The Eighth Power: Book I: The Book of the Living

by Paul Lytle

  But then other sightings caused the town to take seriously the rumor. In the fields was lurking a man in brown. His build was large, not fat, but muscular and well nourished. He would appear between stalks of wheat when the wind blew, but disappear, as though he were the wind itself. Next he was seen across town through a window. A poor widow was frightened unconscious at the sight of the man, whose eyes, she said, burned like coals, and he stared at her from outside, still as a statue. Even into the lord’s manor, which was guarded day and night, did the man come. Draffor himself saw the brown-cloaked stranger in the library, looking through the town’s records. The noble called for the guards, but, turning back to the intruder, found the man had disappeared. The only escape the man could have possibly made was through the window, but surely the window was too narrow for even the smallest of man to climb through. In fact, it was made small for that very purpose, so that invaders of one kind or another could not simply leap through the windows of the manor. Strong Lord Draffor himself nearly fainted, convinced he had seen a ghost. His guards joked that Draffor had finally gone mad.

  But the book of records remained open to the page at which the stranger had been looking. It had been the listing of births and deaths from the previous years. Draffor did not need to wonder which column the man had lingered upon.

  “Come,” he said to his soldiers. “Rouse the rest of the guard. I need everyone ready in ten minutes. For Serren’s sake, someone go get Iylin and his son. Bring them here and keep them safe.” The manor became ablaze in activity, and yet the men went about their business in cold silence.

  Tension infested the town that day, and hung like a humid fog upon everyone. The people could feel it on their skin, could see it when they walked. They knew this day would come, ever since Draffor had read the message from Lord Wyred. They knew that someone could come for Ayrim Iylin. Some had even suggested, in private, that Barrin should be driven out before the enemy arrived. Without that child around, perhaps Lanshire would be spared. But the town was not so easily separated from Ayrim. They had raised him – almost all of them as one. Sending him away was impossible for most. Besides, Draffor would not allow it. He would rather die defending that child than live and send him to his death. Since the word of the lord was law, even if that lord so rarely used such a power, the child remained.

  But to die defending him might be exactly what they had to do. Tales of the brigands struck the townsmen with fear, and the fear festered near terror. No one had been able to stop them, not even the Baron’s Thanes. Surely a small village with a few swordsmen and archers could not stand up to them.

  The paid guard of Lanshire, which was little more than a handful of farmers who needed a little extra money to pay their taxes, surrounded the manor once Barrin and his young son were inside. They patrolled in wide circles around the building, and they were joined by others from the town. No man, woman, or child was left behind. If someone wasn’t fit to fight, he would remain inside with the lord and the Iylins, and the rest made a great wall around the people, determined not to let anyone pass without permission.

  Day faded, but the men did not rest. Several kept arrows nocked in their bows, and only two or three sheathed a sword, and only then to eat or drink. Draffor sent stew around to the guards and townsmen on patrol, but they only ate sparingly. They were nervous and afraid, and they would not be able to eat much, no matter how hard they tried. Every little noise, whether the wind shuffling the leaves or a bird singing, caused their hearts to beat uncontrolled. There was a fog coming over the men, one of nervous fear.

  Darkness descended, and fires were made to light the area. Suddenly, it wasn’t merely sound that caused terror, but the slightest movement of a shadow. The men were breathing shallowly, because the darkness caused them to catch their breath.

  And then he appeared in the shifting shadows, revealed as though by Magic on the road that approached the manor. Just at the edge of the fire’s light was he, the man in a brown cloak, his arms raised. The men of the town surged toward the front of the building, arrows nocked and swords drawn, and the man stepped forward.

  Lord Draffor came out of the manor at the commotion and saw the man once more. A large man was he, strong and imposing. A hood covered his head, but the light of the fire reflected off his eyes, and they truly did seem like coals.

  “Stay where you are!” called Draffor.

  “You need not fear,” said the man, his voice deep, echoing, even in the low lands of Lanshire.

  “We will not strike if you stay back,” Draffor warned.

  The stranger laughed, and the laugh rubbed eerily upon the spines of the men there. Then, without waiting for an order, the bowmen responded with force. Lord Draffor called, “No!” but nothing could be done. The tension had overcome three at once, and when they fired, another five followed in kind. Eight arrows screamed at the man in brown, but he merely lifted up his arms.

  And the entire road, with him atop it, rose ten feet upward, and the arrows thunked into the rising soil, disappearing into the dust that had been stirred.

  Lord Draffor stepped forward, white in the evening, and called out, “Fire!” but no one responded. The eldritch act had frozen them in place, and not a man moved. So Draffor himself took a bow from one of his men and aimed upward, but all he could see were the falling remnants of the road raining down upon the people there. Before him, it seemed that the ground had returned to its natural position, but the man in brown was nowhere to be found.

  And then the earth jerked again, pushing upward and out and knocking Draffor to his knees. The path to the manor had risen up, and was then separating, and two walls of dirt were pushing outward, away from the door to the building. The men found themselves on either side of this phenomenon, even forced away as the walls went farther. The noble who ruled the town tried desperately to jump back into the inner area, but the wall was too tall and too steep. The path to the manor had been utterly cleared of guards.

