by Roger Taylor
The girl shook her head and made a disparaging noise. ‘Your father and Gryss might, and some of the other upland farmers, but the rest are only out here for the ale. Most of them need both hands to find their backsides at the best of times.'
Farnor grinned at Marna's manner, but made a hasty gesture for silence and glanced quickly behind in case Gryss or his father were near enough to hear this cavalier disrespect. The two men were well out of earshot, though, trudging along at their own steady pace. He noticed however, that they were deep in conversation.
Not all boundaries were to be swept aside today, he sensed.
The thought brought a shadow back to him.
'And Rannick,’ he said to Marna, not knowing why. ‘Could he catch it?'
He felt her stiffen. ‘Oh yes,’ she said flatly. ‘He could catch it.'
Farnor pressed on. ‘What do you think Gryss was talking about back there?'
'Nothing I didn't already know,’ Marna replied. ‘Rannick's a mad dog. Bad and dangerous. The valley would be a quieter place without him.’ She shuddered.
Farnor could not keep the surprise from his face. Marna could be blunt to the point of considerable rudeness at times, but it was usually to someone's face. And he had never heard her speak so brutally of anyone before. He found himself instinctively trying to take his father's part as defender of the man against this condemnation, but he remained silent. Just as Gryss's words had illuminated his own feelings about Rannick, so too had Marna's.
But feelings were feelings. There must surely be reasons for such vehemence.
'What's the matter with him?’ he half stammered. ‘I don't like him much myself but ...'
'He wants things, Farnor,’ Marna replied before he could finish.
'We all want things,’ Farnor retorted.
Marna shook her head. ‘No, not like that,’ she said. ‘He wants to be what he's not. Wants to ... push people about ... make them run when he tells them ... jump when he tells them. Wants to be in charge of everything.'
'An elder?’ Farnor queried, though sensing immediately that this was a naive response.
'No, of course not,’ Marna said impatiently. ‘Nothing like an elder. He wants to be like ...’ She waved her arms about, in search of a word. ‘Like a ... great lord of some kind ... a king, even.'
Farnor looked at her intently. ‘You mean it, don't you?’ he said. Then, without waiting for a reply, ‘That's stupid. Why on earth would he want to be something he couldn't possibly be? No one in the whole valley would let him.’ A thought came to him. ‘And how would you know something like that, anyway?’ he added, suspiciously.
Marna glowered at him. ‘Because he's a man, and men think stupid thoughts like that, that's why, you donkey. And I know because it's written in his face, in his eyes. Just look at them one day.'
Farnor felt that he had inadvertently wandered into a thorn bush and he retreated in haste. He sensed that Marna was blustering to hide some other concern, but he wasn't going to ask about it.
They continued in an uneasy silence.
As they walked over the rounded top of the rise, the castle came into view ahead of them. It was still some considerable distance away, but neither Farnor nor Marna had been so close to it before. They stopped and gazed at it in awe.
Its high, grey stone walls crawled purposefully over the uneven ground, between great buttressing towers. These for the most part were circular, but wherever the wall changed direction they were six-sided. From some of them more slender towers rose up haughtily as if disdaining the earthbound solidity that actually supported them. Other towers, too, could be seen, rising from behind the walls, as could the roofs of lesser buildings. The walls themselves were made strangely watchful by lines of narrow vertical slits and, at intervals, small turrets jutted out from the battlements to hang confidently over the drop below. A tall, narrow gate wedged between two particularly massive towers fronted the whole.
'It's so big,’ Marna said softly. ‘It really is like something out of one of Yonas's tales.'
'But this is real,’ Farnor wanted to say, but he just nodded dumbly. He felt the hairs on his arms rising in response to the sight. Questions burst in upon him.
What must it have been like here once, when it was first built back in the unknown past, or when the King's soldiers occupied it? He saw lines of riders clattering up to the open gate, surcoats and shields emblazoned with strange devices shining bright amid the glittering armour. Servants and grooms ran out to greet the arrivals, dogs barked, orders were shouted, voices were raised in welcome, trumpets sounded...
'Come on!’ Marna was tugging at his sleeve, the child in her showing through her stern adult mask. ‘Let's go!'
Farnor hesitated. The castle was at once inviting and forbidding.
'Wait there!’ A faint voice reached them from below to spare Farnor the need for a decision. He turned to see his father gesticulating. The command was repeated and he waved back in acknowledgement. Marna's mouth tightened as she bit back some comment, and with a soft snort she sat down on the grass. Farnor felt awkward.
Eventually, Garren and Gryss reached them. Gryss was puffing heavily.
'It's been too long since I went sheep-herding,’ he said, smiling ruefully as Garren motioned him to a flat rock on which he could sit.
'I walked too quickly for you,’ Garren said. ‘I'm sorry.'
Gryss brushed the apology aside and looked up at the castle.
'It doesn't seem to change, does it?’ he said.
Garren shook his head. ‘There's craftsmanship there that we can't begin to equal,’ he said.
Farnor could remain silent no longer. ‘You've been here before?’ he said, almost rhetorically. ‘Why? You never told me. You've always said it was a place where we shouldn't go.'
