by Roger Taylor
‘It’s big, for sure,’ Atlon said. ‘Bigger than any city I’ve ever seen.’
The petulance faded, to be replaced with pride. ‘The biggest?’
Atlon smiled. ‘The biggest I’ve seen,’ he said again. ‘But I haven’t seen them all, by any means.’
‘Why’ve you come here?’
‘I was travelling south on a message for a friend. I stopped at The Wyndering, and met Rinter, who brought me here so that I could look for work. Heirn was kind enough to employ me and offer me shelter for a day or two.’
Pinnatte was about to ask another question but Atlon spoke first. ‘Ellyn called you a Den-Mate. What’s that – some kind of apprentice?’
Pinnatte stared at him blankly, then, embarrassed, looked to Heirn for assistance.
‘He’s an outlander. He doesn’t know,’ Heirn said impatiently. ‘You ask him questions, he’s going to ask them back.’ He spoke to Atlon. ‘He’s an apprentice after a fashion. A Den-Mate’s a thief, working for a Den Master somewhere. A member of the so-called Guild of Thieves.’
Pinnatte glowered at Heirn. He had no idea how to respond to the turn in the conversation. Such matters weren’t spoken of openly. He took a pride in his work – as much as this blacksmith, for sure. The man had no right to adopt that tone.
Atlon too, was taken aback by Heirn’s stark description of his guest, albeit he was an imposed one. He opted for conciliation. ‘Well, perhaps those days are behind you now, Pinnatte, if you manage to get a job with Barran.’ Heirn snorted, but Atlon ignored it. ‘In any case it doesn’t detract from your bravery last night.’ Reluctantly, Heirn had to nod in agreement to this.
Pinnatte was again looking at Atlon as a friend. He wanted to boast about what he had done – spin a fine yarn as he might have done for Lassner or the other Den-Mates, but he could not to this man. ‘It didn’t feel brave,’ he said. ‘I don’t really know why I did it. I was just so frightened when that crowd closed around me. I had to get out. It was like being at the bottom of a deep pit.’ He shuddered. ‘I remember scrambling upwards – catching hold of anything I could. Then I was on the other side of the fence.’ He gritted his teeth and reached up to massage his shoulder as he recalled the struggle with the bar that secured the gate. ‘I remember trying to open the gate, then nothing else until I woke up with everyone around me.’ He shook his head and words came that he had not intended to voice. ‘I don’t even know why I stayed – why I didn’t just run off once I was safe.’
Atlon leaned forward and put a hand on his arm. ‘We all do things without knowing why,’ he said. ‘There’s no shame in that – especially when we’re in danger. Our instincts are older than our thoughts – they take over. You’ve a better nature than I suspect you allow yourself. You did what you did, and people are alive now who might have been dead. They were lucky you were there, thief or no.’
Pinnatte had no reply, but the atmosphere in the room had eased. Heirn lowered himself into his favourite chair and the three men sat for some time in a companionable silence; Heirn carefully watching Pinnatte, Atlon waiting as patiently as he could for an opportunity to question him.
They were interrupted by a knock on the door. Both Atlon and Pinnatte started, but Heirn just smiled and made a reassuring gesture.
The callers were friends of his, pursuing an intermittent but time-honoured ritual of luring him to an ale-shop or similar, ‘To settle the day’s dust.’
