The Seeker

by Isobelle Carmody

  All three looked up at the sound of laughter. One of the others addressed me. “Funaga, we of the Agyllians do not give our names lightly. But answer this: Are you a male or a female of your kind? It is not easy to tell your sort of creature apart. You all look so much alike, plucked and naked as an eggling.”

  “I am female. What are Agyllians?” I sent, wondering why the strange word sounded familiar.

  No one seemed ready to answer, and the two females looked at one another for so long, I sensed they were communicating on some unknown level.

  Without warning, the silent communion ended, and the largest of the three birds dropped from the tree and glided to land near the cave entrance. The bird was much bigger up close, standing higher than a tall man. I drew back nervously, wondering if Guanette birds were carnivorous.

  “Is it the one?” the bird mused, apparently thinking to itself. It eyed me intently with beady black eyes.

  “I wouldn’t taste very good,” I sent uneasily. “My wounds are poisoned.”

  “Wounds! Did you hear what it said?” sent the other female. I was beginning to be able to tell them apart.

  “She is the one,” Astyanax sent with sudden certainty. Both females looked at him pointedly; then the first returned to its inspection of my limbs.

  “It is dark.… Hard to tell,” murmured the bird on the ground. It came closer in a curious drunken gait. My fingers closed around a rock.

  “Funaga,” it sent. “I am Ruatha of the Agyllians, and my companions are Illyx and Astyanax. Do you truthtell about these injuries?”

  Bewildered, I nodded. “I was burned a long time ago. The scars have become infected. I’m sure I would taste horrible. I might even be poisonous,” I added earnestly.

  The bird made a dry croaking noise. “We do not wish to eat you, funaga. Agyllians are not eaters of flesh.”

  I relaxed slightly but not too much. The bird hopped lopsidedly closer. “Injuries are common after the firestorms. You do not look very important,” it added thoughtfully. “But perhaps Astyanax is right, and you are the one we seek.”

  My involuntary withdrawal had jarred my legs, and I heard this through a red mist of pain. I fought against faintness.

  “Are you Innle?” the bird asked.

  The mist cleared for a moment in shock at hearing Maruman’s old title for me. Innle meant “seeker” in beast symbols. And hadn’t I heard that name more recently? The effort of sustaining the suppressing stopped me thinking clearly. I concentrated, shoring up the barrier, and slowly, the tides of pain ebbed.

  The bird had not moved, but the other two had flown to the ground and hovered some way back.

  “Why do you call me that?” I asked.

  “The eldar sent us to find Innle,” Astyanax said, “the Seeker, who lay mortally injured in this valley. Many are dead nearby, but the eldar told that you would be alone, wounded and waiting to die. It is hard to know if you are the one. The eldar said there was no time for a mistake.”

  “What is an eldar?” I asked, fear giving way to puzzlement.

  This time Astyanax answered. “Eldar is the name of the high council of the Agyllians. Eldar are the wisest of our kind, and the wisest of the wise is the leader of the council—the Elder.”

  Now I was sure I was dreaming or delirious with pain. A council of birds? Even the dogs and horses who were organized had not gone that far.

  “What is this Seeker?”

  “Are you the one we were sent to find?” Illyx demanded with waspish exasperation.

  “Peace,” Ruatha sent gently. “She cannot know she is the one. We will take her.”

  I blinked, forcing back a wave of nausea. “What do you mean?”

  The bird ignored me. One last searching look from ice-colored eyes, then she thrust her head beneath one wing and appeared to be trying to pick out the feathers there. Instead she withdrew a pouch in her sharp beak, dropped it on the ground, and pecked at it until the woven edges parted. Inside was a net.

  “No!” I struggled to maintain the suppressing.

  “The Elder cannot leave the Ken, so we will take you there,” Ruatha sent calmly, reaching for my leg with one strong claw.

  Pain.

  More pain.

  Darkness.

  I fought against consciousness, frightened of what I would find.

  “You will not die …,” sent a voice, as soft in my mind as a falling leaf.

