The Serpent in the Glass (The Tale of Thomas Farrell) (37 page)

It wasn’t long before they arrived at the Hall of Arghadmon. Trevelyan led Thomas to the fireplace at the far western end of the room. ‘Here’s the entrance.’

Thomas glanced at the fireplace. ‘The entrance to what?’

‘To the place of the fallen. You’ll need to use the Glass of course.’

Thomas pulled the Glass from his pocket. He’d yet to find a new bag for his marbles, so they lay at the Manor in his small chest-of-drawers. ‘You’re not coming with me?’

The Headmaster shook his head. ‘No, Thomas. I’ll wait here for you.’

The Glass glowed as Thomas stepped into the ashes. Suddenly the fireplace flared into life, and for a moment Thomas thought he might be burned alive, but the flames disappeared as soon as they had come, and, with them, Trevelyan and the Hall of Arghadmon. Thomas found himself looking across a marble floor and up smooth pale grey walls. He stepped out of the fireplace into a small chamber about half as wide as it was long. Both ends sported large windows made not of web, but of stained glass. Thomas wondered why he’d never seen the windows from outside the Academy before. Many scenes and vistas dotted the panes, but the central figures in each were clear. The window to his left bore the image of a silver-scaled serpent with a flame of fire above it in the shape of a crown. In the other window stood a tall, silver-haired man clad in armour of the darkest blue and bearing in his hands a large sword. His green-stained eyes seemed to flash at Thomas as the sun cast its early morning beams through the window. Fabula’s description had been vivid enough for Thomas to recognize the image before him as that of Arghadmon, but the storyteller had never mentioned his green eyes. Then the image of the green-eyed warrior came back into his mind — the one he’d seen in the dream in the Hall of Tales — and he realized that it was Arghadmon he had seen on that dreamworld battlefield.

A large stone block dominated the floor of the chamber. Almost as tall as Thomas, it measured twice his length, and its top had been carved into the likeness of a man in sleep. Thomas instantly recognized the armour and sword from the stained-glass window. This was the tomb of Arghadmon, the former owner of the buildings that made up the Academy. Thomas put his hand out to touch the stone. It was cold. He then saw that there were words inscribed upon the side facing him. He couldn’t read them at first, but then the Glass in his hand shone a little brighter and its glow touched the strange glyphs and their meaning suddenly became clear:

Here Lies Fearghal, Son of Brigid, Returned At Last to the Hollow Hills

Thomas stepped back, removing his hand from the stone. This was his father’s tomb! The knowledge sunk into him like a chainless anchor. How could Fearghal and Arghadmon be the same person? Thomas refused to believe it, but the silver-blond hair and green eyes in the window bore testimony to the truth of it. Thomas had always supposed Arghadmon to be a Humbalgog or perhaps related to the Alfar, but, now he came to think about it, Fabula had never mentioned his race. As Brigid’s son he would be De Danann, but how could that be? The De Danann supposedly withdrew to their sidhe hundreds of years ago and had no more to do with Avallach. He didn’t understand.

His eyes rested upon the stone carving. The image of his father. The face was strong, yet kind, and above it sat two serpent heads, the bodies of which ran down the length of the tomb until the tails wrapped about a carving of an open book just beneath the feet. He traced the carvings with his hand. More symbols adorned the great sword clasped between the two stone hands. He reached out to touch the blade, but the edge, undulled by time, cut his finger. He winced and put his finger in his mouth. How could it be so sharp? He followed the line of the great sword as he moved down the tomb until his eyes caught hold of the open book. Blank stone pages stared back at him. Why would there be no words for such a great leader and warrior? Maybe the tomb hadn’t been finished before being hidden away? Thomas ran his hand over their smooth surface as if to confirm that they really were blank, but in so doing his finger left a trail of blood upon the stone-carved page. He wiped the stone, but the blood remained. He wiped it again, this time with his sleeve, but the stain on the book didn’t go away.

Thomas stared at the page. He felt like he’d just desecrated his father’s tomb. Then he watched as the blood began to form into lines and then into writing, just like the Blood Parchment. Fearghal’s name appeared on the page, then Brigid’s above it, and then above that others until it reached the top of the page where the name
Danu
winked into sight. Unlike the Blood Parchment, the writing glowed brightly as the tree completed, then, as if in response, a voice, deep, gentle, and familiar, filled the room.

‘Thomas, son.’

Thomas looked around. The voice came from the walls, just like in Master Fabula’s Hall of Tales.

‘You now know the truth of who you are. I am sorry it had to be this way. I am sorry your mother and I could not be there for you,’ the voice continued.

