by Tim Stead
“It is my task. I am charged with it by my lord Serhan.” That had been true when he had stepped through the black door, and he had been confident then. These were simple tasks for a great power such as he, but as he did them they became something else that wasn’t simple at all.
“Whatever the reason, your deeds will not be forgotten, my lord.” Candros bowed, and it was a sincere bow, a gesture of respect, impulsive and unfamiliar. Borbonil was touched, but hid it.
“Where is the city most damaged?” he asked.
“On the north side,” Candros replied. “You have seen some of it.”
“Show me again, and walk slowly, Finn Candros.”
They walked again, up and away from the sea, into the wounded parts of the city. As they went Borbonil quickly framed spells to restore walls, mend roofs, make the shells of buildings whole again. It was tedious, work, but he found that it gave him satisfaction to see the neatness of the city restored. It had been a beautiful place before the looting and burning, and he was making it beautiful again.
They were followed. Some of the braver men and women from the summer gardens had followed them at a distance. Others joined them as he moved through the streets until he was drawing hundreds behind him, a wake of whispering, pointing, gasping humanity. He wanted them to go away, but did not command them to go. Part of him was pleased that they watched.
It had not been the beginning of the day when he had arrived in Pek, and now night was drawing close. Only the tops of the buildings still glowed in the sun, and the air was growing quickly cooler.
“Finn Candros, you have served me well today, and now I must depart. At dawn be at the place where you first saw me, and you may serve me again.”
“I will do as you command,” Candros said.
Borbonil turned and looked at the crowd. It hushed under his gaze. He wanted to say something to them, but could not find the words, could not even find the meaning that he wished to express. He turned away and created a black door, stepping through it back to Ocean’s Gate, back to an easier place than this.
* * * *
At dawn the following day he returned. The night had not been an easy one. The Faer Karan did not have the comfort of sleep, as men do. He had spent most of the dark hours in thought. Cabersky had returned early from Skycliff, and recounted his tale simply. There had been little to do, and he had spoken the words given to him by Serhan. The men attacking the fortress had departed. He had returned to Ocean’s Gate.
Borbonil did not choose to share what had troubled him with Cabersky. He told his own story simply. I did this, I did that, no mention of the people, the emotions, the oddness. When he came to step through the black door again, back to Pek, he did so with apprehension, and with a sense of expectation. He was troubled, it was true, but he wanted to feel those emotions again, to explore them.
Even so, he was unprepared.
When he stepped through again onto the streets of Pek he was immediately aware of people. There were hundreds of them. Where they had run or knelt the previous day they now stood in silent ranks.
“My lord, we are glad to see that you have returned.”
It was Finn Candros, but there was another, older man beside him.
“Why are these people here?” Borbonil demanded.
The older man looked afraid, but not Finn Candros.
“They are here to greet you, my lord, to thank you.”
“I do not require thanks or greeting. I carry out my allotted tasks, that is all.”
“It is our way. Thanks are freely given for such a service.”
“My lord,” the older man spoke, emboldened perhaps by Candros’s continued survival. “If you will permit it we desire to bestow an honour.”
Borbonil stared at them. A human honour? For a Faer Karani? Why would he want such a thing? But they seemed so eager, so anxious.
“What honour?”
“It is called Karani bos-Katana Pek. It is our oldest honour.”
“My lord,” Candros said. “It translates as…”
“I speak the old tongue very well, Finn Candros. Lord defender of Pek. It is a title that I have done nothing to deserve.”
“Forgive me, my lord, but I must disagree,” the old man said. “You have driven out the Saratans, healed the sick and the dying, and rebuilt many of our homes.”
“I am Faer Karan, old man. These were not mighty deeds.”
“I believe that you do not yet understand what you have done, my lord,” he gestured at the people packed into the adjoining streets, all silent, all watching, all uncertain as Borbonil himself. “These men and women were defeated, beaten, many were dying. Our city, the most beautiful Pek, was laid waste and plundered. Our very future had been ripped away from us, and the wound was fatal. You have healed that wound, given us back our hope, even our pride, and you have healed more than people.”
