by Angus Wells
At the age of seven years he underwent the rituals of consecration. He smiled and did not struggle when the priests lowered him into the earth that was Byr’s, nor did he protest when the dirt struck his face. He smiled and did not close his eyes when they sank him beneath the waves that are Dach’s. When they lashed him to the tiny airboat and sent the craft into the sky that is Vachyn’s, he laughed aloud. Then they said, “This one shall be a credit to the Kashijan. He will be a mighty warrior, and his life and his death a monument to the Ahn.” That night, as all the folk of the Kashijan and the Isadur, those of both the High and Low Blood, and all their retainers, feasted, Tezdal drank his first wine and, in a voice steady for one so young, raised his cup in toast to the Great Conquest. It pleased him to be born at such a time, when the Attul-ki promised a turning of the winds, a strengthening of their holy magic, that should see him of an age to ride the sky across the Kheryn-veyhn to regain the Homeland.
The next day, his head still somewhat fuddled by the wine, he was taken by his father to the Jentan-dho in Asanaj and given into the care of the Tachennen who would be his teachers and his guardians until he was of an age to wear the warrior’s braid, and call himself a man, and go back into the world a true Kho’rabi. Even then, as he turned from his father and went with the Tachennen into the House of Warriors, he did not cry or look back.
For eight years Tezdal remained in the Jentan-dho. There he learned the Seven Paths of the Warrior, and the Three Ways of the Gods. He was visited by his parents on the seventh day of each seventh month, and on that day sacred to the people when the prophet Attul first set foot on the soil of Ahn-feshang. On these occasions he greeted his father and his mother with suitable deference, neither weeping nor seeking undue favor. He was, the Tachennen said, their finest pupil, a true Warrior of the Blood. Once, his mother found it necessary to stifle a cry of alarm when she saw his right arm bound and strapped useless to his side. It had been broken, Tezdal told her, in training on the Second Path; it hurt him not at all. His father said nothing to the boy but inquired of the Tachennen, who advised him the damage was done in combat with the practice swords, when Tezdal faced three opponents.
Tairaz Kashijan had nodded and asked, “And the others?”
“Had the blades been true kachen,” the Tachennen had answered, “then they should all be slain.”
Tairaz had nodded again at this and asked, “Did he conduct himself well?”
“He did not cry out,” the Tachennen had said. “He had bested one when the blow landed. He fought on and won single-handed.”
“That is good,” Tairaz had declared. “But he should not have allowed the wounding.”
By his thirteenth year, Tezdal had mastered the Seven Paths and none could defeat him, save by sheer weight of numbers, in the melees. He waited eagerly for manhood and the promised Conquest.
Such was the dream of all within the Jentan-dho. It was to that end that the warriors named themselves the Dedicated, and since the Attul-ki had given the people the Great Dream, it was the hope of all the Ahn.
Once they had dwelt in the Homeland, far to the west across the Kheryn-veyhn. Their gods were the Three and in the way of gods had seen fit to test their worshippers. The cursed Dhar had come out of the north, a locust plague across the land. Their priests and sorcerers stood united in enmity of the Ahn, who then had owned but little magic and been too few in numbers to oppose the invaders. Worshippers of the one god were the Dhar, and they had torn down the temples of the Three and burned the sacred groves, driven the people into hiding or slavery. This was the first testing, and the Ahn had held true and would not forsake the Three, and in answer to that faith the gods had sent the prophet Attul a vision.
In the accoutrements of warriors they had appeared—Byr with promise of a new land; from Vachyn, lordship of the sky; from Dach, safe passage over the sea. “Go,” they had told Attul, “go east across the Kheryn-veyhn with all the people. A new land awaits you there, where you shall grow strong again, and in time come back to conquer what is rightfully yours.”
The promise had burned hot in Attul, and the word had spread amongst the people, and in the secret places of the land the Dhar named Kellambek, the Ahn had built their boats, readying for the journey. Attul had led them and guided them in the exodus, and the gods made good their promises. Dach had granted them the crossing, safe, and Vachyn sent the wind to speed them on their way to the land Byr made for them, which they named Ahn-feshang—the New Place of the People. Attul had set his feet on the new land and given thanks to the triumvirate, and the Three had taken him up, to dwell as one with them.
