Arcadia

57

Lytten hoped very much that the participants would talk for as long as possible. Rosie, the one in his house, had told him that Anterwold existed, but he had assumed that she was talking nonsense. Yet here he was, listening to people act out his own book. Except that they weren’t. He had jotted down notes on the death of Thenald, but only as a device to explain Catherine. It was not something that he had ever intended to explore in any depth. He had only very vaguely forged a link between Pamarchon and the death, and then once more to explain his existence in the forest, so he could discourse on the young and those outside the law. Not for a single moment had he thought about drawing all the threads together into a murder. He wasn’t writing a detective story, dammit.

Yet this — thing — this invention, this whatever it was, had developed some huge crisis out of it all. Taken a few pencilled jottings and extrapolated outwards, adding the details he had never bothered with. This trial, for example. The legal method, the stone circle, the crime, the participants. Idle musings had come together in ways he had never thought possible. And there they were. Gontal talking, laying into Catherine, while Jay stood stony-faced, no doubt wondering how he was going to reply. Catherine and Pamarchon, standing apart on opposite sides. Henary, who currently felt that he had failed everyone. He didn’t know how lucky he was.

Had this been Shakespeare or Sidney, it would all have been easy. In As You Like It a goddess comes down and sorts it out. In A Midsummer Night’s Dream the action is controlled and directed by Oberon. Homer also, when he gets stuck, sends a god from Olympus to intervene. Modern novelists of a lesser variety have recourse to a man jumping through a door holding a gun. But, of course, that was exactly what was happening. He was the coincidence, the god descending. He had appeared out of nowhere and was now meant to wave his magic wand and sort everything out. He was Oberon, Athene, even Poirot himself. The trouble was that he had no magic wand, and he hadn’t a clue how to sort it out, and his little grey cells were not at their best this morning. He hadn’t even had time to finish his coffee.

He listened to Gontal’s speech, and it didn’t help him in the slightest.

Gontal scarcely touched on the subject of who had actually killed Thenald. Lytten hoped for detail, evidence, background, something to give him a hint. He got none of it. Gontal defended Pamarchon by barely referring to him. The man began with motive, hammering away at the fact that Catherine had gained the most from her husband’s death. That this was the best reason to suspect her guilt. That she had no other claim to Willdon, and could not have taken it unless both her husband and Pamarchon were either dead or discredited, preferably both. That she was, therefore, a monster of unparalleled duplicity.

Hardly based on solid evidence, but the trouble was that Gontal didn’t even stick to this line of argument. Rather, he picked out minor details, then referred them to some part of the Story and launched into a lengthy piece of literary criticism. The object seemed to be to find which story was the closest parallel. The more the parallels, the greater the proof. Gontal’s entire speech, in fact, was a complex exercise designed to persuade the audience that the murder of Thenald most closely resembled a story in which a wicked stepmother steals from her husband and blames his son. ‘For what is murder, except the theft of life?’ Gontal intoned gravely to make an entirely specious link between the two.

He finished with a positive broadside of quotations, voice rising melodramatically, right arm extended. Lytten knew where that came from. A performance of Racine in France when he was young, the static, ponderous, overwrought declamation, the mannered pose, the over-abundance of language. Yes, that was it, and it was evidently as big a success here as it had been at the Comédie-Française: the audience was cowed. Gontal had a smirk of satisfaction on his face as he turned with a flourish to Lytten, then to Pamarchon, then to the people watching, silent in admiration for the man’s skill and learning. Gontal felt sure it was in the bag. How could a seventeen-year-old student stand a chance against such overwhelming erudition?

Lytten looked at the slender figure and crooked his finger to summon him.

‘You seem afraid, young man.’

Jay nodded.

‘I believe I made you a little ill-disciplined. Would you agree?’

Jay said nothing.

‘I made you so for a reason. Use my gifts. Do not try to be a second-rate Gontal, but speak as you feel. Remember, your job is to convince me, not anyone else, and I really don’t care for extraneous literary allusion. If I have to sit through another speech as dull as that one, I will conclude that I have created the most boring world that could ever exist, and will erase it and start again. It is your job to redeem this place. Do you understand?’

‘No, Majesty.’