He looked again at the crowds, and the realisation struck his arid heart like a hammer blow. They loved him; or not him, but the things that he had done, and that was the first step on the road. This was what Gerique had plotted for years to achieve, and in the end it was very easy, and he had come upon it in defeat, by accident. Gerique had understood nothing.
“Old man,” he said. “I will accept your honour, but you must remember that I am here and do these things at the bidding of Serhan of White Rock.”
He sensed at once that he had said the right thing. He saw some in the crowd were smiling. The old man beamed. But why was it the right thing? Did he care that it would make these people feel better? He found that he did.
“But it is you that are here, and you that do these things.”
There was a short and inconsequential speech, and the old man called another out of the crowd, bearing a finely made cloth bag. Out of the bag the old man pulled a sword. For an uneasy moment Borbonil thought of Serhan’s sword, the unnatural black blade sucking at his strength, hovering inches from his throat, but this sword was a different thing entirely. It was a joyous weapon, never meant to be used in anger. It was all gold and silver and rubies, and glittered like the sea on a new morning, fresh and cool.
The old man presented it to him hilt first.
I am Faer Karan. What do I want with a sword?
He accepted it, and held it awkwardly for a moment. He was not used to holding weapons.
“Thank you,” he said. They seemed to want more. He struggled to find something to say. “Your city was fair indeed. With effort it will be fair again. I will help. Now I must go about this task.” He turned to Candros. “Where we stopped yesterday, take me there.”
Finn Candros led him through the crowd, and the man seemed proud, puffed up to be so employed. When they were clear of the crowd, and only a few dozen followed them through the streets he spoke to Candros.
“Is anything else expected of me?”
“No, my lord. The honour is for services already done.”
So that was done with.
He moved through the city, and buildings were restored as he went. He found that he was also correcting things, improving things, even repairing potholes in the roads. These were things that he had not been asked to do.
It was the price.
There was something inside him now. It was a piece of the city of Pek, and Finn Candros, and the old man, and all the staring, smiling, grateful people. This place of white buildings, mazy streets and rustling gardens freshened by the sea breeze, it was inside him now. He was part of it, and it was part of him. Even if he never returned here it would be so.
It was the very thing that Gerique had failed to grasp. The greatest of all the Faer Karan had seen that love was the key to power, but he had not understood that it was also a chain, attached at both ends.
As night approached he left the city, returning to Ocean’s Gate. He took with him the ornamental sword that the people had given him, and laid it carefully on a shelf in his private chamber.
55 The Crefas
Serhan dissolved
the black door and hefted the pack onto his back. It felt like an old companion, almost forgotten. Grass and scrub covered the hillside around him, and a gentle breeze whispered and rustled, but even the moving air felt hot. Small insects clicked and scraped a dry chorus. Otherwise it was quiet.
He walked across the slope, heading west. He walked because he felt like walking. It was how the adventure had begun. He moved quickly in spite of the heat, turning north-west into a long valley, and following that, climbing steadily up to a saddle between two bare, rocky peaks. His muscles warmed and his heart quickened. He felt sweat run down his face and took pleasure in it. After about an hour he reached the saddle. His legs felt used again, and his lungs clear.
Now he could look down into another valley. There were tents there, and fires. Even at this distance he could smell the smoke and the faint, familiar seduction of cooking meat. He was hungry. He paused only for a moment, and then went on, down towards the encampment. It was not long before they spotted him, and he could see them streaming from the tents in his direction. He waved to them, and they waved back. These were his friends, the original band of the Kastan Delor that he had met with Seer Jud, and now he needed them.
