"Allow me to demonstrate."
"Professor, we face a real and imminent danger."
But it was no good. The little scientist would only do what he had come to do. Now he was kneeling beside his device, winding a small handle. Radiant Leader decided to humor him.
The contraption was a high ramp on wheels. The back end of the structure rose vertically for about three feet, and up its struts ran a little elevator platform. This platform was now rising as Ortus wound the handle below. On the platform was a toy truck the size of a pack of cards. In the truck was an onion.
When the truck reached the top, it rolled off the elevator and onto the highest part of the steep railed ramp. This ramp curved all the way down, and then rose up again to a lower height.
"The onion," said Ortus, "will now fly. Watch."
The little truck was already gathering speed as it rolled down the slope. Reaching the steepest part, it hurtled downwards and was swept up the other side to the ramp's end. Here a trip tipped the truck up, and the onion went sailing on through the air in a high parabola, to land on the floor some twenty feet away.
"A flying onion!" said Ortus, beaming with pride.
"Very good, Professor. A flying onion. Excellent. Now, to return to the matter of rebuilding your laboratory—"
"This is only a model, of course, constructed on a scale of one to a hundred. The onion, you see, is the container of charged water. We send it down the ramp, and it flies across the channel that divides the mainland from the island of Anacrea, and—boom-bang! No more Nomana."
At this he danced a little dance of delight. Radiant Leader gazed at the wooden structure thoughtfully. He understood the flying onion scheme now; it was not entirely half-witted; but the Nomana would never stand idly by while a tower three hundred feet high was built facing their island. The charged water, however, was a very different matter. If the little scientist really could rebuild his laboratory, and pack the explosive power of the sun into some portable form, then Radiant Leader was happy for him to prattle on about onions as much as he liked.
"Remarkable, Professor," he said. "Simple, but effective. Now tell me. How long will it take you to establish a laboratory and produce the necessary charged water?"
Ortus pursed his lips and made mental calculations.
"If the materials were to hand, and if I had the manpower, a matter of days."
"Shall we say three?"
"Three days! That is very little time."
"I shall give orders that you are to be supplied with all that you need."
"Excellent!" The scientist clapped his hands and did another little jig. "I knew that once you had seen the onion fly, you would be convinced."
"I'm happy you're happy, Professor."
"Happy indeed! All any scientist asks for is the chance to carry his projects through to their conclusion. Now I know I shall complete both."
On retreating to his private quarters and shedding the burdensome paraphernalia of his office, Radiant Leader turned his ingenious mind to this new development. If the mad professor could truly fulfill his promise, it would make Radiance once again the greatest power in the land. If he could destroy Anacrea, and with it the hated Nomana—
We are waiting.
Radiant Leader heard the soft voice, and his excitement evaporated. I'll never be free, he thought bitterly to himself. The voice will always return.
"Here I am, Mistress."
He had tired of it long ago, the insatiable demands of the mysterious old people he had never seen, their dry hunger for the moisture of young lives. He hated it all now, it disgusted him, but how could he escape? The voice lived inside his own head.
We need more.
"I'm tired."
Tired?
The voice in his head sounded mocking. And to think he had loved her once, this never-seen mistress.
What right have you to be tired? You rule only to serve us.
"I have served you!" In his frustration he shouted his reply, which was absurd, since she could hear even his most silent thoughts. "When will you be satisfied?"
When the harvest is complete.
"It never ends! How many have I sent you? Thousands! Thousands upon thousands! And still you want more." It will end soon now. Be patient.
He bowed his head and was silent. His unseen mistress, feeling the passing of his brief resistance, became gentle.
You have done well. We are pleased with you.
He accepted his reward in silence; but the brief jolt of bliss no longer pleased him as it once had. He would gladly have done without it, to be released from the demands. But the old people would not let him go. He was too successful. To feed the hunger of his mistress, he had told his subjects he could give them eternal life; and by making this reward available only to the chosen few, he had caused them to clamor for it. All he had to do was point, and off they marched. He had no idea what happened to them after that, nor did he care. They never came back. Maybe they did get eternal life. If not, they were contributing to it. Wasn't that what the old people wanted them for?
He sighed as he rubbed the heaviness from his face. Then, lowering his hands, his eyes fell on a goatskin drum that had been used by his predecessor. He picked it up and began to beat a rhythm, to release the tension in him.
Bam! Bam! Ba-ba-bam!
It was the rhythm of the hate training he had invented for the old king, back when he was his lowly secretary Soren Similin. How did it go?
"Uh! Uh! Gouge out their eyes!"
Simple, but in its way satisfying.
He beat the drum harder.
Bam! Bam! Ba-ba-bam!
"Uh! Uh! Rip out their hearts!"
The old king had hated the Nomana. Now that he beat the same drum and chanted the same chant, Similin realized he hated the Nomana, too. He hated them because they were more powerful than Radiance, and he hated them because they were free. Everyone had to submit to someone—even he, Radiant Leader, son of the Great Power above, must obey the commands of his mistress. But the Nomana obeyed no one.
Ba-ba-ba-bam! Ba-ba-ba-bam!