‘Get to the point. Speak of the world and of people and deeds. Not of books and precedents and quotations. Make your learning serve your heart, not the other way around. Be yourself, dear boy. Use what you know.’

Jay bowed and faced the crowd. He took a deep breath and began.

‘People of Willdon,’ Jay began conventionally enough, ‘you have heard Scholar Gontal deliver a fine discourse, as it should be delivered. He is a great scholar, intelligent and learned. I am not. I cannot deliver my discourse with the power that he can summon. I will not pronounce in the correct forms, with the proper weightings and with an impeccable structure. I can only speak the truth, simply and directly. I must confine myself to what happened, and to what I know.

‘So let me tell you plainly that he is wrong when he says that Pamarchon is innocent, Catherine guilty. You noted, I am sure, that Scholar Gontal said little to defend Pamarchon. He briefly told you that he was innocent, but his main point was to insist that this was only because Catherine is guilty. That was his entire case. He besmirched the reputation of both.

‘I do not accept his conclusion or his method. I will do the opposite, and defend Catherine by defending Pamarchon also. I ask you to decide that both are innocent.’

He turned round briefly to see what the reaction was so far. Rosalind winked at him supportively; the spirit on the tomb nodded, as if in approval, encouraging him to continue. Jay tried to keep them in mind and not Henary, who he was sure would be horrified by his approach.

‘Let me start by speaking in favour of the man I am supposed to be accusing. Pamarchon, the outlaw, the bandit, the murderer. I have spent several days with him, and seen him with many people. He rules his band with justice and care; he takes pains not to abuse those he lives near. His followers are with him out of love, not fear. He shows no man violence and no woman indignity. Think back to the days before his fall. Did he not intervene to cool the wrath of his uncle? Is that the behaviour of a violent murderer? Was there anything, any deed or statement, which made you think him capable of such a crime? If there is, then speak.’

No one did, fortunately. It was a risk, asking an audience for a reaction and staking all on getting the right one. If Gontal had had more time to prepare his followers, Jay’s entire strategy could have collapsed then and there. Still, his luck held.

‘I see that I have had some success in damaging my own case. For I have strengthened the case against Catherine, and it is not a bad case at all. Did she love her husband? Possibly not, but then nor did anyone else. Did she move quickly to take control of Willdon on his death? Most certainly. Does she have the intelligence to do something like this? Very definitely. She is a woman of great resource, courage and daring. You know this, you who know her better than I do.

‘Cruelty cannot be hidden. It does not well up once and then go away for ever, never to be seen again. A woman that cruel, that violent, that cunning would have such traits deep in her soul. They would show themselves again and again, in a word, a deed, a thought. They would have to, for “cruelty owns the soul, and bends men to its will”.

‘Where is that cruelty? In what way has the Lady of Willdon shown it? In her punishments of transgressors? I think not; she is known for her mercy. In her rapacity over taxes? She is known for her generosity. What about the way she treats those who work for her? She is greatly loved and respected, is she not? So where does this cruel beast linger? Tell me who has ever glimpsed its claws, or been stung by its fangs.

‘No. We must search elsewhere to understand the death of Thenald. Listen to me, and I will tell you where to direct your gaze.

‘Two days ago, I was summoned to the bedside of Callan, son of Perel, forester of Willdon, familiar to many here. He was on his deathbed, and I was asked to take his story. I am not allowed to tell you what he said, you all know this. However, I intend to do so now, because Callan urged me to use what he had said at the proper time. It is not something I do lightly, but I believe custom should serve the truth, not obscure it. You may judge whether I have acted correctly when I am finished.

‘I met Callan when I was eleven; he was a soldier then, and took me to Ossenfud. This was shortly before the death of Thenald. When he delivered me to Ossenfud, he said he was going straight back home to Willdon. Not long after, Thenald died and, curiously, Callan hurried back to his barracks and signed on for another term of service, even though he hated the life of a soldier, even though he missed his forest. He did not return to his home for three years.

‘When I took his story, he told me he left Willdon out of fear. He was afraid of being condemned for the murder of the Lord of Willdon.’

A nicely timed pause here. Jay gave the audience a moment to absorb his words. Many knew Callan and were shocked by what he had said.

