Echoes of the Great Song

by David Gemmell

  “You have made me happy for the first time in my life,” he said.

  They were the last words he ever spoke to her.

  A month after he died she developed a chill, which deepened into a painful hacking cough. The weight dropped from her and her strength was failing. She was, at that time, almost resigned to death.

  Not so now.

  The Avatar’s magic stone had rekindled all her hopes and dreams, and it felt so cruel to have them dashed in this terrible way. Village life was generally too pragmatic for the subtleties of irony. But she understood it now. Possessed of remarkable powers, and an ability to heal any wound or disease, she could not save her own life. Viruk, it seemed, had not saved her at all, merely set her on another road to extinction.

  She had told the shaman she would help destroy Almeia before death could snatch her soul. But the words had been spoken in sudden anger and now she felt the weight of despair descend upon her.

  I have done nothing with my life, she thought. Nothing worthwhile.

  Then do it now, she told herself. Help to defeat the Almecs.

  Talaban!

  Who was he? The thought cut through her despair.

  Closing her eyes she let her spirit soar over the city. Fires were still burning down by the docks and across the estuary in Pagaru. Sofarita flew on to the harbor and saw the black ship nestling against the wharf. Dropping down she sank beneath the decks, searching for the captain’s quarters. She entered many cabins, but they all seemed small and cramped. At last she moved toward the stern and entered a larger room. A man was seated at a desk. Like all Avatars he looked young, his face square-cut and handsome, his hair almost black, but dyed blue at the shorn temples. There was a hardness to his features, but no sign of cruelty. He was talking to a Vagar—no, she realized, not a Vagar. The man was a tribesman of some kind. His dark hair was braided and he wore a black vest adorned with white bone.

  She opened the ears of her spirit. The tribesman was speaking.

  “Bad visions I have. Suryet needs me. The People suffer.”

  “I want to help you, Touchstone. You know I speak the truth. But my people are also suffering, and until the Questor General gives us permission I cannot sail the Serpent to the west.”

  “This I know,” said the tribesman sadly. He was about to speak again when suddenly he turned and looked straight at Sofarita. “Who you be?” he asked her.

  At first she was too shocked to reply. Talaban cut in. “Who are you talking to?”

  “Beautiful woman. Spirit.”

  “I am Sofarita,” she said. “And you are Touch-the-Moon.”

  “That is name I won. Not to be spoken by strangers. You may call me Touchstone.”

  “Then I shall. How is it that you can see me?”

  “I see many things. Are you dead?”

  “Not yet.” She glanced at Talaban, who was sitting quietly, watching the tribesman intently. “He will think you have lost your senses.”

  “You wait for me,” he said. “Not easy speak in this tongue.”

  As she watched him he closed his eyes. A glow began around his head and chest, flickering from red to purple. Then he rose from his body. “Now we can speak freely, you and I, in the language of spirit,” he said. “Where are you from, Beautiful One?”

  “I live in the city,” she told him. “The One-Eyed-Fox spoke to me. He told me to find Talaban, and that he alone will know where the last battle is to be fought.”

  “He doesn’t know yet.” He gazed back at the silent captain. “He is a good man, that one. The best of them.”

  “There is a sadness about him.”

  “He lost his love, and the flames of his heart burn low. Are you wed?”

  “No.”

  “You could blow upon the flames.”

  “You seek to match me to a man I have not met. You are very forward, Touchstone.”

  He smiled. “You tell me where to find you and I shall bring him to you—even if I have to club him over the head and carry him.”

  “I am at the house of Questor Ro. Bring him tomorrow. At dusk.”

  She watched as the tribesman’s spirit settled back into his body. His eyes opened.

  “And where is the beautiful woman now?” asked Talaban, with a smile.

  “She wait. We see her tomorrow. You like her, maybe.”

  The smile suddenly left Talaban’s face. “She is the woman the Council sentenced to death. The Vagar with magical powers.”

  “Maybe,” agreed Touchstone.

  “Is she still here?”

  Touchstone turned and gazed at Sofarita. “No, captain. She gone now.”

