Herbie Brennan - Faerie Lord

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.

It occurred to Chalkhill he needed a loo. It was years since he’d worked for Hairstreak, but the little shit was capable of holding a grudge for a lifetime. The painful ingenuity of his revenge was legendary.

Hairstreak must have read something of his inner turmoil from his face, for his lip curled slightly and he said, ‘Not expecting to see me, Jasper?’

Chalkhill opened his mouth, then closed it again, like a fish. He made a second attempt with no greater success, then finally squeaked, ‘No.’ Since it never helped to be rude to a turd of Hairstreak’s stature, he managed to swallow hard and add, ‘Your Lordship.’ What was the man doing here anyway? He’d never, ever shown the slightest interest in the Black Arts, yet here he was now, not just a member of the magical Brotherhood, but apparently leading it. The implications hardly bore thinking about.

‘Well,’ said Hairstreak easily, ‘I’m glad to hear my Brothers have been holding to their oaths.’ His eyes pierced Chalkhill like stilettos. ‘Will you be faithful to your oath, Jasper?’

‘Me? Yes. Certainly. Definitely. You know me, Your Lordship. Soul of discretion. Tact. Obedience. Faithful? Definitely. And loyal. Yes, indeed. To the Brotherhood. If they’ll have me. And you, sir. Personally. Definitely. My word. My oath. Whatever you want, Lord Hair – Lord Hair – Lord Hair – ’ His mouth went into an endless loop and he couldn’t seem to finish what he was saying.

Hairstreak sighed impatiently. ‘Yes, yes, I get the message, Jasper. No trouble from you, now or hereafter. That about it, would you say?’

‘Definitely!’ Chalkhill confirmed. He wondered if he dared risk putting out a contract on Hairstreak. The Guild of Assassins was very reliable and everybody knew Hairstreak had fallen on hard times since the Civil War. His security might not be what it used to be.

Hairstreak smiled chillingly. ‘Excellent,’ he said. He glanced towards a black-robed minion on his right. ‘Bring in the coffin!’

‘Coffin?’ Chalkhill squeaked. It was already on its way, carried by six pallbearers, rather well made in oak with polished brass handles and, worryingly, brown bloodstains splattered all across its surface. The pallbearers set it down directly in front of the altar.

‘Get in,’ Hairstreak ordered with obvious relish.

The door would have been spell-bound by now, so any hope of making a run for it was out the window… except there wasn’t any window. He was doomed and there was no loo in the coffin. Chalkhill realised his thoughts were running riot, making no sense even to him, but it was so difficult to rein them back. ‘You should have warned me!’ he hissed furiously at Brimstone.

‘About what?’ Brimstone hissed back. He seemed completely unperturbed by Hairstreak, but then Brimstone had always been like that: skinny, ugly, wrinkled, hard as nails and tough as boots. There were stories that he’d won a fight with Beleth before Queen Blue killed the demon king. Which meant a great deal more then than it did now Hael was under Realm control.