by Roger Taylor
Heirn looked at Dvolci. ‘Portals to the soul? Choked and fouled drains?’
‘Stab wounds would be as kind a phrase,’ Dvolci replied sourly. ‘The passage of too much too quickly in too small an area.’
‘It was as if the crystals had suddenly become a great pit,’ Atlon said, abandoning his iron-working analogy. ‘Or a great whirlpool into which the energy that animated him, and everything nearby, was drawn irresistibly. Drawn and transformed.’ He looked old again. ‘I didn’t even dare try to save him once it had started. It was all I could do to save myself and you.’
Heirn was silent for a moment, then he held out his hand. ‘You’re right,’ he said flatly. ‘It’s not easy. Show me the Kyrosdyn’s crystals.’
Atlon pulled out the neckerchief and handed it to him. Heirn unfolded it carefully and laid it on a small table. The green crystals were brilliant, even in the fading light. Tentatively he made to touch one, looking at Atlon as he did. Atlon reached out calmly and took his hand. ‘It’s possible you’ve some natural gift with the Power,’ he said. ‘People who work and shape materials often have.’ He closed his eyes then, after a moment, nodded as if confirming something to himself. ‘Crystals like these are something you should handle as little as possible. They won’t do what they did to the Kyrosdyn because he had some conscious skill in using the Power and he wilfully misused it, but they’ll do you no good in the long run.’
He picked up the neckerchief and examined the crystals closely. His face became angry. ‘These have been cut and worked to get the greatest efficiency out of them. It’s first-class workmanship and it shows a considerable knowledge of how they can be used.’
His anger changed into fear and then into a wrenching helplessness.
‘This is awful,’ he muttered to himself, putting the neckerchief down and leaning back into his chair.
Heirn ran a finger over one of the crystals. It tingled slightly – not unpleasantly – but he withdrew his hand quickly as the sensation ran up his arm. Looking at his finger, he saw that the tip was white, as though cold. He felt a peculiar urge to touch the crystal again.
* * * *
Heirn rolled on to his back. The chimes of a distant clock drifted through the open window. Too early to get up, too late to get much worthwhile sleep. He’d be done for in the morning! But the strains of the day made his body give him the lie and, scarcely had the thought occurred to him than he was falling asleep. The last thing he recalled before he succumbed was Atlon briskly rolling up the neckerchief and returning it to his pocket. Then he had leaned forward and taken Heirn’s hand. As he held it, the whiteness of the finger faded, and the urge to touch the crystal again passed.
Atlon’s gaze had been searching. He asked no questions but he seemed to know of Heirn’s unexpected need. ‘They are subtle beyond any knowing, Heirn. They bind and compel. You, who should be master, become slave. They are His things. And whatever the Kyrosdyn were once, they are His now, for sure.’
Chapter 19
Imorren’s entourage scuttled uncomfortably behind her as she strode along the passage in the lower reaches of the Jyolan building. Senior members of the Kyrosdyn Order – mostly elderly Higher Brothers – were used to her normally measured and careful progress and were having the greatest difficulty coping with her now rapid and determined step. There was certainly no question of maintaining the stately dignity that typified their escort duties about the Vaskyros. But then, many things had disturbed the Order’s long-established proceedings that day – rumours about Rostan being involved in a street disturbance, even stronger rumours that he had committed some dreadful folly resulting in his solitary audience with the Ailad – not a special thing in itself, but it had been keenly noted that he was both immaculate and palpably nervous beforehand, and untypically flustered and edgy afterwards. Then suddenly, pandemonium erupted, or what passed for it in the strict, regimented life of the Kyrosdyn. The secret ownership of the Jyolan was to be transferred to Barran. Like insects disturbed by a plough, the Order’s clerks and scribes had been sent scurrying between the Vaskyros and Barran’s city headquarters bearing hastily drafted contracts and agreements to implement this. Barran was also to be discreetly helped to organize a Loose Pit that same night – this had prompted even more frantic scurrying. And the newly found creature, its existence known only to a few, was to be used. Rippling through the Order, news of this in particular carried silence in its wake as each of the naturally obsessive and conspiratorial Kyrosdyn paused to ponder the intentions of their subtle and enigmatic Ailad. The normal work of the Brotherhood came almost to a complete halt and the Vaskyros was alive with whispered questions. But the Ailad had sought no advice, and no overt questions would be dared. Her commands were not to be debated. Obedience was all – obedience and efficiency.
