The Right Hand of God (35 page)

'Sir Pylorus is the keeper of the hall. It is his permission to grant or to withhold.'

Further inquiry produced a curt nod from the gatekeeper, and at once the philosopher set his fingers to the strings of his instrument.

Leith took his seat as the music began. Others of his Company stood behind their benches or froze halfway to

their seats as the sounds washed over them. Now it was the knights' turn to be amazed. His playing began with a descending run of liquid notes, then a second, then a third. A thrumming bass note had been added without Leith noticing its introduction, winding its way around the tune's insistent call. A second tune began - how many hands did Phemanderac have? Leith wondered - an echo of the first. A pause, a drawing of breath: then Phemanderac drew together the disparate notes into a wash of pure sound that winked and pulsed as though it danced through their very minds. The Jugom Ark blazed brightly in Leith's hand; and myriad carven facets in the hall took the harsh light of legend and transmuted it into a glorious brightness, so that light and music conspired together to envelop all present in a sweet, warm embrace.

Some time later Leith found himself still overcome by the majesty of the place, and as a consequence found it difficult to concentrate on the voice of their host. He stole another glance at the swirl of coloured carvings. Here was the sense of power the Hall of Meeting in Instruere had striven to achieve, and had not quite succeeded. Leith could sense that on this ceiling the builders, carvers and mosaicists had attempted to capture something much truer than mere power. Their work paid homage to a glory, a majesty, an awe beyond the more prosaic Instruian artisans. He turned his head, the better to gaze on the rainbow above him. It appeared to spring from rocky hills on both sides of the battlefield, a multicoloured banner of hope flying above a field of despair. The image was so bittersweet as to be poignant. And there, in the foreground . . .

His heart stopped in his breast, his breath caught in his throat.

There in the foreground, standing atop a pinnacle of rock, watching over the battle, stood a figure holding a blazing brand. No, not a brand. An arrow, clearly an arrow, aflame with the fire of God.

'It is a prophecy,' said a voice. Leith tore his gaze away from the incredible scene and back to his eating companions.

'What?'

'It is a prophecy,' Sir Chalcis repeated patiently. 'The whole hall is a prophecy.'

Kurr, seated to Leith's left, glanced up at the mural overhead, his brow puzzled for a moment, then his eyes widened.

'A prophecy of what?' Leith asked weakly.

'Perhaps you had better ask Sir Amasian. It is his life's project, after all.' The knight leaned to his left. 'Sir Amasian? The Arrow-bearer asks about your work. Would you care to speak to him of your vision?'

Opposite Leith, Phemanderac began to play his harp again, eyes closed as if in prayer, fingers barely touching the strings. A few places to his left an old man slowly stood, then shuffled around the table to where Leith sat. The man's shoulders hunched close to his neck, and he wore a robe of deep crimson, his hair a circle of white around a bald pate. He placed a calloused hand on Leith's shoulder and the youth was forced to hold the Jugom Ark away from the old man, lest he catch fire.

'Put it down,' said the old man in a voice as soft as a child's. 'You can put it down. It won't burn anything in this hall.'

Leith nodded, then placed the Arrow on the table in front of his hosts, who all turned from their various conversations to watch and listen. 'You had a vision, Sir Amasian?' Leith asked courteously, barely able to contain the excitement

building within him. Perhaps this man could tell him all he needed to know.

'I stood in this hall twenty summers ago,' said the old man in a thin voice, and his eyes closed as he relived his dream. 'Back then the hall was plain and unadorned, though still a work worthy of he whom it honours, and the twelve twelves - the pillars that hold up the roof - did nothing more than record the names of the knights who have passed on since the days of Conal Greatheart himself. At that time I had the task of lighting the torches before the evening meal. I had come from our little chapel, where I opened my soul in agony to the Most High, seeking his guidance; for I was too old to ride with the knights, and was considering resigning from the Order and going to live with my sister in Sivithar. As I stepped forward into Conal's Hall, the burning taper in my hand blazed forth like a thousand suns, too bright to look upon, too holy to endure. I thought for a moment the hall had caught fire, but in an instant I knew it was not so, for the light formed into a vision, a storm-lashed field of battle, of torment, where two mighty armies fought for supremacy. I watched men fall beneath their foes, men unhorsed and crawling on the ground to escape death, and men fighting courageously against insurmountable odds. Their cries came to me as though from a great distance, but even so I could barely contain my fear at the dreadful slaughter taking place before me. I then saw a grey-cloaked figure, a man with one hand, standing on a hill above one of the armies.