‘It was Callan’s knife that had inflicted the wounds, his knife that cut Thenald’s throat and stopped his heart. It had happened in a part of the forest where he lived. All knew that Callan had hated Thenald for the reckless way he was chopping down trees without thought or caution, for the cruel way he exploited the laws.

‘He had the chance to kill, he had a reason, and the weapon was his. He told me that he pulled the knife from the body, wiped it clean, and returned to the army until he judged it was safe. He never spoke of it to anyone.

‘Here it is. This is the knife which killed Thenald.’

Jay took out the knife and held it aloft, then walked round the circle. All gazed transfixed at it, and at him. Many nodded in recognition as Jay then placed it at the base of the altar.

‘It would be easy for me to win my case by saying that Callan had murdered Thenald and confessed on his deathbed. You would take my word for it, as I am bound by the story-taker’s oath. There is no one to contradict me. I will not say it; Callan was a good man, and my friend, and I will not tarnish his memory by accusing him of a crime he did not commit. Too many have suffered that already.

‘So I say that Callan pulled the knife out of Thenald’s heart, but he had not thrust it in. Who did, then? Was it Pamarchon? No, Callan said, may he forgive me. I saw him an hour later, coming back to the house from an entirely different direction. He could not possibly have done it. Was it Catherine? This was no woman’s crime, he said. Only a strong man could have driven that into Thenald’s chest. Then who? Was it... Scholar Gontal, perhaps?’

Jay pointed at Gontal. You see, the gesture suggested, I will be as ruthless as you are, if I must.

‘I do not know that name, Callan told me, but he was no scholar. He was a stranger to these parts, asking the way to Willdon. I fed him, let him sleep in my hut. The next morning he had gone, and my knife also. I never saw him again.

‘What was his name? I asked. He did not know. The man had said he did not have one. No name, no family.

‘So I asked him: if he knew who had done it, why did he run? It was simple, he replied. He was ashamed. He allowed Pamarchon to take the blame, for fear of being blamed himself; he did not think anyone would believe his story of a mysterious stranger stealing his knife. No one else had met or seen this man, after all. He thought people would say he had invented it as a weak excuse to hide his guilt. Can anybody here say they would not have done as Callan did in such a circumstance?

‘He kept that knife until he was close to death himself, and gave it to me yesterday, as payment for taking his story and in the hope that I might correct the wrongs he had committed.

‘Then my friend, the good forester, lapsed into silence, perhaps his last. I have his story; if I lie now, you may soon enough look for yourselves. But remember: the one person with any real knowledge of this crime was prepared to use his final breath to tell me that both Catherine of Willdon and Pamarchon, son of Isenwar, were wholly, completely and totally innocent of Thenald’s death. Think of that as you reach your verdict, I beg you.’

Jay had departed so far from orthodoxy that no one had any idea what to do when he fell silent and retired to the side, shaky from his effort. Certainly Jay had no idea. His refusal to make his case in the required way so disrupted proceedings that, in effect, the trial collapsed. Ordinarily, he would have finished his speech; the accused — both of them in this case — would have delivered a shorter discourse disputing the use of quotations by the other; the presiding authority would have made some remarks; and the assembled multitude would have voted.

That, clearly, could not happen now. No one knew what to do, or what they were supposed to vote for or even — now that Esilio had appeared among them — whether they were meant to vote. This gave Gontal his chance to reassert himself.

‘A poor speech, excusable in one so young, I suppose. I would have expected better from Henary’s star pupil. What? Not a single reference to authority? A case so thin it can claim no parallel to anything in the whole of the Story Hall? Revealing the contents of a story while the teller is still alive? I could depart from custom as well, were I also undisciplined and lazy. I could say that Pamarchon and Catherine were in league together, for example. Certainly a shadow hangs over both. I recommend once more that the question be postponed. Willdon needs a new Lord urgently, but it cannot possibly choose anyone with the faintest hint of crime about them. Either or both of these two may be guilty still; Master Jay’s speech has cleared up nothing.

‘I am prepared to accept that neither can be convicted, and so will not press for penalties against them. But unless the truth is revealed, will you dare choose one of them as your Lord?’