  “What did you make of her? And I’m not interested in beauty. Is she a danger to my people?”

  “How I know this?” responded Touchstone. “But she speak with One-Eyed-Fox. He say she fight Almecs. You think it right to kill her?”

  “No I do not. But it puts me in a difficult position. I am a servant of the Council, and it would be my duty to report a meeting with anyone declared as an enemy of the Avatar.”

  “Talk first. Report later,” said Touchstone.

  Talaban sighed. “Do you trust her?”

  “Good woman,” said Touchstone.

  “Then I shall trust you. We will speak with her.”

  “Wear pretty clothes,” advised Touchstone. Talaban laughed, the sound rich and almost musical. Sofarita was amazed at the change the laughter wrought in him. Gone was the hardness, replaced by a boyish warmth which radiated harmony.

  And yet somehow it filled her with the knowledge of her own impending doom. Rising through the decks she flew back to her body.

  As was usual following flight she awoke refreshed, her body rested. She stretched and rose from the chair. A shadow crossed the doorway opposite and she thought Questor Ro must be awake. Then a second shadow flitted across the opening. Sofarita felt a charge in the air, a prickling sensation that made her fearful. Moving swiftly and silently across the room she stepped out into the darkened hallway just in time to see a figure move from the top of the stairs and into the corridor beyond. Reaching out she felt the emotions of the man above. He was thinking of knives, and blood and death. The death of a hated Avatar.

  Questor Ro!

  Sofarita ran up the stairs. The door to Questor Ro’s room was open. She moved inside. Two men were there. Both wore black scarves about their faces and both carried knives. One was approaching the bed in which the little man was asleep. The knife came up—and slashed down. Sofarita made a sudden gesture with her right hand. The blade stopped inches short of the sleeping man—to the obvious astonishment of the attacker. The second man saw her and swung towards her. His knife dropped from his fingers, clattering on the stone-tiled floor. Questor Ro awoke with a start. The first knifeman tried to stab him again. This time the knife flew from his fingers to the ceiling, where it lay flat, as if upon the floor.

  “What is happening?” shouted Ro. “How dare you …?”

  “All is well, Questor,” said Sofarita. “These men are Pajists. But they will not harm you.” Ro glanced up at the knife hovering on the ceiling.

  “They came to kill me,” he said. “I shall summon the Watch.”

  “No,” said Sofarita. “They will return to the man who sent them. He will convey a message to the leader of the Pajists. I shall visit with that leader tomorrow at noon. You,” she said, pointing to the man by the bed, “hold out your hand.” Slowly he did so. The knife floated slowly down from the ceiling, settling gently into his palm. “Leave now, and deliver my message. Say also that there are to be no more attacks.”

  The second man scooped up his knife and both assassins edged around Sofarita and out of the room. She heard them run down the stairs.

  “You know the leader of the Pajists?” asked Ro.

  “I do now,” she said.

  “Why did you let them go? We could have arrested them all.”

  “To what purpose, Questor? This is not a time for revenge, but for r
econciliation. The Pajists have contacts among the tribes. Most notably with the Erek-jhip-zhonad. You will need all their support to prevent the Almecs from domination.”

  Ro shivered. “Suddenly I am no longer tired,” he said. “I thank the Source you were here.”

  The house was an old one, built a century ago for an Avatar family. It was three-storeyed, and dressed with blue-veined white marble. Landscaped gardens flowed around the old house and a stream had been diverted to ripple over terraces adorned with blocks of white stone and multi-colored pebbles. Flowering trees grew everywhere and the air was heavy with the scent of jasmine.

  Mejana sat on a wooden bench, her large frame wrapped in a pale blue shawl over an elegant, though voluminous, white gown. Gold bands glittered on her wrists, gold rings shone on every finger, and she wore a gold torque upon her neck. Beside her sat Boru, the agent of Ammon.

  “You cannot stay here, Mejana. She will bring Avatar soldiers.”

  “Where would I go?” replied the middle-aged woman. “And, besides, had she wished me to be captured she would have held my men captive. No. I will see her.”