Heirn refused but brought them in, glad to have familiar faces about him. He introduced Atlon as an outlander and ‘the finest leather-worker I’ve ever seen – and a healer’, and Pinnatte as the hero of the moment, spending a quiet evening recovering from his injuries. After congratulations that left Pinnatte feeling decidedly self-conscious, Atlon was asked about his country and his travels, though the questions had a quality of politeness about them rather than genuine interest. Most of the citizens of Arash-Felloren held, in one manner or another, to Pinnatte’s idea that Arash-Felloren was all there was, though few would have admitted it quite so simply. This lack of inquiry and the newcomers’ parochial manner suited Atlon, enabling him to question them in turn, under the guise of an outlander’s naivete. As a result he was able to confirm many of the conclusions that he had already formed about the place, though he learned little that was much more than long-established rumour. The Prefect and his legion of administrators probably ‘meant well’, but on the whole were ‘useless’. The Weartans were conceded to be ‘much better than they used to be, but still too corrupt for most people to rely on’. The Kyrosdyn were untrustworthy and generally disliked – they had strange powers and they dabbled in things that were ‘best left alone’. They were also too secretive and too involved in the city’s political and commercial life, where they didn’t belong. That conclusion was unanimous. As was that about whatever it was the Kyrosdyn were doing to the Vaskyros. There was a great deal of head-shaking and silent bemusement about the endless building and rebuilding that had been the hallmark of the Vaskyros for many years now. The only people who kept the city going and who kept alight the flame of integrity and honesty were the traders and craftsmen – to which category the two visitors, like Heirn himself, belonged. In addition to this social analysis, Atlon heard three versions about the ‘old man’ who had been found in the alley, two versions of the founding of the city, several versions of how large it was, including almost whispered references to parts of it which came and went mysteriously, and to others where time itself seemed to be ‘fractured’. He was loath to inquire about these in depth, fearing that he might inadvertently insult Heirn’s friends, and he was not able to lead the conversation around to the tunnels and the caves.
When they had gone, Pinnatte, who had been fighting sleep for some time, yawned noisily. Heirn pointed to a door. ‘There’s a bed in there. Go and lie down. I’ll wake you in an hour if you’re still asleep. That should give you plenty of time to get back to the Jyolan.’
Pinnatte hesitated in the doorway as he looked into the room.
‘What’s the matter?’ Atlon asked.
‘Nothing,’ Pinnatte replied, though his voice was uncertain. He went into the room.
Partly to avoid disturbing him and partly to avoid being overheard, Atlon and Heirn continued their conversation with lowered voices.
‘If you want to know anything, just ask me. Don’t try to wheedle it out of my friends,’ Heirn said sternly and without preamble.
Atlon put his hand to his head. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to be rude. I’m floundering, Heirn. Part of me wants to head back home right away, but I can’t – not until I’ve found out what the Kyrosdyn are up to. I’m just trying to get some kind of feel for this place – it’s so bewildering. There seems to be no sense of an underlying order. I get the impression from everything I hear that those with authority hold it by virtue of treachery and strength rather than by the agreement of the people over whom it’s held – or for their good, for that matter.’ He frowned as he tried to clarify his ideas. ‘There seems to be an urge to seize power for its own sake, without realizing that that in itself provokes opposition – particularly amongst a people so strong-willed and independently-minded as most of those I’ve met here. It’s very frightening.’
Heirn was unsure how to respond. ‘Your people live in perfect peace and harmony?’ he said defensively.
Atlon laughed ruefully. ‘I asked for that, I suppose,’ he replied. ‘But, answering your question, no, my people argue and quarrel a great deal – as too do my respected and learned Brothers – a great deal. One thing my travels have taught me is that while customs, costumes and tongues differ, people don’t. You’re not the only strong-willed and independently minded people by any means. But, on the whole, those with authority in my country are burdened by it. They’re aware of where their true power comes from and they strive to use it for the general good.’
Heirn leaned back in his chair and looked at him narrowly. ‘It all sounds like something
concocted by a twelve-year-old.’
Atlon laughed again, loudly this time, forgetting the sleeping Pinnatte. ‘That’s because I said it quickly.’ He threw up his hands in surrender. ‘I told you I was floundering.’ Then he became suddenly serious. The laughter had released tensions from him that he had not realized were there, but this only served to show him the starkness of his position. He held up his hand, his thumb and forefinger a little way apart. ‘The difference between those who have power in my country and those here is perhaps only slight, but it seems to be vital. It seems to be the difference between some semblance of order, and chaos.’