"Nomana die! Nomana die!"
Maybe now they would. Maybe the professor's mad scheme would work.
That reminded him of the day's news. Radiance was in danger from a new threat: this so-called master of the world, who demanded that he, Radiant Leader, greet him on his knees. He needed to buy time—three days, if possible. Somehow he must stall this new warlord until he was armed and protected by Ortus's explosive power.
But on one matter he was in no doubt. He would kneel to no one.
7. Power without Limits
SEEKER STOOD BY HIS TEACHER'S SIDE, IN THE CENTER of the Chapter House, and all round him, on the three tiers of benches that lined the walls, were the members of the Community. Directly in front of him sat the Elder, his head sunk and his eyes closed. Beside the Elder sat the sallow-faced Narrow Path. It was Narrow Path who had found him when he first strayed into the Nom, and who had urged that he be cleansed.
Now they'll tell me I'm to leave the Nom, thought Seeker. The Wildman and I will be cast out together.
Only a few hours earlier this prospect would have devastated him. But now he felt no dismay, and no fear. He could still feel within himself the glow of that intense light and, with it, the sense that somehow his life had changed and all that had concerned him before was now of no importance.
High above, the dull light of the new day fell through the central lantern in the roof to illuminate the windowless octagonal room. He saw Blaze looking at him. He smiled to show his brother that he wasn't afraid, but Blaze didn't smile back. Narrow Path murmured to the Elder, and the Elder nodded without opening his eyes. Narrow Path then signed to Miriander that she could begin.
"Brothers and sisters," said Miriander, "this young novice is called Seeker after Truth. I tell you nothing about him. I ask you only to watch."
Watch what? thought Seeker. What am I to do?
He had no idea.
But this did not seem to him to be a difficulty. Clearly this was some kind of test. Well, he had faced tests before and had survived. He recalled the leap from the temple rock in Radiance, into the night, into nothing, and how afraid he had been. Now he knew he would never be so afraid again. This wasn't bravery, it was something else. He had stopped minding.
It's all because I'm jango, he thought, and he smiled.
Miriander now bowed to Chance, the novices' combat teacher. Chance rose from the bench on which he'd sat and padded forward to stand before Seeker. He gave him a brief glance, then let his heavy lids droop low over his eyes, and adopted the Tranquil Alert.
So I'm to try my strength against my teacher, thought Seeker. That will be interesting.
"Pay respect," said Miriander.
He made his bow as he had been taught.
"Engage."
Seeker met his teacher's eyes. The older man made his first move, a simple pulse of power, but Seeker was able to deflect it. Chance struck again. Seeker rocked under the impact but did not fall. Neither of them had so far lifted so much as a finger.
Seeker focused his attention on the lir within him and drew it into a long thin rod, an imaginary blade that extended from his right forefinger. While he was doing this, Chance took two light steps forward and caught him with an actual blow to his left flank. The blow was so powerful that Seeker was sent tumbling to the floor, scrabbling and sliding all the way to the feet of the watching Nomana.
A murmur went up from the crowded benches. Seeker, struggling to his feet, caught sight of Miriander and saw on her face a look of perplexity mingled with shame. She expects me to win, thought Seeker. Very well. I shall win.
He returned to the combat. He took his position facing Chance, and once again let all the lir in him flow down his right arm into his forefinger, then out from his forefinger into the invisible blade that streamed from him into space. He raised his arm and reached forward—not fast, not hard, more a push than a strike.
Chance saw it coming, of course. He was ready to block it. But there was nothing he could do. The blow lifted him off his feet and tossed him through the air, to land, winded and gasping, on the top benches of the watching Nomana.
A sigh of surprise went round the spectators. Miriander allowed herself a brief smile. Narrow Path wrinkled his high shiny brow.
Seeker was as surprised as the rest of them. It had cost him so little effort. He believed he could do better. He wanted to find out.
Chance was assisted down the tiers to the floor. Shaking himself, he resumed his position in the combat. This time he did not look as if he was half asleep. Every fiber of his being was alert and ready to strike.
He held Seeker's gaze. For a long moment he wrestled with him, attempting to control his will. But he could not. Seeker, by contrast, did not wrestle. He looked back with a limpid gaze, untouched. Then the combat teacher launched a triple attack: changing his tactics so fast that his moves could not be anticipated, he struck high, then low, then sprang through the air in the horizontal full-body strike called the Mortal Arrow.
Seeker stopped him dead in mid-flight without making a single move. Then he rotated his right wrist and gave a flick of his hand. Chance jerked as if hit by a beam across his midriff. He seemed to snap and fold. He dropped to the floor and did not move.
Silence in the Chapter House.
Seeker felt a surge of exaltation burn through his body. What he had just done, he knew, was one-tenth—one-hundredth—of what he could do. Intoxicated by the discovery of his immense power, he lifted his hand and swept it over the lines of watching Nomana, as a child rattles a stick along a picket fence. One after another, in rapid succession, the Nomana jerked their faces to one side, as if they had been smacked.
Then he turned and bowed to his teacher, Miriander.
Narrow Path leaned forward and fixed Seeker with a sharp look.