The Ahn, the promise of the gods yet bright, had found a welcome in Ahn-feshang, and soon they spread throughout the islands, of which there were three—Ahn-zel, Ahn-khem, and Ahn-wa. Byr had been kind in his building: the land was lush, with wooded mountains and grassy valleys, where game was plentiful. Dach gave them rivers of clean water and pleasant beaches and filled the sea with fish. But what gift Vachyn gave was not yet clear.
The Ahn prospered, but the testing was not yet done. Fertile as was the new land, still the islands suffered the ravages of the elements. There were typhoons, and tidal waves, and volcanoes that vented their might against the heavens. This was the second testing, and there were many then who doubted the gods and so fell forsaken. But to those whose faith endured, the Three gave such magic as the world had never known. To those whose faith was strongest they gave power over the elements—the ability to defy the storms, to calm the waves, to soothe the earth-fires. To these sorcerers the Ahn looked for salvation, naming them the Attul-ki, which means “Children of Attul,” and they took the place of the hetmen and the attars, leading the Ahn safe through this second trial.
To them the Three gave word of the final testing, which was trial and prize both, for it was that the people should return to the Homeland to drive out the Dhar and take back what was theirs.
Then did Vachyn bestow his gift. He showed the Attul-ki the way of constructing the great airboats, how the skins might be filled with the breath of the volcanoes, to ride the Worldwinds and carry the Kho’rabi knights across the Kheryn-veyhn to smite the Dhar.
This was the longest of the three trials, for the magic of the Attul-ki was yet as that of infants, albeit powerful, and not even they could master the winds but must travel only on Vachyn’s whim. They persevered, and in reward Vachyn taught them that magic that granted them mastery over the spirits of the air. Slowly, they learned to bind the elemental spirits to their craft, like horses to a chariot, and then were they able to defy the Worldwinds and go against the Dhar usurpers at will.
To this great dream the Kho’rabi were dedicated, for the Three yet chose to test their followers, and those who sailed the sky to the Homeland did not return but gave their lives in service to the triumvirate, that the Dhar never forget but dwell in fear of the Comings.
And for such faith the Three gave due reward: the Attulki grew ever more accomplished in their magicks and found ways to bind the elementals in greater numbers to their pur-pose. In time they saw the final trial approach and warned the people to ready themselves. It should be soon, they said. Not this year or the next, but soon enough as gods count time.
For a while they sent the great airboats against the Dhar, with sorcerer-priests of such power aboard that they were able to send back word, of what magicks the enemy commanded, and the manner of their defenses. Then came a breathing space, for the Dhar found new sorceries to thwart the people and prevent the sending back of word. Then did the Attul-ki bend all their will and all their wits to the dream. They decreed there should be no more attacks for a while, but only small vessels—such as might carry no more than ten men—go out. But these were the key to the Conquest, for the Children of Attul bound to them such numbers of elementals that the boats might return to Ahn-feshang, defying the sorcery of the Dhar and the gusting of the Worldwinds both. And from these scouts came reliable word of fortresses and cities and holds, of th
e deployment of soldiery, and the resources of the enemy.
And more—they found allies, who vowed to aid them in the conquest of the Dhar.
Then all the people saw that the final trial was near and readied for the Great Conquest. Across all Ahn-feshang they labored to construct the armada, none sparing wealth or possessions or strength but all bound to the single promised purpose: the Conquest.
On the seventh day of the seventh month of Tezdal’s fifteenth year, Tairaz Kashijan, accompanied by the lady Nazrene and a retinue of one hundred Kho’rabi knights, attended the ceremonies in the Jentan-dho in Asanaj. They watched as their son performed the obeisances to the Three and to the Tachennen. Then Tairaz stepped forward and silently bound his son’s hair in the warrior’s braid. Tezdal rose from his knees and bowed. Tairaz presented him with the kachen of manhood and clapped his hands. The five most senior of the Kashijan warriors came forward, full armored as befitted so solemn a ritual, to strip the young man and dress him in his own armor. Tezdal thanked them eloquently and waited as his mother led forward a horse. It was such a beast as fit a Kho’rabi knight, a testament to the wealth of the Kashijan family, a jet stallion of pure blood. Tezdal shouted, “For the Three and for the Conquest,” and severed the head with a single cut.
