Faerie Lord

Nine

‘Can you see anything?’ Brimstone asked.

‘Nothing,’ Chalkhill confirmed. ‘Not so much as a chink.’

‘Put your wrists behind your back.’

‘What are you going to do?’ Chalkhill asked at once.

‘Bind them!’ intoned the Praemonstrator. Outside the Brotherhood his name was Avis and he made a living hiring out ouklos, but the jackal mask gave him a certain gravitas.

‘Oooh!’ Chalkhill exclaimed and crossed his wrists behind his back at once.

Avis tied them expertly with a soft piece of silken rope. ‘Let the Initiation commence!’ he commanded.

Brimstone took Chalkhill by the elbow and began to lead him towards the Lodge Room door. As they reached it and stopped, Chalkhill leaned over to whisper, ‘Silas, he hasn’t tied me very tightly. I could get free if I wanted to.’

‘It’s symbolic!’ Brimstone hissed back impatiently. ‘I told you that before. It’s all symbolic. Death and resurrection. If it wasn’t symbolic, we’d have to kill you.’

‘Wouldn’t want that,’ said Chalkhill cheerfully. ‘What happens now?’

‘What happens now is you shut up and let me get on with it,’ Brimstone told him. But he relented enough to add, ‘I introduce you to the assembled Brothers and propose you for membership. You’re not allowed to see them until you’ve been accepted. That’s why you’re hoodwinked and Avis is wearing the mask.’

‘That’s not Callophrys Avis, is it?’ Chalkhill asked. ‘The one with the funny wife?’

At his own initiation, Brimstone swore an oath never to reveal the name of another Brother on pain of having his tongue removed, his eyes gouged out, his breast ripped open and his heart stopped by a magical current that tapped the fundamental power of the universe. ‘That’s him,’ he said.

From behind them, Weiskei said, ‘Are you two ready?’

‘Yes,’ Brimstone told him shortly.

‘Knock thrice on the door, Brother Sponsor,’ Callophrys Avis instructed. ‘In your own time.’

‘Here we go,’ Brimstone whispered to Chalkhill. ‘I want you to do what you’re told, keep your mouth shut unless you’re spoken to and, above all, don’t camp it up.’

‘Of course,’ Chalkhill whispered back in the shocked tones of one wrongly accused. ‘I’ll be good.’

Brimstone reached out and knocked thrice on the heavy oakwood door. The sound reverberated hollowly.

It was peculiar working blind. After an expectant second, Chalkhill heard the door open, and a waft of heady incense assailed his nostrils, overlaid by the distinctive scent of magic. Darkness knew what sort of spells were operating in the Lodge Room, although he expected he’d find out soon enough.

A strange voice asked sonorously, ‘Who knocks?’

‘One who stands without…’ Brimstone whispered in Chalkhill’s ear.

Chalkhill frowned under his hoodwink. ‘Stands without what?’ he asked softly.

‘Just repeat the words!’ hissed Brimstone. ‘One who stands without …’

‘One who stands without,’ said Chalkhill loudly. It occurred to him he couldn’t be looking his best with a bag over his head, but there was nothing he could do about that now.

‘And seeks entrance within,’ Brimstone prompted.

‘And seeks entrance within,’ Chalkhill echoed, wondering how an exchange as banal as this could form part of the ceremonial of the most feared Brotherhood of the Realm. Or what used to be the most feared. Whether his new friends could reclaim that position remained to be seen.

‘Child of Earth, arise and enter the Path of Darkness,’ said the strange voice. There was another firm knock; then the voice called, ‘Very Honoured Hierophant, is it your pleasure that the Candidate be admitted?’

A new voice, distorted yet hauntingly familiar, said loudly, ‘It is. Admit Jasper Chalkhill in due form. Fratre Stolistes and Dadouchos, assist the Praemonstrator in the reception.’

There was a shuffling of feet; then the voice of Praemonstrator Avis sounded no more than a yard or two in front of him, still muffled by the jackal mask. ‘Child of Earth, unpurified and unconsecrated thou canst not enter our sacred hall!’

Then consecrate me, Chalkhill thought, and let’s be getting on with it.

Two new voices chirped up then. The first said slowly, ‘Child of Earth, I purify thee with water.’ Something hit him in the face through the hoodwink and after a moment he felt the cloth go damp.

The second voice said in a grating singsong, ‘Child of Earth, I consecrate thee with fire.’ There was a whooshing sound and he felt the heat of a torch around his upper body.

‘It is done, Honoured Hierophant,’ the two voices intoned in unison.

‘Conduct the Candidate to the foot of the altar,’ ordered the Hierophant.

Chalkhill felt Brimstone take his arm and urge him on. He tried to make a brave front of it, but it was almost impossible to stride forward with any sort of swagger when you couldn’t see where you were going. What would happen if he tripped over the incense burner? Or walked smack into a pillar?

Brimstone jerked him to a halt at what he assumed to be the foot of the altar. Certainly the voice of the Hierophant was closer now as he asked, ‘Child of Earth, why dost thou request admission into this Order?’

Chalkhill realised his imagination was beginning to run riot. He could visualise the Lodge Room vividly, a sweeping hypostyle hall in polished marble with golden inlays. The Brothers were robed and stately, highly powerful magi every one. Then it occurred to him this was exactly the reason for the hoodwink. Successful initiation was largely to do with the Candidate’s state of mind. You could impress him with an actual marble hall, but it was cheaper to let his imagination do the work. But Brimstone was whispering in his ear again.

‘My soul is wandering the Realm searching for the Darkness of Occult Knowledge,’ Brimstone prompted. ‘And I believe that in this Order, the knowledge of that Darkness may be obtained.’

‘My soul is wandering the Realm searching for the Darkness of Occult Knowledge and I believe that in this Order, the knowledge of that Darkness may be obtained,’ Chalkhill repeated dutifully.

‘Well spoken, Wanderer!’ the Hierophant exclaimed heartily. ‘Remove the hoodwink!’

Chalkhill blinked a little as the hood came off. His eyes took a moment to adjust to the light. Then the marble hall of his imagination disappeared to make way for the reality of a smallish, square, carpeted room with incense burning on a cubical altar and only two pillars in the place, one black, the other silver. Chalkhill stared in horror.

Between them, seated on an obsidian throne, was Lord Hairstreak.