Opposite him I saw another figure, a boy wearing a white robe, atop a hill rising above the other army. The one-handed man raised his hand, and a vast fist rose up from behind the hills, as though to smash the boy's army. The man opened his fingers, and the fist opened into a hand. But the boy raised his hand, and in it was an arrow, and it burned bright beyond knowing, driving the fist away. Then a rainbow spread across the dark clouds of war, and to my troubled heart it was like a promise. The boy with the arrow cried out in triumph and the arrow flamed brightly, blurring my sight and bringing my vision to an end.'

The old man took a deep breath, opened his eyes and stepped forward so he could look on Leith's stunned face. 'I knew this vision for prophecy. I have the gift: I am on occasion touched with the Sight, and I see true. My lord, I saw the Destroyer and his armies. I saw the army of Faltha. And at its head, with the Jugom Ark as a talisman of victory, I saw . . . you.'

He took a step back, and spoke in a loud voice. 'I beheld the one who will defeat the Destroyer, and he is here in my hall today, seated in the sanctuary I created over many years for his coming. Aah, the honour! The glory! That I should have seen the Right Hand of the Most High! That I should have fore-told his coming! Twenty years' labour in this hall is not sufficient to pay the debt I owe the Most High.' And he bowed deeply to Leith, until his bald crown almost reached the floor; and shouts of praise rang out around him.

Lying awake that night in another strange bed - in a splendid room, with servants attending, but a strange bed for all that - Leith found himself unable to shake off the darkness that gripped his heart. Surely news such as that delivered by Sir Amasian ought to have eased his own doubts, since it had done so for everyone else. Yet he felt unable to deal with the dread enveloping him. Was it a fear of death? No - that particular fear he had faced on many occasions throughout

his long journeys. Compared to what he felt now, the fear of death was a clean thing, something no one could hold him responsible for. Ah, was that it? Was this the weight of responsibility? The Haufuth had spoken to him of this during their march eastwards from Instruere. But surely even that would feel lighter, somehow. He might make a wrong decision, and people might die. He knew that; knew people would die even if he made every decision correctly. Anyway, who was to judge?

Responsibility, that was partly it. But something more burned away at the pit of his stomach, stealing sleep, stealing peace. It settled deeply into him tonight, after being forced to stand and acknowledge the praise offered him by the Knights of Fealty following the words of their Seer. He felt like an impostor. It wasn't supposed to be him on that hilltop facing the Destroyer. He'd done something wrong, made some wrong choice, and he was disqualified from leading the army. He' should stand aside and let someone else lead, or disaster would befall the great Army of Faltha . . . the Destroyer's giant fist would fall on them, crushing them under its might. . . down the fist comes, slowly falling, but still too quickly for his friends to escape death . . . Kurr falls beneath it, still shouting advice to Leith as he dies ... his father and his mother disappear beneath its shadow, their mouths open in a mute cry of terror.

. . Hal his brother waits patiently for the blow to fall, his face full of love and patience . . .

Leith cries out but the fist falls, tearing his heart out...

The Destroyer speaks to him. 'I couldn't have done it without you,' he says in a mocking voice

... he leans over and places his hand on Leith's shoulder; the touch is ice-cold ... 'It was what you said, it was what you said!' and he

laughs, a cruel sound that sets rocks to falling. . . and again the victor speaks: 'Now you will be my Right Hand!' The fist opens out, rears up, hovers over Leith for a moment, then picks him up . . . places him on the Destroyer's hill. .. beside the cruel Harrower of Faltha . . . Leith can't breathe, there's a weight on his chest, crushing him like his army had been crushed ... he can't breathe, can't breathe ...

