The West Is Dying

by David C. Smith

  “The stink from the streets is pretty strong here in Sulos,” Mantho admitted. “We’ve had these riots and protests going on for the past month. Remember the day you left for the capital?”

  “I’d assumed that was just a small gathering.”

  Mantho shook his head. “Went on for three days. Arrested hundreds of people.”

  “For jobs,” Adred said, anger in his voice. “For food, for jobs.…”

  “Yes.” Mantho sighed. “I’m not proud of it, but I didn’t cause it. I can say that truthfully.”

  At fifty-two years of age, Mantho had had a brilliant career in finance and business, the result of his combining an interest in money with his love of athletics and the military. His greatest financial coup—the assumption of control of a large shipping and textile exporting firm—had been inspired by the Battle of Kadaeosh, an early glory of the Athadian civil wars. The successful risk had made him an extremely wealthy man at the young age of twenty-four.

  “If we don’t see full-scale riots soon,” Adred said grimly, “we’ll see social war. Or we’ll start a war somewhere. But that could only help the economy, couldn’t it?”

  “I’d rather be in a war. At least there you have something solid to fight for, something to live for. It gives you ideals. Gods! Why can’t we believe in ourselves anymore?”

  Adred stood, stretched, and fingered some of the discarded usto pieces. “Another game?”

  “In a little while, perhaps,” Mantho replied. “I want to go out and check up on some—” He stopped abruptly, looking at the door.

  Adred turned at his stare. It was Orain, standing at the steps of the portico. Her expression was grave; she was visibly shaken.

  Adred took a step toward her. “Orain? What is it?” Now he noticed the slip of paper in one of her hands.

  “From Abgarthis,” she said, nearly in a whis­per. Stepping down into the tiled portico, she walked to Adred and handed the letter to him. As she did, she looked at Count Mantho. “A letter from Abgarthis,” she said, “at court. A courier just—”

  “By the gods,” Adred said. “Queen Yta’s been murdered.”

  Mantho stood in surprise.

  “By soldiers,” Adred said, looking his friend in the eyes. “By imperial soldiers—under orders from Cyrodian!”

  “But if— Cyrodian?” Mantho fell quiet as the truth came to him. “Fighting Elad?” he asked, knowing the answer already. “From exile? For the throne?”

  “Why not?” Adred growled, crumpling the letter and furi­ously hurling it to the floor. “Anyone who kills now has a chance at ruling the country!”

  “Calm down, calm down, we must—”

  “Oh, why didn’t Elad just ax the bastard and damn the army to hell!” Adred said hotly. “We can’t even feed the hungry people in our country, and these fools are killing every member of their family!”

  Orain, taking the chair Adred had vacated, leaned forward, elbows on the table, and stared dully at the gray-clothed Mantho, looking through him. Adred, glancing at her, felt his fury dissolve as he remembered Dursoris on the night of his death—killing every member in their family—mutilated, and Orain.…

  “I’m sorry.” He stepped closer to her. “I’m very sorry,” he apologized in a low tone.

  Mantho looked on, frowning, but Orain shook her head and drew in a deep, steady breath. “You’re right,” she whispered. “No, you are. Cyrodian should have been executed.” Quietly, staring now at the floor: “But only after they’d tortured him and…done things to him that he deserved—cruel things.”

  Mantho, who had found the Princess Orain charming and generous, stared at her now, utterly speechless.

  * * * *

  “I shouldn’t have said that,” Orain apologized later. “I didn’t mean it, I shouldn’t have said it. No one should wish that upon anyone.”

  “That’s true,” Mantho agreed. “We shouldn’t. But we’re only people, after all. It’s trying to do our best that makes us good.”

  Orain looked at him. All was very quiet. There was but one lamp burning, and it hissed slightly with the last of its oil. Adred had gone out and taken Galvus with him—a talk between men, he’d called it. There were times when the two of them, so dissimilar in age and temperament, still seemed to communicate in a way that was foreign to everyone else.

  “Would you like to spend the night out here?” Mantho asked. They were on the enclosed balcony of a room on the second floor. “It’s cooler. The breeze is cool, but it might refresh you.”

  “I’d like that, yes. Thank you.”

  “No trouble. I’ll send a servant in with some things.” He stood, bowed politely, and went out, softly closing the door.

  Orain lay back on the couch and closed her eyes. Time moved so quickly. There was no chance to pause, relax, no opportunity to ponder as she had when a young woman, no time to read or to discuss wonderful things with thoughtful people, no time left to laugh.…

  Gods, was there no laughter anymore? Or had that, too, died with Dursoris?

  Soft footsteps. She opened her eyes and looked up. A manservant, middle-aged, was setting out a number of blankets and pillows on a chair. He turned to Orain as she sat forward.

  “My name is Euis,” he announced in a low voice. “I’ll be awake all night; I stay on this floor. If there’s anything you need, Princess Orain, please ring the bell.”