‘You think Arash-Felloren’s chaotic?’
‘I told you. I think it’s frightening.’
Heirn fell silent. He stared into the cold grate. ‘I think you’re right on both points,’ he said eventually, speaking slowly and softly. ‘Though it’s always been like that and I can’t imagine it changing.’ He paused. ‘There are splendid things in the city – and good people – and honest livings to be made.’
‘I’m sure there are,’ Atlon said. ‘You’re very patient with my clumsiness. I’m an academic – a student, not a diplomat.’
‘And you’re floundering.’ Heirn’s tone was gently ironic.
‘Indeed.’
Heirn turned back to him. ‘I suppose I am too, now,’ he said. ‘I know nothing about you other than that you’ve brought disruption and even death in your wake, but for some reason I trust you. I decided when we were in the park that you were worth helping.’ He tapped his head. ‘No reason – just going with my instincts. Sometimes they take over, as you just said. So… what do we do?’
Heirn’s declaration was so simple and open that Atlon was at a loss for a reply. He was spared any awkward delay however, as, from the bedroom where Pinnatte lay, came a loud and anguished cry.
Chapter 23
Imorren gazed around in wonder. This must surely have been brought about by the Anointing.
All study, all calculation, all experiment to determine the precise consequences of the Anointing foundered eventually in tangled infinities and improbabilities. More than one Higher Brother had taken refuge in insanity as a result of Imorren’s relentless drive to negotiate this shrieking intellectual vortex. More than one anonymous vagrant had perished as a result of her experiments. Yet she would not even allow the whispering of that growing consensus that the consequences were, by definition, unknowable.
‘You are flawed,’ she would say. ‘Your faith is weak. Try harder.’
All that was known for certain was that the Anointing would reach across those regions whose ultimate description defied known logic, and open Ways to the endless worlds that lay beyond and between the flickering existence of the world which held Arash-Felloren. Worlds across which He was scattered. Broken once again by cruel and treacherous enemies.
Just the prospect of this brought with it an old question. How could it have happened? How could He have been so defeated?
Imorren twitched away from it, as she did whenever it came to her. Answers to that question defied her as much as answers to the outcome of the Anointing. Not least because she could not even begin to approach them rationally with the little knowledge she had of His end. But once asked, she could do no other than wearily rehearse again the responses she had had almost from the time she first heard the news. Had she been there, would it have been different? Or would she too have been swept away by whatever power it was that had dispatched Him? Had she been sent away to learn about the crystals because He had foreseen His destiny? Was His passing and her leaving no more than part of a deeper scheme – perhaps a re-forging of His new lieutenants? That idea had come later, and held a little more comfort. But no answer seemed wholly credible. He had been so powerful. So seemingly invincible.
Yet…
As it always did, the flurry of guilt and anger dwindled into a dull ache low in her stomach. And as she always did, she centred herself. There was now, and only now. What had been, what might have been, served only to cloud and obscure. She must have faith. She was here by His will and serving His ends. She it was who must open the Ways so that He might begin His return. For only in this world could He be truly whole. And only from this world could He spread forth again to take what was rightfully His.
She returned to her vigil.
She knew that she was dreaming. She had always been able to stand aside from the swirling confusion of her sleeping thoughts. Often, she was able to control them. Deep inside, where lay that hidden ache, perhaps even deeper, she believed that this was why she had been chosen, and why it was her destiny ultimately to be by His side – His powerful right hand. For had not He Himself told her of the importance of those few who could walk the dreams of others? Those who could find the Portals and Gateways that led to the worlds beyond and between, and who could move freely amongst them, guiding those who could re-shape them.
She paused and held her breath at the memory, and her dream seemed to halt with her, watching, listening. Had she imagined it, or had some subtle demon of self-deceit placed the thought in her mind subsequently? But surely there had been a hint of envy in that telling… Even now she scarcely dared consider such a thing. It was not conceivable that He, in His perfection, could be tainted with so gross a human failing.