And her will had prevailed. What she had demanded had come to pass. And insofar as any of the Kyrosdyn could pretend to know her mood, it was known that she was pleased. Not that this lessened the Kyrosdyn’s collective curiosity, but it did enable them to take solace from their faith in the rightness of the Order and its leader.
Thus it was too, that no hint of complaint or question arose from the escort bustling along after Imorren.
Accompanying, and discreetly supporting the less steady were several of the Vaskyros’s unliveried bodyguards, while two carefully groomed Pitguards walked on either side of Imorren. They had been given the task of leading the Ailad along the complicated route, but it seemed from the outset that they were not needed. At each branch and junction – and there were many – Imorren continued in the correct direction without hesitating.
Thug turned businessman and aspiring diplomat, in common with most of Barran’s senior aides, one of the Pitguards attempted a courtesy to break what was becoming an unnerving silence.
‘You’re familiar with the Jyolan, Ailad?’
There was no reply, but a tap on the shoulder and a shake of the head from a large bodyguard precluded any further attempt at conversation.
Finally they came to a wooden door. The same Pitguard, anxious now to atone for his apparent error, hurried forward and opened it fussily. Imorren stepped through, signalling the others to wait.
‘Close the door,’ she said, without turning.
It swung to with a dull thud.
Lamps were hung at random about the vaulted chamber where she now stood. They threw hazy shadows between rows of squat stone columns, but their light seemed to make little impression on the heavy darkness. As the sound of the door echoed and faded, there came the soft rustle of someone moving. Imorren turned towards it and a tall figure emerged from the shadows. He stopped in front of her then slowly went down on one knee and lowered his head. Imorren rested her hand on his shoulder.
‘Keeper, you did well. Leave us for the moment.’
There was a hesitancy in the man’s posture. ‘Have no fears,’ she said, almost maternally. ‘What danger could I be in?’ She motioned him to stand and indicated the door.
The man bowed and left the chamber.
After he left, Imorren stood for a while in the silence, her head moving slowly from side to side as if she were testing the air for an elusive perfume. She pulled back the hood of her robe.
‘Come,’ she said. ‘Don’t be afraid.’
The silence descended again. Imorren waited, motionless, showing no signs of impatience. Indeed, she was smiling slightly.
‘Do you think to hide from me?’ she said, as to a child.
There was a sound, delicate, like grains of sand sweeping across a windy shore, and out of the shadows from which the Keeper had emerged came the creature that had ended the Jyolan’s first Loose Pit.
Head lowered, it moved directly towards Imorren, stopping in front of her as its Keeper had done, without command. She crouched down and took its ugly head between her hands.
‘You too did well, blessed one,’ she said. Yellow eyes met hers. She stroked the creature’s head. ‘How long is your line?�
� she said softly to herself, a hint of wonder in her voice. ‘How long have your kin roamed the depths, keeping alive His memory, waiting for Him to come again?’ Slowly it closed its eyes and opened them again, as if wilfully accepting her authority. She gripped the coarse hair of its neck and bared her teeth. ‘Would that you’d returned but a few years earlier – been with His armies when the enemy came against Him. They’d have scattered like scalded ants before you. And you’d have seen the weakness in His erstwhile lieutenants, wouldn’t you? Hollow vessels that they were. No ancient loyalties, old familiarities, would have blinded you to their inadequacy.’ Her mouth curled into a vicious snarl – feral and cruel in the yellow light. The creature tried to pull its head from her hands as if afraid, but she held it firm.
