The second part of chapter 1. Still needs ALOT of work. Am going to post the prologue ( seen elsewhere ) and the first two chapters unadulterated, then later the same pieces re-drafted. I intend making any changes you kind people make in your replies...especially paying attention to the Over-writing aspect of my approach. So stay with me please, and continue with the comments.
Chapter 1 continued...
He glanced at the sandy haired boy at his side, who marched with the stiff limbed determination of a six year old with a momentous purpose, eyes firmly fixed forward.
So worthy, he thought, almost smiling. So destined for greatness.
What is my hurt compared to the destiny of this perfect child?
The procession neared Cathedral gate, the limestone gatehouse dwarfed to it’s rear by the squat towered black cathedral itself, slate tiled spires piercing the weeping heavens. Somewhere behind, the cobbled road claimed a victim, a shrill cry and soft crack marking a child petitioner striking them with force. An angry hiss was the response, no doubt from the childs father as he hauled him roughly to his feet, shoving the sobbing boy out of the procession and into an equally angry crowd. No sound could be uttered by a child during Rahl’d’Hrun - a mortification of tongues. The first word to escape their lips during the day of ceremony must be the
Weissa, least other sounds corrupt it’s purity. To squander this, to relinquish their right to receive
Weissal benediction, was heretical, a henious crime against God. Accidental fall or no.
As Faern and Davyda entered the gatehouses comparative shelter, the sounds of the dark haired child being punished for his lapse, dragged into an alley and beaten until he moved no more, ended with a satisfied murmur from the crowd. Cruel, merciless, the jealousy of man. No compassion for a sinner - even a child cradeled in the embrace of innocence. If he survived his ordeal, those flailing fists and stamping boots, the child would be impaled before the doors of his parish chapel, his father flogged by Questors in the ampitheatre at the edge of town, reserved for the punishment of sin. Bethicanism held no tolerence for the weak, no sympathy for a chosen child or his father who possessed not the metal to maintain the least pennance. To cry out at Rahl’d’Hrun was God’s will, to mark the petitioner unfit, his father remiss in discipline. Faern saw the wisdom of this, indeed had been it’s arbitrator - a custodian of church edict as a Questor himself. The faith was strong because it’s adherants were strong. Because the clergy was strong. Elizabeth had bred a ruthless, efficient creed and that was why Bethicanism flourished.
Cathedral gate spilled st’Elizabeths approach onto the broad expanse of muster court, an irregular hexagon of level ground closeted at Indigir’s apex within the confines of thick, crenellated walls. Beyond the court, three furlongs further east, Indigir’s scree slope began it’s wooded march to rolling, grass decked hill country, where isolated farmsteads reared black faced sheep or bred hardy, thick coated longhorns.
The court contained within all the panoply of Lindon’s famed fourth army, reborn in the centuries since the phrophet’s death as the Avengers of our Lady. Barracks and billets, smithies, fletchers, armouries and bowyers. Next to the gates, a squat gaurdhouse where grim eyed men stood at attention, watching the possession pass with halberds couched. Through the shrill howl of the bitter wind came the miriad sound of martial industry, men going about the buisness of preparing for war. The Arandorian Theocracy was unrelenting in it’s pursuit of religious hegemony, delivered at the point of a spear, with the thrust of a lance as often as through the work of demagogues or missionaries. The grounds of Lindon’s great cathedral were as much testimony to this aspect of Bethicanism as they were to spiritualism, to worship. To the north-east, a limestone sentinel atop Henth’s Mott, stood the bailey, Elizabeth’s harp pennants snapping provocatively from it’s tall towers. Older than Lindon city, the fortress had been raised to defend against some nameless foe lost to the annals of histoty. The cathedral’s stalwart guardian.
Faern payed scant attention to any of these, his eyes fixed on the cathedral itself some hundred and fifty paces beyond the gatehouse. The approach arrowed through lines of bare elm, venerable and hoary, whose vine wrapped boughs were untouched as yet by springs youthful, verdant touch. Beyond these, dotted by slate roofed, limestone constructed outbuildings adorned with winter brown ivy, were the gardens - ‘the little Gides of Lindon’, bland without their head of summer colour. Pale imitations seeded by the hands of men, of the Greater Gides fifty miles to the west.
