And the scent of dawn shall deliver the promise that hath been made, and She will be recognised.’
Bartolamy lifted his head from the page and looked at his master.
‘And?’ Oblong asked.
‘Using this text as a starting point, Your Mostfull, we are seeking the original location of the promise that was made. By whom, to whom, and to what purpose. It may be a key that leads us on to the words His Oneness has spoken, She will be recognised, and He will be chosen.’
At this moment, a relical entered the room carrying a huge leather bound volume of one of St. Butterbean’s many works.
‘Place it here,’ said Bartolamy, indicating a space on the table.
Oblong watched as Bartolamy wiped the ancient cover to reveal the words ‘Pre-Ancient Authorities. Volume One,’ engraved upon it. A rusted clasp was freed and in a cloud of dust, the book was opened.
‘Now,’ said Bartolamy, as he thumbed the heavy book to find the page he was looking for, but when it fell open before him, he simply stared open-mouthed like a child who has been robbed of a sweet. ‘There are no…’ he looked up as his master, ‘…words.’
Oblong came closer and looked at the book himself. The page was indeed as blank as the moment it had first been pressed into existence, with no meaning yet inscribed upon its perfect surface. Then he noticed a strange light that seemed to be coming from beyond the naked parchment, and as he turned the page, the image of a golden symbol was revealed; the light reflected from its surface as brightly as if the artist of long ago, had just a moment before put down their implements to admire their craftsmanship.
There was a period of silence whilst all present took time to marvel at its strange perfection.
‘Does this mean anything to you?’ whispered Oblong, breaking the silence.
Bartolamy studied the symbol even more closely. ‘It is unlike anything I have ever seen before, Your Mostfull. But there can be no doubt it contains a truth which will be rich in nature.’
Oblong picked up a nearby magnifying glass and moved his face closer still; the intricacy of detail, richness of colours, and glorious workmanship, were wonderful to behold. But there was no doubt in Oblong’s mind where its heritage lay, or from where its undoubted power was being drawn.
‘The Honeyist stench of the Mouthless One is before us,’ he said, looking up from the page, and every relical blessed themselves with the sign of Them as an automatic response to the mention of Her name.
Oblong moved to a window. The Green, Red and Blue suns had now joined as one in the heavens; in their pure white light the silver dome of St. Vacant’s Cathedral shone like a jewel. Had Hardknot’s bony fingers already dug deep into the power of this unholy concoction, he thought? Given his words, a simple coincidence was surely beyond belief. Was it not infinitely more probable that he had already prised open the blasphemous meaning She had hidden even in St Butterbean’s words, and now was using its power to orchestrate a rebirth of the Honeyist creed. ‘She will be recognised, and He will be chosen,’ he whispered. Simple words, and yet filled with the frustration of uncertainty.
Oblong turned from the window and stared at Bartolamy. Relicals with minds as capable as his were hard to find, and in these dangerous times such qualities were to be greatly valued. But the young man had clearly been corrupted and could no longer be trusted; and trust was the one thing that Cardinal Oblong demanded above all else in those he kept closest to him. He lifted a hand toward the doorway and several redhoods rush into the room. Bartolamy’s arms were quickly pinned behind his back, his cry of protest stifled by a thick leather belt. Chains were fixed to his feet whilst his hands were manacled tightly together. Within seconds he was a helpless captive, his colleagues staring dumbfounded with shock at the dreadful figures that held him fast, their furnace blackened faces and long nailed fingers speaking more of terror than any words could possibly convey.
Oblong walked towards Bartolamy and stared deep into his eyes. ‘You are lost, my son,’ he said. ‘The sweet seductions of Her vile entrapments. The carnal appetites that must be fed. Oh yes, I see it all. The lies; the deceit; the very art of Her blasphemous ways. But are there more seductions than those of a humble nursekeeper within you? Is there perhaps, a deeper corruption?’
Bartolamy darted a look at his companions and then back to his Primate.
‘Take him to the Hellholes for examination!’ Oblong shouted, and the redhoods left the room dragging the stifled Bartolamy with them, the sounds of struggling quickly disappearing down the stairs.
