The Price of Wisdom

by Shannah Jay

  When he’d finished, people were looking surprised and muttering to one another.

  Herra waited until Davred had finished, then clapped her hands to regain everyone's attention. 'It will be the most difficult thing you’ve ever done, my dear friends, to keep your joy alive during a battle.

  You will see your loved ones fall - and many of us will die that day, make no mistake about that - but you must rejoice that they will be taking a step upwards on the Ladder of Life - for they will most definitely be doing that. Have no doubt about it.'

  Here it came, the moment she had dreaded. 'I know this, dear friends, because I, too, shall die that day.'

  There was a roar of sound - pain and protests, tears and denials. It rolled to and fro like a storm tide on the turn.

  Davred and Katia stood on either side of Herra, tears rolling down their cheeks, tears they made no attempt to hide. She laid one hand on each of their shoulders. 'No one can live for ever,' she said softly.

  'You must rejoice for me, not weep, for I shall be moving to the next level.'

  Silence, then Davred seized her hand. 'You're sure?'

  'I'm very sure.' If all went well. If they defeated the Serpent. If it had not gained too much power from the pain and sacrifices that had ravaged the land. But she didn’t say that, not even allowing the doubt to linger in her own mind.

  She clapped her hands again, but the sound was lost, for many people were still wallowing in their grief.

  Benjan stood up and roared loudly, 'Pay attention.' His voice seemed to carry an echo. 'If the Elder Sister can face her own death, then so can we,' he roared. 'Shame on you for doubting our Brother's loving purpose. Now,' he turned to Herra and said formally, 'teach us, Elder Sister.' He always had an instinct which told him when she was speaking as the one who guided all their steps, and when she was speaking merely as a friend.

  'All who listen shall learn,' she replied.

  Then voices cried out from here and there, 'Teach us, Elder Sister!'

  Once silence had fallen again and every face was turned to her, some still wet with tears, she raised her hands, so filled with the presence of the God her Brother that light glowed around her, first in a faint nimbus, then in a shimmer of brightness, then in a coruscating circle that seemed to send comfort to all touched by the sparkling intensity of the blaze.

  'Death is The Price of Wisdom,' she called into this brightness. 'We must all die that we may be renewed again, that change may bring wisdom and take us along new paths. To live a long life is a great joy, but to rejoin our Brother in death after a life well spent is also a great joy, for it is right that it happen. It is the Price of Wisdom.'

  The words echoed from rock to meadow, from tree to listener and not until the last echo had faded into an aching silence did she speak again. 'It is right that I die,' she continued, 'and die joyfully, for our Brother has granted me the longest life ever known and the longest Enhancement, too. And when we defeat the Serpent, I shall move on to the next level on the Ladder of Life. I shall join the other Manifestations of our Brother the God, who have come down among us over the years to share their knowledge and wisdom, to help us take the correct turn on the path of life. Can that be anything but joy?'

  There was utter silence, a silence filled with awe and the dawning of acceptance, but still filled with sorrow at the thought of losing her. Then she raised her voice and began to sing, one of the well-loved melodies they often used at Gatherings. One by one they joined in, until the whole area rang with the joyous melody.

  Through all this the High Council of the deleff had hovered above them in the sky and Quequere had sat, a quiet presence in the rocky ground.

  When the song was finished, Herra held up her hand and they all fell silent again. 'Thus shall we battle the Serpent, dear friends. We shall sing and we shall toss our joy at the darkness of evil, and we shall win! '

  In the next silence, Cheral's voice was heard, though she had spoken only for herself, 'Then we'd better start practising. For everything goes better when you know what you're doing.'

  Someone chuckled. Someone else joined in. And suddenly the whole meadow was filled with people laughing. For Cheral had such practical Gifts. They could feel comfortable with her approach to anything. She had been the one to lead the teaching, to work out the practicalities of testing for Gifts,

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  of developing skills, of applying them carefully. She was the one who could recognise new Gifts developing and work out how to train those, too. And had they not all felt the sharpness of her tongue, all known exasperation at her inflexible insistence on doing things properly.

