by Roger Taylor
‘And now the certainty has become doubt?’ She commended herself on managing a hint of motherliness.
‘I Anointed him.’
As Rostan heard the dreaded words coming from his mouth, it seemed to him that all movement in the Hall ceased. His pounding heart and every part of his body were no more. Dust motes ceased their wavering journeys. The endless silent song of the crystals was stilled. Even the light passing through the air no longer moved for fear of what was to follow.
And Imorren too, for a timeless moment, seemed to have absorbed the cold heart of the Hall and become a pallid ice statue.
Then the movement returned, frenzied and panic-stricken, washing away from her in terror. Rostan, however, remained motionless, filled with the ancient knowledge of prey, that flight will but bring the predator down.
Imorren sat slowly back in her tall chair. With an unseeing gaze, she looked at her hands then rested them on the polished arms of the chair. Once again she was part of the many symmetries of the Hall.
Rostan, forcing himself to keep his eyes open, saw only the flickering remnants of this movement that the Hall’s myriad reflecting surfaces carried back to him through the shining floor. It was as though a cloud were gathering over him, or the shadow of a fearsome bird. He waited for Imorren to turn the Power against him.
As she surely must. And nothing he could do would protect him from it. Imorren’s skill with the Power was of a kind that he could not even aspire to.
But Imorren remained motionless. It was as if she were being held immobile by the remorseless patterning of the Hall.
And indeed, she did not move because she could not move, for Rostan’s revelation had unleashed two opposing aspects of her character and the conflict between them demanded her every resource.
Only minutes before, she had found herself in the grip of an anger she had long thought conquered, but that was as nothing compared to the emotions possessing her now. It was as though that anger had been the work of skirmishers from a far greater army lurking in ambush for her. Had Rostan drawn a knife and lunged at her, he could not have delivered her such a blow, so great was the shock of this assault.
Not since she had heard the terrible news of His dispatch from this world had she known such ferment. As the enormity of Rostan’s words impinged upon her, a black hatred surged up within her which, had it been given free rein, would have destroyed every last remnant of Rostan, and probably much of the Vaskyros, perhaps even herself. Out of the unknown darkness it had come, from a direction she did not even know existed, full-armed and terrible.
But even as it welled up, so had her appalled dismay that so much uncontrolled human savagery should still exist within her.
For a moment, it seemed that all she had achieved would be swept into nothingness, like smoke in the wind. But years of brutal self-discipline had provided her with other unknown resources, and before the destruction was unleashed she found that a colder, crueller rage had arisen to stay the onslaught.
To and fro the two forces swayed, a grim dynamic equilibrium: Imorren, greatest of all the Ailads of the Kyrosdyn, and Disciple of the One True Light, against the primitive frenzy of her own corrupted human origins. For a time that could not be measured, there was only turmoil and confusion, but slowly she became aware of a conscious thought hovering above the field, like a single silver star in a golden sky, bright and clear.
This is a testing!
He reaches across the unknown Ways, to test me yet!
As He must ever.
For there can be no perfection here until He returns, and even the soundest of vassals might be found wanting in the splendour of that time.
The screaming hatred faltered, and other thoughts rallied to her.
The Anointing was to be the culmination of her work here. The act that would open the Ways to His return. Yet too, it was a deed fraught with unknown perils, set as it was at the very limits of the Brotherhood’s knowledge. There was sufficient understanding to know that the consequences of failure could be terrible, and great doubts existed. When should it be? In what manner should it be done? And, not least, by whom and to whom? There was a presumption that one of the Kyrosdyn would be the Chosen, perhaps Imorren herself, but it was no more than that – a presumption. All calculations, all reasoning, failed before any of these conclusions could be made with certainty, dissipating themselves into regions of wild nonsense and seemingly confirming irrefutably that the only certainty was uncertainty. There was no understanding of the consequences of success, save that the Ways would in some manner be opened.
Yet Rostan had done this thing. Casually, in a market square brawl with a street thief. An individual who had fled, to hide in this vast city. He had applied the unguent which only he and she dared carry, and impressed it with the Power.
Hatred flared again, feeding on the fear she could scent rising from the form crouched at her feet. Brutally, she forced her mind to pursue its course.
Rostan was many things, but he was not a fool. He was the Highest of the Order and deservedly so, with skills, knowledge and ruthless ambition far above anyone else in the Brotherhood, save herself. It defied all his training, indeed all logic, that he should have done this thing in a fit of petulance.
But he had done it!
And he had lied about the reasons why he had done it. She could smell that too. She had not attained her present position without developing an unerring sense for prevaricators and liars. Perhaps hehad done the deed as an act of spleen. The idea did not invoke the response it would have done scarcely a dozen heartbeats earlier; the clamouring fury was abating as her mind gradually took control of the events. The only question to be asked was, what had caused such a complete loss of control in him?
Testing.
The word came to her again. She pondered it. It would be presumptuous to assume that He would test her alone, but…
What was the word Rostan had used?
Guiding!
Could it be that He had reached out from His distant, scattered fastnesses, to show us the way over the final abyss at the edge of which all our resources had foundered and where we had so long trembled?