Lytten weighed up his options. How did this work? Did whatever he said instantly become true because he had said it? Did reality conform to his thoughts, or was it now that his thoughts had to conform to reality? A most peculiar question, a dilemma that he imagined no one else had ever had to deal with.

‘Rosie? What do I do now?’

‘I don’t know. But it had better be quick,’ she said in an undertone. ‘I don’t like the look on Gontal’s face. He looks like someone who is thinking of testing your spiritual qualities with an arrow.’

‘Is he indeed? The cheek of the man.’

Lytten prepared his best lecturing voice, honed over the years so that it was clear and penetrating. He prided himself on being able to wake up a slumbering undergraduate at thirty paces, when in the mood.

‘I call before me Antros, friend of Pamarchon,’ he said loudly. Antros was shocked and came forward with the greatest reluctance.

‘I am under the special protection of Willdon,’ he said defiantly as he approached.

Lytten smiled. ‘I’m very glad to hear it,’ he said. ‘I would like to ask you a favour, if I may. I imagine that there are some of your merry band of outlaws carefully scattered around in case something goes wrong here, is that the case?’

Antros didn’t reply. ‘Please go and get them prepared,’ he said quietly. ‘Gontal is in a bad mood, and may soon be in a worse one. Can you tell me which of you is the best archer? It would be good to have someone who is calm and self-confident close by.’

‘I am easily the best,’ Antros said. ‘Better by far than even Pamarchon.’

‘Then you are my man. Now, I would like you to be ready for all eventualities. Settle yourself down in the bushes there.’ Lytten nodded towards his left. ‘Out of sight, if you please, but ready with your bow.’

‘To do what?’

‘You will know if you see it. Just do not be afraid, and trust your instincts. Go now.’

Antros bowed and walked swiftly out of the circle. The encounter had disturbed the crowd, which was now restless in a way which Lytten’s experienced ears knew was impatient, annoyed even. Time to take control properly.

‘Silence!’ he roared suddenly, and the noise shook the clearing like thunder.

Lytten stood up and spread out his arms, the red cloak billowing from the movement.

‘People of Anterwold! People of Willdon! Hear my words!’

Silence fell, absolute and total, as he gazed around him.

‘That’s no good,’ he said. ‘I do not intend to shout. You,’ he gestured to Catherine and Pamarchon, Henary and Jay and Gontal, ‘come and stand over there. Everyone else come closer. Yes, yes. Into the circle. Step over those stones. They are just stones, nothing more.’

Even so, they were reluctant. But soon enough one person stepped over and, emboldened, so did everyone else, then rushed forward until they were gathered around the stone tomb, looking up in awe at the figure standing on it.

‘Good. I will give you my decisions. They are final, not subject to any query. My words will be obeyed. They are the law, unbreakable and eternal.’ He spoke with magnificence and authority, rather like reading the rules of a final exam to a hall of students, but with much greater impact.

‘Firstly, stop looking at me like a bunch of sheep. You believe that I called the Story into being. So I did. It was to help you, not hinder you. To open your minds, not close them. I wish you to question, not obey. Doubt, not trust. That is the purpose of the Story, but you have missed the lesson, if Gontal is anything to go by.

‘It contains your past, I say. It does not contain your future. I have not written that. No one has, and from now on you will be the only people who can write it. Do not rely on words written by the long dead, as Gontal did in his speech. Erudition is no substitute for wisdom. Take what is good and useful in the Story, but do not treat it as a book of rules. Change it as you wish. You have the Story, but you also have your intelligence and humanity. Use all the gifts you have been given.

‘Now, Jay, student of Henary, step forward. Pamarchon, son of Isenwar. Oh — and Aliena, student of Rambert. Let’s have you as well.’

That caused another stir; no one could understand why they had been called, but Jay stepped forward and, after a moment, Aliena also emerged from the crowd, looking alarmed, and took her place beside him.