  'Joy!' sang the deleff and the sky around them flickered with strange blue flashes of light.

  'Joy!' chittered the SS'Habi, clustered together on their sled.

  'Joy!' rumbled Quequere, setting every last fragment of the jutting rock shivering with his presence.

  'Joy!' whispered Terraccalliss in his painful exile on the moon above. 'Ah, now that is a weapon to be feared.'

  'Joy!' boomed Quedras, exchanging fierce glances with his mate. 'Joy! Joy! Joy!'

  'Joy!' called Erlic, in silver-toned satisfaction, alone, even in this gathering. Yes, he would take joy in playing his part. Had he not been created for that? Had he not given up his old self for it?

  'Joy!' The words was sung and chanted and repeated from mouth to mouth, and emotion made people clasp one another's hands, hug one another and get up one by one to whirl into dancing circles.

  'Joy!' The strangest weapon ever known. But even now it was making its presence felt, surprising everyone with the strength and power it spread around them.

  'Joy!'

  Alaran sat there, head on one side, and the word seemed to beat out a rhythm in his brain, a rhythm he would one day turn into a song.

  And as the day faded and folk wandered back to their own domains, Herra knew that her words had found fertile ground. Wisdom was always a difficult balance to find on the path of life.

  'Joy!' she said again very quietly as she sought her own bed. 'Sunrise shall awake with joy.'

  CHAPTER 23 FEERA'S GIFT

  The sea beat sullenly upon the summer shore and a grey sky shadowed the day. Storm weather brewing, locals said, and brought their boats back to harbour.

  But south of the city of Fenlanik, men who paid little heed to the vagaries of weather were assembling on the Halani Fringelands, broad stretches of grassland that rolled gently inland from the coast. These men were not gentle, nor did they respect the land. They churned up the ground, heedless of the pasture they destroyed, the water they muddied, the rubbish they rarely bothered to bury.

  The leaders, living in luxury in huge felt tents, were filled to overflowing with hubris, and it showed in the arrogance of their every move, the sharpness of their orders, their carelessness about how they used their men. Bursting to rape, they were, or murder, or maim. All in the name of the Serpent.

  Some of the common soldiers were filled with the same harsh exaltation, knowing that the day of reckoning for those perverted hags was fast approaching. Others, more reluctant to fight but afraid to refuse the call to arms, were trying not to let their real feelings show, trying to appear confident and happy at the prospect of all-out war, trying most of all, during the interminable stretches of darkness between the long days of hard training, not to worry about the families they’d left behind. In the bustle of a huge camp little attention was paid to what individuals did, so they tended to find companions to their own liking and when they were formed into fighting units, they stuck together.

  Day by day the numbers built up, with men arriving in small groups from Mer-Halani in the north, where the land was wilder and the shores rocky and dangerous, from Fen-Halani itself, first of the Halani Claims to be settled, and from Jan-Halani in the south, a marshy land that seemed to breed quiet people who liked their open spaces to remain sparsely populated and who needed to feel the wind on their faces.

&
nbsp; All three regions had been claimed during the same period, changing the four original claims into The Seven Claims. Now the new Lords Claimant had gone over to the Serpent, and the order had gone out for all able-bodied men to rendezvous in the north of the Halani Fringelands, just near the stretch of sea which local folk called Feera's Gut.

  Groups of men marched in to the assembly point, some silent, some strutting and boasting about how they’d burnt any house whose occupants hadn’t sent all their menfolk to fight, boasting of the women they’d taken in the shrines on their way to the Fringelands, the backs they’d whipped raw.

  All in the name of the Serpent.

  When pressed, however, they admitted that most of the coastal fishing villages had been empty of folk, that even the old and infirm had been spirited away somewhere. So all they’d been able to do there was burn the houses down and trample the crops in their little walled fields. No honour to the Serpent in that, no power to be gained for their god, either, just a spiteful satisfaction in the destruction.

