“I am Toril ur Hasha.”
“We need not discuss the names of men. What additional name would you hold? What is worth the words you burned just now?”
Toril licked his lips, hesitating. Memories of his naming day flooded back. Had he chosen a wise self-name, then? Is that what he was supposed to provide, now? Uttering the name aloud was taboo, but surely Gitám could hear it in his thoughts…
Legend was clear that the name he spoke now mattered tremendously; many had been rejected, or had lived to regret their choice, after asking foolishly. Yet the ordeal supposedly tested heart more than cleverness. Did he dare ask questions to be sure he named his goal correctly?
“You want further knowledge before you answer,” the priest’s mouth said. “That is good. Approach the water and learn.”
The pool of water began to brighten as Toril rose and walked around the altar. At first its surface wobbled and flickered, but it froze into perfect smoothness, and Toril found himself gazing at an image of another man.
The first thing Toril noticed was that this man also stood barefoot at the edge of a small pool of water. He seemed to be high in the mountains; at least, Toril glimpsed snow-covered peaks nearby and at a similar altitude to the man’s own. The man wore rough skins rather than cloth tunic and trousers, and his high cheekbones and pure white hair gave him a distinctive appearance. His face was wild and beautiful—blooming with youth but somehow conveying the idea of tremendous age as well. He seemed to be gazing across the pool at an unseen speaker.
As the voice emanating from the priest narrated, Toril watched a conversation unfold.
In the dawn of the world, First Man desired a name. Many times he asked one of me, but I refused.
At last he became angry. “Dashnal gave names to creatures with teeth and claws—beautiful names that sing their souls, like “lion” and “leopard.” Karkita taught me “river” and “moon.” Jurivna named the flowers and birds, and Akeet chose the words for winter and clothes. But when you speak to me, you just describe my role,” he said. “Why? I can be more than just ‘First Man.’”
“I will answer you with a question. What makes you and First Woman different from the rest of our creations?”
“We speak?”
“Many creatures speak, after a fashion, but only you use words that bend the world instead of the other way around.”
“Bend the world?”
“Your words pull the universe toward the pattern you name. You shape yourselves not only when you vow, but even in the most casual speech. Naming is creation; it is an act of power that The Five withhold from all the workmanship of our hands, save you and First Woman only.”
“I give no names,” First Man said.
“No? Tell me why First Woman cried yesterday.”
“That was a mistake,” First Man said, after a long pause. “She asked if I liked her singing. I laughed because I thought the answer was obvious.”
“She sought to name herself ‘Beautiful Singer.’ You gave her a different name instead. Her heart was wounded.”
“All I did was laugh.”
“Search your heart. You’re naming all the time—even in the way you answer me. Just now, you reached into possibility and summoned forth a word, and filled it with blameless ignorance. You named your action ‘mistake’. Do you like the way that name shapes your soul?”
First Man was silent for a long time. At last he shook his head. “It is only a partly true name,” he said in a small voice.
“Choose the truest. That is one of the tests on the path to joy.”
“If I walk that path, will you tell me my true name?” asked First Man.
“Your testing and your naming are one and the same. Choosing is how a name is forged. Speakers cannot choose for you.”
“I name myself?” asked First Man.
“You choose. We then help you make the name a true one, if you let us. Who will you be?”
The water at Toril’s feet grew dark, and the priest stopped talking. He seemed to be waiting for a response.
Toril cleared his throat. “I thought kavro shilmar let me ask for power beyond a mortal’s reach. That’s what I came for.”
“Yes. That’s what you sought in the river, too.”
Toril swallowed. The summary had been delivered in a tone that sounded more kind than critical. But it had not sounded especially encouraging, either.
“Isn’t that a good thing?”
“I will let you judge.”
Toril rubbed his chin. Was he supposed to back out, second-guess himself?
After a pause, the voice continued. “Power doesn’t grow as men believe, child. The laws of its use are much deeper than simple gifting. My power goes to those who choose a name wisely, and retain it against all obstacles. It must be so.”
“Then what does it mean to choose wisely?”
“A wise name is a name worth having. It is a name for which you can, and do, sacrifice deeply. It is one that can be forged into truth through your effort, with raw materials of your own supply. I provide sparks, but the wood and the hammer and much of the working of the bellows must come from you, else the name is not your own. This is not an ordeal about my names.”
“Are we talking about my self-name, then? The one I took before?”
“With people, all true names are self-names. Whether the one you took before was a wise choice is for you to decide.”
Toril bit his lip. “How do I keep the name?”
“If you choose well, I will teach you what your name truly means, and you will mourn. Names of great worth are forged at a price; the ordeal is to continue to choose the name when you understand its cost.”
“That is all?”
“It is enough. Some leave kavro shilmar rebelling at the price, and live out the consequences of broken vows. Others choose to forget; they depart, and seek without remembering the stakes. Those who remain, we delight to help. Are you ready to answer my question?”
Toril took a deep breath. “What if I give you the wrong name? Will you just send me away?”
“We do not dismiss those who want to hear truth. You choose when you leave.”
“Then I am ready.”