  “Thank you. Thank you, Euis. I will do that.”

  He bowed and took a step toward the door—and paused.

  Orain watched him, and then she heard it, too. Distant—but nonetheless loud, despite the distance.

  “What—” she murmured.

  But she knew, even as Euis explained it to her.

  “The riots,” he answered quickly. “Again…tonight…and close by. They fight in the streets—”

  “It doesn’t go on every night, does it?” Orain asked.

  “Almost every night. They’re hungry every night. Some are killed—” his voice was terribly quiet, now, almost silent “—and then they aren’t hungry any longer.” He looked down at her.

  Orain didn’t know what to say to him. What could she say? “Euis…I’m sorry.”

  He smiled at her and nodded, but in the dimness, Orain could not know whether he was sincere. “I’m sorry, too,” the servant admitted, “but not for them. For the soldiers, for the rich, for the aristocrats.…”

  Orain was taken by a deep feeling of apprehension.

  “Forgive me, lady.” He bowed again. “I meant nothing by it. But it continues, every night. No one seems to have any answers, and there is no peace.” He shuffled out, and Orain listened to him cross the room and leave.

  She sat where she was for a very long time, thinking about what he had said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Sorcery, Guburus said, is the ultimate awareness of Self, the profoundest realization of Nature, formed into direct action. We are not a part of Nature; we are Nature. When the Outer and the Inner, when the Greater and Lesser are joined, we are gods.

  * * * *

  He had been impressed by the fact that Thameron was once a priest of Bithitu. “So you have learned,” was Guburus’s comment, “that religion exists only to take advantage of the spiritual hunger in people and that it is the enemy of the true spirit? Good. Now at least you are prepared to free your spirit and learn and grow.” Too, he was impressed by the strength of the young man, for it was apparent to the sorcerer that Thameron was truly among those who burned with the inner light.

  “You will be eager,” Guburus warned Thameron, “to learn all things at once. You will be impatient to do mighty things without first learning to do many small things. But when did anyone ever run before he learned to walk? When did anyone ever chew meat before he had sucked his mother’s milk? What babe has ever handled a man’s weapons without first learning to play with its toys? Therefore your progress will be slow; it will be gradual but continual as you toil daily, monthly, yearly to become a magus.”<
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  Slowly…gradually.… But Thameron was, indeed, impatient. He suspected that some children are, after all, born to a man’s weapons and are special among other men; he believed himself to be one of those children.

  * * * *

  You must first learn the secrets of colors and of light, of sounds and of echoes, and the many dimensions of illusion. All is in essence illusion, and reality is merely our shared illusion. We depend upon this illusion and use it; it is the channel of our strength. Your inner universe will blossom, and you will have the strength of a god. But the strength of a god is not all the strength that is. Good is not always passive, nor evil, active. Neither is sorcery always a means of evil: sorcery is a tool, it is a thing of contemplation and resolve, it is a moment of action in a universe of awareness. Never believe that you are alone; never believe that something dead is not yet alive in some form otherwise and elsewhere. Know that the body is but an episode in a great spiritual process. And know that you will battle, yes, elements that are only yourself in another guise. For you will become the All, in that moment of action.

  * * * *

  Guburus had many homes, some in the forest, some by the sea, some in the desert. He wandered everywhere. For now, he had chosen to live in a cave that was situated in the side of a mountain only a few leagues south of Karshesht. From the cave mouth, Thameron could look down upon rolling fields that led eastward into the heart of the Salukadian Empire. To the west, the land sloped to the sea, where small villages had not yet been absorbed by the expanding port metropolises.

  Thameron was bored during his first days in the cave. Guburus left him alone, and Thameron did little but wander up and down the mountain or watch the sorcerer at his routine. Guburus spent much time sitting crouched in a chalk circle, meditating, or reading by the light of the sun; occasionally he tended to the fruit trees, berry bushes, and three goats he kept just outside the cave. For Thameron, who had had the impression that sorcerers lived ceremoniously and imperiously, it was a rude surprise to find this mage living frugally, doing little better than a poor farmer.

  However: “I leave you alone,” Guburus informed the young man, “so that you may forget your life in the city. Shall I take you from a tavern and teach you an awesome spell, so that you can damn yourself quickly? You must walk on the mountain, yon must study the stars, you must feel your body beginning to move with the rhythms of the moon’s cycle; you must feel your blood flowing with the pulse of growing roots; you must perceive your inner spirit, that which glows with the intensity of the sun. This is the you within you. And the first thing you must do is call yourself from yourself, look into the mirror of your spirit and awaken to yourself.”

