Noble tradition has reared its head again, so here, in honour of my 4,000th post, is another bit from my fantasy WIP. Sorry it's so very long.
As the thread title says, the ostensible subject of this scene is a theological dispute, in particular the issue of aniconism – (Ha! That’s guaranteed to stop everyone reading further!) – that is, the avoidance of images in religious worship. However, that’s just a peg on which I’m trying to hang the real meat of the scene, not least the power struggle within the church delegation, and the implicit threat to Chais as daughter of a mapmaker.
While I want to deal with the religious aspects properly, I obviously don’t want to write a religious tract, so what I’ve tried to do is summarise the arguments. Basically, for those who understand the issues, is this short-changing either side? For those who don’t or didn’t, is it clear? For those who couldn’t care, is it too long and boring?
By way of background: the castle is hosting a banquet, and the guests have just arrived. Most of the clergy are from the T’densk delegation and we already know that of the two senior clerics Todvulf is a fundamentist and Annzgar isn't. Of the delegation only Annzgar has seen inside the castle, and this is how it was described:
Facing him on the wall above the landing, illumined by torches, was a painting. A masterpiece.
The Blessed Advocate stood there, taller than any man, the tears of the All-High upon his cheek, the sweat of the All-High upon his brow. A gold-leaf cartouche flamed in his right hand, the Paraclete, his great sword, in his left. The Deceiver, in the guise of a huge scaled lizard-monster, its foul breath a putrid cloud of grey mist, roiled in its death throes at the Advocate’s feet, while its minions lay slain in their thousands at his back.
We also know from other scenes that the cartouche, their main religious symbol, is a hexagon standing on one point.
NB This is the end of a scene which is in Chais’s POV, but I’ve deliberately given her no thoughts in this section in order to keep things moving. The opening paragraphs will appear a bit confusing with the names of the different people, but this is Chapter 26 so anyone who’s got this far will know who everyone is.
~~~~
One or two of the T’densk clerics and several nobles stopped at the garden and Chais heard murmurs of admiration, but Todvulf passed it without looking, stalking forward in his aggressive, limping, gait, part-supported by a stick. His face was set in a scowl that matched the Signore’s. Ingretin’s expression was of thin malice. Chais curtseyed as they neared.
Welcomes, acknowledgements – warm and insincere on her mother’s part, cold and insincere on Ingretin’s and the Signore’s. Silence from Todvulf. A bustle, a few courtesies, fewer pleasantries, and her mother led them through the tower and into the inner courtyard. The lower servants lined the walls and made reverences to the Signore and the clergy.
Chais followed her mother as she and Piacenti separated, moving to either side of the yard, allowing the T’densk clerics their first glimpse of the painting of the Advocate. Gasps came, exclamations of awe and delight, and one growled voice of dissent.
“Magnificent, is it not,” said Annzgar, standing with Todvulf.
“Remarkable,” said Archprovost Lammert at his other side.
“A lie,” said Todvulf. “A blasphemy.”
Annzgar turned to him. “How so? You think the representation inaccurate in some way? In the depiction of the Advocate’s features, perhaps? Or is it that you believe yourself fully acquainted with the Deceiver’s true likeness?”
“It lies because it purports to depict what cannot, what may not, be depicted. The All-High is unknowable and cannot be encompassed by such idle show.”
“This is not a picture of the All-High, but of His Advocate, a man who was known, a man who lived among our forebears, who walked the roads we walk, saw the lands we see. A man, furthermore, whose description is given in the very many writings of those who knew him.”
“It is an implied representation of the All-High as Conqueror of the Deceiver.”
“Surely not. It is, rather, a true representation of the Advocate himself, showing his defeat of those enemies whom he did face in life, with those enemies, themselves aspects of the Deceiver, represented in allegory.”
“The Blessed Advocate bore within him the fluid of the divine, so to represent him in any barren image is to demonstrate contempt for that divinity.”
“We each bear within our souls some minute particle of that holy fluid which flows from the All-High, yet the Work enjoins us to remember the faces of our kin, lest we forget ourselves, and to carry their images with us always.”