There was shouting after that, and an end to formality. The families Kashijan and Isadur had supplied the Jentan-dho with food and wine enough that all found their beds that night with bellies filled and heads aswim. In the morning Tezdal departed much as he had come: his head pounding, without a backward glance. He rode a stallion that matched exactly the beast he had slain.
On his return to the Kashijan estates he found the members of both families awaiting him. There followed seven days of feasting, culminating in his betrothal to his cousin, the lady Retze Isadur. She was a pretty girl, and he was pleased with his parents’ choice.
On the eighth day Retze departed with her family to the Isadur estates, and Tezdal did not see her, save on feast days and holy days, for three years. Then, in his eighteenth year, which was Retze’s sixteenth, they were wed. From the Isadur family they received an estate in the mountains of Ahn-khem, with a sizable manor house, nine farmsteads, and a retinue of fifty servants. The Kashijan gifted them with three hundred Kho’rabi, fully equipped and well-mounted. Tezdal was happy in all ways but one: the Great Conquest was promised soon and he lusted for that battle.
His voice tailed off like a dying wind, and upon his face I saw an expression of naked grief. I heard Rwyan gasp and knew she “saw” that same pain. I said, “Tezdal, what is it?”
He said, “My boat was felled,” and offered Rwyan a tortured smile. “By the magicks you threw against us. I was believed slain; died with the rest. That word was sent to Retze, and she mourned a year, then …”
He swallowed, choking on the words. I saw tears lucent in his eyes, running slowly down his cheeks. Rwyan stretched a hand across the table, taking his. I rose and filled a goblet with wine, passed it to him. He smiled wan thanks and drained the cup.
Then he sighed and finished, “Retze took the Way of Honor.”
I’d no real need of explanation, but still I asked.
I think I was so startled by all I’d learned, so numbed by this incredible insight into the ways of the Ahn, I felt a need of words to set it all firm in my mind. Surely I intended him no more pain.
But it was there in his eyes and his voice as he told me, “She slew herself. Such is our way, in defeat or loss of a loved one.”
Rwyan said, “Tezdal, I’m sorry. Had I known …”
He laughed at that, a bitter sound, and asked, “Should you have done different? Not flung your magicks at us?”
Rwyan shook her head. “No. But still I grieve for your loss.”
He sighed and closed his eyes a moment. When they opened, they were bright with tears. He seemed not at all ashamed to show his grief, which I think was a measure of his strength. He said, “I believe you, Rwyan. I honor you as a worthy foe; I honor you as a friend.” A twisted smile stretched out his lips. “By the Three, but were this world of ours different!”
I said, “I’d have it otherwise, Tezdal. I share your grief.”
He ducked his head. I watched as he wiped his eyes, not knowing what else to say; not knowing how this should affect Rwyan’s fate and mine.
It was a while before he raised his head, and when he did, his expression was bleak. I liked it not at all: torment was graved there. He said, “I am sworn by the Three to fight you. To destroy you. But I cannot name you enemies.” He shook his head. “They set a heavy burden on us, our gods.”
I said, “What shall you do?”
He smiled at that and barked a laugh that held no humor, but only anguish. He said, “My avowed duty is to give you over to the Changed. To see your secrets, Rwyan, sucked out, that we may take back the Homeland. To slay you, Daviot, if I must; and then go south, to war.”
Rwyan said, “And shall you?”
He wiped a hand down over his fresh-shaved jaw and looked her in the eye. “I feel myself divided,” he said. “I am Kho’rabi; I am also your friend. I am sworn to defeat you and defend you, both. I see no choice left me save the Way of Honor.”
He touched the hilt of the long dagger sheathed at his waist and offered us a death’s-head smile.
I opened my mouth to protest, to tell him there must be another way, but Rwyan spoke while useless words still spun unshaped in my head.