  “I cannot be here when she comes,” said Boru, glancing up at the sky. The sun was nearing noon. The burly man rose and leaned in to kiss the fat woman’s cheek. As he did so he produced a dagger from behind his back and plunged it into her chest. She gasped and fell back. “I am sorry, lady,” he told her. “But I cannot risk your capture.” Dragging his knife clear and wiping it clean on the dying woman’s shawl, he strode from the garden.

  Mejana slid sideways, then fell from the bench. She was lying on her back now and looking up at the clear blue sky. Three gulls flew high overhead, and she watched them bank and head back over the sea. There was little pain from the wound, but she felt her mind swimming, losing focus.

  She had always known that once she took on the might of the Avatar her life would be at risk. But she had never dreamed the death blow would come from an ally. In that moment she knew with certainty that the Erek-jhip-zhonad were never truly allies. I have been used, she thought, sadly. Images crowded her mind, vying for attention. Her grandson Pendar, her nephew Baj, her daughter Lari. So beautiful. Lari had been crystal-drawn twenty-two years ago for the crime of loving an Avatar. One of her twins had also been killed. Pendar had escaped that fate, for he had been ill and was in the house of a neighbor. The Avatars had not killed Lari, but they had robbed her of youth and middle age, releasing her the same day as a withered crone. That had been hard. So hard. So savagely against what nature intended. Mejana had been in her late thirties, still attractive and supple. Now she nursed her aged, almost senile, daughter. Mejana had used her considerable wealth to try to buy back those lost years. She had bribed officials, sent gifts, petitioned the Questor General. She had begged and pleaded for Lari to be given a second chance at life. Then Lari died.

  Mejana groaned. Now there was pain. The wound in her chest was hot and prickly and deep inside Mejana could feel blood filling her lungs. Breathing was becoming increasingly difficult. Lying very still she thought again of Lari. After the funeral Mejana had been inconsolable. For days she sat in her house, organizing no parties for rich Vagars, arranging no orgies. Her girls had come to her, beseeching her to allow them to work.

  Slowly her grief turned to anger, then to hot rage, and finally to a cold impenetrable fury. The Avatars were the enemy, and Mejana knew she would devote the rest of her life to bringing them down. Once arrived, the thought stayed with her. She brought in builders to work on the house. The twenty rooms used by her entertainers were made a little smaller, creating narrow gaps between the walls, and spy holes were set along them. Now when the rich men and women arrived for their pleasure they could be observed and heard. Her entertainers, both male and female, were urged to get their clients to talk about themselves. “It will make them relax,” she said. “Everyone loves talking about themselves and what they do. They will enjoy your company all the more, and will pay you even more handsomely.”

  Once the house had reopened Mejana took to creeping down the hidden gaps, listening and noting. Day by day, week by week, Mejana gathered information. Infinitely patient she wrote everything in a huge ledger. For two years she did nothing more than gather information. Then she contacted the ambassador to the Erek-jhip-zhonad. His name was Anwar, and he was a trusted adviser to the old king. She gave him information concerning troop movements near the borders and kept him apprised of regiment strengths. Closing her house she wintered in Morak, the Erek-jhip-zhonad capital. Anwar taught her many things—ciphers and codes—and schooled her in the arts of information retrieval.

  “It is unlikely, in the immediate future,” said Anwar one day, “that the Avatar will be overthrown by an outside force. The seeds of destruction must be sown from within. There are hundreds of thousands of Vagars. If they should rise, not all the power of the Avatar can stop them.”

  Mejana returned to Egaru with a new brief: to recruit and train an army of freedom fighters from within the cities. A secret army that would, one day, take control. Slowly, over the next ten years, she built such a force. And now the Pajists had sympathizers in every aspect of government, including the Vagar army.

  Mejana’s work was perilous. Mostly she stayed in the background, using others to relay information or to seek sympathizers. But on three occasions in the last four years agents of the Erek-jhip-zhonad had been arrested and crystal-drawn. Each of them could have betrayed her. None did.

