Wandmaster

by Valerie Kramboviti

  As John returned from wherever he had been, the colours emanating from the Crystal trove were dancing wildly and his heart was pumping in his chest. He staggered on his feet, but Tabbareth was there, steady as a rock, aiding him, holding him up. John came to himself and restored all the colours to the crystal trove, one stone at a time. The black stone of the heavy doors in Athrak were released last, allowing Tyloren time to exit the room and hopefully stay undetected till he found a way out of the tunnels of Athrak and to freedom. The outer room doors would seal themselves again, the escape of Tyloren a secret shared by John, Vilma, William and Tabbareth. John knew that he should report the events to Menoneth and the Council, but with all that had recently occurred, he was hesitant to make public the whereabouts of Tyloren to anyone he didn't trust completely. It troubled him to realize that he didn't trust Menoneth, but Wes was missing, perhaps a traitor, and after what Jet had implied, it seemed possible at least, that suspicion would be shifted onto Tyloren by Menoneth to keep it off his son. Also, Tyloren's chances of escape would be greater the fewer people who knew where he was. Tabbareth would stay silent unless asked directly; he was an intelligent man, whose first loyalty was to Tyloren, his High Priest; and there was no question that Vilma would keep quiet too.

  The two heavy black doors, studded with black stones swung shut behind him as Tyloren peered into the gloom, flattened against the wall of an unlit, cold passageway, dark as pitch and twice as menacing. His heart was pounding with the fear of detection, excitement and the thrill of freedom from the dark box which had contained him, sealing him off from the contact with his beloved crystals and from any think-talking. He didn't know if anyone could pick up his thoughts in this inhospitable place, but he would have to shield his mind just in case. Ataxios would be somewhere close, and he was known to have great powers and strength equal only to the great depth of his evil.

  'Calm yourself, Tyloren,' he thought, and then panicked in case someone was able to pick up his unspoken words. 'Idiot!' he chided himself. 'You're even announcing your name!' He struggled to think clearly, but from then on concentrated his mind on keeping the surface of his thought-sea calm and as invisible as possible. He would have to get away from the room and the dark box. Sooner or later someone would come to investigate his condition, though that hadn't happened up to the time of his release. He had found water in the box, but no nourishment, for which he was grateful because he was so hungry he would have been forced to eat almost anything put before him and he had heard tales of the menu in the mountains of Athrak that were anything but appetising. Still, it had to be said that without food and a fresh supply of water, he would weaken and he supposed that, if it came to it, he would have to eat whatever presented itself to him now in the tunnels of Athrak in order to stay alive. He hoped it wouldn't be too disgusting; and he hoped he would find it soon.

  He tried to think logically. He had to get out of this passageway, and he had two choices, left or right. Having no idea which direction would lead him into the greatest danger, he sought for some kind of intuition on the subject. The lack of food over the past few days had weakened his legs, but he had done a lot of quiet concentration in that box and he felt his skills were stronger. 'Right', he decided. Left felt as though it led closer to Ataxios, and that wasn't a good idea. Slowly, he began to feel his way along the damp walls in the darkness, trying to be as silent as possible, though it was unnecessary as he had found no guards outside the door to the room containing himself and the black box. Ataxios was very sure of his security, it seemed, and felt no need to guard against intruders; indeed, nobody in their right mind would come anywhere near him or his domain unless they were dragged there.

  As Tyloren, whose robe thankfully kept his thin legs warm against the dank cold inched his way along the wall, he heard himself thinking. 'No security. No security at all.........' and he stopped in his tracks as he realised just what an opportunity he now had. He was undetected, unsuspected and free to work a bit of mischief if he could manage it in the very heartland of Ataxios's power! He should really try to escape into the light and make his way back to Wandguard, but he doubted that would be as easy as his uninterrupted stroll down this stretch of passageway. He was bound to come up against spindlies, maybe even 'lo's'. He shuddered at the thought of the sickly bulbous creatures with their white faces and cruel eyes. 'Where would they be?' he wondered, and 'where would the crystals be?' 'The crystals! the Crystal Trove of Athrak! Of course, he could try to find the trove and restore the crystals to their colours! No, he wasn't strong enough, he realised. It would need the Wandmaster's power and the wand to do that. But he could maybe learn his way around this maze of passageways, avoid being captured, and find out where the crystals were kept. The Temple of Athrak, of course. But where exactly was that? He would find out. With new determination, he quickened his footsteps, keeping to the walls and hurrying along as silently as he could. Still no sight nor sound of any living soul. That was good, he thought; very good.