  And down that path, between the high and moving walls of earth, walked the man in brown. The door was open, and, inside, numerous women, children, and older men watched, helpless and unarmed, as he came. Barrin himself stood frozen, holding tightly to Ayrim. He knew this man came for the child, but he could do nothing. They were all entranced by the man’s Magic.

  At last he arrived, the man in brown, and he casually removed his hood. Below, the man’s face was square, his dirty hair short and matted to his scalp. There was little color in the stranger’s skin, and even his lips were pale.

  “Barrin Iylin,” the man said, his voice menacing, yet not unkind. It was odd, but, despite the man’s rough appearance and actions against the soldiers, he did not seem to desire harm upon the boy. “I have come a long way for you.”

  And then the man stepped forward, his hands outstretched, but only so he could brush the dirt off himself. He said, with a partial smile, “It seems you were expecting someone else. I am not one of the murderers, Barrin. I am Santon Drynor, the Prophet of the Earth.”

  Chapter 9

  The introduction caused an epiphany amongst the people, and suddenly was it obvious to them then how this man had come in the manner that he did. It also became clear to them, just as night follows day, what those outlaws to the north were seeking.

  They sought a new Prophet.

  There hadn’t been word that a Prophet had died, but there rarely was. They generally died privately, usually in bed at the Tower, and the passing of one would be known only by the other Prophets. Those living Prophets would then disperse and look for the new Prophet (or Wizard or Mage, as some people called them), for the world was never without its Chosen, and the death of one meant the birth of another.

  The world contained some amount of Magic to be granted by the six gods, and also Vid, each possessing power over his domain in the heavens. On occasion they would make a gift of a little of that Power to their most devout followers, and in
this way could several Priests Invoke a portion of the power, but not too much, for most of the Magic was contained within the Prophets – the selected voices of the gods – and there was only one for each of the gods.

  It hadn’t always been that way. Before the Death Wars did each god grant minor power to many people, and each person could claim to be chosen of the deity, and therefore speak for the god. Most of the minor Mages followed their gods without question, but some lusted after power and wealth, and they would use their positions to gain such worldly things. So even the speakers for a god would dispute amongst themselves, and the people began to fall away from the Six.

  So about the time of the Death Wars, it was decided amongst the Six that, instead of spreading the power of each god thinly amongst many, that only one would be chosen by each god. This one person, this Prophet, would have undisputed power, and there would be no question as to who spoke for the deities. Besides, with only one man given the power, it became easier for the gods to watch over their speakers, and therefore keep them in line better than they had in the past.

  But later, centuries after the Wars had died away, they discovered that Vid also had a Prophet, for, though he was truly nothing at all, he too was as a deity, and had the same powers to bestow onto someone. And so a seventh Wizard was discovered.

  There was always a Prophet for each god, for once one died, is power would disperse back into the land, from whence it originated, until the next male child was born to the world, usually within minutes, or, at most, hours, of the Prophet’s death. The Power would then be transferred to that child, and he would be the next Prophet.

  So it was that when a Prophet died, the living Prophets would then set off into the land and seek that newborn Prophet, testing all male children born on the day of the Wizard’s death. When found, that child and his parents would be taken to the Tower, where the new Prophet would be trained in Magic and theology, for he would speak for his appointed god, and his hand would become the hand of his deity.

  The powers possessed by these Prophets were limited only by each god’s own element, but within those elements were nearly limitless. The Prophet of the Flame could command any fire he happened upon, but fire had to be present first, for he could not create it of air or water. Likewise did the Prophet of the Sea control water wherever it was found, but no other element. The Prophet of the Living could Heal as long as the spark of life was present, but once gone, then the corpse entered the domain of the Prophet of the Dead, which he could reanimate as an Undead servant.

  The Prophet of the Earth, this Santon Drynor, had complete control over the ground beneath him, and so such wonders as he had performed when attacked were nothing to him, even if they awed and frightened those around him.

  Chapter 10

  Drynor seemed partially amused (though honestly more annoyed) while Lord Draffor apologized profusely for the incident. By blood alone, Santon should have been kissing Draffor’s feet for the privilege of stepping into his manor, even though the local Lord was of low importance in the politics of the nation. But there were ranks based not on the merit of blood alone, and the title of Prophet rose above even the most powerful Kings. Even though Drynor had been born of a begging woman, still did he bow to no one. Lord Draffor knew his place, and he even knelt at one point.

  “Oh, stand up, you fool,” the Prophet said with disgust. “And stop that whining. I haven’t enough time for your apologies.”

  “But we attacked you,” Lord Draffor argued, though he wasn’t sure why he was doing so.

  “Half the villages I’ve visited have attacked me,” Drynor said. “We are not imbeciles. We have heard of the raids and murders. If there had been time to send word to a town before my visit, I would have and avoided all of this silliness. But we must find the new Prophets before they do, and so I find myself unable to announce my every move. I am traveling as quickly as I can, and I do not always know whether I will turn to the east or the west.”