The mask of her normal face returned. ‘But these things are not for our questioning. It was His will that I left Him, and who can say why you came so late? And the past is the past. His wisdom in these things is beyond our judgement – who can say what stratagem is afoot? For He is with us yet, is He not? This city is His place. Beneath the clutter and clamour of the creatures who infest it for the moment, His presence lies firm and whole, deep in its ancient foundations. He is strong here. And His will reaches out to us. How else could you have sought out your Keeper and come to us? How else could Rostan have been so used?’
She hugged the creature’s head tightly. A low rumbling came from its throat and she laughed in response. It was a cold and desolate sound that darkened the vault where true laughter might have lightened it. Her voice fell to a whisper, and she spoke quickly, almost excitedly. ‘And He will be with us again soon, blessed one. More and more my dreams are filled with the true form of the Vaskyros – stronger, clearer each time. Perhaps the Anointed will complete its shaping to open the Ways. Perhaps…’ She stopped. Speculation was pointless. The Way of the Anointed was, by its very nature, unforeseeable.
But she could not remain silent. ‘You saw him, didn’t you? As did I. Glowing like a beacon of hope, high up in the darkness above the arena. And I feared that he might be lost.’ She laughed again. ‘He was drawn to us. He will bind himself to us more tightly than any bonds I could make.’ She stopped again, struck by something. ‘And perhaps more. I hadn’t thought such a thing possible, but…’
Agitated, she turned away from the creature and looked into the darkness. She was herself again when she looked back. Her voice became a whisper again as if the words she was about to speak might overwhelm her. ‘Could he prove to be more than a guide?’ She drew in a long, tense breath. ‘Once, I’ll swear, I felt His eyes upon me, His presence around me again.’ She wrapped her arms about herself then stood up and began walking down one of the aisles, as if the thought would be too much, contained in a motionless frame. The creature moved silently by her side. ‘I was right to seize the moment – to follow the wild rushing that Rostan had unleashed – to bring you out into this noisy world, so full of richness for you.’ She stopped and began stroking the creature again. ‘Soon, the Anointed will be truly ready, then…’
She grimaced and put her hands to the sides of her face as though to crush her head. As, earlier, she had discovered the human frailty of anger within her, so now she felt elation. It was no less despised.
She blazed inwardly. There had been such learning this day! And re-learning! Learning that she was still flawed, that she must ever beware the clinging power of her humanity with its treacherous emotions lying always in wait to bring her low – contaminating her, marring her for His work. Learning again that she was but His servant and that His ways were not to be questioned or doubted – her faith must be absolute. Learning again that the power she had seized and accumulated in this city of powerful people, great though it was, was as nothing to what would be.
The elation faded, unnoticed amid her greater lusts.
The creature whimpered. ‘We must be patient, blessed one. Our travails are nothing to His.’ She knelt down by its side and draped an arm across its shoulder. ‘But you were patient tonight, weren’t you?’ she said. ‘You waited and waited, and played their foolish games. Then you were deprived of what was rightly yours. Your prey was snatched from you.’ She became uneasy. The creature was no threat to her, she had more than enough Power to control it, but the Keeper had indicated concerns even though he had not voiced them. The creature was a unique instrument of His will, a memory of His crafting in the Great Age when His Power had spanned the world. It would be foolish of her to imagine that she fully understood it, and perhaps reckless of her to use the Power to control it. There was no telling what damage might be done. Then, slowly, strange, vivid images of the final encounter in the arena began to seep into her mind.
The creature was touching her in some way!
And she knew.
Though it showed no signs of distress, the antics of its three victims had served to rouse the creature without satisfying it. Its need suddenly filled her, leaving her at once exhilarated and starkly cold. It was not good that the creature was struggling against whatever forces were restraining it. As with people, the best control was had by fulfilling needs, not denying them.
