The Giants’ Dance. Robert Goldthwaite Carter

we can see it or not. Willand, do you feel anything yet?’

      ‘Not yet, Master Gwydion. You can be sure I’ll speak up soon enough when I do.’

      A short shower of rain came to refresh the land and went away again as soon as it had come. They continued across the valley and soon Will noticed a tall tower of mottled brown stone. It was the same one he had seen before, standing sentinel on a ridge, above lands that had once been tilled by the Sightless Ones, or those who laboured for them. But those fields were now neglected and overgrown, and that caused Will to wonder, for the Fellowship was notorious for never allowing its lands to lie fallow if gold could be mined in them.

      As they drew near Will was shocked to realize that the tower was now in ruins, as was the cloister and chapter house it had served.

      ‘What happened to the Fellows?’ he asked in amazement.

      ‘Gone,’ Gwydion said.

      They passed by two large fishponds. Once this place had made Will feel very uneasy. And now, as their road climbed up past the tall, iron-brown walls and vacant windows of the chapter house, Will suppressed a shudder. He turned to Gwydion and saw the wizard’s keen, grey eyes examining the battlements. The wizard called Bessie to a halt.

      ‘What are we stopping for?’ Will asked.

      Gwydion handed him the reins. ‘We must look into what has happened.’

      Will shielded his eyes against the sun and studied the tower, but he saw nothing more noteworthy than a lone gargoyle that stuck out from the corner of the parapet high above them. Morann jumped down from the cart and they both followed Gwydion through a yard of tumbled graves beside the chapter house.

      The garden that had once held neat rows of green plants was now overgrown and its bee skeps smashed. The iron weather vane that had once shown the sign of a white heart and had stretched its four arms out above the roofs, had been cast into a corner of the yard. The roofs themselves were broken and pulled down too. Ahead the great gates were unhinged, and where, to Will’s recollection, the arch of the doorway had been incised with the curious motto:

      Now the stonework was defaced so that only the letters R, A, N, S and I remained. Gwydion stood before the doors, deep in thought.

      ‘Strange,’ Will said, looking at the damage. ‘Do you think it means something?’

      ‘Everything means something.’ Gwydion made no further answer but continued to stare at the arch and then to run his fingers over the letters.

      Morann spoke in a low voice. ‘Isnar is the name of the late Grand High Warden of the Sightless Ones. It seems the letters of his name were spared from the Fellowship’s motto when the rest were stricken out.’

      Gwydion stirred. ‘This has meaning, for it surely was Isnar who ordered the roof of this chapter house to be broken in.’

      ‘How do you know that?’ Will asked.

      ‘Because no one else has the power to order it.’

      Will heard the scurry and squeak of rats as they moved inside. Black glass had been shattered from windows. It crunched underfoot in the dampness. Two or three winters had ruined the fabric of the building, yet a greasy odour still clung to the place. They came back out into the open, entered the walled tithe yards and saw hurdles of woven willow sticks scattered about the cobbles. They were all that remained of stock pens and stalls. There was rotting gear here, tools for hauling animal carcasses: blocks, hooks, red rusted chains…

      Will picked his way through the ghastly ruins and saw the slaughter sheds and the stone basins that had once caught the hot blood of terrified animals. The slaughter knives and poleaxes were all gone from their racks, but the grim channels and lead pipes put down to feed a line of barrels were still there. In the next shed was what remained of the fat-rendering cauldrons – the vats and moulds where the Sightless Ones had once mixed up wood-ash and fat to make their ritual washing blocks. The stone floor was still waxy from old spills, and slippery.

      Will’s skin tingled as he looked around, but he could not be sure if it was the lign that was causing it. The pillars of the cloister stood like broken teeth now and the space of the great hall was open to the sky, though half of the roof beams remained overhead like the ribs of a great whale. Will saw ear-like growths on the timbers, and many of them were nibbled, as if by rats, though how rats had got up so high he could not imagine. Fragments of gilding and painting remained on the walls. Everything was defaced, rain-washed and sun-faded, and the gravestone floor was scattered with thousands of broken candles and spoiled washing blocks. The place seemed to have been ransacked and then abandoned quite suddenly many months ago. There had been much violence done here.

      ‘Now you see the horrible truth about what happens when the Sightless Ones gather the tithe,’ Morann said. ‘It’s not just carts full of grain they take to hoard and sell. Horses, cattle, sheep, fowl – all go into their slaughterhouses.’

      Will saw the place where sheep and calves had been strung up to have their throats cut. Anything that walked on two legs or four was bled into ritual jars, then soap and wax made from their fat.

      ‘A sickly smoke always hangs over the houses of the Fellowship at tithing time,’ Gwydion said. ‘Many trees are hewn and much wood burned for ash to make soap. Flesh is boiled up and rendered of its fat, and the meat buried or left to rot, for the Fellows partake only of the blood.’

      Will knew that the soap was used in ritual washing, which was why townspeople nicknamed the Fellows ‘red hands’, though never in public for that was punishable and could end in a person’s lips being cut off.

      ‘And why do they make so many candles?’ Gwydion asked, and when Will made no answer he added, ‘The Fellowship make candles to light their sacred pictures.’

      Will looked to the wizard and then up at the faded remnants of paint and gold leaf. ‘But…why? When the Fellows have no eyes to see them? And why would a Grand High Warden want to visit destruction upon one of his own chapter houses?’

      ‘The Fellows call such a thing a “Decree of the Night Fogs”,’ Gwydion told him distantly. ‘It is ordered only rarely. It is their punishment for deviation.’

      ‘Deviation?’

      ‘That is, if a house strays from their creed so far that they cannot whip it back into line. Then they cut it off and trample it into dust. This is done partly lest the disease spreads to other chapter houses, and partly by way of example. They erase all reference to the broken house from their records. They destroy its chronicle, take away its adherents. Such a house becomes to them a house that has never stood, and the Fellows who failed become men who have never lived.’

      ‘Is that what happened here?’ Will said, looking around. He could feel the prickling in his skin growing stronger and wanted now only to get away from the place.

      ‘I do not know what happened here, for the doings of the Fellowship are kept a tightly bound secret. But did I not tell you how the houses of the Sightless Ones are most often built upon ligns and other streams of earth power?’

      ‘How could this house have failed?’ Will asked, stepping over piles of broken wood and fallen slates.

      ‘This may be the explanation,’ Gwydion said. ‘You know that the Doomstone was the slab that capped the tomb of their Founder. When it was broken that source of power which is habitually tapped and abused by the Sightless Ones must have shifted. Did you not tell me of the madness that beat through the chapter house of Verlamion when the lorc came alive?’

      Will remembered. ‘It was hardly to be imagined. As if the one idea filling all their heads had suddenly gone out like a candle and left a darkness which they could not bear.’

      Gwydion turned to him. ‘In like wise, Willand, the troubles of this house may have started as soon as we plucked up the Dragon Stone. For the power of the lorc certainly shifts