She closed her eyes. It was as though she was once again at His feet, learning of the world that was to be when His enemies had been destroyed and He was once more free of the cold northern land in which He had been bound.
Another of Rostan’s words returned – certainty.
Yes. She felt it too. His hand was there. It was so.
It was so!
She opened her eyes and breathed in the splendour of the Hall which she had created. She was herself again. Very calm. There were only the merest rumblings of anger at the very edges of her mind. It had indeed been a testing. A grim trial, but she had been found whole.
She looked down at Rostan. Though he did not appear to be moving, she could feel his entire body quivering.
Like the heart of a crystal, she thought. The idea amused her.
Yet Rostan had been chosen to do the Anointing. What she would have perceived as a weakness, He in His wisdom had seen as the tool to begin the making of the Way. She was humbled. No calculation, no logic, no instinct, could have led her to such a conclusion.
Fleetingly the thought came to her, ‘Am I too being used?’ but she dashed it away. It was heretical. Her faith, above all, must be total.
‘Leave me, Rostan. I must ponder this.’
There was a brief pause while Rostan disbelievingly took in the words. Then relief overrode the questions bursting in upon him, and, with such dignity as he could muster, he rose, bowed and retreated silently from the Hall. It was an unsteady leaving, his legs were shaking so violently.
As the doors closed silently behind him, so the Hall became intact again. Imorren looked about her, moving her head slowly from side to side, taking in its rich and intricate perfection. Echoing the many patterns, details within details were beginning to unfold in her mind – consequence upon consequence. Rostan must not kno
w of the honour that had been bestowed upon him, of course; he had always had a tendency to vanity and the thought would fire his ambition, perhaps even cause him to turn his eyes once again to her position. And that would mean his death, which would not be in the interests of the Brotherhood. He was too valuable an asset to be lightly cast aside. And too, who could say what further use He might find for him in due course? Rostan must know that he had erred but that, with redoubled effort, the damage could perhaps be repaired. That would be fitting.
The thief would have to be found, but that should present no problem. As time passed and the effects of the Anointing grew, even the dullest of novices would be able to find him.
But these were mere details. She looked at her hands as she had when Rostan had told her the fateful news. A cold smile lit her face. She could feel it all around her. The world was different now. As was she. Just as when she had heard the news of His defeat, and sworn her terrible oath of vengeance, so it was now. She had been renewed, re-forged, shown the way forward.
His time was near.
Chapter 12
‘This place is incredible,’ Atlon said. ‘I’ve never seen so many people, and so many trades being plied in one place. And so many different buildings! I’m beginning to think that Rinter was telling the truth after all.’
‘What about?’ Dvolci grunted acidly.
‘About the size of the place. I thought he was just telling us a local’s yarn. Every street you look down, there are others branching off… more shops and stalls, more people…’
‘… More noise, more stink, more dust.’ Dvolci chattered his teeth irritably. ‘This place is rapidly becoming the stuff of my worst nightmares.’
‘Ah, confirms your darkest fears about what mankind can sink to when it’s so inclined, eh?’ Atlon said mockingly.
‘I don’t need any confirmation of that, I’ve seen you in battle.’ Dvolci’s tone was unexpectedly grim. Atlon reached up and touched the felci’s head.
‘Come on,’ he said gently. ‘It’s a bewildering place, for sure, but at least it’s full of energy and bustle. The people here are getting on with their lives. Not like those we saw in the Spills.’
‘Oh yes. Plenty of energy and bustle, but to what end? And how many of these people do you see smiling?’
Atlon had no answer to the first point and, looking around, could only concede the second. As usual however, when Dvolci was in this vein, Atlon found himself provoked to speak in defence of his own kind.
‘They’re probably all very busy,’ he said, knowing it was a mistake even as he spoke.
‘To what end?’ Dvolci rasped again. ‘Getting rid of appalling areas like the Spills, perhaps? Renewing them, whatever that meant. Riding down potty old women?’ He snorted. ‘You know what they’re doing well enough, don’t you? They’re busy wasting this minute in their haste to get to the next, that’s all. Every one of them. You can smell it. You people can be staggeringly unaware of where you are, at times.’
Despite himself, Atlon raised his voice. ‘Even at home, people don’t go around grinning at everybody else all the time.’
‘No, but they know what matters. They stop and talk with friends, pass the time of day. You don’t see pushing and elbowing like this even on market days.’
Atlon gave up. There was a testy, impatient quality about the bustle around them, and his own training and temperament gave him as clear an insight into its true nature as Dvolci’s.
‘People have their different ways,’ he persisted. ‘And the heat is a bit wearing.’
Dvolci did not pursue his victory. He was silent for a little while, apparently lost in thought. Then, ‘Do you remember those… rat things… the ones we met in the tunnels?’ he asked eventually.
Atlon looked at him blankly.
‘You can’t have forgotten. A great black sea of them – bright red eyes. We all had to dive for cover.’ Then he tutted to himself. ‘I’m sorry. You weren’t there, were you? I forgot. Anyway, I’m sure you’ve heard the tale.’