She tightened her grip about the creature, holding it close. It did not resist.
As with the Anointed, she would have to have faith. Faith that His servants need not be bound by doors and chains, for they could do no other than follow her as she followed Him.
‘Go down beneath the city,’ she whispered, picturing in her mind the labyrinthine tunnels that underlay the city. ‘To the place above that you came from. Seek out a victim – sate your need. You must be whole. Return.’
The creature bent its forelegs and lowered its head as it had to Pinnatte in the arena. It made a strange mewling noise then drew its head back and let out a low, trembling howl. It was not loud but it was such as Imorren had never heard before and it struck right through her. In others, she knew, it would instil the deepest fear, but to her it was more a hymn of affirmation – this creature was indeed a harbinger of a new age. Nevertheless, her skin – all too human – crawled in response. The lamps seemed to flare at its touch, and as the howl echoed around the vaults it was as if the whole chamber were breathing a long sigh of recognition and delight.
The creature walked away from her silently and vanished into the darkness.
Imorren rubbed her hands down her arms to quieten her rebellious flesh. Then the presence of the creature was gone. As with every other chamber in the Jyolan, many passages joined this cellar, passages that plunged far beyond the confines of the building itself.
It was an ancient building.
* * * *
He was moving through the darkness, powerful confident limbs remembering their honing at the other end of the long darkness. Scents assailed him, old and familiar, rich and heady, feeding the need that drove him and drawing him on. And there were sounds too, distant and distorted, as though they were being carried on a buffeting wind.
Then he stopped and dropped low, listening, feeling. Ahead was prey. All around was prey. And no danger! An expectant shudder ran through him, culminating in a low, rumbling growl. He began to crawl forward.
What…?
He was here and not here – two things – two minds…
He did not belong!
The thought made no sense. Thoughts did not belong. Hewas. This was the way of things.
And the noises disturbed. And the lights, hovering, watching…
But he crawled on, sensing every movement in the air about him, every crack and flaw in the ground beneath him so that as he crawled, even he could not hear himself.
The scents that filled him drew him forward – and repelled. And the thoughts – no, the sensations – that flooded in their wake, were ecstatic, unspeakable.
Protest. ‘No!’
Noises. And lights. They hurt.
‘Did he say something?’
‘He’s been making all sorts of queer noises.’
Soon there would be prey near.
A low growl to warn it, to make it flee – and then the chase, terror growing as it flew, etching a luring trail through the swirling air, on and on, screaming.
Good.
‘Pinnatte!’
The sound crashed in on him, forming about him – giving him shape – tearing him free. The dark images fell away from him like a fouled cloak. And the dancing lights began to come together – hovering ovals.
Faces.
‘Rinter?’
His own voice ran achingly through his head.
‘You gave us a fright. Thought you’d been really hurt when that gate burst open. Are you all right?’
Pinnatte made to push himself upright but a hand stopped him. ‘Lie still.’ It was a woman’s voice. He tried to turn to her, but his head protested painfully and the room began to sway.
‘I said, lie still,’ came the voice again, authoritative. The hand returned, immovable. ‘I don’t think you’ve had anything more than a nasty bump, but you’re going to have a fine headache for a while.’ Moving more carefully, Pinnatte managed to turn to his physician.
She was a middle-aged woman. Quite tall, he thought, though it was difficult to tell from where he was lying. She was certainly no frail thing, judging from the determination in the hand restraining him. Most striking however, was her face. She had been handsome once, he thought. Not beautiful – handsome. At the same time he realized there were more important things he should be considering, but the thought enticed him. Now, though there were lines of care etched into it, the dominant impression the face gave was one of strength – great strength – the kind that only a woman can possess and which comes when she has stood alone against all troubles and then pressed on into and through the darkness.
‘Hello,’ he said weakly.
She looked at him intently for a moment then, apparently satisfied, took hold of his hand and began examining it. ‘Hello, yourself, young man,’ she said while she was doing this. She frowned.