O Most High, Leith cried as he came awake with a start, heart hammering, sweat soaking into his bedsheets, what have 1 done?

Clad only in his nightshirt, Leith pushed open the door of his room and took a torch from the brazier set beside the knight assigned to watch his room. The man turned at the sound, then nodded, took up his sword and made to follow him. Though Leith gestured for him to remain behind, the knight padded down the dimly-lit corridor in his wake.

He remembered the way. Within minutes he found himself easing open the door to the Hall of Conal Greatheart, in which a few torches still burned. He'd left the Jugom Ark behind: after thinking about it for a moment, he decided his forgetfulness was deliberate. It could remain on the stone sill of his bedroom window. Perhaps the prophecy on the ceiling of the hall would look different under the illumination of mere torchlight.

There it was, up in the shadowed ceiling. The rainbow, picked out in tessellations that seemed to blend one colour into another, looked in the half-light more like a portent of doom than a herald of victory. The armies fought in the twilight, it seemed, and their deaths went unnoticed. On the twin hills, left and right, stood the two figures opposing each other. Or was it just one figure cunningly reflected, as in a mirror?

He searched the image for the faces of his friends, his parents, his brother, but they were not there. Just a nightmare, then. As he turned to leave, his eye was caught by a detail from one of the other images. He followed it outward to the edge of the ceiling, then found another image and followed it back in to the centre. Twelve paths, twelve people led to this great image of victory.

'I did tell you.'

How many of them? How many have you called?

'You're not the first. But you are the only one to have made it this far.' So I'm supposed to be here?

If the voice could have sighed, it would have. 'Why is it people think the most important question is where they are? As though where you live is more important than how you live?' But surely if I'm supposed to be somewhere else, doing some-thing else, I should know about it?

'Leith, there are a hundred ways this task could be achieved. There are a thousand people who could have achieved it. The Seer of Fealty was shown this truth, and on the ceiling of this hall he has tried to represent it by depicting a multitude of paths to the same place. Beware, Leith. This image proved too powerful for his mind. He has not rendered it exactly as it was shown to him. Do not put too much store in it.'

Then why show me at all?

'You overestimate my power in the world of men. I showed Amasian the vision, but it was his to interpret. All I can do is point the way. I cannot compel anyone to follow. However reluctantly, you have followed where no one else would walk, and so now it has come down to you. Already you have made

choices that made your path a harder one to walk, and you will no doubt make it harder still for yourself in the days to come.'

What have I done wrong?

'You find it hard to trust. You have drawn away from the people who could offer you the most help. Perhaps there is no other way for one such as you.' Leith was sure he could hear tenderness in the voice, tenderness mixed in with the weariness of the ages, as though it was the old, old earth itself who spoke to him.

Who are you? Tell me who you are!

'One day you will learn my name.'

Tell me, please tell me! he cried. But the voice had gone silent. He glanced towards the Arrow, as though through some act of will he could bring the voice back - and realised he'd left it back in his room.

When the rest of the Company found him next morning, he was still there in the hall, sitting alone at the great table with a dozing knight standing at his side; and he was laughing softly to himself.

One hundred and twelve knights marched forth from Fealty, accompanied by their pages and heralds, to join the massed Falthan army down on the plain below. As they approached, their heralds blew a great blast on their trumpets, and the army cheered as the morning sun shone on their armour. The cheering grew louder as the knights divided into two lines, drew their bright swords and held them aloft, then brought them together above the path between the two lines. Under this guard of honour came the Company and their generals, led by the Arrow-bearer. Those close enough to see his face noticed a strange smile playing on his lips.

That afternoon the weather turned to the south. A warm wind blew from the desert hidden behind the Veridian Borders, and soon had the army sweating in their cloaks, their horses lathered, the foot-soldiers struggling to keep up. Small clouds appeared above the slopes to their right, but as the afternoon drew on they grew, fed by the reservoir of cool air on the plains, made unstable by the warm air from the desert. Up, up they rose, spreading out like anvils in a celestial smithy, and lightning began flashing from their black bases.