"Now, boy," he said, "are you weary?"
Weary? Not at all. He was surging with energy.
He shook his head.
"Do you feel stronger than before?"
"Yes, Brother."
Now that he said it, he knew that it was true. He did feel stronger. But how could that be?
He looked towards the slumped body of his combat teacher. Chance hadn't moved. Only then did it occur to Seeker that his teacher might have been badly hurt. Forgetting the staring faces of the Community, he went and knelt by his side.
"Forgive me, Teacher," he said.
Chance stirred, then raised his head to look on his pupil. He tried to speak but could not.
"I didn't know my own strength," said Seeker.
Chance nodded and smiled faintly.
"Your own," he whispered, "and mine."
Then Seeker understood. The blow that had crippled Chance had sucked the strength from him. That force, that lir, had flowed into Seeker himself.
Every blow I strike makes me stronger.
He reached out one hand and helped his combat teacher rise to his feet. He felt the weight on his arm. Chance had aged ten years.
When Seeker turned round once more he saw that the Elder had woken, if he had ever been asleep. His eyes were open, and he was watching Seeker. On his face was a look of unbearable sadness. Seeker looked beyond him at the rows of watching faces. The Nomana were staring back at him in utter silence, as if he was something terrible and monstrous. A great ache grew in his heart as he looked from face to face and found there no answering kindness.
What have I done? Why do they fear me? My strength is their strength. Such power as I have comes from the All and Only. Am I not sworn to protect the Lost Child? Am I not a brother among brothers?
He turned to Miriander. Her beautiful face looked on him with compassion.
"We've been waiting for you for a long time," she said. "Now that you've come at last, we're afraid."
"Why?" said Seeker. "What is there to fear?"
"Power without limits," she said softly.
Seeker felt an icy coldness pass through him, and all round him it seemed that the world stood still. The row upon row of gray-clad figures retreated into the distance, became paintings on a shadowed wall. The lantern above climbed through space to become the white sun, a distant blur in the clouds. The floor beneath his feet fell away, and he was standing on the tops of trees, on the windblown leaves themselves.
He was beyond the reach of humankind. Alone, forever.
Overwhelmed by desolation, he dropped to his knees and put his hands to his face and wept.
The Wildman looked out from the storeroom where he had been hiding and saw that the courtyard was empty. No one had come looking for him. It seemed that the Nomana had more urgent concerns. The doors and gates that led out of the novitiate were all locked. They had no reason to fear he would escape.
The Wildman knew exactly what he would do. He had imagined it so many times, it was almost as if he had done it already. But this time, in place of his imaginings, would be the act.
One perfect dive.
He swung himself up onto the lower part of the wall, and from here, using the uneven blocks of stone to offer hand- and footholds, he heaved himself up to the parapet itself. Here, crouching, fingers spread on the wall's top, he found his balance and slowly rose to his feet. He was standing now with his back to the courtyard and with the wide ocean horizon before him. He felt the wind lift his long golden hair and ruffle the badan that lay loose over his shoulders. Then he looked down.
Far, far below the waves were rolling in, to crash and burst against the island's rocky base. The tide was high and the wind was off the sea, and the entire lower part of the Nom's great soaring wall was hazed with spray. No way of knowing how deep the water was and how far out the rocks lay.
"Soon find out," he said to himself. It was the kind of crazy risk he had taken time and again in the old days. "If you win, you win. If you lose, it's all over, and what do you care?"
He was physically fitter than he had ever been. The
Nom's training had transformed a powerful young man into one who knew how to use every muscle in his body to maximum effect. He had never understood the notion of lir, but he had learned how to control it and knew that he was now ten times the fighter he had been before. He admired the Nomana with all his heart and knew he would regret to the end of his days that he couldn't be one of them. But he wasn't staying to be cleansed.
He heard a cry from the courtyard below and, turning, saw one of the meeks pointing up at him, calling to him.
"Come down! Come down!"
He turned away again and focused his attention on what he was about to do. Using his training, he gathered his lir, drawing it into the pit of his stomach—not to deliver a strike, as in combat, but to preserve his own life for as long as possible when he slammed into the water. As he felt the lir flow at his command, his lean body became still and alert.
Now there were more shouts from the courtyard. He thought he recognized Morning Star's voice, and Seeker's, too. He raised one hand above his head and waved in a gesture of farewell. He heard the scrabble of hands and feet climbing the wall towards him. Too late, he thought. Where I'm going, you won't want to follow.
He stretched up onto the tips of his toes and leaned into the wind. As he felt himself begin to fall, he kicked with all his might, to propel himself clear of the wall. And so, curving in the morning air, he turned over in a graceful arc and fell arrow-straight down towards the foaming waves.
He heard the torn edge of screams. He felt the slap of air. He smelled the onrushing ocean. And for a few moments, dropping without effort, he was perfectly, blissfully at peace.
Through the slots in the high wall, they saw him vanish into the turbulent water far below. They watched the heaving, rolling surface of the sea and looked for a head breaking through to air, or strong arms striking for the shore; but they saw nothing. They watched until they knew that the Wildman could not still be alive. Then they turned away.
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