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Authors: Robert Holdstock, Angus Wells
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onwards.
Spellbinder’s voice came through the confusion, reassuring her, and she let her mount be led onwards, towards the squat, shimmering-slab of insensate rock.
She felt the light fade behind her, and for a moment was in total blackness, so thick as to press in upon her, goading panic into her mind. Then the darkness was replaced by a blaze of light so strong her eyes winked shut in instinctive defence. When she opened them again she found herself in a great cavern lit by reed torches that gave off more light than was natural. There was no stink of burning oil, no smoke curling across the dim, high-standing ceiling; only a clean, cold glare filling every recess of the place with stark, undeniable light, and the faintly-damp smell of natural stone. She dismounted and followed Spellbinder through an archway that opened into a smooth-walled tunnel. Again light plunged into blackness, and she wondered if this was not some deliberate effect planned to disrupt the senses of anyone entering the temple. Reflexively, her hand touched the dagger belted to her waist, though her feet continued to follow the pad of Spellbinder’s footsteps as he strode down the lightless passage.
Darkness erupted again into light, though now it was more mellow and she could see clearly the tall figure facing them.
It was impossible, clearly, to discern the sex, for flowing robes of pure white shrouded the figure, and the voice that welcomed them was mellifluous as a maiden’s, yet commanding as a man’s.
‘Welcome,’ intoned the figure, ‘to the Temple of the Stone. Come you to worship or to question?’
‘There are matters,’ Spellbinder chose his words with care, ‘that I would put to the Stone. Be it your will, High-One, I would commune with the Star-gift.’
The Stone priest paused for a moment, as though sensing some element of danger inherent in his visitors. Then he raised his arms, lifting the wide sleeves of his robe as a great white bird might lift its wings in preparation for flight. He brought his hands together, and Raven’s ears were shocked by the deafening thunder of his handclap. It was as if a storm broke within the confines of the rocky cell, bellows of thunder echoing from the walls to hammer against her senses. She almost staggered beneath the aural assault, her eyes watering as her head shook in an attempt to settle the ringing that filled her skull with painful sound. When the noise died away to silence again, she saw that two brown-robed priests stood before her. Of the white-robed one, there was no sign.
Spellbinder tugged a leather purse from his swordbelt, the coins within chinking as he tossed it to the nearest priest. The robed man caught the bag neat as any street thief and turned towards an opening Raven had not, previously, noticed.
Close on her companion’s heels, she followed the priests into the doorway. Again darkness, so black as to be almost tangible, and again that sudden chill of panic, yet the priests moved on resolutely enough, and Spellbinder seemed to suffer no disruption from the abrupt changes. Raven stared into the velvet nothingness and followed the sound of the others’ footsteps, ignoring the light her mind produced in compensation for the utter negation of light.
This latest passage appeared longer than the others, though it was difficult to tell in the blackness, and she felt that they moved downwards, as though the tunnel probed the bowels of the desert.
Then, suddenly as before, black became brilliance, one kind of sightlessness replaced by another. Raven stumbled, felt firm hands support her, and closed her eyes tight, letting the brightness filter in through the protective membrane of her lids. Gradually, far slower than she wished, the mind-swamping light faded to crimson, then to a dull red glow, and then to spangled black. When she opened her lids, the two priests were gone, leaving her alone with Spellbinder.
With Spellbinder and the Stone.
They were inside an egg of
Spellbinder’s voice came through the confusion, reassuring her, and she let her mount be led onwards, towards the squat, shimmering-slab of insensate rock.
She felt the light fade behind her, and for a moment was in total blackness, so thick as to press in upon her, goading panic into her mind. Then the darkness was replaced by a blaze of light so strong her eyes winked shut in instinctive defence. When she opened them again she found herself in a great cavern lit by reed torches that gave off more light than was natural. There was no stink of burning oil, no smoke curling across the dim, high-standing ceiling; only a clean, cold glare filling every recess of the place with stark, undeniable light, and the faintly-damp smell of natural stone. She dismounted and followed Spellbinder through an archway that opened into a smooth-walled tunnel. Again light plunged into blackness, and she wondered if this was not some deliberate effect planned to disrupt the senses of anyone entering the temple. Reflexively, her hand touched the dagger belted to her waist, though her feet continued to follow the pad of Spellbinder’s footsteps as he strode down the lightless passage.
Darkness erupted again into light, though now it was more mellow and she could see clearly the tall figure facing them.
It was impossible, clearly, to discern the sex, for flowing robes of pure white shrouded the figure, and the voice that welcomed them was mellifluous as a maiden’s, yet commanding as a man’s.
‘Welcome,’ intoned the figure, ‘to the Temple of the Stone. Come you to worship or to question?’
‘There are matters,’ Spellbinder chose his words with care, ‘that I would put to the Stone. Be it your will, High-One, I would commune with the Star-gift.’
The Stone priest paused for a moment, as though sensing some element of danger inherent in his visitors. Then he raised his arms, lifting the wide sleeves of his robe as a great white bird might lift its wings in preparation for flight. He brought his hands together, and Raven’s ears were shocked by the deafening thunder of his handclap. It was as if a storm broke within the confines of the rocky cell, bellows of thunder echoing from the walls to hammer against her senses. She almost staggered beneath the aural assault, her eyes watering as her head shook in an attempt to settle the ringing that filled her skull with painful sound. When the noise died away to silence again, she saw that two brown-robed priests stood before her. Of the white-robed one, there was no sign.
Spellbinder tugged a leather purse from his swordbelt, the coins within chinking as he tossed it to the nearest priest. The robed man caught the bag neat as any street thief and turned towards an opening Raven had not, previously, noticed.
Close on her companion’s heels, she followed the priests into the doorway. Again darkness, so black as to be almost tangible, and again that sudden chill of panic, yet the priests moved on resolutely enough, and Spellbinder seemed to suffer no disruption from the abrupt changes. Raven stared into the velvet nothingness and followed the sound of the others’ footsteps, ignoring the light her mind produced in compensation for the utter negation of light.
This latest passage appeared longer than the others, though it was difficult to tell in the blackness, and she felt that they moved downwards, as though the tunnel probed the bowels of the desert.
Then, suddenly as before, black became brilliance, one kind of sightlessness replaced by another. Raven stumbled, felt firm hands support her, and closed her eyes tight, letting the brightness filter in through the protective membrane of her lids. Gradually, far slower than she wished, the mind-swamping light faded to crimson, then to a dull red glow, and then to spangled black. When she opened her lids, the two priests were gone, leaving her alone with Spellbinder.
With Spellbinder and the Stone.
They were inside an egg of
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