After the delights of a joyous greeting, a few cups of rough country wine and a hearty if not particularly refined meal he sat with Jat and, as night settled over the camp, discussed the hunting, the weather, and the comings and goings of other clans of the Kastan Delor. He had timed his visit well. In a few days they would be gathering for the Crefas, a sort of market, meeting and games attended by many of the bands. This was the highlight of the year, and it would last for at least a week, with some arriving days before others, so that there was a constant coming and going of Shan.
He had known about this, but had been unsure of the date, because the Shan themselves were unsure. Each clan had their own way of knowing the time, and it had to do with sunsets, sunrises, various marker rocks and peaks and positions from which to observe them.
He asked Jat if he could go with them to the Crefas.
“You are our clan friend, you are my friend, of course you may come,” Jat replied, but there was an uneasiness about the way he spoke, and he looked away.
“The other tribes,” Serhan asked. “They will not welcome me?”
“You are a man,” Jat said simply.
“Then it is best that I come alone.”
“It is best, good friend, if you do not come at all. You may be a great warrior, but there will be hundreds at the Crefas.”
“I must go. I have a gift to give the Kastan Delor, and it must be given to many.”
“A gift?”
“There are men coming, Jat, men who do not seek your friendship. They fear the weak kindred who live without weapons because these ones can see inside them and know the truth. I must give this gift before they come, and time is short.”
“We do not fear men,” Jat said.
“There will be hundreds of them, my friend. They are faster than you and stronger than you. They will carry long swords and bows, and will seek only your death. There will be no truce offered, and none left to tell the tales of your valour. The Shan will end.”
“End?”
“If they can, they will kill all of you, even the children.”
“I do not understand. Why would they do this?” He sounded sceptical.
Serhan looked into the fire, and for a long time he did not answer. He could not expect Jat to understand. Men had lived so long in fear, so long without ambition, so long without power. They had learned to fear the truth, and learned, too, that the exercise of brutal strength was an effective path to power. Now that the Faer Karan were gone they were striking out in all directions, and the Shan were blamed. After all, they had played a part in the suppression of mankind, and their word had plucked many a secret from unwilling, careful men, and sent them to their deaths.
He did not blame the Shan. They had only done what was necessary to survive, and survival was more important than morality. He accepted that, although he suspected that the Shan had been surviving for so long that it had become their purpose.
“An evil possesses them,” he told Jat. “It is an evil that the Faer Karan have laid upon them, and it will take time for that to pass, for men to become kind again.”
“Then we must fight.”
“I agree, but you must be stronger than you are.”
“How can this be? The numbers of the Kastan Delor are slow to increase.”
“It is magic, Jat.”
“None of the Shan can do magic, my friend. It is blind to us.”
“I can gift you this one thing.”
Jat looked uncomfortable again. He shook his head.
“I am not sure, friend Serhan. I know that you intend no harm, but the Kastan Delor distrust magic. It is…” and it was Jat’s turn to look into the fire, “evil.”
Serhan took out his dagger and laid it beside the fire. It was a beautiful weapon, and the firelight played games along its exquisite engraved blade. It was decorated with a snake whose tail was the blade’s tip and whose head, adorned with ruby eyes, formed the golden hilt. Jat studied it appreciatively.
“Is this knife evil, Jat?”
“I see your point,” Jat said. “It is the deed that is evil, or the one who holds the knife, and so with magic, but magic makes things other than they are, than they should be.”
He was surprised that Jat had seen the direction of his argument so quickly. He chided himself for underestimating the Shan. He had begun to characterise Jat as innocent, almost simple, but it was not so.
“As your fire does to the meat we have eaten,” he said. “Magic is not an unnatural thing. It is just another face of nature.”
“I cannot disagree with you. I know nothing of magic, but I can tell you that the warriors of the Kastan Delor would rather die in battle than be touched by magic.”
“If it is so, then that is what will happen.”
“But, friend Serhan, if you have this power why do you not use it to turn these men aside?”
“I could do this,” he conceded. “But I will not.”
“You would let us die?”
“I offer you a remedy. The path I have chosen is a difficult one, and there will be a time when I am not here to defend the Shan. Who then will you turn to?”