“The Way of Honor?” Her voice was gentle as a blade sheathed in velvet. “Suicide? I thought you sworn to defend me. Do you take this Way of Honor, how think you I shall fare? Or Daviot? Would you give us into Allanyn’s hands?”
That was cruel, I thought. I saw Tezdal wince, his eyes starting wide, then narrowing. I thought him snared in the trap of his Kho’rabi honor; and that that was Rwyan’s intention. I understood that code of honor better now. I understood the Sky Lords better than any Dhar. I had such knowledge as would delight my College. And it was useless. Or so I thought: I failed to accord Rwyan her just due.
Tez dal said, “What choice have I? Shall I betray my people, and stand damned in the eyes of the Three? Shall I betray you, and damn myself? I am lost, Rwyan! I am no longer entirely Kho’rabi; neither am I Dhar. I see no other way.”
I was startled by Rwyan’s response.
She asked him, quietly, “Have you dreamed, Tezdal?”
He was no less surprised than I. He stared at her as if she were gone mad. She sat, calm, her beautiful blind eyes intent upon his troubled face, brows arched in question.
He said, “You know I have. Along the road to Trebizar …”
Rwyan nodded: confirmation of old, shared knowledge. “Then, aye,” she said. “But since? Whilst you lay in that vault?”
Tezdal frowned. His shoulders rose a little, and fell. He gestured with his right hand, helplessly. Then he said, “Yes. I think I did.”
“Think?” Rwyan urged him. “Remember.”
He closed his eyes and sighed. “There were eyes,” he said at last. “Great yellow eyes that urged I come to them. You two were there, and the Changed named Urt. The eyes summoned us all. I thought”—he shook his head—“thought they held answers, though I cannot say to what. I felt that did I fail their call, I must be damned.”
“I had that dream,” Rwyan said. “And Daviot. Urt, too. We are summoned, I believe.”
Tezdal said, “By what? The gods?”
Rwyan shook her head. “Perhaps the gods have a hand in this. I know not, but I believe fate calls us.”
I suspect my expression matched Tezdal’s then. His was of plain confusion, laden with disbelief. He gestured that she explain.
She said, “Daviot’s the better way with words than I—let him explain,” and turned to me and said, “Daviot, do you tell him of the pattern?”
Almost, I shook my head and told her no; that this was all some phantasm born of despair. That she clutched at straws when we had better ready ourselves to die.
That Tezdal’s Way of Honor was the only escape from our plight.
But I could not: she fixed me with her blind gaze, and had I not known her talent was curtailed by Trebizar’s magic, I’d have believed she englamoured me. I ducked my head and began to speak.
I told Tezdal of all my dreams, and those Rwyan had known. I told him all I knew of the dragons (little enough, that), and of Urt’s dreams. I told him of the pattern. I told him of the crystal Urt had brought us, and all we’d learned from that stone.
And as I spoke, I came to a kind of belief. It was tainted with doubt (all the time there was a skeptical voice inside my skull, whispering in my ear that this was only phantasmagoria; the last, wild imaginings of folk condemned to inevitable death), but through that doubt I saw a spark of hope. I could not forget how vivid those dreams had been, and it seemed to me my words kindled the flame. I wondered if I went mad.
When I was done, Tezdal rose and brought the decanter to the table. He filled Rwyan’s cup and mine, then his own. He drank deep and looked me in the eye.
“Do you believe this?” he asked.
I hesitated before I shrugged and said, “I cannot say you aye, only that it seems mightily strange.” I could not, then, meet Rwyan’s gaze.
He looked to her and asked the same question.
She nodded. “I do.”
Tezdal emptied the cup. “Then tell me what it means.” Rwyan said, “I cannot give clear answer. I can only tell you I believe we none of us need die; that there’s hope.”
“Of what?” he demanded. “How?”
Rwyan smiled. “Of intervention. Of some power beyond our understanding that offers us escape. From death and from war—some hope of a future without this conflict that binds us all to its bloody cause. A hope of peace. Between your people and mine; between we Dhar and the Changed. Hope of a different world; perhaps a better world.”