  On the grassy flats men were practising with unfamiliar weapons - knives, bows and arrows, longstaffs, spears, whatever came to hand. Some of the weapons had been sent from Setheron, a gift from the Lord Sen-Sether himself, and these were well-crafted in the finest steel, as were the throwing knives from Jan-Halani. Naturally the officers and the Servants of the various shrines kept the best of the weapons for themselves.

  'We need more blacksmiths,' growled Bel-Halath, Lord Claimant of Fen-Halani, to his second in command. He didn't look at anyone as he spoke, just continued tearing a roast enga-hen apart with greasy fingers.

  'Can't find any,' Vizran Bel-Visser admitted, licking his own fingers. 'Not for love or money. And the smiths we do have are working all the hours they can stand upright. Can't fault them there.

  Couldn't get any more work out of them, no matter what we did.'

  Bel-Halath belched loudly. 'There have to be more smiths somewhere. What about the ones from those deserted coastal villages, not just in Jan-Halani, but all along the coast? Men can't live without blacksmiths. There must have been dozens. Where have they all gone?'

  Vizran raised one questioning eyebrow at the local Initiate who’d done such sterling work in rounding up men from the coastal towns that he’d been allowed to dine with his Lord Claimant that night.

  'Those from the smaller villages have probably taken to the sea,' Sethnor said, glaring at the water as he spoke. 'That's where all the rebels go.'

  'Well, why haven't you gone after them?' Bel-Halath grabbed another piece of meat and started

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  chewing at it, licking the grease delicately from his fingertips.

  'We can't, Lord.'

  'What do you mean, can't? That's no way to serve the Serpent. I thought you were an Initiate.'

  'I am. But I'm not a fool. Anyone who's of the Serpent and goes on the sea finds huge waves smashing against his boat, which usually overturns. He's lucky if he gets back to shore alive. We've lost a lot of good men trying, believe me. We've done our very best there for the Serpent.'

  Vizran and his master exchanged disbelieving glances.

  'Well, try again, now!' Bel-Halath grunted. 'And you go with him, Vizran. See that it's done properly.

  You used to know about boats, didn't you?'

  Vizran nodded.

  The Initiate opened his mouth to protest, then sighed and shut it again. If they insisted on this, everyone in the boat would be sleeping in the arms of the Serpent tonight. But it was no use telling city folk. They just went their own sweet way and trampled all over you in the process. It was a waste, though. Still, death came when the Serpent willed, not when you willed, so he shrugged his shoulders and did as he was ordered.

  Vizran himself chose the boat, a well-found vessel tied up at the quay in a small place called Fenfiniak. He also vetted the men whom the Initiate brought along to sail it. Most of whom were surly, visibly reluctant to take to the sea. It was one thing to serve the Serpent, to accept pain, even, another thing entirely to throw your life away for nothing, whatever the cause.

  As the boat bobbed out across the bay, Vizran stood at the prow and shouted loudly several times,

  'In the name of the Serpent'. This had become the rallying cry of the forces being raised to put down the Kindred. It seemed appropriate to use it now.

  The boat sailed easily out of the broad sweep of the bay. Beyond it the water was choppy and progress slowed.

  Suddenly, out of nowhere, a squall came roaring around the boat, setting it rocking wildly, tearing the sails to shreds in minutes. Men shouted in terror, the Initiate cried out for the Serpent to save them and the captain roared orders. All in vain.

  When the squall died, just as suddenly as it had blown up, the sails had been reduced to rags and the boat was yawing dangerously.

  Vizran clutched the side, stared around him and turned pale. Beyond them the sea was still peaceful and there was no sign of bad weather in the sky, around them the sea was choppy - more than choppy, threatening. 'That's not possible,' he muttered. 'It's just not possible.'

  The Initiate snorted scornfully. 'Anything is possible out here. I told you, but you wouldn't believe me. Those of the Serpent aren’t welcome on the ocean.' A fatalistic expression sat on his face and he shrugged as he added, 'Well, we shall all die for your stubbornness.'