‘Might as well take care of the star-crossed lovers first, eh? That’s a quotation, by the way. Rosalind will explain it to you. Now, Pamarchon. What can we say of you? Despite Scholar Gontal’s efforts in your defence, I do not find you guilty, tempted though I am to punish his tediousness. I consider innocence to be a considerable failing on your part. You witnessed the injustices of your uncle but didn’t do nearly enough to stop them. I suspect your rather ridiculous deference to your family name always got in the way. Do stop going on about your lineage. It’s tiresome. I do not mean you should have killed Thenald, but I provided everything you needed to challenge him and you didn’t use it. Only when you were forced into the forest did you start to consider anew. Better late than never, but unimpressive. I hope you have learned your lesson, because it seems I am giving you Rosalind here, as beautiful and remarkable a woman as has ever lived, with a lineage that goes back through all of time. She bears a name bestowed by the greatest man in history, a giant among giants. She is, in that sense, the daughter of the gods. I am not entirely convinced you deserve her, but she says she loves you, for reasons which rather escape me, so make sure you earn that love every day of your life that remains. Otherwise, you’ll be in very big trouble, young man. If you mistreat her in any way you will discover what the wrath of heaven really means.’

Pamarchon bowed.

‘Right. That’s you sorted. Now, Aliena. I am pleased to see that you are as pretty as I hoped, or would be if you didn’t look such a grouch. Stop hitting Rambert, girl. He has been good to you. He is proud of you and loves you. You are his greatest achievement and he knows you will far surpass him. He accepts that, and it is no small thing in a proud man. You owe him gratitude, and the best way to repay him is to sing with a beauty that no one has ever heard before. He will accept it, if you stop using your skill to hurt him. Ask Rosalind about Ella Fitzgerald. You should worship her, not me.

‘In your case, Jay, your speech showed your best and worst sides. Lovely delivery, dramatic and theatrical; you spoke with your heart and ignored convention. Well done. But a bit loose on the finishing. You built up the audience beautifully — then left them hanging there. No conclusion; no dramatic unmasking at the end. If you are going to give a speech like that, it must come to a suitable climax. Who did it? Eh? The evidence is there, you know, although now I come to think of it, it is possible you do not know. Still, master the facts in future, please, and only then join them to the rhetoric. You will find the combination serves you well. Details, my boy. Details. The grand themes must always be married to a body of fact.

‘On the subject of marriage, I intended you for a terribly pleasant young girl in Hooke; you would have met her on your next visit. But I think, on reflection, that she is not for you. You need someone to keep you on your toes a bit more. It occurs to me that you and Aliena are soul mates. You don’t see it, I imagine, and you may not even like each other too much yet. But there we are. My mind is made up. You will each encourage the other, and stop each other getting sloppy. You need each other and will love each other as well. Take your time, though. You are both young. No hurry.’

He beamed at the stunned pair standing in front of him. ‘I’m beginning to enjoy this. Gontal! Step forward.’

Gontal, poor man, had already endured a hideous day, seeing all his hopes slowly being prised from his chubby fingers. He had given the speech of his life, and the one person he had hoped to impress had looked as though he was about to fall asleep. He had heard the drivel Jay had delivered, and seen the spirit nodding in approval. Still, the air of command bathing the circle was so strong that he did not even hesitate. He stepped forward and bowed, ignoring the disapproving look of Rosalind, who was standing beside the altar.

‘To you, Gontal, I apologise,’ Lytten said. ‘I should have fleshed you out. Not in body, as you are fat enough for two, but in spirit and character. I made you pompous and self-satisfied, but failed to add much depth to you. That was lazy of me; I’m afraid I just never got around to it. But I put enough in there for you to work on. Henary likes you despite everything, and he is a man to be trusted. I made you funny and cantankerous and intelligent. These are good qualities. Concentrate on them and give up the ambition. It does not suit you, and it has eaten you away a little. You would be a poor ruler of Willdon. Do you understand?’

Gontal stared stonily at the ground.

‘Go back to Ossenfud and finish that damned book of yours instead. How long have you been working on it?’

‘Twenty years, my Lord, but...’

‘Believe me, I understand. But you must get it done, man. Oh — and you shouldn’t drink so much either. Those bottles in your room when no one else is there?’ He wagged a finger. ‘Very bad. Very bad.

‘Next!’ he said cheerfully. ‘Catherine of Willdon, come here. Henary as well. Go away, if you please, Gontal.’