‘Many times, now you mention it.’ Atlon just managed to keep an edge from his voice. It had been a nasty incident for those involved, one of many in a dark time – a time whose shadow still lingered with sufficient menace to draw him out on this journey. ‘What’s your point?’
‘I keep seeing them when I look at these crowds. Rats, trampling over one another, trying to escape from that creature chasing them.’
Atlon frowned. This was not a re-opening of their well-rehearsed spat. Dvolci rarely referred to those times. Now he had a serious point to make. ‘You’re being unusually severe,’ Atlon said. ‘There’s no panic here, still less any ancient predator. We’re new here. It’s confusing. We’re just not used to these people’s ways.’
Dvolci looked around again. ‘Just speaking as I feel,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘The image persists and I can’t ignore it. There’s something about this place that’s very unsettling – something more than the crowds and the general confusion. I don’t know what it is, but I’ll not find it by staying quiet, you know that.’
Atlon nodded. He too, had been sensing something disturbing about the place, something other than the general clamour. It had grown as they had neared the city. And Dvolci’s intuition was sharper than his by far. It would be foolish not to pay heed to him.
They walked on, a gentle eddy in the torrent.
‘On the topic of fruitless activity, we seem to be doing little better ourselves,’ Atlon said, as they reached the top of another hill to find the street opening out into a wide square. ‘We’ve passed all manner of shops and stalls and traders – I’ve never seen so much relentless buying and selling – but nothing that seems to have anything to do with the crystal trade.’ He grimaced. ‘And the day’s slipping by. I’ll have to find some kind of employment if we’re going to stay here. I don’t think our host Ghreel is over-burdened with charity for impoverished travellers.’
Dvolci jumped from Atlon’s shoulder on to the horse and, standing upright, scanned the square intently.
‘Nothing here, either,’ he declared, returning to Atlon’s shoulders.
Atlon blew out a worried breath and then cast an anxious glance at his horse. That was another problem. He must tend the animal before he bothered about himself. Perhaps if he could see one of the Weartans he might be able to seek advice, though from Rinter’s comments, and his own limited contact with them, he did not relish the prospect.
As he gazed around the square he could see many more streets joining it.
‘We’ll have to look at each one before we decide where to go next,’ he said wearily. Atlon was finding it increasingly difficult to keep his concerns for the immediate future at bay. In the mountains, in the countryside, he could fend for himself without too much difficulty, but here, surrounded by stone and brick and thousands of his own kind, the natural resources of the terrain seemed to be peculiarly limited. And, standing behind these worries were those about the purpose of his journey. That would have to be addressed, and soon.
‘Come on, then.’ Dvolci’s command set the horse walking.
‘Don’t do that!’ Atlon said crossly, hastily taking hold of the bridle. The horse was supposed to respond only to his voice – and neither he nor his companions at home had ever managed to work out why their horses would obey Dvolci. But then, there were funny things that felcis could do which puzzled finer minds than Atlon’s.
‘Well, you were dawdling.’
The brief exchange dispelled Atlon’s mood. His innate optimism came to the fore, albeit not very convincingly. He’d find something eventually. He should worry less about himself and more about his horse and Dvolci. The felci was not averse to travelling on his shoulder, or on the horse, but he much preferred to wander free. Today’s journeying would be taxing him sorely though he made no complaint.
They were about halfway along one side of the square when a familiar noise penetrated the hubbub and drew Atlon’s attention like a beacon. Following
it came an equally familiar smell. It did not take him long to find the source of both. On the far side of the square was a blacksmith’s forge. It was a large and prosperous-looking establishment situated incongruously between a shop selling elegant clothes and one selling all manner of what appeared to be medicinal items. Over the wide entrance was a wooden sign bearing in bold letters the legend, ‘HEIRN – BLACKSMITH’, and displaying inaccurate but brightly painted pictures of harnesses, horseshoes and various other iron implements. The real counterparts of these hung under the sign and could be seen along the walls of the interior. As could the glow of a furnace and the shadow of a large figure working at an anvil. Atlon began making his way across the busy square. As he drew nearer he saw a large water trough and a long wooden bench in front of the forge.
He was about to lead his horse to the trough when he remembered he was in a strange place. ‘May I water my horse?’ he shouted to the hammering blacksmith.
The man looked at him narrowly for a moment, then struck a few more blows and plunged the hot iron shoe into a bucket of water.
‘From out of town, are you?’ he said, through the hissing steam.
‘Yes. Just arrived today.’
There was a pause as the man withdrew the steaming shoe, examined it, then hung it with others on a nail. He was almost a head taller than Atlon, with short-cropped black hair. He was also powerfully built, but his manner exuded no menace as he emerged from the forge, wiping his hands on a dirty rag. A white grin split his grimed face as he stopped in front of Atlon and looked down at him. ‘Thought so,’ he said, pushing the rag into his belt. ‘It’s a public trough, young man. Even the Prefect gets some things right from time to time. Like listening to people, for instance. Water your horse with pleasure. And yourself too, if you want – though I wouldn’t recommend the trough water.’ He produced a flask from a clutter of equipment hanging on the wall and held it out. Atlon smiled and pointed to one hanging from his saddle. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘You’re very kind, but I’ve sufficient for the day.’