Todvulf thumped his stick onto the stones of the yard. “To carry their image in our minds and memories,” he said, his voice rising in impatience. “Not literally to possess and wield lifeless semblances created from base physical material. Nowhere in the Work is the creation of such hollow, vain, dishonest effigies approved.”
“Nowhere in the Work is the creation of any manner of depiction deprecated or condemned. Further, how can we deny to the Advocate the honour which we show so readily to the High Fathers, whose many portraits adorn the Citadel?”
Annzgar turned away from Todvulf. “My Lady di Masoura, I hope you will forgive two tedious clerics their theological disputes. Shall we continue to the hall?”
She smiled in agreement, but before she and Annzgar could move Todvulf was talking again.
“It is a snare,” he said, raising his stick and pointing at the fresco. “A temptation laid by the Deceiver to seduce men into worshipping one man’s skill, instead of the One who gave them life.”
Annzgar glanced at him, then at the other clerics huddled behind them, most of whom wore expressions of concern. He looked back to Todvulf. “On the contrary,” he said placidly. “It is an aid by which our thoughts may be brought to the All-High himself, since those who see it will be drawn to remembrance of the Advocate’s life, and through remembrance into further veneration of his work. It is a means of helping our imperfect vision to imagine perfection. Spectacles for the soul, one might say.”
“Images are painted shutters barring the light of the All-High, so that heed and contemplation are given to the Thing, the corporeal, and not to the Not-thing, the Transcendence.”
“Rather they are clear windows made of the thinnest glass, windows of the finest translucence, through which we may receive that wondrous light.”
Provost Gotti stood next to Todvulf. He cleared his throat. “I have always thought it but a short step from worshipping the All-High by the agency of an image to the worshipping of the image itself.”
“A short step for one who is sottish, perhaps,” said Annzgar, regarding him coolly, “or for another who is halt. But for those who are not already lame in mind, it is no more liable to trip them in their thoughts than level ground would trip a man who is neither deformed nor drunk.”
Several of the clergy made small noises of shock and dismay at the deliberate gibes – the Provost’s weakness was evidently well known. Gotti flushed and fell silent. Todvulf’s scowl grew darker. He limped to the marble steps, then mounted to the landing.
“This.” He raised his stick to the picture and pointed to the Advocate’s sword. “This is what faces all sinners, all heretics, all mapmakers and their filth. The Hallowed Paraclete, that holy tongue of cleansing flame, will cut their canker from the body of the faithful.” His voice was harsh in its passion.
“‘Without me you are lost,’ said the Lord. Lost. And the blasphemy of the mapmaker is to say that we are not lost, that we can find ourselves in this world.” He moved up the steps to the left and reached higher. “This.” He pointed to the image of the gold-leaf cartouche in the Advocate’s hand.
“This is the only map required for man. The glorious Map of Life. Here is the road we will take, this our journey. The stages given to us by the All-High – conception, birth, adulthood, death.” One by one, starting with the lowest, he hit the four painted medallions on the central spine of the cartouche as he spoke.
“And with this Map, the All-High has given us His guide to take us from the blood of birth to the blood of death and unto His radiant seat of gold. The four requirements – faith, duty, obedience, discipline.” Again he rapped against the fresco with his stick, hitting the four smaller medallions at the two vertical sides of the cartouche. “These are what will bring us to him. Nothing more.”
He turned to them again. His eyes burned in their sockets. “Nothing more is needed. To seek more is blasphemy. To seek knowledge is blasphemy. To seek order in this world of disorder is blasphemy.”
“How well you make your point, my dear brother in the Lord,” said Annzgar. “And how convenient you had a picture to enable you to expound upon the issue in this way.”
Todvulf snarled, twisted back to the painting and struck it hard with his stick. The plaster cracked under the blow, and a gash ran through the Advocate’s body and up his outstretched arm to the cartouche, where it shattered. Gilded flakes rained down upon the stairs, mantling Todvulf in shards of gold.
“Ah, my dear Todvulf,” said Annzgar. “Covered in gilt at last, I see.”