There was a silence until Gontal was well out of earshot. ‘Coincidence,’ he said eventually. ‘An entry here, an exit there. Shakespeare knew all about it. So it is the case now. A ring on a doorbell, a chance meeting, and everything would have been different. I am beginning to think that such accidents are significant. I imagine, Scholar Henary, that you do not have the faintest idea what I am talking about.’

‘Indeed not, my Lord. Your wisdom surpasses my understanding.’

‘I know it does,’ he replied. ‘It’s rather surpassing mine as well, at the moment. So let’s have a look at this tale and see if we can pick out some sense from it, shall we? It is a question of the balance of characters, you see. Why, Catherine, do you exist? Why did I create you? Why did I make you such a remarkable person?’

Catherine said nothing, so he continued.

‘I didn’t,’ he said apologetically. ‘You were a backdrop only, I’m afraid. A minor figure, there merely to give Henary someone to talk to. That’s all. Yet you seem to have turned into a major character. I find that perplexing. You have taken on a life of your own through sheer force of personality. I congratulate you on that, but it means that you are a bit difficult. Such a person could easily harbour dark thoughts and motives without me knowing about it.

‘Henary knows all about you, of course, which is why he was so relieved when I removed him as Pamarchon’s advocate, no? What were you going to do, Henary? Make out a devastating case against Catherine, as you were obliged to do? Or keep quiet, and betray the honour of your calling, by failing to defend Pamarchon to the best of your ability?’

Henary took a deep breath.

‘A problem, eh? Catherine was alone in a rigid, unforgiving world. I know; I made it so, although it was not my intention.’ He pointed at Henary. ‘You knew that she was nothing. Nothing. No family, no position, not a great lady from a grand family. All she said was one lie after another. She was just herself, a fraud. But what a remarkable self. Clever, spirited, resourceful. Everything you admired. Everything I value. Did you know Thenald was going to put her aside, before he was murdered? In your speech for Pamarchon, you would only have needed to lay out the facts.

‘So wasn’t it lucky that Gontal tried to take advantage of you? That I sided with him and against you? Your honour was spared. Tell me now. What would you have done? Do you know?’

Henary looked squarely at the apparition. ‘No. I don’t know.’

‘Let me tell you. You would have walked away and incurred disgrace by failing in your duty as advocate. You would have laid down your honour and reputation for your friend. As any good person would, if put into an impossible situation. What does that say about you, Scholar Henary? The two most important people in your life are Catherine, a fraud, and Jay, whose lack of discipline undermines the Story you so reverence. You admire others who do the things you dare not do yourself. Time to change. Etheran showed you how. Do you really think this woman murdered her husband?’

‘I will not think it.’

‘Just as well. I may have only sketched her out, but I’m sure I didn’t give her the soul of a murderer.’

‘Then who did kill him?’

‘Now, this is the clever bit. This is where you redeem yourself. It is not for me to say. I will cause the truth to be unveiled. That does not mean handing it to you on a platter, my good fellow. You know who killed him. Now that Jay has so usefully provided the missing details you need, and shown you how to make a proper speech.’

‘I don’t...’

‘I will give you a hint. Look around you. Who do you see? Cast your eyes over this crowd of people and find someone you know, someone who should not be here, someone who is not part of my story. I will say it once more: what use is Anterwold if intelligent men do not use the gifts they are given?’

He folded his arms and looked down at Henary from the tomb. ‘Bring this to an end, Henary.’

‘I need time to prepare, and to think.’

‘You can’t have it.’

As Henary turned away, Lytten glanced quickly at Rosalind, who was looking puzzled.

‘What was all that about?’

‘It was all I could think of,’ he said. ‘Thenald died. I didn’t have him murdered. That wasn’t in my story at all.’

Henary, meanwhile, had put his hands together as he surveyed the crowd, first this way, then that. Finally he saw the only person who fitted the apparition’s words. ‘Someone you know, someone who should not be here.’ Someone who could have no purpose here. Could that possibly be the answer? He covered his mouth with his hands as he prepared, and closed his eyes. It was a terrible risk, one he would never have dared take, had not the apparition himself all but ordered him to do so. That gave him the confidence to proceed. He stood for many seconds before his body relaxed and he began to speak.