'And so it is,’ Garren replied, his manner authoritative. ‘I've been here from time to time, just to look for sheep, that's all. But it's a ...’ He paused and his authority seemed to fade. ‘It's a place you should avoid,’ he concluded lamely.
Unexpectedly, Farnor felt affronted. An indignant protest began to form, but Gryss intercepted it.
'All things in their time, Farnor,’ he said. ‘There's nothing here for any of the valley folk. The ground's too poor for cultivation, and not even very good for grazing sheep.'
He looked at Farnor, who could not keep his dissatisfaction at this answer from his face. He seemed to reach a conclusion.
'It's a limit, Farnor,’ he said. ‘A boundary. You'll meet them all your life. Things that can't be done ... for many reasons. Things you can't have.’ He pointed beyond the castle, to the north. ‘The land over the hill is a strange enough place, with not much to commend it. But over there ...’ He shook his head slowly. ‘Over there, there's a world stranger still. It's best let be. Kept away from.'
'How do you know?’ Marna asked. Farnor started at her tone, part true inquiry, part challenging taunt.
Gryss scowled and turned to speak to her, but the whistling that had brought them to the top of the rise reached them again.
'Over there,’ Garren said, pointing. He clambered up on to a small outcrop. ‘I can see them. They've found something.'
* * *
Chapter 4
Rannick looked down at the tiny figures below. He took a long grass stem from his mouth and threw it away, spitting after it.
Ants, he thought, with scornful elation. Ants. Scurrying about in the valley all their lives and not even realizing they were trapped there just as generations before them had been trapped. The idea drew his eyes upwards toward the enclosing mountains, and his lip curled. It would not be so for him. Not for him, that blind captivity. He saw and knew the bars of his cage and knew too that he would break free of them.
Undimmed for as long as he could remember was the knowledge that he was destined for greater things than could conceivably be offered or attained here. At some time he would know a life beyond the valley and its people, with their suffocating ways:
a life that would be full of power over such lesser creatures.
This certainty sustained him daily, yet, too, though he had not the perception to realize it, it burdened him; for the expectation it bred twisted and turned within him endlessly, and constantly drew his heart away from matters of the moment. Rannick lived ever in his own future, his joys marred, his miseries heightened.
Abruptly his elation vanished and his mood lurched into darkness. He clenched his fists in familiar frustration as the reality of his circumstances impinged on him with its usual relentless inevitability.
Where was this greatness to come from? And, above all, when?
Soon it would be Dalmas again. Like the other annual festivals celebrated in the valley, Dalmas had meant little to him for most of his life, except as an excuse to do even less work than he normally did and an opportunity to eat and drink not only more than usual, but at the expense of others. Over the last few years, however, it had also begun to serve as a reminder that he was yet another year older. Its imminence invariably served to sour his manner even further.
A year older and still bound to this place, his life remaining resolutely unchanged while his ambition burgeoned with time. Indeed the reality of his life was probably becoming worse, so increasingly at odds with the people of the valley was he growing.
He looked back down the valley again. This place where his family had always been mistrusted—feared, even; as near outcast as could be without actually being so. Only his grandfather had escaped this treatment.
He gazed at his hands. Part of him wanted to be like his grandfather—a healer—a person thought highly of; someone at whom people smiled whenever they met him strolling through the village. With Rannick they would turn surreptitiously away rather than risk catching his eye and be obliged to acknowledge him.
It was a small and diminishing part, though. What the greater part of him wanted was to increase the power that had come down to him from the darker reaches of his ancestry. But here his grandfather's presence intruded more forcefully. The old man's words, spoken to him long ago when he was very young, had burned into him like fire and were as fresh now as they had been then.
Eyes had looked deep into him, dominating him, pinioning him. He had never known such total helplessness before, even when his father had beaten him, seemingly endlessly, with his thick leather belt. Yet, and to his bewilderment, the eyes were also full of affection and concern.
'You have it, Rannick. You have our family's taint.’ He remembered something inside him struggling, as if it wanted to avoid discovery, but it seemed that nothing could escape the searching eyes. The words went on. ‘It is no blessing, Rannick, and never think it so. However it shows itself, set it aside, ignore it, bury it, let it wither and die. It is master, not servant. It will deceive. And it will enslave you utterly.'
But even as his grandfather had spoken Rannick had sensed another presence within, far beyond his grandfather's searching. A presence shining clear and bright like a single silver star in a golden evening sky. And with it came a voice; distant, too, but still sharp and certain. A voice that gave his grandfather's words the lie; that showed Rannick the fear in the old man's voice.
'I am the light,’ it said. ‘The One True Light. Follow me.'
And still it shone, guiding him forward. A lodestone lure drawing him inexorably into the dark knowledge beyond knowing that his grandfather had declared tainted.
Rannick turned away from the mountains and the valley and slid down to the ground, his back solid against the rock he had been peering over. With the thought of his power came the desire to use it; to test himself again.
He extended his left hand.
Birds and insects nearby fell silent, though Rannick was oblivious to the change. The air around him began to stir and, slowly, small pebbles some way in front of him began to tumble over as if caught in a sudden breeze. Then larger stones began to move. And larger ones still. Rannick smiled and his narrow eyes widened. His mouth worked noiselessly.