  The darkness gave way to gloom illuminated by a glowering array of oil-slick hues in the recesses of the hall where Ataxios sat. He was pleased with the outcome of the expedition into the hills in the end. Admittedly, the Wandmaster hadn't been captured, but Tyloren was a consolation prize he had not expected. Here, in this priest, was the stored knowledge of the Crystal Trove of Wandguard, an opening to the power that had so long eluded him. Yes, things were not so bad after all. He would keep the little man in the dark box until the very life was all but gone, when his physical resources would be too low for him to offer much resistance, but die he would not. The box preserved and contained what or who was within it, and with only a supply of water, the priest's more useful abilities would be heightened through fasting, contemplation and isolation. It would take some days, yes, but there was no hurry. He wondered if the little man was frightened; if despair had set in. Well if it hadn't yet, it would with the passing of days and the wasting away of his flesh. No, there was no hurry.

  He reached his hands out, holding them above the crystal orb on the stone table before him and it responded by misting and emitting an eerie glimmer in the darkness. Ataxios peered within. Wandguard was hazy and the temple seemed shrouded as though hidden by cloud. This was not right. With the priest out of the way, it should be more penetrable, not less. He searched for the Wandmaster in the Plain, and the orb focused again on the hazy image of the temple. So he was there, was he? He snarled as he bent all his will on the orb, but try as he might, there was no change. This young Wandmaster was going to be a problem, but then, that was the challenge, wasn't it? Wandmasters came and went, but Ataxios lived on forever. They were just aggravating little details in the plot, these imported half-beings, and none had proved to be a match for the great Master Ataxios in the past, though he had not managed to eradicate them either, it had to be said. He might just make this one into a Lo. That would be fun. His Akryd was in good form and his army of lo's and spindlies was growing. Sooner or later the new Wandmaster would be captured, and Ataxios would watch with pleasure as the great belly of the beast lowered onto his body and delivered her spawn into the flat of his back. He would scream and writhe, and then the transformation would be complete, and the Wandmaster would be his. He smiled at the mental picture which he had created, and placed his hands once more over the orb, sending the image into the miasma of its being, and knew that at some point in time, it would trouble the Wandmaster's sleep, giving him a prophetic dream of his end in the land of the Dark Crystal. A slow smile spread across his features, and he sat back, satisfied.

  "Gnath!" he drawled,

  Instantaneously, a very large lo appeared at his side, its white face barely visible in the blackness.

  "We will go to the Akryd. I have not visited her for a while. And let there be prisoners for her to spawn into. I feel the need for some entertainment."

  A high pitched whine came from the creature, and it hurried off.

  Ataxios flowed out of the chamber, his evil clo
aking him in a shroud of darkness.

  Chapter 10

  Family Matters

  Emerging from the Temple, John set off to find Jetham, as he had some questions he wanted answered, but before he reached the practice ground, he saw a group of Guardians trotting in from the West, the direction of the river valley and the high peaks where Deepcleft was to be found. Gilladen was leading the group at a quick trot, and in his wake came some ten Guardians, including Jazlyn. The Guardians formed a tight circle, in the midst of which was a stony-faced Westroth. John halted as they trotted past him in the direction of the two white marble pillars marking the entrance to the official rooms of the Elders and the Grand Meeting Hall. Gilladen, in the lead, greeted John with a brief "Honour," as he passed, Zak and Todd nodded a brief acknowledgment and Jazlyn looked at him askance but briefly and expressionlessly. Westroth stared directly ahead, his mouth set in a hard straight line. John watched with interest as the group were challenged by the spear-bearing guards at the entrance, and Gilladen and Westroth were allowed entry. He noted that they were accompanied, in fact surrounded, by guards in Menoneth's official, and more ornate, black leather garb.