(PS If anyone has experience of frescoes and how easily or otherwise the plaster shatters I’d love to know!)
As the thread title says, the ostensible subject of this scene is a theological dispute, in particular the issue of aniconism – (Ha! That’s guaranteed to stop everyone reading further!) – that is, the avoidance of images in religious worship. However, that’s just a peg on which I’m trying to hang the real meat of the scene, not least the power struggle within the church delegation, and the implicit threat to Chais as daughter of a mapmaker.
While I want to deal with the religious aspects properly, I obviously don’t want to write a religious tract, so what I’ve tried to do is summarise the arguments. Basically, for those who understand the issues, is this short-changing either side? For those who don’t or didn’t, is it clear? For those who couldn’t care, is it too long and boring?
By way of background: the castle is hosting a banquet, and the guests have just arrived. Most of the clergy are from the T’densk delegation and we already know that of the two senior clerics Todvulf is a fundamentist and Annzgar isn't. Of the delegation only Annzgar has seen inside the castle, and this is how it was described:
Facing him on the wall above the landing, illumined by torches, was a painting. A masterpiece.
The Blessed Advocate stood there, taller than any man, the tears of the All-High upon his cheek, the sweat of the All-High upon his brow. A gold-leaf cartouche flamed in his right hand, the Paraclete, his great sword, in his left. The Deceiver, in the guise of a huge scaled lizard-monster, its foul breath a putrid cloud of grey mist, roiled in its death throes at the Advocate’s feet, while its minions lay slain in their thousands at his back.
We also know from other scenes that the cartouche, their main religious symbol, is a hexagon standing on one point.
NB This is the end of a scene which is in Chais’s POV, but I’ve deliberately given her no thoughts in this section in order to keep things moving. The opening paragraphs will appear a bit confusing with the names of the different people, but this is Chapter 26 so anyone who’s got this far will know who everyone is.
~~~~
One or two of the T’densk clerics and several nobles stopped at the garden and Chais heard murmurs of admiration, but Todvulf passed it without looking, stalking forward in his aggressive, limping, gait, part-supported by a stick. His face was set in a scowl that matched the Signore’s. Ingretin’s expression was of thin malice. Chais curtseyed as they neared.
Welcomes, acknowledgements – warm and insincere on her mother’s part, cold and insincere on Ingretin’s and the Signore’s. Silence from Todvulf. A bustle, a few courtesies, fewer pleasantries, and her mother led them through the tower and into the inner courtyard. The lower servants lined the walls and made reverences to the Signore and the clergy.
Chais followed her mother as she and Piacenti separated, moving to either side of the yard, allowing the T’densk clerics their first glimpse of the painting of the Advocate. Gasps came, exclamations of awe and delight, and one growled voice of dissent.
“Magnificent, is it not,” said Annzgar, standing with Todvulf.
“Remarkable,” said Archprovost Lammert at his other side.
“A lie,” said Todvulf. “A blasphemy.”
Annzgar turned to him. “How so? You think the representation inaccurate in some way? In the depiction of the Advocate’s features, perhaps? Or is it that you believe yourself fully acquainted with the Deceiver’s true likeness?”
“It lies because it purports to depict what cannot, what may not, be depicted. The All-High is unknowable and cannot be encompassed by such idle show.”
“This is not a picture of the All-High, but of His Advocate, a man who was known, a man who lived among our forebears, who walked the roads we walk, saw the lands we see. A man, furthermore, whose description is given in the very many writings of those who knew him.”
“It is an implied representation of the All-High as Conqueror of the Deceiver.”
“Surely not. It is, rather, a true representation of the Advocate himself, showing his defeat of those enemies whom he did face in life, with those enemies, themselves aspects of the Deceiver, represented in allegory.”
“The Blessed Advocate bore within him the fluid of the divine, so to represent him in any barren image is to demonstrate contempt for that divinity.”
“We each bear within our souls some minute particle of that holy fluid which flows from the All-High, yet the Work enjoins us to remember the faces of our kin, lest we forget ourselves, and to carry their images with us always.”
