…’
There was a door at the end of the corridor partly obscured by a pile of old furniture. Melyn shifted a few broken chairs until he could reach the latch, turned it and pushed. The door was either locked or set solid with years of neglect; either way it wouldn’t move. Extinguishing his light, he slipped into his aethereal trance and checked the door for magical seals. The long-dead wood should have been a barrier even to his aethereal form, but it was strangely pliant, as if the room beyond were beckoning him. Sensing no danger, he stepped out of his physical body and floated slowly through.
To normal eyes it would have been too dark to see, but in the aethereal it was plain to Melyn that this was a long-disused chapel. There was an altar upon which still
stood a small golden image of the crook, along with two fat candles, their wax pooled and solidified on the stone. The ceiling vaulted high above a space big enough for at least fifty people, and low benches were arranged so that the devout could sit while they listened to passages from the scriptures. There was even a heavy leather-bound book lying closed on a lectern to one side of the altar, and Melyn itched to hold it in his hands, to read the words within.
It was obvious that the chapel had not been used for worship for many decades, if not centuries. What surprised him was not so much that it was here; Llanwennogs had been drawn to the true word in the past, though converts were persecuted ruthlessly under the rule of the House of Ballah. What was so unusual about this chapel was that it had neither been desecrated nor pressed into use as something else – a storeroom or dungeon perhaps. It appeared to have been just forgotten, as if the faithful had said their prayers then left with every intention of returning the following Suldith. It had not been sullied; it was still sacred ground, and Melyn could feel the presence of his god all around him.
He floated his aethereal form towards the altar, kneeling in front of it even though he couldn’t feel the stone against his knees. It was a strangely detached way to pray, and yet it felt like the right thing to do, as if the Shepherd had called him here. Melyn tried to close his eyes, as he would have done in any other chapel, but in the aethereal to close his eyes was to surrender himself back to his physical body. Too late he felt himself falling back, and with a snap he was standing on the wrong side of the door again.
‘Ah, by the Wolf!’ He thumped at the door, but it still wouldn’t move.
‘Can I help, Your Grace?’ Melyn turned to see Frecknock standing several paces back down the corridor, waiting patiently as she always did. This was no place for a dragon, and the sight of her brought a flush of anger that he swiftly suppressed. But maybe there was something she could do for him.
‘If you can move this junk and open the door, then you can be of service. If not, then get out of my way.’
‘I can try.’ Frecknock grabbed a heavy oak refectory table with one hand and pulled it back as if it weighed no more than the chairs Melyn had moved. The noise it made on the flagstone floor was enough to convince him that it was just as heavy as it looked.
The rest of the stored furniture dragged aside, the dragon put her shoulder to the door. At first it didn’t move, but then with a sound of snapping metal the hinges collapsed and the whole thing fell in. Dust billowed up, shooting out of the open doorway like an explosion. Melyn covered his mouth, coughing through the fabric of his cloak, and stepped inside.
He was instantly aware of the Shepherd in the way his whole body felt younger, lighter. He stepped towards the altar, and a shadow fell across the shaft of light falling in through the wrecked door. Melyn turned to see Frecknock peering into the chapel.
‘Get out! Get out! You must not sully this place with your presence!’ He thrust the whole force of his will with the words, and the dragon
There was a door at the end of the corridor partly obscured by a pile of old furniture. Melyn shifted a few broken chairs until he could reach the latch, turned it and pushed. The door was either locked or set solid with years of neglect; either way it wouldn’t move. Extinguishing his light, he slipped into his aethereal trance and checked the door for magical seals. The long-dead wood should have been a barrier even to his aethereal form, but it was strangely pliant, as if the room beyond were beckoning him. Sensing no danger, he stepped out of his physical body and floated slowly through.
To normal eyes it would have been too dark to see, but in the aethereal it was plain to Melyn that this was a long-disused chapel. There was an altar upon which still
stood a small golden image of the crook, along with two fat candles, their wax pooled and solidified on the stone. The ceiling vaulted high above a space big enough for at least fifty people, and low benches were arranged so that the devout could sit while they listened to passages from the scriptures. There was even a heavy leather-bound book lying closed on a lectern to one side of the altar, and Melyn itched to hold it in his hands, to read the words within.
It was obvious that the chapel had not been used for worship for many decades, if not centuries. What surprised him was not so much that it was here; Llanwennogs had been drawn to the true word in the past, though converts were persecuted ruthlessly under the rule of the House of Ballah. What was so unusual about this chapel was that it had neither been desecrated nor pressed into use as something else – a storeroom or dungeon perhaps. It appeared to have been just forgotten, as if the faithful had said their prayers then left with every intention of returning the following Suldith. It had not been sullied; it was still sacred ground, and Melyn could feel the presence of his god all around him.
He floated his aethereal form towards the altar, kneeling in front of it even though he couldn’t feel the stone against his knees. It was a strangely detached way to pray, and yet it felt like the right thing to do, as if the Shepherd had called him here. Melyn tried to close his eyes, as he would have done in any other chapel, but in the aethereal to close his eyes was to surrender himself back to his physical body. Too late he felt himself falling back, and with a snap he was standing on the wrong side of the door again.
‘Ah, by the Wolf!’ He thumped at the door, but it still wouldn’t move.
‘Can I help, Your Grace?’ Melyn turned to see Frecknock standing several paces back down the corridor, waiting patiently as she always did. This was no place for a dragon, and the sight of her brought a flush of anger that he swiftly suppressed. But maybe there was something she could do for him.
‘If you can move this junk and open the door, then you can be of service. If not, then get out of my way.’
‘I can try.’ Frecknock grabbed a heavy oak refectory table with one hand and pulled it back as if it weighed no more than the chairs Melyn had moved. The noise it made on the flagstone floor was enough to convince him that it was just as heavy as it looked.
The rest of the stored furniture dragged aside, the dragon put her shoulder to the door. At first it didn’t move, but then with a sound of snapping metal the hinges collapsed and the whole thing fell in. Dust billowed up, shooting out of the open doorway like an explosion. Melyn covered his mouth, coughing through the fabric of his cloak, and stepped inside.
He was instantly aware of the Shepherd in the way his whole body felt younger, lighter. He stepped towards the altar, and a shadow fell across the shaft of light falling in through the wrecked door. Melyn turned to see Frecknock peering into the chapel.
‘Get out! Get out! You must not sully this place with your presence!’ He thrust the whole force of his will with the words, and the dragon
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