Atha nodded grimly. ‘Loyalty I respect,’ he said, ‘though I see little enough of it. But loyalty is not in question.’ He raised an arm, pointing. ‘One word from me,’ he said, ‘and you are swept away. You and your army, like chaff before a wind. Now answer me, will you hold the path? Will you speak, for all these peoples’ lives?’
A voice behind them said, ‘He has no need.’
Thoma turned, slowly. Marck wore his battered armour, and a sword. A hillboy led his horse, a shock-haired lad of maybe some ten summers. The eyes of the King shone brightly, tears mingling with the rain that soaked his cheeks, plastered the thinning hair close to his scalp. ‘They are all my people,’ he said. ‘My good people, whom I lead...’ He halted some six feet from the King, regarded the ranks behind him and shook his head. ‘This is Thoma, seneschal of the Gate,’ he said, ‘and my true and faithful man. Deal justly with him. . ’ He peered again, shortsightedly ‘Why do you come before me with such array?’ he asked. ‘We were not prepared, we would have prepared. It is not knightly, not done like a King. You sent no word ...’
‘I sent you word,’ said Atha grimly. ‘But none returned. Who spurns my messenger, sent under my Seal, spurns me.’
Mark shook his head again. ‘I saw no messenger,’ he said. ‘The castle folk, . . but they are good people. I have been ... much engaged. It has not been . . easy, keeping your peace in the west.’
‘Of that,’ said Atha dryly, ‘I was made aware’ He leaned forward, ‘King Marck,’ he said, ‘it is not good to sit here, in the rain. And my patience is an old boar’s patience; short. Will you fight with me or no?’
The wandering attention of the King was riveted. ‘Fight?’ he said. ‘Who spoke of fighting? Was it Thoma? He was most remiss ...’ He scrambled from the saddle; and the boy hastened to take his arm, ‘We came to do you honour, as your subjects ...’ He was on his knees, gripping the hem of the King’s rich saddlecloth; and Atha, stooping from the horse, endeavouring to raise him. ‘My Lord,’ said Marck, sobbing, ‘great evil came. I was its author. And now, at night; I cannot rest, there is no rest. But you, with your great army ... deal justly with them. And you will sit in judgement on me; I am content...’
Atha signed to the column; and priests ran forward, dark-habited, each with the wheel-sign topping a golden staff.
‘I am well content,’ said Marck. ‘But, Lord, this child, born of a forester. His father died, his mother cannot support him. I commend him to you, take him to your care. I did great wrong ...’
‘Old friend,’ said Atha gently, ‘go with these Brothers. And be calm. All is well; later, I will speak with you.’ He waved again, and an officer spurred forward. ‘Tell the firetube masters to stand down,’ he said. ‘And send my Captains to me.’ Then to Thoma, ‘Lead the way, good seneschal. This... greeting does you honour. Ride with me, and tell me of your lord; for I sup with you tonight.’
The dawn had not yet broken over the Heath. Above the tall trees that fringed the Mound the sky showed a broadening smudge of silver; but the brook with its tangled banks still lay in velvet dark. The Tower reared its brooding height against the scarcely paler west; and all round, twinkling and dim, gleamed the campfires of the waking army.
Atha paused in the lower bailey, sniffing the ancient chill of the brook air. Then he turned to the man at his side. ‘Some say I leave a madman in my path,’ he said quietly, ‘and some a traitor. Whom do I leave, King Marck?’
Marck chafed his thin hands together. ‘A loyal subject,’ he said in his tired voice, ‘who would fain ride with you to this war.’
But the other shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘No, Marck, I have another need of you. Sit here, and be strong for me; hold the Gate till I return, and I shall be well satisfied.’ He gestured to where, a pace or so away, two priests stood like shadows in the night. ‘For the rest,’ he said, ‘I leave you these good Brothers, who are men of God and strong in wisdom. They will bring you comfort.’
Marck said dully, ‘There are no Gods. This much wisdom has taught.’
‘No Gods,’ said Atha vibrantly. ‘But one God, merciful and just. Who came to us, a man among men, in Sealand; who was broken on the Wheel and yet raised up, to bring eternal life. This was taught me by his priests; and this I believe.’ He circled his hand, forefinger raised. ‘See this sign,’ he said. ‘By it I have sworn to make these islands one; to raise up the weak and lowly, bringing mercy to every man. For this, I ride west. The north we have subdued, to the shore that fronts the Misty Isles. Six Long Creek Towers burn; foes to the Crab, on whom I put my heel.’ He made the Sign again. ‘One people,’ he said. ‘Worshipping one God, and walking without fear. They will be a proud people, and a great. In this, as in all things, I need your skills.’
But Marck shook his head. ‘I have been through a long valley,’ he said. ‘Even now its darkness calls me. And she calls me, at night from all the hills. She who was so little.’