  Slowly, I let myself be drawn, opening my eyes to a sky so pale and clear it was more white than blue. The wind fanned my cheeks with icy fingers, and puffs of cloud burst from my lips and dissolved with each breath exhaled.

  Dreaming …, I thought vaguely. All a dream … but so real. Another puff of cloud floated from my mouth. I turned my head slowly to follow it and froze.

  I was having one of those horrible dreams where I seemed to be right on the edge of the highest cliff in the world. Below, visible through a veil of drifting cloud, was a vague grayness that might have been sea or land.

  Piercing the cloud rose numerous stone columns; I seemed to be lying atop one. First there had been winged horses, then giant birds that thought more clearly than any human, and now I had been transported to the top of the world. I wondered dizzily if these were the dreams that came to the endless sleep called death.

  Guanette birds wheeled and flew and skimmed all about in an intricate airborne dance. It was one of the loveliest sights I had ever seen.

  I heard the rustle of wings and turned to see one of the birds come to ground. It was a male.

  “You have woken, funaga. Welcome to the Ken. I am of the eldar. My name is Nerat. Among your kind, I would be called a healer.” It sent these thoughts past my shield without effort, with the same scything ability the other birds had demonstrated.

  He moved closer but slowly, as if his bones were stiff. Just as Ruatha had done, the bird reached under a wing, withdrawing a pouch. Balancing precariously on one foot, it took the pouch into its talons, plucking it open with delicate pecking motions. A few grains of yellowish dust drifted on the wind.

  “The infection in your body is bad, but not so bad that Nerat cannot draw it. The real difficulty will be in finding a way to drain off the pain you have allowed to build up behind a mental block. Open your mind to me,” he commanded.

  I flinched at the hint of strength, for here was a mind easily as powerful as my own.

  The bird tilted its head quizzically. “You find it hard to open your mind? Dying would be harder. Understand that there is only so much we can do from without. Your body must be taught to repair itself and build its immunities. That is a simple matter and can be done even as I drain the mental poisons. But you must open willingly to me. If you resist, the block will crumble. You will die. Let me in and sleep. Trust me.”

  I swallowed dryly, wondering why even in the midst of a dream, I could not bear the thought of opening my mind completely.

  “That is a question you will answer for yourself in time,” Nerat sent. “Now, do as I say, before the poison flows too deep. I can do many things, but I cannot bring the dead back to life. And you must not die with so much left undone,” he added cryptically.

  I saw a sudden vision of Rushton’s brooding face and felt the curious ache his memory always evoked.

  “He thinks of you, too,” Nerat said absently; then he made a choking sound and regurgitated a grayish lump of paste onto the stone.

  “This comes from the substance the funaga call whitestick,” Nerat sent. “We call it narma. I have mixed it with various salivas and acids that I have generated to fight the poisons. Narma rose from the ashes of the Great White and is ever a reminder that the poisons now in the earth fade. Next time, there will be no narma.”

  I shivered, imagining all the world fused smooth as glass, and black.

  “That is how it will be, the next time,” Nerat sent. He stared into my eyes. “Come now, ElspethInnle, for it is not only your life that hangs in the balance. Open to me, but leave the block in p
lace until I command you to release it.”

  Slowly, I let my head fall back onto the stone, trying to make my mind a passive vessel.

  Nerat’s probe was inside then, swift as a snake, smooth as a single strand of silk. “Relax,” he sent. “Dream, and I will do my work. I am not interested in the longings and secret thoughts of a funaga.”

  Once Nerat commanded me to release the suppressing, I drifted between excruciating pain and numbness, burning heat and freezing cold.

  And the pain in my legs. The pain. The pain.

  For a time, I forgot who I was, and it seemed all my life had been spent in a dream of pain on the top of a mountain.

  Occasionally, I was aware of Nerat’s mind weaving a pattern in my thoughts as complex and intangible as smoke in the wind. Sometimes I smelled flowers and herbs, and sometimes acrid, choking smoke.

  And then I floated for a very long time.