The sepulchre of ‘our wounded lady’ reared monstrous on the escarpment summit, dully black beneath it’s coat of pitch. Some vast, sprawling ebony leviathan whose gaping maw yawned westward, ready to devour the entire procession with one organ voiced snarl The bass chords of ‘
In His Glory We serve’ bellowed from the huge open doors, a coterie of lesser priests piping to the hymn dispondently in nasal tones, clustered at the head of broad steps.In their midst, resplendent in vermilion with the cathedrals many candled light at his back, stood the chronicler, the titular head of the Holy listeners. It was his task to induct the naming aspirants into the Bethican creed, to chronicle their
weissa, judge them worthy and bless them into the church.
The Gospel of the Octant taught that all sound, from the beating of a bees gossamer wings, to the choirs of ascendent Aelingas; from the balmy mutter of a sun warmed meadow spring, to the night howls of a wolf pack calling the hunt - all noise was an echo of creations song, the eternal music of Heaven. There was perfect joy in sound, an enrapturing glory. Mortal-kind had quantified it, imprisoned the uniqueness of it’s pristine tones in the imperfection of words. Pale, wan imitations of the chaotic thrum of the music, strung together in a parody of description. Marring true jubilation. As well to describe the sound of a symphony, the tones of a sigh, the whisper of an eyelash fluttering.
And yet, by chance or fate or destiny, words at times became perfection themselves, alone or in union with others. Became catalysts for power. It required nuances - inflection, a certain timbre to the voice, the correct formation of vowels and consonants and the precice utterance of them. Cadence. Yet the potential remained.
Words contained power - were power, echoes of the celestial music. They linked their unlocked power to the object of their meaning, the words jurisdiction a conduit joined to the music. Old magic of verbal composition. Words were power.
A name is a word......
During
Rahl’d’hrun, the Chroniclers second, profoundly more important role, was to attune himself to the celestial music and listen for reverberations, a resonance which bonded the
Weissa to the glorious voice of creation, which linked the child. If such a connection existed, then the child would be detined for greatness, a channeler of the music itself, one capable of speaking in the voice of heaven! Such
Weissa were rare - very rare indeed, few individuals in a generation, and alluded to legendary menwhose actions shaped the fate of nations. Such illustrious men as Henth and Fenlock, Murdarion, Kilvane, Rushlowe. Myths of the ilk of Annamus, Sainduimun. The inutterably vile salech.
Dargue.
A small hope to bless the child with a Patriarch name, eldest of elder
Weissa, Faern considered, casting a brief glance at his yound ward. Yet he will have an elder name.
If only she who passed guardianship onto me, if she.....damn her! No time to dwell on the boys mother, no time for conjecture over his bloodline.
What will be, will be....
Thoughts of Davyda’s dubious parentage vanished as the group neared the Cathedral steps. Stopping to the raised hand of the chronicler. He was tall, gaunt, ashen faced, his upraised hand as gnarled as the trees lineing the throughfare.
" You who come, expunged of sin through the sacrifice of your elders, come into the presence of He above, to be judged worthy of your true name, your
Weissa. By this name and none other from this day forth shall you be known. It will be a part of you and by it will our Lord know you, and be pleased.
"
The Chronicler swept his gaze down the hundred or so boys and their fathers, intoning the first ritual phrases of
Rahl’d’hrun. Faern fancied those ice blue eyes lingered upon him a second longer than the others, widening almost imperceptably as they moved on.
" Do you come absolved of sin?"
His voice was thin, poorly carried through the pelting rain, the rushing breeze. A puckered welt passing across his throat marked some recent pennance, freshly healed, a punishment which had robbed his voice of it’s power. Faern recognised him, knew his measure from long service in the Questors. Knew the pennence would most definitely have been self imposed, self inflicted. Cardinal Boarse, a Chronicler and Allegoraic listener. A hard man, devout and steadfast in that devotion. Bethican to his marrow and Nathaniels man. Faern smiled to himself. For one such as Boarse to be present, the High Lord Inquisitor must have passed the order, sent him here to record Davydas naming. He swelled with pride.