The Shan looked at him for a long moment.
“Like a father,” he said, “you want us to make our own way, to stand by ourselves. I will have to think on this.”
So they parted that evening, and in the morning when Jat arose and went to seek Serhan with his answer the mage had gone, leaving in the night, and none had seen him depart.
* * * *
Three days later Jat’s clan was at the Crefas. It was a big, sprawling mass of Shan. Two hundred tents scattered almost at random along the shores of a great lake surrounded by jagged peaks of dark rock. A hundred fires burned day and night, and every day new clans came and others departed through the four passes that led into the great valley. This was their traditional place, and if the Kastan Delor had a city, this was it. This was a place for settling old grudges, making new alliances, trading, courtship, and the telling of tales. It was the culmination of the year.
There were no regular pathways through the tent city, but large open spaces had been left in its midst, and in these arenas most of the feasting, fighting and tale telling took place. The Kastan Delor loved their stories, and each year the histories of the tribes were swapped, the most eloquent of the tellers speaking before audiences of more than a hundred. It was chaos, and it stank.
At mid afternoon, or a little past, some of the Shan spied a lone figure approaching down one of the four paths. They called out to others, pointed. Soon there were many Shan looking and pointing. It was clearly not a Shan that approached.
As their numbers increased and the figure came closer the sky darkened. Great slate coloured clouds rolled quickly across what had been a clear, bright expanse of blue just
minutes before. A wind picked up and blew across the lake, tugging at the tents, making the fires sway and roar, putting dust into the eyes of the watchers. As the figure drew ever closer lightning began to strike down from the clouds, blasting the peaks of the mountains around them. Thunder hammered at their ears, seemingly coming from just above them.
Lightning struck at the man, too, as he entered the fringes of the camp, but it did not kill him, or even slow his steps. It danced around him like a billowing cloak, and the Kastan Delor moved hastily out of his way. He passed through the camp, walking steadily, not looking at them, until he reached the greatest of the clearings, where he stopped.
Lightning struck again, hitting the ground just before him, and when the light and dust cleared there was a stone chair on the spot where it had struck. He sat, and the Kastan Delor gathered around him, keeping a good distance. They were a curious people, and not deficient in courage.
He sat for some minutes, head bowed, silent, until it seemed that all the Shan at the Crefas were crowded into the great space, and then he lifted his head and looked around at them, his eyes dark, and his expression grim. The wind died away, and the dark clouds began slowly to disperse.
“I am the Mage Lord Cal Serhan,” he said, and his voice was strong and resonant. All heard him clearly, and they wondered at that. “I am the master of White Rock, conqueror of the Faer Karan, death mate to the Seer Sage Rin Percan Sylbastinorette, named by her Frateri Moru, father of the fourth age of this world, holder of the key, and wielder of the great sword Soul Eater. I am tribe friend to the Kastan Delor Seech, and I come to tell you a great tale.”
“You are a man,” a voice said, and immediately an argument broke out. Should a man be allowed to speak at the Crefas? It was quickly clear that curiosity was winning the battle with protocol, and eventually an ornately dressed Shan stepped into the space before him.
“I am tribe master Cut of the Kastan Delor Pren, Chosen Arbitrator of the Crefas. My ruling is that we will hear your tale. It is the will of the Kastan Delor.”
So Serhan told them his tale, full as it was with betrayal, sacrifice, heroism, and conflict. He used all his skill and they sat and stood in a great circle around him, listening in silence, captivated by what seemed the great story of the age. He told them of the vast city of Samara, heart of the world, described its shining buildings, its great harbour and its lost glories, and they saw the place. His words summoned pictures in their heads. They saw the Seer Sage Rin, old and wise, brave and noble in her sacrifice. They saw the passing of Dragan, and the great struggle with Gerique, mightiest of all, and they saw the armies of Sarata, cresting the ridges to the north and east of Samara, felt the thunder of hooves, and were awed by their numbers.