Toril was plunged into total darkness. A frigid breeze surged at waist height, billowing his tunic and raising goosebumps. The damp sand at the edge of the pool still touched his toes, but the sense of being indoors was gone. He was somewhere vast, lonely, and alien—and profoundly removed from the paoro.
“In the beginning, it is always dark,” came the voice, still quiet, but rich and penetrating. “Do not be afraid. What is your name?”
“Healer-of-Malena,” said Toril, somewhat breathlessly. “I choose to be Healer-of-Malena.”
A pale glow sprang to life in the distance, then coalesced into a tiny rose-colored pinpoint. For a moment, Toril thought he could see the shimmer of its reflection on water. Then the darkness returned, leaving after-images on his sightless eyes.
His heart sank. Was that it? Had he failed?
“Help me!” he called into the void. “I don’t know what to do. Was the name wrong?”
The absoluteness of the black assumed an ominous character. The only sound was the low whistle the wind made as it slipped past his ears.
Gitám had said he never dismissed those who would hear truth. Toril was certainly not back in the paoro, and his memory was intact. Was this silence a test?
“I will hear the truth!” Toril shouted hoarsely.
Nothing.
“I’m still here!” This time the words came out in a whisper. His head sagged. Malena was dying; he could not afford to dally on some arbitrary puzzle posed by deity. This was cruel. He’d tried so hard to choose an honorable path, suffered so much in the past few days. His desire was a good one. His sacrifice had cost him. That his attempt at the ordeal was flawed, he could believe; that it would be ignored was unfathomable.
Time passed.
Toril’s legs grew weary. He sat
down. What was happening to Malena? The constant gusting of the wind was taking its toll; he hugged his knees and ducked his head to conserve warmth, at last falling into a shivering, half-asleep trance.
Out of the mountains to the north of the shattered durga, a black mist flowed. The roiling clouds, the lightning, the vortex that now swirled and throbbed above the roof over Malena’s bed, seemed to recede, as if deferring to a more potent form of evil.
The mist cascaded downhill, giving off eerie whispers and an occasional faint shriek. It flowed around the mill, where walls were scorched and the roof had burned away; a few moments later, the doors sagged into a broken heap, and the wheel sank into the river with a groan.
Hika, standing sentinel at the door of the paoro, sensed the mist, poked her nose around the corner, and bounded away. Soon, however, she skidded to a stop. Tail tucked between her legs, ears flat, she returned stiffly to her post. As the mist drew near, she whined—first urgently, and then in fading whimpers. Her eyes closed.
The mist flowed past.
In the courtyard of the durga, the mist seemed to pool and gather, until all cobblestones were hidden, and only the rim of the well topped the blackness. Then it began to creep up the stairs.
When he could tolerate the cold and the awkward posture no longer, Toril rose to his feet, anger blazing in his heart. How long had he been waiting like this? Hours? Was the storm raging outside the paoro? Was Malena still alive?
“Are you trying to make me give up?” he rasped at the emptiness. “Is that what you want? Well, I’m not going back.” He clenched his fist. “But I’m not going to sit here waiting either. I’ve got to do something.”
Toril stepped in what he thought was the direction of the light he’d glimpsed. The movement began with defiance, but in the instant that his foot descended, fear surged. The blackness was absolute, offering no clue about his surroundings. He was stepping into water. At least, he had assumed he was. In the paoro, the pool had been no deeper than his ankles; suddenly he wondered if that would still be true in this queer, empty vastness where he was utterly blind. If he stumbled and doused himself, the cold would be far worse... And what if he had become disoriented, and he was stepping onto quite a different surface? Or onto nothing? For all he knew, he stood at the top of an endless cliff, and this step would be fatal.
It was too late to rock back on his heels. Water covered his foot, but just barely. He breathed a sigh of relief.
“Well done,” said the voice.
Toril trembled. “Don’t leave again,” he said, not quite able to keep a pleading note out of his voice.
“I have always been here, Toril. And you have been here, too—for longer than you know.”
“Then why wouldn’t you answer?”
“I told you that a name could only be forged by choosing. I could not choose to step for you; that would make it my name.”
Toril noticed that he could see again—not much, but enough to detect the faint outline of the priest’s form nearby, in the dimness.
“Does this mean I can have my name?”
“How like First Man you are, child!” observed the priest, still using the gentle bass of a different speaker. “It is dark because your name could not be called forth. I will help you choose a better name, if that is your wish.”
“What is wrong with the name I picked?” Toril asked. “Malena is dying. She may already be dead. She is my wife, my only family now that my parents and my brother are gone. I swore to be with her always. I swore it to The Five! Why is it such a bad thing to want to heal her?”
“Much good is in your choice, else you would have seen no light at all. Yet Healer-of-Malena cannot be a true name for you.”
Toril felt his pulse quicken. “Why not? I’ve worked small healing magics before. You said I had to provide the wood and the bellows, but you’d provide the spark; I know I could heal her if you made me stronger. Unless... is she already dead?”
“Malena lives. Health could be summoned to her body. But would that lift the sickness from her heart?”
“Let me heal that, too. I will love her and be kind to her. I won’t let her be lonely.”