"We are so absolved." The adults answered in unison, in stead for their wards, Faern load amongst them.
" Do you come clothed in the light of truth?"
" We do so come!"
Boarse raised his left hand, tracing a line from groin to heart to temple, lips silently mouthing litanies of faith.
"As our Heavenly mother was wounded thus; in virtue, in flesh, in soul, so too have you passed through these trials - to emerge victorious before our Father. Here as winter ends, so also does the winter of your sinful youth expire. Until your lifes endeavour brings you at it’s uttermost climax before His judgement. His mercy. His love."
Boarse lowered his hand, it’s fingers splayed, eyes screwed shut. The descent of that hand saw the fingers close, until only the middle digit remained loose of the fist, pointing. At Davyda.
" Who so comes to tred the path of the righteous?"
The namings would be conducted by precedent, Boarse overseeing only the most worthy aspirants. Faern stepped forward, Davyda at his side small and wide eyed. He had earned this priveledge, payed it’s price through undying faith. Through a throat suddenly dry, he presented his credentials.
" I, Faern of the Questors of truth, Fourth army, chapter house Lindon, present Davyda the fatherless, who comes clothed in the light."
His brevity was telling, arrogant. Boarse raised an eyebrow questioningly. It was traditional form for a penitent to present a catalogue of their pennance, to list the extent of their sacrifice. Beginning with the lead penitent, the list would become less with each man subsequent, none permitted to overshadow the deeds of the preceeding. To forgo this implied disdain for those to follow. Faern could feel the glares boring into his broad back from those behind, knew their barely concealed anger at his conceit. He had made forfeit their sacrifice, robbed them of self-aggrandisement before their peer, before men of lesser status. It mattered not, he cared not.
" Very well," Boarse conceeded as the silence stretched on past decency, " bring the child to offer up his
Weissa, that He may rejoice in it’s first utterance."
He took a step back, bowed his head a fraction to Davyda, and stalked off through the west doors into the nave. Faern took a deep breath, clutching Davyda’s small sweaty hand in his giant scarred paw. The boy beamed up at him, green eyes sparkling with eagernes.
The cathedral was cold, a bitter biting chill amplified by the cavenous nave which gnawed at face and lips and tore ravenous at the lungs. Winds gusted through the high arched double doors to toy with the aisles flickering candle flames, setting them cavorting to it’s howling spring dirge.Torches spluttered acrid smoke from their wrought iron sconces, fleeting aromas of sandlewood and jasmine assailing nostrils flared against the frigid air, then vanishing wraithlike, chased to obscurity by the winds breath. The vaulted ceiling arched majestically above, ribbed with intricately carved beams of Bloodwood, a species of broad leafed conifer extinct since Fenlock’s reign, some two thousand years hence. Shadows pooled beneath them, brooding stygian, and coalesced beyond the wide flagstoned hall, priests moving along adjoining aisles rendered spectral in their sombre robes, hollow footfalls ominous. An awe inspiring spectacle, the gut of Lornmah’s oldest, most sacred house of God. One to humble the soul, to still the breath and set the voyeur wondering at his insignificance.
Boarse led them with serene gait past limestone colomns a hundred feet tall, chiseled their entire height with exquisite relief depicting all manner of fantastical beasts of legend. The rendition was masterfu, the masons responsible paragons of their trade. A dragon climbed one pillar, it’s leathery wings unfurling into arches which spanned the chasm to neighbouring collomns. Passing beneath those stony pinions, Davyda flinched as shadow parted in the torchlight, revealing the leering visage of some dagger toothed demon, grinning evilly at him from it’s perch above. Beside it, forearms knotted with ropey muscle, stood a stern faced Aelinga clutching a leaf blade headed spear, poised to impale the monstrosity, to smite it wit righteous justice.
" So God’s heavenly choir protect His mortal flock." Boarse intoned without turning. Davyda nodded sagely to the chroniclers cloth of gold clad back, eyeing the carving with a measured stare as he passed.
" Remember though, and mark these words well; were that all foes of our glorious faith projected so distaseful a counternance, that we could recognise them as such. Witness!"