He withdrew his hand. It would not be needed now. He felt the power rising from wherever it lay within him and moving through him to do his will.
'It is no blessing, Rannick, and never think it so.’ His grandfather's words returned to him as they always did at this point.
'I am the One True Light,’ said his deeper guide.
I hear you. I see you. I will follow you. Rannick paid silent homage to his chosen mentor.
'Set it aside, ignore it, bury it, let it wither and die. It is master, not servant. It will deceive. And it will enslave you utterly.'
'No,’ Rannick whispered in defiance of the shade of his father's father. ‘No. I smell your desperation now, old man. You feared me. Feared my power. As will others. This gift is mine. Given to me to use. And I will use it. I will use it!'
He felt himself amid the tumbling, rolling rocks. Touching each one, from the least grain to the largest boulder, effortlessly guiding, directing. They were his, utterly. His to lead to whatever destiny he chose.
He laughed breathlessly as he felt exhilaration rising within him. Then his rumbling charges began to move faster and faster, round and round, and he fell silent.
His face became ecstatic.
Abruptly, the circling movement ended and the captive stones and boulders hurtled straight into a nearby rock face. They struck with such force that several of them shattered. Rannick drove his fingernails into his palms.
Slowly, stillness returned to his eyrie and the breeze caught the dust rising from the commotion he had made and carried it gently away. It was like a soft healing hand, but it passed unnoticed. Rannick slumped forward. Sweat was forming on his forehead and he was weak and drained. It was ever thus. If only he could use the power without this awful weakness, then...
Vistas of a glorious future opened in front of him, but he ignored them. They were all too familiar and they had nothing to offer him other than to distract him and drag him down. He must follow his chosen discipline. He must look for what he had gained from this day's work.
His skill was growing, he knew, as was the range and strength of the power he could exert. And, he confirmed to himself with growing satisfaction, although he felt battered and empty, his weakness was less than it would have been but a few months ago.
Something was happening. Something was in the air. Something new.
And even as the thought occurred to him, a strangeness touched his still-raw awareness.
Instantly, he became motionless and silent, like a hunter who has just seen his prey. Then, tentatively, he reached out and touched the strangeness again.
It was alive!
Hastily he withdrew the power. Had some oaf blundered up this way as part of the hunt and seen his display with the rocks? He struggled to his feet and gazed around fearfully. But there was no one in sight save the distant figures below.
No, he reassured himself after a moment. They might perhaps wander as far as the castle, but none of them would dare go beyond it, no matter how many sheep had been worried.
What was it he had touched then?
He reached out again; gently, carefully. This time the power felt different, as if that slight touch of a living thing and his response to it had transmuted it—or him—in some way. His exhaustion slipped from him, and he probed more confidently.
It was still there.
He sensed a vision through tangled, swaying branches. Felt an unconscious shifting of balance in the gently buffeting breeze.
It was a bird, he realized. Then, in confirmation, he felt alarm calls strangled in his throat. Felt the wings that would not move. Felt the fevered tremor of a tiny heart.
It was terrified.
Yet it did not fly away. Could not fly away. It sensed his touch, but it could not fly away!
It was in his thrall! Bound to and by him as totally as any of the lifeless rocks he had just sent hurtling to their destruction.
Come to me, he willed, drawing the bird towards him.
&
nbsp; There was some kind of resistance that he could not identify, then he felt it yield. Wings fluttered and the balance shifted again. Come to me. He set forth his power more urgently.
Then, abruptly, there was nothing.
He held his breath. What had happened?
His eyes narrowed as he realized that the frantic tattoo of the tiny heart had stopped. Startled, he let his control slip.
The faint sound of something falling through the leaves in the trees nearby reached him, but Rannick would not have heard the roar of an avalanche, so loud was the exultation ringing in his head.
Throughout his life, following the voice beyond his grandfather's, Rannick had applied himself to the development of his gift with an assiduity that would have made him a master of any craft had he studied it with the same intensity. Hitherto his progress had been marked by the movement of increasingly large objects at increasingly greater distances. Exhaustion had been the price paid for each use of the power, but even had this not begun to diminish with practice he would have tolerated it for the exhilaration that the use of the power gave him.
But now his progress had taken an entirely unexpected leap forward. He had touched a living creature. Touched it from within. Controlled it. Killed it!
For a long time, Rannick sat leaning against the rock, breathing heavily, his mind incoherent with the welter of feelings and ideas and schemes that were cascading through it. The rational part of him knew that he must retreat and rest; think. Above all he must think. The destiny that but minutes before had been quite certain, yet infinitely beyond him, was flittering tantalizingly amid this chaos. He had but to grasp it.
The turmoil, however, showed little inclination to diminish. With an effort he forced himself to stand up and to walk. It was no easy task; he was trembling from head to foot.
He shook his head in an attempt to clear it, but to no avail. The excitement burning through him seemed to be drawing its energy from some unquenchable source.
He must try again. Try immediately. Try to reach some other living creature. Learn. Learn now, while the power was so alive in him. He must not let this slip away.