  Draffor stopped breathing. Everyone did. There was a silence in the room greater than any Barrin Iylin had ever heard. Finally someone asked, though the shock in the room was so great that no one could identify the speaker, “Did you say ‘Prophets’?”

  “I did, as in two of them. Flame and Wind both lost Prophets on the same day, and we haven’t even found their bodies, much less their successors. We are seeking out two children, and neither of them have yet been located.”

  “They didn’t die at the Tower?” Draffor asked, surprised. “How do you know they are dead?”

  “We felt the Magic dispense. It is not difficult for us. But please, I have work to do.”

  Finding the Wizards was not always an easy task. After all, many children were birthed every day on the continent, and travel was often slow, even for the Prophets and their impressive powers. In fact, they had not found the living Prophet of the Absence, who was called Draughton Xyn, for more than twelve years after his birth. In that instance, someone finally wrote to the Tower about a young man in a small village who could take things apart by his mind alone.

  “Let us be done with this,” said Santon. “Let me test the child, and I will be on my way.”

  “What do you need?” asked Barrin, though the possibility that his son might be a Prophet had not yet fully developed within his mind. Surely the odds were too small for such a thing. And yet, there were two Mages who died, and neither new Prophet had been found. Might it be that Ayrim was one? The possibility swirled within his mind like water down a stream, never able to linger in any one place for more than a fleeting moment, but it was beginning to harden.

  Drynor sat next to the child’s father and said, “The test is quick, and quite harmless. Your son will not feel a thing. You see, I am able to transfer small amounts of power to others of my kind, and they will take it unto themselves. It does not matter how young the Prophet is; he will accept it. When I give power to the child, he will either refuse it, because he cannot control it, or accept it because he can. If this child accepts it, then he is one of the Prophets, either of the Flame or of the Wind. Once we know that, then there are other tests we may employ to see which of the two he is.”

  “Can you do it here?” asked Barrin, curious to see this test performed.

  “I can, but I will know the truth more quickly if I am alone. That is, if you would entrust the child to me?”

  Iylin nodded, handing the infant over. Ayrim was calm and composed, a perfect child, and Santon Drynor handled him well. He had likely had much practice over the last ten months. The Mage turned to Lord Draffor and said, “Is there a room I can use for a few minutes?”

  “Of course,” and the noble led the Wizard down the hall, out of sight from the others there.

  There was no talking once Drynor left. Iylin looked down, frightened to know the results. He had, perhaps, sired a new Prophet. He had, perhaps, raised the next Wizard. He felt suddenly unworthy, suddenly out of place, and it was a feeling he recalled quite well, for it was how he had felt from the moment he was wed to Josette. She had been just a poor daughter of a poor farmer, one of certainly better than average appearance, but such was not her best feature. Best about her was her smile, which had a power with which no Wizard could hope to compete. She was always glad, no matter how poor the harvest was or how long the drought. He had always thought of her as Serren in human form. It was wrong to do that, he knew, but he couldn’t help it. He could not help but to spend every waking moment of his life in adoration.

  And then Ayrim took her from him, and the remembrance of it was bitter upon the tasting of it.

  Barrin did love his son, he truly believed that he did, but he could not yet forgive the boy of that. He could not believe that Ayrim was worthy of the price paid for him.

  But suddenly, Ayrim might be a Prophet. There was a real chance here of the boy being thrust into a world unlike any other. Ayrim might be one of the seven most powerful and important people o
n the planet. And of a good god too, for both Ignar and Whesler were well respected, not like Vid, certainly, but also better liked than Tarite, for, though powerful, the God of the Dead was shunned for fear. Even being a Prophet of Tarite would be incredible, but all the better were Ignar and Whesler. What would it be like at the Tower? What would it be like to leave the hard soil of Lanshire behind and to be planted in the lush luxury of the center of the Magical world?

  And yet, even then (so the thoughts swirled back upon themselves), would Ayrim then be worth it? Would the power and position alone make him worthy of what had been given up for him? Certainly not if all Prophets acted like that Drynor, coming around after dark and scaring everyone without even a hint of an apology! There was no need to have sneaked around town as he had, simply to hide his movements or to avoid large greeting or for whatever reason he had done it.

  Barrin Iylin sighed. No, in the end, he knew that power and wealth would be nice, but they did nothing to make someone good. The thought that Ayrim might be a Prophet had tickled his pride for a moment, but the moment was fading. Power and wealth alone would not make Ayrim a man.

  “That’s my job,” Iylin realized out loud, and suddenly felt very unworthy again. The simple truth was this: Ayrim was not yet worth the sacrifice because Barrin had not made him so.

  Lord Draffor leapt back into the room, saying, “The Prophet returns.”

  Chapter 11

  Santon Drynor seemed neither pleased nor disappointed when he emerged from the back room, the child in his arms. If anything, the man seemed aggravated, but that was not inconsistent with what they had seen of the Mage that evening. The Mage seemed endlessly annoyed by having to share the world with those less important than himself. As for Ayrim, the boy was asleep, which caused relief in Barrin, who knew by this that the test had not hurt the child.

  The Prophet of the Earth approached the father and passed the boy off to him, saying as he did, “He refused the power. The child is not as I am, but is rather like you.”