  “She wakes,” came a thought bound with weariness and satisfaction.

  I opened my eyes and found myself looking into pale avian eyes. The bird was so close I could see the fine crack in his beak, thin as a hair. I felt his mind like tenebrous fingers at the edge of my thoughts; then he gave a strangely human bob of his head and hopped away.

  I did not move for a long while, waiting to see where the dream would take me next. Idly, I wondered if I would feel myself plunge into the mindstream when I died. I thought I would like to hear that glorious siren song once more.

  Astyanax appeared. “You are well, ElspethInnle. You can get up now. Or do you wish to lie there longer?” he sent with all the politeness of a host not wanting to upset a guest. Urged on by the eager expression in his eyes, I lifted my head carefully.

  It is a dream, I told myself. That is why there is no pain.

  Slowly, I sat upright. I made myself look down my body, prepared to see ruined, evil-smelling flesh and black infection. My legs seemed to rise at me from a dark mist.

  Below the skirt they lay before me, pale as cream and utterly without blemish. Even the old childhood scars of skinned knees had vanished.

  My heart sounded like a drumbeat as I reached for the laces. They were stiff with congealed blood. The socks were the same, but when I pulled them down, they came away from the skin easily. The flesh beneath was as flawless as that on my calves. Unable to believe my eyes, I reached a hand out. The skin felt smooth beneath my questing fingers. I wriggled my toes experimentally, watching the movement as if it were an exquisite dance.

  I laughed, and my laughter seemed to reverberate off the mountains. No one could heal that fast, and I knew enough of healing to know it was impossible to heal poisoned flesh or banish old, deep scarring.

  “Well met,” Astyanax sent pertly. “You are now to see Atthis—Elder of the eldar.”

  I climbed warily to my feet and let myself be led across to a cairn of stones and around to face an opening in the other side.

  “Greetings, funaga,” came a thought from within the cairn, so clear and gentle it was like a song in my mind. There was the sound of shuffling movement, and slowly, a very old female Guanette bird emerged, her feathers less red than dusty brown with bald patches of pink. The end of her beak was broken right off. But strangest of all were her eyes. There was no pupil, and they were white and milkily opaque.

  She was blind.

  Looking at the ancient bird, a mist of terror crept through my veins at the sudden certainty that I was not dreaming.

  The old bird stopped, eyes turned unerringly toward me. The movement reminded me of Dameon’s blind grace. “So, now you are come, just as was foreseen. You may call me Atthis, and I will call you ElspethInnle, as does the yelloweyes.”

  I blinked, startled. Did she mean Maruman? Then something else struck me. This was the voice that had called to me in the old cat’s mind.

  But I’m dreaming, I thought dazedly.

  The old bird stepped closer, and a suffocating odor of dust seemed to surround me.

  “Why do you pretend? You know this is no dream.”

  I felt as if someone had kicked me in the stomach, and I was nauseous and breathless all at once.

  “You made Maruman sick!” I said indignantly, remembering what had been said to me inside Maruman’s mind.

  “It could not be helped,” Atthis sent gently. “We could not reach you otherwise, at such a distance.”

  Something else occurred to me. “You told me I had to go on a journey. Is that why I’m here?” A dark journey, she had said.

  The bird sent nothing for a long moment, but I had the uncanny feeling she could see from those white orbs.

  “I did not know we would meet so soon when first I called to you in my dreamtravels through the yelloweyes’ mind. I did not foresee then that the Agyllians would have some other part to play. Even the wise are sometimes pawns.”

  The old bird came closer, her tattered wing brushing one of my feet. I looked into her blind eyes with faint dread.

  “You do not like the look of my sightless eyes? Well, sight is a facile thing,” Atthis sent.

  It was nearing dusk, and a fleeting final sunbeam bathed the old bird in crimsons for a moment. Beyond the cairn lay the rim of the world. On one side, the sky was night-dark, and on the other, the sun shone its final rays. In the west, the moon was rising flat and bright. I looked back to see that the avian face had not looked away from mine.

  “ElspethInnle … the Seeker,” the old bird sent.