‘People of Willdon,’ Henary said when he finally accepted that he had to obey the apparition’s orders, ‘I stand before you a man ashamed, unworthy of my name and rank. I have been chastised by the very heavens themselves. Do any now doubt that Catherine and Pamarchon are both innocent of the terrible charges laid against them? The spirit has spoken and delivered its verdict on them both. We have been told that they are innocent, and we are bound by that judgement. Both must go free.

‘More, I have been told to seek the murderer in my own knowledge and say who killed Thenald and why, for his murder remains to be avenged, a stain on this place which must be removed once and for all.

‘So let me state it clearly: I was the cause of Thenald’s death. Let me explain.

‘For many years now, I have worked quietly in the realm of forbidden knowledge, seeking out hidden truths about the Story, investigating prophecies and the speech of mystics. My master, Etheran, talked to those whose opinions are normally ignored, to itinerant Storytellers, to hermits and to false prophets. He began to see the outline of a story that existed outside the Story, but he died before he could complete his work. I studied his papers when I wrote his own story after his death.

‘I found two letters written to Etheran by a man called Jaqui, a hermit. Curiously, I had already met this man once. In the letters there was a prophecy.

‘It seems strange to attribute any importance to such things, certainly to introduce them now. We live under the great prophecy that one day we will be judged but we ignore it, not least because no one knows when that moment will come. The Hermit of Hooke thought he did know, and put a time on it. The fifth day of the fifth year. That is what he wrote. The end will come on the fifth day of the fifth year.

‘I thought it was meaningless rambling, of course, but here we are; now his words have meaning indeed. Today is the fifth day of the fifth year. The fifth day of the fifth year of Lady Catherine’s accession to the lordship of Willdon. This is the day the Hermit of Hooke said the world would end, which meant also the day Esilio would return. Do any doubt now that he prophesied correctly?’

Henary paused to let this sink in.

‘When we met, I told Jaqui that Thenald was ruler of Willdon, and had been for seven years already. I even told him that he was in good health. He must have realised that if that was the case, then this fifth day of the fifth year, the end of the world he so desired, would not come for many years. He had to change that; he was so mad that he thought, no doubt, he was divinely appointed to bring this about. This is what I believe took place.

‘Jaqui left Hooke and travelled to Willdon, fell in with the forester Callan and waited. A wanderer, a man of no name or place, Callan called him. He stole the knife which was next seen buried in Thenald’s chest.

‘Then it seems he returned to Hooke and took up his life once more, waiting for the day he believed would prove his own importance. This is the only account which makes sense.

‘Certainly Jaqui was at Hooke until a few weeks ago, but as the day he had awaited approached, he left for the last time. I sent my student to find him, but he had gone. He was on his way here, to witness his triumph.

‘The rest is clear. He perpetrated the most terrible crime to summon the gods, perhaps in revenge for the way he had been treated in this life. He dared to return to this place, to defile the sanctuary of Esilio. Such evil impiety could not be tolerated. The monstrosity of the deed caused the heavens themselves to protest. The spirit did not respond to Gontal’s call for someone with more authority than himself. Rather, he responded to the sacrilege of a murderer daring to set foot in his sanctuary, and claiming the sanction of the gods for evil deeds. Jaqui’s foul presence summoned Esilio to this place to right the crimes and false accusations he has brought down on us.

‘His presence, I say. For the hermit Jaqui is amongst us now.’

Henary lifted his arm and pointed at the figure the apparition had told him to look for. ‘There he is. There is the murderer of Thenald. Bring him forward.’

Lytten saw from the corner of his eye that Antros went down swiftly on one knee as Henary finished his dramatic speech and reached for an arrow to slot into place. About thirty feet, Lytten guessed. An easy shot.

It wasn’t necessary, though. The man Henary pointed out did not try to run. Nor did he shout or protest. He simply stood there, and when a couple of the soldiers of Willdon approached he allowed them to take him by both arms and lead him forwards. There was an odd smile of satisfaction on his haggard face, half obscured by the tangled mat of hair.

They walked him towards the Shrine, and there he struggled free. ‘Get off me,’ he said. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’

They did, but stayed close as the man walked slowly forwards.