“You love her and you ‘won’t let her’? Does love demand that Malena take the name ‘Healed-by-Toril’ so you can have the name you want?” There was an undercurrent of tension in the voice now—a definite warning.
Toril was taken aback. Wouldn’t Malena want to be healed? Was his desire to be of service so distasteful?
An image of Malena’s face, uneasy about sitting alone at the wedding feast, flashed through Toril’s mind. He’d claimed he needed to go to help his father. Was that his whole motivation? How had he concluded so easily that his own agenda outweighed Malena’s need for support? What qualified him to decree that she remain behind?
He remembered First Man admitting the inaccuracy of his word “mistake”...
“I think I see,” Toril said slowly, flushed with embarrassment. “Some of Malena’s healing is her own choice. I can’t force it.”
“Yes,” said the voice from the priest, sounding pleased. “Do good, but let each choose their own names. A person’s true name cannot derive from someone else.”
Toril felt his feet growing numb from the water. His teeth were chattering, and his heart was heavy. If he could not heal Malena, what was the point of this whole ordeal? Should he just give up? At least if he returned he could be at Malena’s side when she drew her last breaths.
And yet, he still had not been dismissed...
“So what name should I ch- choose, then?” Toril stuttered. “I came hoping to heal my wife, and you tell me that the thing I want isn’t possible. That leaves me sick at heart.”
The voice did not respond. Toril sniffed and rubbed a forearm clumsily across his eyes. “Is that my name—Fails-at-Everything-that-Matters?” he choked out. “I’ve burned too many bridges to stop Gorumim’s accursed war. Who knows how many innocent people will die because of my clumsy negotiating. I was gone when my wife needed me most. I couldn’t protect my father. I can’t even convince the clan to listen to me. You know what I wrote on the scroll.”
Still there was no response, though the dark continued to yield to a faint glow from the figure in front of him.
“Isn’t there any name that you can offer? Let me help somebody!”
Unexpectedly, the light around the figure flared. The darkness remained deep in other directions, but the face of the priest radiated until his features were almost too bright for the eyes. His lips moved, yet the words seemed to carry with a power other than spoken sound.
“Tell me your name, Toril-ur-Hasha. You found meaning once before, on your naming day; now you’ve touched it again. Utter the words! What is a name for someone who longs to help those who need him most—someone who knows he could do good if Gitám would just magnify his efforts—someone who burns a part of himself, steps into the dark, and seeks hope on behalf of others?”
An image of bare feet and splayed rocks on sand flashed across Toril’s mind.
“I saw two meanings in the glyphs,” Toril whispered. “Neither stirred my heart when I was a boy, but I chose one and carried it with me.” He felt a rush of emotion as ambivalence vanished. Perhaps he would not discover new lands, or change the culture of his people in profound ways. Perhaps he would not wield magic at the front of armies, or speak a dozen languages as a diplomat. But he still wanted a way to make a humble difference to people who needed him most, here and now. He could start with Malena. She was helpless, wasn’t she? That was a destiny he could love and believe in. “I am seeking to help Malena, and as many of my people as I can. I will lose them without my name. Can I be seeker-of-the-helpless?”
This time, it wasn’t just Toril’s lips that reacted to the magic; his entire body felt a jolt of warmth.
“Yes,” said the voice. “That is a good name for you, if you will have it.”
“It’s nothing different from what I chose before,” Toril said, som
ewhat plaintively. “Is it a name that can do Malena some good? Or have I gained no new thing?”
“You have gained the wanting. That matters. And your name conducts my power. But it will not be an easy name for you to acquire.”
“I claim it,” Toril said. “That is the name I wish.”
“Very well,” said the voice, becoming gentler but somehow even more penetrating. “Now the ordeal begins again.”
15
shadows ~ Malena
The mist reached the door of Malena’s room, billowed for a few moments, then began to invade the cracks, its whispers swelling in the quiet room. Paka, sitting cross-legged on a mat near the entrance, dropped his sitar and lurched away from the blackness. Shivi jumped out of her chair, eyes wide, a cry of alarm on her lips. But almost at once, both seemed to freeze. Their eyelids fluttered. Paka rolled sideways, his face growing pale and still; only the rhythmic bend of whiskers around his mouth indicated that he was breathing. Shivi slumped back into her chair, face still twisted.
Malena’s skin, sweaty and drained of color, acquired streaks of gray as the mist crawled onto the cushions where she lay unconscious, slithered across her diaphragm and chest, and snaked into her open mouth. Her eyes were closed, but beneath the lids they jerked in response. She was already breathing with great effort; now her expanding rib cage made room for vast quantities of blackness that leapt down her throat.
Her jaw snapped shut. The mist gathered, coalescing into an opaque fluid that shot into her nostrils even as she tossed her head from side to side.
Her back arched. Her mouth opened again, in a silent scream. The remainder of the mist swirled into a dense knot and plunged through her teeth, leaving behind nothing but a sinister shriek.
The fight for breath, the searing pain in Malena’s chest, the creeping cold, the cotton mouth and weariness and sweat—all vanished as if they’d been snuffed out like a candle in a stiff breeze.
Malena sat up, alert and whole.
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