  The remainder of the Guardians dispersed and made their way, at a more relaxed pace, to the living quarters, presumably to rest and freshen up. None of them made a move to speak to John, and when he called Jazlyn's name, she came over reluctantly.

  "What's going on, Jazlyn?" he asked.

  "I'm sorry, Wandmaster, but I am not at liberty to tell you," came the reply. John could feel her shielding her thoughts from him and, after scanning her face for tell-tale signs and finding none, he turned abruptly and walked away, leaving her mumbling another apology to his back.

  John could only imagine what was taking place between Westroth and Menoneth, and though he would have liked to be a fly on the wall wherever they were meeting, he resigned himself to ignorance, at least for the time being. He knew it would be an uncomfortable meeting, but he was unaware just how unpleasant it was going to be.

  "Speak to me Westroth! I am your father and the High Councillor, and I WILL have my questions answered!" roared Menoneth. He and Westroth were standing facing each other in Menoneth's chamber. Present also were Gilladen and Jetham.

  "I have nothing to say father," replied Westroth with restraint.

  "Do you know how things look?" bellowed Menoneth, "It looks as though you are a traitor, as though you informed the enemy of the Wandmaster's participation in the scouting mission to the High Peaks? Where have you been these last few days? Why were you missing when Jazlyn sought you out to go to the aid of your comrades, of your Wandmaster? Explain yourself or things will go ill for you, son of mine or not!"

  "I have told you. I have nothing to say," replied Westroth stonily.

  Menoneth clenched his fists at his sides and took a step towards Westroth, at which point, Gilladen jumped between them and placed a hand on his father's chest.

  "That won't help, father," he said softly. Menoneth untensed, and turned his back on Westroth, walking a couple of paces away to lean heavily against the side of a large stone carving which decorated the wall of the room. Gilladen turned to his brother and looked at him seriously, but not unkindly.

  "We need to know what's going on, Wes. We really need to know. Whatever it is that's happened, we can handle, but the security of all the Guardians, and that of the Wandmaster are threatened at this moment, and........" He didn't get the chance to finish his sentence before Westroth exploded in an outburst of bitter anger.

  "Oh yes, the Wandmaster. I am so sick of hearing that name." Since he came," the word 'he' was spat out between clenched teeth and he looked directly at his father. "You have all changed towards me. Jazlyn came running to me quickly enough when he upped and disappeared! Since he's come back, she's avoiding me, and you, Gill, always talking about him, like he's some kind of god! All the Guardians do. Well, not me! Do you hear me? Not me! Now, just get off my back will you, all of you! I have nothing to tell you and you can think what you like about me. I don't care! Do you understand? I don't care!"

  Jet, who had been a silent witness to all the family bickering, nodded to himself in understanding, and from his position at Westroth's back, he shot a look at Menoneth from under one raised eyebrow, his head askance. Menoneth, open-mouthed, looked from Jet to Westroth, to Gilladen and back again to Westroth, unable to take in what he was hearing.

  "Westroth," he pleaded, "You are my son! Can you doubt that I love you?"

  "I know I'm somewhere on your list, when you have time to remember that I exist," Wes said sullenly. Jet intercepted here, wanting to return to the matter which he felt needed clarifying, and spoke to Westroth.

  "Even if, in your view, you have just cause to resent the Wandmaster, Westroth, as a Guardian, it is your sworn duty to protect him and your fellow Guardians. We still need to know where you were and what you were doing around about the time of the attack in the High Peaks."

  "Duty! Yes, my sworn duty! Well, I'm sick of duty too! You want to know where I was and what I was doing? I'll tell you! I was walking. Just walking. I needed to get away and do some thinking. I needed a bit of distance from all of you. Is that a crime?" Menoneth held his son's eye with deep sadness.

  "That's not good enough Westroth, it's desertion of duty. You are a guardian – you cannot just remove yourself and wander off!" he answered.