  When the old king died and his son Ammon succeeded him Mejana had wondered what level of support she would continue to receive. Anwar, old now but still possessed of great cunning, was promoted to First Councillor, and with increased funding the Pajists grew in strength.

  Earlier this year Mejana had authorized a daring plan. Attacks were made on prominent Vagars who supported the Avatar regime. Three were killed, one paralyzed when he tried to flee and fell from his balcony. Now the work of the Pajists became an open secret. Wherever people gathered they would talk about the attacks and what they meant. Through this Mejana’s agents were able to gather more information and recruit still more fighters to the cause.

  But the most important breakthrough came when Mejana ordered the kidnapping of Questor Baliel. The youngest of the Avatar High Council, Baliel was considered by Mejana to be less than courageous. He had attended private orgies at her home and she had observed him closely. He was filled with petty ambitions and believed his lack of political success could be laid at the door of those envious of his wit and intelligence. Like most stupid people he regarded himself highly, and when faced with superior men branded them “intellectual” or “lacking in common sense.”

  Four Pajists had grabbed him as he left the house. Throwing a grain sack over his head they had beaten him unconscious and carried him to a warehouse close to the dock. Here Mejana had visited him. The Avatar was locked in a dark and windowless cellar. When Mejana entered he had thrown himself at her feet, begging her to help him.

  “I am surprised and saddened to find you like this, lord,” she said. “The evil men who have captured you have asked me—as a friend of yours—to tell you their demands.”

  “Demands?” he said, from his knees. “I will pay them anything. Anything!”

  “They do not require money, lord. They require information.”

  “What information?”

  “They told me to tell you that you must teach the Six Rituals to a young man. They want a Vagar to learn to use the crystals.”

  “Sweet Heaven! I can’t do that. No Vagar could master the art. Please help me, Mejana.”

  “I can do nothing, lord. They have me locked in a cell close by. They say they will kill me if you do not obey them. And they will certainly kill you.”

  “Kill me? I cannot die. Oh Mejana, what must I do?”

  Crouching down beside the whimpering man she stroked his long blue hair. “If, as you say, no Vagar can learn the rituals, then what harm is there in teaching them? It will kee
p you alive. And they have promised to move you to a better room, with lanterns and good food. Also,” she said, dropping her voice to a whisper, “they have promised that I can go free. Once I am clear of them I can alert the Watch and you will be rescued.”

  “Yes. Yes, that is the answer. I will teach them. You must get a message to Rael. He will know what to do.”

  “It will be as you say, lord,” she told him.

  For three weeks Baliel taught Pendar the Rituals. At first the young man made little progress, but on the twenty-seventh day he managed to revive a dying flower, bringing it back to full bloom. After this, progress was swift.

  Outside, in the city, the Avatars were searching for the missing Questor.

  One morning Viruk arrived at the house. Mejana had heard of him. And what she had heard was not encouraging. He was ruthless and cruel, his malice disguised by a great physical charm and charisma.

  As he was ushered into the room by a frightened serving girl Mejana rose. “You do my house great honor, lord,” she said. “However, I cannot accommodate you for, as you know, the race laws are very harsh.”

  He smiled. “My dear lady, let us not play games. The services of your entertainers are offered to any with the gold to purchase them. And that includes some of my Avatar colleagues. So let us not flirt with one another. Tell me the last time you saw Questor Baliel.”

  “My clients always respect the fact that I keep their confidences, lord,” she said. “My house would not be filled were it known that I was loose-tongued.”

  “Oh very well,” he said, sorrowfully. Drawing his dagger he moved towards her. “I shall cut the left breast from your body, you fat cow, and then we shall speak without games.”

  “Three weeks ago,” she said. “He came three weeks ago.”

  Viruk did not sheath his dagger. “What time did he leave?”

  “With your permission, lord, I would have to ask the … entertainer who kept him company. I do not always see my friends leave.”

  “Then do so.”

  Mejana walked to the door and called out a young man’s name. Within moments he entered the room, and, seeing Viruk, bowed deeply. Mejana asked him about Baliel, and the time of his departure. The young man replied that it was just after midnight.