Atha’s hand was on his shoulder; he felt the trembling start, and tightened his grip. ‘No,’ he said gently, ‘you have not understood. You have played with madness, King Marck. But play is for children; and you are not a child. It is over.’
Marck bowed his head. ‘I am not worthy, Lord,’ he said. ‘Take the Tower from me. Give it to another, and let me end my days.’
He felt the other’s answer in his silence. Finally Atha shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Neither may you escape in death. It is not his will, whom I serve.’
Marck said in a muffled voice, ‘But what remains ...’
‘Remains?’ said Atha vaguely. He stared round him, at the dark expanse of the Heath. ‘The stars,’ he said, ‘the empty hills. We are all alone; it is a Mystery the Brothers will explain.’ He shook the gaunt man gently. ‘I, to bring wisdom to the Scholar of the Gate,’ he said. ‘You sought to own her, buying her with gold. Old friend,
you own her now ...’
He turned to gaze up at the Tower with its looming face. ‘Another thing you will do,’ he said. ‘Get out your books, and find the way. Build me a Hall of stone, such as the Giants knew. Strong founded, gripped to rock, proof against arrows and the firetube darts. Build it to Heaven; and let it stand for her, if not for me.’
Marck licked his mouth. He said, ‘I cannot.’
Atha shook his head once more. ‘You have still not understood,’ he said. ‘The Brothers teach, and I believe, that death is a beginning, not an end. That on a certain day we all shall rise, in glory before the Lord. Then she will see it, if her bones have now no place. Will she not know it was made for her?’
He turned away, pulling on his steel-banded gloves. ‘Other men will come, from other parts,’ he said. ‘To marvel, and to learn. So Towers of stone will guard the realm, and its folk will be free from fear. Fine Towers they will be, King Marck; but none finer than yours, the first.’
A horse was led forward, with a stamp and jingle. He mounted, and turned. ‘Build the Tower,’ he said. ‘Keep this place for me; and may the great God guard you.’ His hoofbeats thudded on the sloping turf; they heard his voice at the outer gate and the quick laugh of a guard, surprised as if by some jest.
Marck had made no answer. He stood now staring up; and it was as if he saw, sketched against the night, the walls of a mighty Hall. His mind, despite itself, was busied afresh. It saw already patterns of joists and stairs; the slings they would use to hoist the blocks, the scaffoldings on which masons would work. He saw, finally, the sun burn on the cliff of new white stone; and the flags that topped it, proud against the blue. The Crab of Sealand, the Horse of Atha and the Wheel of God. It seemed his heart was lightened; so that he called to the priests, ran to the gatehouse steps. He saw the looming figure of the King pass into dawn dusk; he saw the clustered roofs and moving mists. Then it seemed the new God entered him so that he saw other things, too many for remembrance or the telling. Flowers broke free and sailed the sky, clouds sailed like flowers; and a great Deer rose and shook his smoky head, down there below Corfe Gate.
The traffic ahead has ground to a halt again. The line of stalled vehicles stretches into distance, twinkling in the heat-haze. An hour back the mirages started forming, breaking and splitting like pools of quicksilver. Now the sun beats down on the Champ’s canvas hood. There’s a smell of exhaust fumes and dust,
The patrol car is moving, slowly. Its loudhailer is working; the words come crackling and flat. Stan Potts watches the blue flasher revolve and wipes his face and swears. He wants to pee, arid has wanted to pee for an hour or more, and dull pain has grown to sharper pain and then to all-consuming need. He hasn’t dared leave the vehicle, hasn’t dared turn off the road. He slicks the gearstick forward and back and stares through the blotched windscreen and tries to think of nothing, nothing at all.
The observer has left the car, is working his way from vehicle to vehicle along the jam. Uproar breaks out somewhere, hoots and shouting. Stan wipes his face again with the back of his hand and gropes behind him. There’s an old bait tin; he finds it, works it down behind his heels.
The observer leans on the windowsill. He’s in his shirtsleeves; sweat makes a dark patch under his arm. He says, ‘Wareham’s restricted, they won’t let you in. Best turn round.’
All Stan wants in the world is for him to go away. He says, ‘I have to try. My father’s very old.’ It’s as if the words came from somebody else, unasked. He swallows, stares at the chipped paint along the top of the dash. But the policeman has gone on anyway. He isn’t really interested.
He grips the can between his knees, pulls at his flies. His head spins a little; but the relief is momentary. The other thing reasserts itself; he remembers the miles he still has to go and what must happen at the other end, what he has to do. It seems he can’t think straight any more. He must be mad; mad to have started, mad to be sitting here among all these shouting cars.
He lies back, in pain. He knows he’s not going to make it.