  Vizran glared at him. 'Don't be a fool! We've got oars. We can row our way back to shore. It'll take time, but we'll get there eventually.'

  Even as he spoke, the boat began to rock violently, then to turn in circles, slowly at first, moving faster and faster. And still the clouds above them were sailing along peacefully in a blue sky, still the sun shone upon the blue waters. There was no wind, no storm - only the turbulence around the boat.

  Shouts of dismay rang out again and men grabbed at anything they could find to stop themselves being thrown overboard.

  The Initiate began to chant, 'Serpent, save your Servants! Serpent, save your Servants!' in a piercing monotone that rose above the creaking of timber strained to the utmost and the sharp cracking sounds of the shreds of sails. A few men joined in half-heartedly. Most of them saved their breath for the long swim back to shore. If they were lucky, that was. If they didn’t drown. A few of the more practical ones began to kick off their shoes and shrug out of their leather jerkins, all the time holding on to the nearest fixed object.

  Suddenly a figure began to rise from the water beside the boat, a figure whose features were blurred and hard to look at, as if seen through a waterfall, and whose grey beard flowed down his chest to blend with the grey heaving water nearby. The figure rose higher, grew larger. Anger radiated from it. It was as tall as a cliff now.

  The boat stopped pitching abruptly as the figure stretched out one gigantic hand to pluck it from the water.

  'Before you die,' roared Feera, 'know that the Serpent has no sway here, know that it will never have sway over my waters.'

  A frenzied chorus of voices started pleading with the Serpent to save them, but there was no answering rumble, no sign of a dark shadow on any forehead, even on that of the Initiate, who was often honoured to bear his Dread Lord's sign.

  The enormous hand shook the boat like a child's toy, tipping men out of it and sending them splashing down into the water. It then ignored them, and those who could started swimming towards the shore, not even glancing over their shoulders, for they didn’t want to see their doom bearing down upon them. Terror lent them a turn of speed rarely seen in even the most expert swimmer. But one figure remained in the boat, saved from falling because it was deliberately pressed back into a corner by a giant finger that dripped water and seaweed and seemed to fill the air with a chill that struck to the marrow of the bones.

  Vizran wasted no time screaming for help, but clung to the gunwale with hands that trembled and shook, closing his eyes against the damp horror which had him trapped like a helpless insect.

  When the boat w
as empty, Feera picked up Vizran between two giant fingertips and shook him till his head rang and his teeth rattled. 'You ought to die with your comrades, but I need a messenger. Tell Bel-Halath to get his forces away from my coast by tomorrow. They smell of the filth that they are. And tell him not to raze any more villages as he goes, if he values his own life.'

  Feera repeated his message, punctuating it by more shakes and roars, then set the small trembling figure on a broken plank and gave it a flick with one finger and thumb, so that it shot through the water, not stopping until it smashed into the harbour wall.

  When men pulled Vizran from the water, he was staring like one who had seen horrors beyond imagining and shivering like one who had the fever. And yet, he was as cold as ice to the touch.

  'T-take me t-to Bel-Halath,' he stuttered. 'Quickly. If you v-value your lives.'

  He was taken to the edge of the camp by men who knew better than to carry bad news to Bel-Halath, whose temper was nearly as fiery as Sen-Sether's. From there, he was passed from one to another until he was dumped outside the Lord Claimant's tent and left lying there. And not for one moment did he stop shivering, not for one moment could he banish the memory of his comrades'

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  screams as they were flung from the boat, or the dreadful gut-chilling feeling of being held up in the air, helpless in Feera's hands, of seeing that huge face looming over him, of feeling the giant's anger aimed at him.

  He lay there for a moment or two, then dragged himself painfully to his feet and staggered into the tent.

  'Ah,' said Bel-Halath. 'So you managed to get to shore again. I thought you'd drowned.' He sounded not in the least sorry and his attention was mainly on a bowl of his favourite sweetmeats.

  Vizran nodded, his teeth chattering involuntarily.