It was his father’s voice — he remembered it now from when he was a child. ‘Father?’

‘What you now hear are my last words to you, spoken before my death. Listen carefully, for you shall not hear my voice again in this world.’

Thomas looked to the image of Arghadmon in the stained-glass window. The eyes seemed to be looking at him.

‘There is something I would have you know. I sent you to the Otherside for your protection. I have asked faithful Erendrake to look out for you, and Brigid, your grandmother, will do what she can. You may trust them both, but you must learn to trust yourself too, and that may prove the harder task. The Gloine Nathair, should you desire it, will guide and aid you until you are its master. Only those of De Danann blood may wield it. Let it be your guide, day and night, and it will teach you things that I am no longer able to do. Farewell, Thomas. Son.’

The voice faded and Thomas saw the blood on the page do the same. Then words seemed to rise up through the page, words not of blood but of stone:

Here Lies Fearghal, Son of Brigid, Husband of Eleanor, Father of Thomas, Returned At Last to the Hollow Hills

‘No! Wait!’ Thomas cried, sensing the presence of the voice leave. ‘Father?’

But there was no reply, not even when he fell to the floor and wept…

Thomas wasn’t sure how much time had passed when he eventually stumbled out of the fireplace and back into the Hall of Arghadmon where Trevelyan still waited, hands clasped behind his back. He didn’t speak, but looked at Thomas as if waiting for him to say something.

Thomas turned and made his way silently toward the back wall. Lifting the Glass, he pressed it against the panelling and the chamber hiding the Blood Parchment opened to their view.

A look of pleasant surprise filled Trevelyan's countenance. ‘Well, bless my soul! It’s amazing what one can find behind a wall! If I’m not very much mistaken, that’s the Blood Parchment.’

Thomas nodded.

The Headmaster looked at Thomas thoughtfully. ‘Ah, I see. You are wondering why nothing happened when you placed a drop of your blood upon it?’

Thomas nodded again, still unable to form his thoughts into words.

‘The Blood Parchment was created long after the De Danann departed. The blood of that people, and indeed of Men, cannot be detected by it. It was made to discern the mortal races of Avallach alone.’

Well, that explained that, thought Thomas, but he still had more questions. ‘I don’t understand. How can Fearghal and Arghadmon be the same person?’

‘Ah,’ Trevelyan began, ‘that’s easily explained. Arghadmon’s a title the people gave him because of his long, silver-blond hair. I don’t think many knew his real name.’

Thomas watched as the chamber of the Blood Parchment disappeared. Then his eyes wandered up to the fire-wreathed crown on the wall. It made sense now. ‘My father said someone called Erendrake would look out for me.’ Thomas looked at the Glass still in his hand. ‘He’s the person in charge of my father’s estate, isn’t he?’

The High Cap didn’t answer, but turned and looked at the painting across the room on the far wall, the painting of the fortress on a hill. ‘As you must now realize, your father’s estate includes the Fortress of Arghadmon.’

Thomas hadn’t realized at all, but now he knew why the place was so familiar to him. He’d spent the first two years of his life here. ‘Do you think I could stay and look around for a while? It’s just that it means more to me now, if you understand.’

Trevelyan smiled and walked toward the doors. ‘I do understand, Thomas. I’ll be at the fountain in a couple of hours.’

After the High Cap had gone, Thomas looked at the paintings on the wall and wondered what significance they’d held for his father. One was of the Battle of Hammerhoe. The battlefield even looked like the landscape in his dream. He passed through the corridors and gazed up at the portraits anew. Marganus the Misplaced now seemed to stare back at him with a knowing look in his eyes.

The Grange, this strange yet familiar place, was his inheritance. It’s why the Inner Gate had obeyed his voice. Thomas wanted to try something. He wandered back to the vestibule fronting the Hall of Arghadmon and stood before the yellow square. ‘Lift to Hall!’

The Anywhere Lift thudded down out of nowhere and the doors slid open. Thomas walked in. ‘Lift to Battlements!’

The Lift lurched, landed, and opened its doors. Thomas found himself on the roof of the East Tower. He passed quietly over to the edge of the tower and looked out over the battlements, wondering how many times his father had done the same. He felt that familiar feeling again, but this time he knew what it was. He’d come home.

And as he gazed out across the Grange a small, furry figure, no taller than his waist, appeared beside him from out of nowhere. A figure with a white crook staff in his hand, and a flat helm upon his head.

THE END.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

D.M. Andrews has been writing fiction since his early teens. He enjoys reading historical, fantasy and children’s novels. Find out more at
www.writers-and-publishers.com

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