His bejeweled hand indicated an age faded silken tapestry to the right, it’s lavishly embroidered length an essay of phrophet Elizabeth’s murder. The hated paladin Hastercian’s face was emblazoned above the fallen phrophet, grinning as maniacally as the carved grotesque on the pillar had done. Davyda shuddered and shuffled closer to the comfort of Faerns shadow.All Bethican children were raised on tales of the corrupt paladin, how he had slain the phrophet despite her love for him and brought low man’s covenant with God. Davyda ground his teeth, throwing an angry glower at the tapestry. How lucky there were faithful men such as Faern, to hunt down such wickedness and dry the tears of God through their noble and loyal deeds. He vowed silently to do all in his power to follow in his guardians footsteps, to fight evil wherever and whenever it arose.
The nave opened into the hall of the dome, the circular chamber lit around it’s edges by gilded standlamps topped by fat candles, which dribbled their wax down the stands twisted stems. In such a vast chamber, the chill seemed intensified, like a thing alive, some unseen adversary which crept up silently to steal your breath and leave you gasping for air. Rainbow hues painted the worn quarrystone floor as thin sunlight penetrated the domes stained glass. Davyda glanced up, neck cricking as he walked, marking the domes story - some kneeling, white armoured flax haired warrior with piercing green eyes, his blade bared and proffered before a stately God. Some indistinct figure stood at the warriors shoulder, hand cupped to mouth as if whispering advice. The scene was far from certain as the pigment in the glass panes had faded somewhat and were obscured with a layer of grime, a residue of an eternity of candle soot wafting from below. For some inexplicable reason, the tableau made Davyda uneasy, an instinctual nerve set on edge, and he lowered his head, hoping for some word of explanation from Boarse. None was forthcoming, the only reply to his unspoken question the slap of hobnailed sandles against cold stone.
To either side of the well of the dome, the cathedral gaped north and south into icy darkness. The transcepts, which made of the building a stone quillioned sword, it’s blade brandished in onyx hued threat against the west.
Or a cross, Davyda mused - such as used in antiquity to execute felons. Faern had explained this once, months ago before he journeyed and came back scarred, though Davyda doubted it was true. The thought was a stray one and he dismissed it immediately. Everyone knew a church was shaped like a sword, in homage to valour, mans most noble virtue.
The transcepts were in gloom now, yet at mid afternoon their thick drapes would be thrown back and copper lanterns hung from their pillars. The halls would become bedecked in warm light for the naming feast, the
Weissal breaking of bread to mark the boys passage into the Bethican faith.
Unbidden, Davyda’s stomach protested at his fast, a sound which seemed monstrously loud in the cathedral’s cavernous bowels. He offered a fervent prayer the grumbling would abate before the ceremony proper.
The pat of the Chroniclers sandles became muffled as they stepped beyond the well into the quire, it’s floor carpeted richly in plush shades of red and cream. The chamber was circumnavigated above by bloodwood balconies which marched upwards to the cross hatched roof timbers, tapestries and aged standards suspended from their railed edges. Benches rose in tiers to either side of the main aisle, carved along seat, back and legs with more beasts of legend, the wooden meagerie all but cocooned with creeping black ivy . The benches were empty, though would be filled by boys slightly older than Davyda for evening song, when hymns would be offered to welcome the named children into the church.
Finally the chamber of the alter, at the far eastern end of the cathedral, entered through thick oak doors studded with round headed iron rivets. Two scarlet robed initiates swung the double doors open and closed as they passed into the room, the sounds of a stout beam being set into place eminating faintly through the knotted wood. The naming ceremony itself was a private affair at this stage, witnessed by the aspirant, his elder and God’s representative alone. None other were permitted entrance to the first
Weissal utterance, save those three.
The antechamber was austere after the lavish masonry of the exterior, plain walled and circular with high arched stained glass windows sweeping in an arc on the eastern most portion of the room. Sitting squat in the chambers centre was a plain sarcophocus of honey coloured oolitic limestone, time ablated and bearing a simple plaque, silvery letters catching the weak sunlight;
"Elizabeth Hanuth. Bearer of our sin"
The reliquary of the phrophets relics, within, her crumbling bones, her accoutrements of war. Her preserved hair. The holiest shrine in the Theocracy, after that of Sainduimun, God’s mortal champion.