Oblong turned to the young relical who had been assisting Bartolamy and beckoned him to approach. ‘What is your name, my son,’ he asked, when the young man had knelt before him and kissed his rings.
‘I am Relical Totamus, Your Mostfull.’
‘Your master is lost,’ said Oblong. ‘Nothing can save him now. Do you want to be saved, Totamus?’
Totamus’ eyes widened and he nodded.
‘Of course you do,’ said Oblong, smiling. ‘We all want to be saved. That is why we are here. But only the Holy Church can guarantee salvation. It can be bought through the suffering of the Innocents and the blessings of Holy Indemnification. It can be acquired through rigorous servitude to Them that look over us all. Or, it can be given. Yes, Totamus, through the power They have invested in me, I can save you. But fail me, and all the suffering of the Innocents from now until the end of time, will not save your soul. It will be damned for all eternity.’ He paused to allow the dreadful prospect time to breathe, and then spoke again. ‘And so it is, Relical Totamus, that you must tell me what I want to hear. Will you do that for me?’
Totamus stared like a rabbit in a snare, and then nodded once more.
‘And what I want to hear,’ continued Oblong, ‘is what Bartolamy has spoken. That special secret he will have told you. For he has become corrupted, and the stench of corruption finds its way into the words we speak, as surely as flies find their way into a corpse. You will have heard him speak this evil, an evil that hides in the shadows, and now I want you to speak it to me.’
Totamus’ expression signified recognition, but though his mouth moved as if to respond willingly, not a sound was uttered.
‘Yes,’ said Oblong, bringing his face closer to the fear. ‘The words you can hear in your head. Those are the words I want you to say.’
There was a pause, and then Totamus began to whisper, Oblong moving closer still until the bushy hairs in his left ear touched a quivering mouth.
‘He said…’
‘Yes…’ soothed Oblong.
‘He said…I have tasted honey! That is what my master said! I have tasted honey!’
‘Honey!’ roared Oblong, standing to his full height and his eyes ablaze. ‘He tasted honey! How is that possible?’
‘He found a jar hidden in the top of the tower! But I would not touch it!
‘Bring it to me!’
Totamus tore from the room and but a few minutes later arrived with a small jar the size of a breakfast sweet pot. The surface was caked with dirt whilst the glass was clearly very aged, but through the distortions, a glorious golden liquid could clearly be seen.
There was a pause, Oblong staring at the terrible contents as if transfixed by a spell. How such a container could have lain hidden in the Tower for so long, and to what purpose, was beyond him. But if honey was involved, there would be far more to Bartolamy’s treachery than could be found even through fear.
To find it all, Bartolamy would need to be opened to the full glare of scrutiny.
‘You must find the meaning of the golden symbol!’ Oblong demanded of the awe-struck relicals present, and they quickly bowed as one.
Fear is the power, thought Oblong as he walked away, the greatest of all powers; more powerful even than love. For with enough fear, anything was possible.
Oblong returned to the St Vacant’s Cathedral. When he arrived, High Commander Sideswipe, a tall powerfully built man, strode towards him down the centre aisle, his metallic heels shattering the silence. Sideswipe’s thickset face held bold brown eyes and a prominent hooked nose that had been broken on several occasions. Scars of combat covered his head, the longest of these running from just below his left eye and down his left cheek, where it eventually disfigured the left side of his mouth. This particular wound had resulted in Sideswipe having a somewhat lopsided smile, earning him the nickname from his men of ‘Old Two Grins’. Sideswipe was both the Champion and the Commander of the Holy Guards, positions he had held against all-comers for over five years. Though he was now past his prime, it would be a foolish head that would ever dare to tell him so.
Cardinal Oblong greeted Sideswipe in a manner reserved only for his High Commander, and then gave his orders, Sideswipe reacting to them with a stoic nod of obedience. The Church’s Nominated King elect, Baron Pencille, was to be taken immediately to the safety of the Imposium, and the Holy Guard put on high alert.
‘It shall be as His Mostfull commands,’ said Sideswipe, in a deep graveled voice.
