Swan on the Moor

Chapter 15

It was a matter of moments to purify a mind which ran with light, Avalbane knew, and he stepped into the chamber he had prepared with not a trace of nerves in his heart. Tall, silent guards outside pulled the heavy oaken doors too – they were there to refuse all entry, not to come to save Avalbane, should the need arise, as had been the case in the past. He knew and had read of failed attempts to summon the Great Weapons where the royal guards had battered down the doors to the unfortunate's chamber and literally drag him or her screaming from the circles of power, while other Sidhe would pile in to and bind the spells mid-cast. The Ritual had to be completed alone, by the ruler, the heart of the Sithen, or it could not be completed at all. Companions were not an option and even if they were, Avalbane trusted no-one beside himself. How could you truly know that another would not quail and run at the visions and trials to come?

There was little said on the nature of the Ritual except that it was a test, and that each ruler walked the path alone. Those who had won the Weapons for a while were mandated by the magic to remain silent or the Weapons would vanish from them; those who had failed screamed and whimpered if pressed on the subject. Sometimes their minds were so broken they could no longer rule. Monarchs, especially recent ones, often did not even bother contemplating the Ritual.

Avalbane knew he could not fail. At the edge of the room, he dropped his robes to the floor and stepped, a shining, naked thing, into the centre of the concentric circles and pentagram traced carefully on the floor. Save for candles at each of the cardinal points, the room was otherwise entirely empty.

Well, he thought, mind totally clean, empty. I may as well begin.

"Powers of earth, air, fire and water, north, south, east and west, I come before thee a King and a petitioner. By the power of the Sithen and the wild magics, I call to my strong arm the Great Weapons of Faerie."

A breeze, sprung from nowhere, flitted through the chamber, making the candles flicker, and issuing through the air from nothingness, a voice whispered,

"Are you worthy, King?"

The minimal knowledge on the Ritual did not offer any clues to the identity of the voice, the tester. Avalbane felt its power washing through the room, something dark and deep, and steeled his barriers of light against its invasion. What power was there more mighty than the fae? Maybe it was the spirit of the Weapons themselves, who did not wish to be held and handled by the weak.

"I am cleansed and worthy. I am the Lord of Light and Beauty, and return magic again to Faerie. I am celebrated by the people and am the rightful holder of the last great magics, the Weapons of Faerie."

"Hold, then, Lord," the voice whispered, a current of vicious laughter rippling in the tone, and suddenly, it wasthere, a lion tearing at his flesh, paws clawing into his hair and dragging him down. The air was thick and alive with the feral scent of fur and musk, stifling, choking, willing him to give up, give in, lie down and die...

He fought, with hands, and will, and the burning light of his personal magic, and threw the snarling weight from him, holding blazing hands in front of him and pushing through the air, a blaze of light which struck the creature full in the chest. It howled, a demon's cry, and blurred into a sword burnished with a thousand jewels, curving through the air towards him. Avalbane ducked and rolled under its sweep, shuddering as his skin came in contact with the air around the thing; where it blew past him, it froze, stealing and sapping courage and slowing his limbs. He gave a mighty cry of rage, and clawed his hands through the air, grabbing towards the hilt of the sword, each nanosecond feeling as if his skin was freezing, sloughing off, the pearly bone beneath shimmering through, white and diseased and sickening...

The moment his fingers brushed the hidebound hilt, the sword glittered in the air and became something else, a thing he didn't even have a name for, all claws and pale pustules and bent limbs, snickering softly and dragging its weak, hideous body across the floor towards him, a great maw at the front gaping, jaws flapping open and shut. I am the Lord of Light, the pure king, and what are these things? Servants to me, things to be wielded, and they dare try to weaken me? Avalbane's heart shrieked to himself, and he drew down into the very depths of his magic, the power that kept him alive, and pulled his hands apart. The light that filled the room would have instantly burned the eyes from any other being, but it warmed him like fire, like the oldest comfort, and the weak and white thing screamed horribly and shrivelled, changing again and again...a swarm of tusked bees diving for him; a screaming bull-headed eagle screeching and snapping; things no living being should ever have to name all charging him, sinking into his mind, searching for weakness and madness to amplify and feed on...and finally, it twisted and turned into the face of the Dusk Lord; not impassive but filled with hatred and sneering contempt, growling from behind the flawless black armour,

"Weak! It is you who are flawed, without strength, without honour, without power, tainted being as you are..."

Avalbane knew the shame that should have flooded him, but he was beyond shame, beyond weakness. He instead raised his hands and dragged every ounce of power from the light that filled the Sithen, feeling the very earth cry out in hunger as he drew its power to him, for this, the greatest of higher causes, and burned through each attack as it came, wave after wave. Now he could hear grief and the tearing and gnashing of a soul from above - the agony of the Sithen from which he had stripped power - but that was a true vision, no test, and he shook his mind free from it. How else could he have won? The Sithen itself should understand. If he was not fully able to defeat the trials alone, no being could, surely. Any other ruler who had the Weapons must have done the same. He was pure, the king, the worthy king...

"Silence!" he screamed at the Sithen and the twisting form of the trial. "How dare you question me? I am the KING!"

The writhing form paused, and in a faint pop, clattered to the ground. The candles all blew out and the room was pitched into darkness. Avalbane raised a hand, and a beam of light illuminated the circles and the pentagram, faded almost beyond vision. In the very centre, steam rising from them, sat a ring, a sword and a chalice. Avalbane's heart swelled with glory.

"Misuse them and no good will come of them," the voice whispered, weak now. "An' you do not mend that which you wrought this day, as you felt you needed,

you shall regret until the end of your days. You took without asking greatly of that which was not yours to take, and forced it given. Mend that ill, or suffer."

"I did as a great king would, and had," Avalbane answered, staring down at the Great Treasures of Faerie as they sat there, looking very small and old. "If power is needed it is mine to call and use, for I am worthy; I am the king."

The air seemed to sigh around him, but the sense of presence faded, leaving nothing but Avalbane and the Treasures, bathed in the ray of light he had called. He stooped to gather them up, and they were warm, trembling in his fingers like a frightened child. He slid the ring Biothantach onto his finger and it curved around his flesh as though it had always sat there; a simple, blank gold ring, carved with runes to sit against the skin. The chalice was Gu Leòr, 'Plenty', the cup that gave freely to the needy, as a cornucopia of legend. Finally lay the sword, Luthas, which in battle could cleave the tops from mountains, or a body in half, and would burn the unworthy with the magic of its wielder. Avalbane picked up with robe, slid it over his unmarked body and tucked the chalice inside it. The sword he held, hammering the hilt on the doors.

"Unbar the doors, guards," he called, and he stepped back to let them push the huge oak blocks away, and to kneel before him as he stood there, a shining thing, with Luthas in hand and Biothantach glittering on his finger, the light of his own magic illuminating him in the shadow of the room.

"Majesty," they whispered, averting their eyes from the burning figure. "Great Majesty, Lord..."

"Rise," said Avalbane, his triumph complete. "Spread the word. I want every being, lowest to highest, in the throne hall this eve. I have work to be done."