Todvulf thumped his stick onto the stones of the yard. “To carry their image in our minds and memories,” he said, his voice rising in impatience. “Not literally to possess and wield lifeless semblances created from base physical material. Nowhere in the Work is the creation of such hollow, vain, dishonest effigies approved.”
“Nowhere in the Work is the creation of any manner of depiction deprecated or condemned. Further, how can we deny to the Advocate the honour which we show so readily to the High Fathers, whose many portraits adorn the Citadel?”
Annzgar turned away from Todvulf. “My Lady di Masoura, I hope you will forgive two tedious clerics their theological disputes. Shall we continue to the hall?”
She smiled in agreement, but before she and Annzgar could move Todvulf was talking again.
“It is a snare,” he said, raising his stick and pointing at the fresco. “A temptation laid by the Deceiver to seduce men into worshipping one man’s skill, instead of the One who gave them life.”
Annzgar glanced at him, then at the other clerics huddled behind them, most of whom wore expressions of concern. He looked back to Todvulf. “On the contrary,” he said placidly. “It is an aid by which our thoughts may be brought to the All-High himself, since those who see it will be drawn to remembrance of the Advocate’s life, and through remembrance into further veneration of his work. It is a means of helping our imperfect vision to imagine perfection. Spectacles for the soul, one might say.”
“Images are painted shutters barring the light of the All-High, so that heed and contemplation are given to the Thing, the corporeal, and not to the Not-thing, the Transcendence.”
“Rather they are clear windows made of the thinnest glass, windows of the finest translucence, through which we may receive that wondrous light.”
Provost Gotti stood next to Todvulf. He cleared his throat. “I have always thought it but a short step from worshipping the All-High by the agency of an image to the worshipping of the image itself.”
“A short step for one who is sottish, perhaps,” said Annzgar, regarding him coolly, “or for another who is halt. But for those who are not already lame in mind, it is no more liable to trip them in their thoughts than level ground would trip a man who is neither deformed nor drunk.”
Several of the clergy made small noises of shock and dismay at the deliberate gibes – the Provost’s weakness was evidently well known. Gotti flushed and fell silent. Todvulf’s scowl grew darker. He limped to the marble steps, then mounted to the landing.
“This.” He raised his stick to the picture and pointed to the Advocate’s sword. “This is what faces all sinners, all heretics, all mapmakers and their filth. The Hallowed Paraclete, that holy tongue of cleansing flame, will cut their canker from the body of the faithful.” His voice was harsh in its passion.
“‘Without me you are lost,’ said the Lord. Lost. And the blasphemy of the mapmaker is to say that we are not lost, that we can find ourselves in this world.” He moved up the steps to the left and reached higher. “This.” He pointed to the image of the gold-leaf cartouche in the Advocate’s hand.
“This is the only map required for man. The glorious Map of Life. Here is the road we will take, this our journey. The stages given to us by the All-High – conception, birth, adulthood, death.” One by one, starting with the lowest, he hit the four painted medallions on the central spine of the cartouche as he spoke.
“And with this Map, the All-High has given us His guide to take us from the blood of birth to the blood of death and unto His radiant seat of gold. The four requirements – faith, duty, obedience, discipline.” Again he rapped against the fresco with his stick, hitting the four smaller medallions at the two vertical sides of the cartouche. “These are what will bring us to him. Nothing more.”
He turned to them again. His eyes burned in their sockets. “Nothing more is needed. To seek more is blasphemy. To seek knowledge is blasphemy. To seek order in this world of disorder is blasphemy.”
“How well you make your point, my dear brother in the Lord,” said Annzgar. “And how convenient you had a picture to enable you to expound upon the issue in this way.”
Todvulf snarled, twisted back to the painting and struck it hard with his stick. The plaster cracked under the blow, and a gash ran through the Advocate’s body and up his outstretched arm to the cartouche, where it shattered. Gilded flakes rained down upon the stairs, mantling Todvulf in shards of gold.
“Ah, my dear Todvulf,” said Annzgar. “Covered in gilt at last, I see.”
(PS If anyone has experience of frescoes and how easily or otherwise the plaster shatters I’d love to know!)