‘Now is the time for the power that They have invested in me to be raised into action,’ added Oblong. ‘Lord Hardknot hides behind the walls of the Hivedom and the protection of his Hivecarls, but a day is approaching when all shall see the true rewards of Her depravity. And when it is come, not one stone, and not one heart, will be spared our vengeance.’
‘Your Mostfull,’ said Sideswipe, bowing before marching away, his fearsome grin more lop-sided than Oblong had ever seen it before.
Chapter 10
The awful aroma of the vulfbear in which Mr Punsworth Pooter had remained hidden the entire night, still clung to every inch of his being. By the time he had been able to escape, dawn had broken, but at least he had not encountered any further strange creatures in the maze of corridors that crisscrossed the vast Palace. Even so, it was late morning when he arrived at his final destination.
Pooter tried to push from his mind his worries about Glarious, his family, and his business. Quite what they would make of such a length absence, he dared not dwell upon. To his further consternation, the entrance to the Grand Library was protected by several heavyset guards and their even heavier hounds. He watched from the shadows as the men bantered, but could not make out the words that bounced between them. Their ruby-eyed beasts sniffed the air, and when at last the vulfbear scent reached their nostrils, they growled ominously. Pooter grasped his Royal Warrant of Appointment and marched forwards, his footsteps snapping on the floor, his heart thumping, and the hounds rising as one to their feet and letting loose a barrage of fearsome barks.
The guards were clearly surprised to see a lone proletaire. They turned to face him, calming their vicious beasts with sharp words and tugs on their metal chains. Their commander examined Pooter’s warrant in stony faced silence, and then to Pooter’s immense relief, he returned the document to Pooter and stood to one side. ‘T’is a vast place, sir,’ he said, as Pooter marched by, ‘and most easy to get lost.’ But it was only when Pooter saw the vast network of bookshelves that disappeared in every direction into a haze, that he began to appreciate the full truth of the remark.
Rootsby had been adamant that he must find the ‘Far Pre-Ancient Hall’, but after walking this way and that for more than an hour, Pooter only began to feel more and more lost. He arrived at yet another intersection of huge bookshelves and stared once more down the endless passageway between them. Nothing distinguished each from its neighbours, whilst staring up at the gargantuan bookshelves revealed only layers of aged volumes so distant as to defy any sane thought of retrieval. Even occasional brass plates indicating such categories as ‘Fourth Age Mysticism’ or ‘Lyrical Mathematics’ or ‘Wars of the Vulfkings’, gave no clues as to whether he was moving closer or further away from his quest.
‘Oh my,’ he whispered out loud, as he reached yet another intersection, his confidence waning with every passing minute.
The first sign to ‘Ancient Kingdoms’ went by almost unnoticed, but as the words cleared before him in a fortunate shaft of light, his heart leapt with excitement. He followed the trail ever deeper into the library’s core, the light fading as he disappeared into a book lined tunnel lit by a single glowick. It was just as he was about to turn back that he saw the name plate he was looking for, the words ‘Far Pre-Ancient’ hidden in grime and worn almost flat by the ages. He walked on.
At length the tunnel opened on a balcony overlooking a large hexagonal hall, the domed ceiling circled by dirty lead-lined windows surmounted by cobweb strewn alabaster gargoyles. The vast floor was filled with high shelves stacked with large books, many of them so old that they seemed to blend into their surroundings. Most of the works lay on shelves so high that a series of moveable ladders led up to narrow walkways. Both the ladders and walkways looked timeworn and far from safe, but such was Pooter’s relief at finding the hall that he gave the danger only a momentary thought. He descended a short series of stone steps to enter the gloom. Several minutes later the rusted wheels of a ladder screeched in protest as he dragged it beneath a section marked ‘Ancient Honeybee Lore’. Despite his innate fear of heights, he began to climb.
The books were covered in thick dust and Pooter had to blow hard upon each spine to reveal the title. It was tiring work, but he resigned himself to the task. On and on came and went the titles as he searched, his heart sinking deeper with every failure.
