That the Armoury was a profound paradox in itself, eased rather than worsened his concerns. It lay at the very heart of the Castle, deep below ground. It housed rack upon rack of terrible weapons. It was guarded by a labyrinth of columns whose gloomy murmuring stillness would swell to a screaming tumult to destroy anyone who stepped from the safe path. And yet, mirror stones carried daylight into its every corner; no darkness lurked there. Openings in the walls of the antechamber were like windows placed high in the castle, overlooking more of the countryside than could be seen from on top of the main wall. And each of the countless weapons was crafted with a deep wisdom and skill that awed and inspired the smith. Here was a place where finer than he had made their answer to the same dilemmas that troubled him. Their honest acknowl-edgement of their pain and their struggles would always quieten him.
Only the labyrinth seemed to be unrelenting and certain in its purpose, a terrible darkness whose price must be paid before even the uncertain solace repre-sented by the Armoury could be achieved.
Stepping out of the Armoury, Loman closed the wicket door behind him, and looked around the antechamber. Bright sunlight shone through the window openings and he could see clouds scudding overhead. Adjusting the makeshift bundle of weapons he was carrying he walked to one of the openings and paused to look out over the rolling fields and woods. Slowly he realized that his spirits were lighter. The knowledge of the makers of Anderras Darion had eased his undefined distress yet again. When he had finished here, he would go out on to an open balcony on one of the high towers and feel the wind that was buffeting the countryside, cool and summer-scented on his face.
A cloud passed in front of the sun, turning grey and ominous as it did, and the room became darker. Ah, you reproach me for blurring the present with the unknow-able future, Loman thought, smiling, and, adjusting his bundle again, he turned towards the labyrinth.
Its dusty gloom contrasted starkly with the sunlit antechamber and Loman’s face became pensive. He had little fear of missing his way for although he had passed through it many times, he had never done so carelessly or even casually; here indeed the present must be sharp and clear. But of late the labyrinth had revealed other strange attributes that made him uneasy.
Gulda’s curt instruction to him to ‘Tidy that lot up, they’re no good in here,’ had presented Loman with no small problem. The mound of weapons that filled the far end of the Armoury, and to which she was referring, was massive, and he would obviously need a great deal of help. He did not relish the task of teaching anyone the pathway. His own learning had been hard enough, and that had been with the guiding hand of Hawklan to calm the terrifying consequences of error. The path would thus have to be marked in some way.
Then the labyrinth had shown him its subtler de-fences. No guiding signs could be cut into its columns or floor. Of those few carvers who managed for a little while to withstand the mocking and growing echoes of their chiselling that piled up around them like a pending avalanche, all found that the stone turned their finest edges. Worse, they found their sleep haunted for many nights afterwards, and their creative inspiration stunted and grim.
Paints and stains too would not adhere to the stone; but most eerily of all, any ropes and marking blocks he laid moved once out of sight. In the end, he had had to lead small groups through personally. It had been tiring and tedious work, and none had tackled it with a good heart, so intimidating was the watching presence of the labyrinth.
Now, although the mound seemed barely changed, the bulk of the weapons they needed immediately had been removed, but Loman would bring out a few more each time he entered the Armoury for any reason.
He began his familiar journey. Around him rose the mounting hiss of anticipation, as if some strange slithering presence was spilling onto the path to entangle his feet and make him stumble. That too was recent, as though the labyrinth were aware that its charge was being assailed. Loman paused; there was another feeling around him, one he had never felt before. Had his concentration lapsed? Dwelling on the summer sun outside? No, without a doubt, no. As always, he could remember his every step. Uneasily he looked around, but there was no visible sign of any change.
Then, through his feet, he felt a slight tremor. The columns around him seemed to draw breath. It was almost a human noise amp;mdashshock, surprise, fear, and then anger.
Loman’s legs started to run before the thought came into his mind, his bundle of weapons clanking and clattering. He felt the will of the labyrinth turning towards him, drawn by the noise like a predatory animal. Now his mind raced ahead of his too-slow legs as he sensed the malign purpose of the labyrinth racing through the gloom behind him.
Then at last there was the end of the path, only a few paces away. Only! The tumult broke over him like a roaring flood, a nail-tearing screeching rending him raw, an earth-shaking rumbling pounding him to his very heart, thunder so intense that it must soon crush him into tortured dust. Somewhere he heard his own voice feeding the turmoil with its screaming.
He was falling, falling, falling into a terrible pit of his own creating. Here was death, sudden and unex-pected, with no time to quieten the mind or ease the soul…
Then everything was solid again and he was rolling over and over on the stone floor until he came to a thudding stop and the wind was knocked out of him. Rolling painfully on to his side, he realized that the dominant sound in his ears now was his own gasping breath. Underneath it he could hear the sound of the labyrinth’s screaming and bellowing fading slowly in the distance.
As his head cleared, the entrance columns of the labyrinth came into focus. He was outside it! Sitting up unsteadily, he found he was leaning against the wall. It must have been that that he struck with such force. But how did he come to be here? Apart from his heart racing and his body trembling, he noted that his legs were aching. Was that the sudden strain of his desperate flight? Or had he leapt reflexively those last few paces that remained when the noise overwhelmed him?
His ear caught the dying strains of the tumult inside the labyrinth. Was it his imagination or was there a note of regret in the sound? Apology, even?
Shakily, he stood up and walked over to the columns that marked its entrance, peering into the gloom ahead, his face furrowed. He had made no error, he was certain of that. The labyrinth had responded to something other than him. But what?
Impulsively, defiantly almost, he stepped inside. A low rumbling rose up to meet him, like the warning growl of a large animal. In the distance, he heard the rest of the pack stir and the rumbling grew. A wave of fear swept over him. He was on the correct path, but he could go no further. The labyrinth was closed to him.
Gulda raised her hand for silence as an agitated and alarmed Loman burst into her study unannounced. She was seated at a small table with an open book in front of her and her head was inclined slightly as if she had just heard some familiar but far distant noise. Her face was stern and ominous.
For an instant, Loman had the impression that he was looking at a tall and strikingly handsome woman, haughty and powerful. Despite his agitation, he felt long-forgotten reflexes tightening his chest and unmanning his legs at the sight. Then, just as suddenly, he was looking at old Memsa Gulda again and feeling slightly embarrassed at his body’s unexpected reaction. Slowly Gulda lowered her hand, then she looked at him sharply, and, almost wilfully, Loman thought, her stern face became irritable. ‘What’s the matter, young Loman?’ she said crossly, returning to her book. ‘Bursting in here like some spotty apprentice.’