  "Of course it's not good enough! Nothing I do is ever good enough is it? Especially since the time the 'lo' had me! Yes, I know what you all think. I know you think I'm contaminated! Bad! Soiled! Untrustworthy! And I have to be grateful to the Wandmaster for that too!" Spittle was flying out of his mouth and his face was contorted into angry spasms as he continued his tirade.

  "I wish he had left me as I was! At least I wouldn't have to accept all the suspicion and sidelong looks from everyone!"

  "Westroth! You do not mean that! The 'lo' state is worse than anything you might experience, or think you experience here!" gasped Menoneth in horror. An evil sneer passed across Westroth's face, replacing the anger of just a few moments before as he answered quietly and in an ironic tone,

  "Well that, father, is something that I know and all of you can only guess about, isn't it?" Menoneth made to strike Westroth, but both Jet and Gilladen got between them, and Menoneth dropped his hands to his sides in disbelief as Wes threw his head back and laughed loudly, almost hysterically, at the ceiling.

  The Lord Menoneth sat in a high-backed chair in the silence of his room. His head sagged on his chest and he stared listlessly at the floor in front of him. He was alone now, Jet and Gilladen having taken Westroth to a secure place where he could be kept under observation, without the open humiliation of a prison cell. His own son! Westroth, the daring, Westroth the strong, Westroth the second son of the Lord High Councillor of Wandguard, in custody, possibly a traitor and a threat to the Wandmaster. Though he repeated the words over and over to himself, he could not absorb them. When Westroth had recovered from his time as a 'lo', Menoneth had spent Mny hours with him, anxious for signs of ill effects, some residue of 'lo-ness' but had detected nothing. Trevorin had pronounced him fit and he had been allowed to return to his duties as a Guardian. It was true that at times, Menoneth thought he observed a certain hardness in the eye of his son, and that often his words were unnecessarily sharp and ironic, but he had always had a tendency to be touchy and he had excused his son on the grounds that he had been through an ordeal, was nervy and that it would pass.

  "Not so," he mused out loud, making a temple of his fingers and touching his finger tips to his lips, "not so, at all." His thoughts strayed to Tyloren, whose absence deeply worried him also. He could not think that his High Priest would be in any way untrustworthy, but his continued absence was mysterious. Menoneth had despatched scouting groups out into the surrounding hills looking for both Westroth and Tyloren, but only his son had been found. Of Tyloren, there was no trace.

  He was shaken out of his thoughts by a knock
on the door. Who could it be? He had given instructions that he was not to be disturbed. Where were his guards, that anyone could come and annoy him when he so badly needed to be alone.

  "Who is it?" he shouted irritably at the door. There was no answer. He was by now so agitated that he jumped up and grabbed the door handle of his room, knowing that was the last thing he should have done, and yelled, "Whoever you are, come in, dammit! I am in no mood for games!"

  As the door opened, he found himself staring down into Vilma's calm face. The guard who was on duty outside the door was standing behind her looking terrified and apologetic, and Menoneth froze him with an icy stare.

  "Don't blame the lad, Menoneth, it would take a much tougher man than him to stop me." The guard in question was at least shoulder-and-head taller than Vilma, and his obvious embarrassment was enough to make even Menoneth smile.

  "I..I'm sorry my Lord, but the Lady Vilma insisted, and…..," stammered the guard.

  "Yes, yes, alright Rath. Even I would have trouble saying no to this lady, but if you ever let anyone through without permission again, I will have you roasted and fed to the Guardians on Feast Day!"

  The guard's mouth fell open and he lost his colour as Vilma gave a little titter and pushed Menoneth bodily into the room, closing the door behind them.

  Vilma surveyed Menoneth critically, before announcing "You've got to get a hold on yourself! You're allowing your personal life to interfere with your judgement, and that could be disastrous. Now sit down and listen to me." Without waiting for a reply, Vilma pulled a chair up close to the one Menoneth had vacated and sat in it, adjusting her long skirts and shawl around her. Menoneth was unused to being told what to do, and his heckles rose, but Vilma avoided his eye and waited patiently. Realising he was losing the battle of wills, he slumped down into his own chair and let out a huge sigh of resignation.