Through the silence Pooter suddenly heard footsteps approaching. He froze and stilled his breathing. The footsteps stopped and he heard the sound of heavy books being dragged from a shelf. There came a voice, as if speaking to itself, but too indistinct as to recognise any words. The sounds faded into the patter of footsteps and he felt himself alone once more. But for how long? Surely it would only be a matter of time before he was challenged and his authority questioned more closely. Hurriedly he returned to his quest, blowing dust from yet another large book and praying that the title he was looking for would be revealed.
Then he saw it! Just a blurred word at first, but as his shaking fingers wiped away an age of grime, The Kingdom of Honey appeared before him.
Thick cobwebs covered the shelf, and several ugly green and yellow spiders had to be flicked into the air before he felt brave enough to slide the book free. It was a huge volume and with some difficulty Pooter managed to sit on the walkway and rest the book on his knees. He waited for a moment to allow his breathing to calm and then opened the parched leather cover.
Despite the passage of time, the page that opened before him was as perfect as the day it had been created. He almost gasped out loud, such was the contrast with the dull ancient cover that had hidden its secret for so long. The first illustration was of a woodland scene, and as he drew in the rich details and vibrant colours, he quickly fell under a magical spell. The trees were covered with fruit blossoms whilst richly-plumed birds sang in their branches. Tapestried butterflies danced in the air, the tiny dewdrops on their wings sparkling rainbows in rays of sunlight that penetrated the bright green canopy of leaves. Pooter felt he could see the branches sway in a warm breeze and hear the sweet sounds of birdsong. Beneath the trees safe embrace lay a soft glade sprinkled with pink clover, and in its centre lay a beautiful beehive, the honeybees coming and going in a flurry of activity as they gathered nectar from the myriad of flowers that surrounded them. But this was no ordinary hive, but a hive that carried a magnificent golden crown.
On the page opposite the illustration lay a h
and-written verse, and having studied Ancient Scripts whilst at school, Pooter found he could read the words to a long-forgotten rhyme.
Once more they see the King
His Crown upon the Hive
And rise before him now
The Lords of Clover Light
As one to prove their Love
And shield him from the blows
For in such Glorious Death
Lies One Eternal Life
The book was a most incredible find, but even if it contained the key to a treasure of “the utmost importance”, it was far too large and heavy to be safely removed from the Library and then carried through the Palace. As Pooter puzzled over his predicament, something small fell out of the spine.
He flinched, thinking the object must be a spider disturbed from its lair, but then he saw what looked to be a small grey package. He picked it up and placed it in his palm to examine it. It was a tiny parcel, a single thread wrapped around a piece of wax cloth concealing something inside. Pooter’s heart raced as he broke the thread and gingerly unwrapped the package, the aged cloth disintegrating into dust as he did so. Finally, he was greeted by an astonishing sight, for there before him, carved in beeswax in the most precise detail, lay a beautiful honeybee, whilst upon its head, the colour as bright as if it had just been polished, sat a tiny golden crown.
He turned the carving over in his fingers, marveling at the skill with which every facet of the creature’s body had been lovingly created. The delicate wings themselves were not carved out of wax, but seemed to be made of some form of crystal. Bright colours shimmered across their surface. The golden crown, the same design as that shown in the illustration upon the hive, had seven tiny gemstones on the tops of seven evenly spaced spikes, each a colour of the rainbow. In the centre of the crown lay a pure white gemstone that Pooter took to be a diamond.
The study of honeybees had been removed from the school curriculum by Cardinal Oblong some years ago. Though the Royal Honeybees were tolerated within the safe confines of the Hivedom, any belief that honey had a wider role to play than the production of Drollups, was now a fatal sin; to be named a Honeyist, a death sentence. Pooter could still remember, however, studying the Royal Honeybees as a child. He was no expert, but could still recall enough to realise that this honeybee was quite unlike any he had ever seen in a book. It was far too large to be a worker, and the shape was quite wrong for a drone, the wings being too wide and less pointed. Nor was it a Queen Bee. He looked at the words once more.
The Lords of Blood and Honey (The Kingdom of Honey) Page 8