  “I don’t know why you call me that. It’s just a name Maruman made up. I don’t call myself by it,” I sent.

  “Not all names are chosen,” Atthis sent. “Some names are bestowed.”

  “What is this all about?” I sent briskly.

  “You know,” the bird sent, unperturbed. “Have you not wondered at the coincidences and chances in your life? Have you not felt that there were great forces at work about you—forces for good and for great ill? Have you not felt the purpose in your life burning?”

  Unwished, a vision came to me of the black chasm I had glimpsed while being tortured by the Zebkrahn. I thought of Jik asking if it were possible for it to happen again and of the Druid and his insane search for Beforetime weaponmachines, his greed for power and revenge blinding him to all else.

  “You know,” sent Atthis. “You have always known.”

  “Who are you?” I whispered.

  “You may call me a chronicler and … what do your people call it—a futureteller. Long ago, I foresaw that the machines that made the great destruction lie sleeping. I saw that a second and greater destruction would come to the world if these machines were not destroyed. That will be no easy matter, for the machines have a kind of intelligence and will protect themselves. But I dreamed one would be born among the funaga, a Seeker to cross the black wastes and ensure that the deathmachines can never be used again.

  “Very recently, I foresaw a faltering in that life—a moment when you might easily die. I saw that you would suffer such mental and physical injuries as only the Agyllians could heal. And so I sent out my egglings to find you.”

  “I’m grateful,” I said. “But why seek the machines at all? If they’re so far away—if they’re truly in the Blacklands—might they not be useless by the time anyone found them?”

  “The machines are beyond the Blacklands, but they have slept without harm for hundreds of lifetimes. The danger of their discovery alone would not be enough to make me act. But I have foreseen that there is another funaga whose destiny is to resurrect the machines. Your paths intersect. You are the Seeker, the other is the Destroyer. If you do not find the machines first …”

  I felt sick. I wanted to tell myself that it was too ridiculous, that I must be dreaming, that prophecies belonged to stories. But too much had happened. I had seen and felt too much, and in my heart, just as the bird said, I had known for a long time that I would find the chasm from my vision. The burning of the maps on Obernewtyn’s doors had only been the beginning.

  “Why does it have to
be me who finds them?” I asked. “Don’t I have any choice?”

  “There are always choices.”

  I shook my head, feeling suddenly bitter. “If what you say is true, then the future is set out, and I have no real choice.”

  “The future is a river whose course is long designed but which a flood or drought might easily alter. Whatever choice you make will have its own consequences. If I had not chosen to interfere and have you healed, your death would have been a kind of choice.”

  The sun sank, and suddenly it was night, the old bird no more than a dust-scented shadow.

  “What do I have to do?” I whispered.

  “For now, only live,” Atthis sent. “What else comes will come.”

  “You … you brought me here to say that?” I asked, incredulous.

  The old bird seemed to sigh. “The time is not yet right for you to travel that black road. You were brought here to be healed, and so you are healed. Return to your home and friends. Help them in their struggle, for it is worthy and they have need of you. But do not forget that your true path lies away from them and their quests.”

  “Have you … foreseen that I will succeed on that path? Will I destroy the machines if I go on this journey?”

  Atthis shifted slightly and dust filled the air. “That, I have not foreseen.”

  A wave of weariness flowed through me, and a kind of hopelessness. I sensed compassion in the mind of the old bird. “One day, you will learn that it is not always safest to be alone. Until then, happiness will elude you. But perhaps it is best for you to be alone with this secret burden.”

  “I don’t understand,” I sent.

  “I know. You are tired. Sleep, and while you sleep, my egglings will transport you to a place where one waits to carry you back to the mountain valley of Obernewtyn.”

  The old bird’s eyes stared into mine, and I felt myself falling into them, sinking into the soft whiteness as if it were a feather bed.

  24

  THE COLD WOKE me.

  I was freezing, and I wondered if it had snowed in the night. I felt a sharp stab of grief and was puzzled by it. Then I remembered Jik.