Yet…
She shook the thought from her violently – the dream trembled.
To think such things was heresy! No, it was worse than heresy.
Words did not exist that could adequately frame such treachery.
The failing was hers. She had misunderstood Him… some subtlety in His telling. It could not be otherwise.
Yet…
Inexorably, other thoughts slipped in to compound her crime. Could it be that she, with her control over her dreams, was one such? Did she have, latent within her, that elusive ability to move between the worlds?
It should not be so, for she could use the Power. And it did not seem so, for He would have known it, surely? For even when He was whole and strong, with many plans afoot, and she lay at His feet, He bade his servants, above all things, to search constantly for those so gifted.
Yet…
The dream slipped from her, as if fearful. It drew her back from this dangerous edge and on to familiar terrain.
For the dream was both new and not new. As ever, she was amid a vision of the Vaskyros. Towers, spires, ramping walls and vaulting arches pierced and spanned a sky, black with ominous clouds. Rooms, chambers, halls, innumerable and ornate, formed the complex weave of its heart, while dark tunnels and cellars reached over downwards, like great roots, burrowing deep below the city. And Imorren, motionless, floated amongst it – became it – seeing all things at all times, marvelling at its subtle, ever more detailed symmetries, and searching always for a sign of its true purpose that she might better create its tangible counterpart. But that too eluded her. Words such as resonance, conjunction, alignment, came and went, each striking a faint spark but bringing no illumination.
Older resources came to her aid, setting aside the conjectures resolutely and turning her mind to the unfolding vision. For this dream was of extraordinary vividness. It mustsurely be a consequence of the Anointing! The thought became the last tremor of her inner debate. Her mind was free now, so that she would see what was there, not what she thought was there, or what she felt should be there. Now, nothing would go unmarked, unrecorded, for this would be to miss much – perhaps everything. For whatever else this was, it was a nexus, a joining – an intersection – of many places and times and, as with all else, when it must come to be made, the consequences of the least error were incalculable.
The dream was totally hers again, the jagged complexity of the changed Vaskyros embedded in her mind to be carried forward into wakefulness.
But still there lingered a hint of her old belief that it would be she who one day would walk through the dream and into the worlds beyond, to hold out her hand to Him and draw Him forth into His true w
orld.
Then, at once suddenly and as if it had been thus always, she was not alone. Such dreams had always carried a hovering unease that others too, somewhere, somehow, were watching – that the dream was not for her alone. But this was different.
Now, another was looking through her eyes! Fear possessed her.
Neither of these things could be! Fear such as this she had long since banished, and all here, she knew, was of her making, touched only by His will reaching out to guide her.
But the fear remained. And the other watcher.
Realization.
Thefear was not hers!
‘Who are you?’ she demanded.
The fear grew.
‘Who are you?’ she demanded again. ‘What are you? How did you come here?’
Then, a greater realization.
It was the Anointed!
And the Vaskyros was gone. A silent cry ringing through her, she was falling. Falling, through a darkness gibbering with a myriad sounds and images. And she was nothing. All that existed was her awareness, hard as diamond, insubstantial as an idle summer breeze.
The fear became terror, and, bound as she was, it threatened to become hers.
Imorren reached out to waken herself.
But nothing happened.
She was aware of herself, lying motionless on her bed, symmetrical and ordered even in the brief sleep she was taking before her night’s work – the central flower of the elaborate patterning that dominated the room and which she must ever note. But she was here too.
She reached again. But bonds held her that nothing could break. She could not escape. An ancient will was carrying her now, and with her, the Anointed. An ancient, hunting will. It possessed her. Prey was all around, rich and bountiful. She was heady with the stink of it. Soon, she would feed again. Satiation was not possible. Her body would ring with the screeching of prey as it fought to hold to the life that was truly hers. Until the final yielding…