  * * * *

  You must follow the twenty-one paths slowly, one at a time. The first path is mu-sa-eth; the second is mu-oso-ith; and so on. When you have learned the twenty-one paths of Shod Haru, you will begin to join the paths together. Finally, you will tread the last path, the path of Im-O Yaru. Then you will begin your ascent into the Spheres. You will learn of the true elements: fire and air, earth and water and spirit. You will learn of the currents and axes of your body and the spheres of your mind. Your finger is as powerful as a hammer or a sword. Your mind can make flames appear or demolish a city. You have demons within you, and other powerful spirits. You will learn to speak with phantoms; you will learn to make the air scream; you will join life to life and terrify others with simple truths. But you will do none of these things until you confront yourself and unify yourself with the greater Nature.

  * * * *

  But Thameron was anxious and eager. He felt that he was indeed born to become a sorcerer—he had the strength in him; he was hungry to move upon the world and do what he would do. He envisioned himself as a powerful light, as a strong shadow. Guburus insisted that he must train patiently; Thameron felt that he had already trained patiently in things of the spirit—was he not an abominable former priest of Bithitu?

  Secretly one night, when Guburus had left the cave to walk the stars and converse with voices that visited him in the mists high on the mountainside, Thameron stole into a back chamber of the many-roomed cavern and went through Guburus’s things. He had not yet witnessed one of sorcerer’s rituals, but already he sensed how those things were done. For the magus had many wands and swords, many amulets and talismans, many objects and jars and oils, bone boxes of incense powder, scrolls of spells and ceremonies written on skin and hide, many robes, many differently colored chalks and candles, crystals and glass spheres—all the accouterments that the learned and the initiated used to build paths into the greater spheres.

  As he stood in the hot light of a single oil lamp, Thameron felt a visitation come over him—a presence, almost an actual voice, or perhaps an impossibly strong memory. Himself speaking to himself? He felt himself to be one with that room, with those things of gramarye. He had been born to their use, and he had wasted his life in a temple of fabricated religion! He was appalled at himself. He wondered if there were not some way suddenly to absorb all that must be learned rather than continue wasting weeks, months, years under the tutelage of Guburus.

  In a small closet, Thameron discovered a cache of jewels. One in particular fascinated him, and he closed his fingers over it. It was warm and damp, like a living thing, although Thameron knew that it was only a gem. He opened his hand to stare at it; it glowed and seemed almost to pulse or breathe—

  “I suspected this.”

  He turned quickly at Guburus’s voice. The sorcerer, returned from his walk, was at the door of the chamber; he was not angry but, rather, saddened.

  “Guburus, please don’t be cross with me. I want these things. I am a sorcerer, I am born to it! I cannot spend my days wandering and staring at the sun and listening to noises—I have already done all of that!”

  The magus stepped into the room, took the stone from Thameron’s grip, and replaced it in his closet, closed it up, and led the young man away. “You are so eager, eager to learn, to do. I understand this. You wish me to teach you, and I will teach you—but you must respect your teacher.”

  “Guburus, I respect you profoundly! I begged you to take me as your pupil. But I feel a great call in me. I feel—”

  “I know what you feel. Your inner self is awakening, and it wants to have all. Your training is to control that hunger, to make it answer to you, Thameron. If you cannot control these impulses, they will master you, and you will come to ruin.”

  But Thameron chafed at the promise of continued restraint. “You don’t teach me fast enough, Guburus! Are you, are you afraid that I’ll learn more quickly than you can teach? Are you afraid that I’ll grow stronger than you?”

  “Thameron, the teacher always hopes that the pupil will surpass him, but there are methods by which that is accomplished. Listen to me, and know this: You will surely betray the promise within you if you attempt too much too swiftly.”

  “I am strong—”

  “You are strong, yes! You can learn. But time is a teacher, too.”

  “Guburus—”

  “You want that gem. Thameron, you do not know what it is.”

  “It is power.”

  “It is all the steps at once, Thameron; yet it is more. It is a door that, once opened, cannot be closed. It is a challenge.”

  “What kind of challenge?”

  “I will frighten you, Thameron; perhaps that will sober your impatience. That jewel belonged to the early gods. It must be broken in half in a certain way to unravel its powers. If it is not done correctly, then the spirit is damned, and you surely have no comprehension of what that means. If it is done correctly, however, the highest path is attained. This is the legend of that jewel. Now, I don’t tell you this to tempt you, though I’m sure you’re inspired by my story. Yet do you truly believe that you who are nothing, a boy, no sorcerer as yet, can unlock its secret, when I, who have strived through many accumulated lifetimes, still feel unprepared not to have dared it thus far?”

  Tha
meron’s heart beat quickly. He asked, “Guburus, do you not believe that my road met yours for a purpose?”

  “Yes, for a purpose.”

  “And for what purpose?”

  “I believe, Thameron, that I will unlock the gem, and when I have done so, my earth spirit will be passed on to you. I am your mentor; you are my pupil.”

  “Could there be no other reason for our paths to have met at this time?”

  Guburus read Thameron’s mind and sensed what a troublous pup he must have been to his mundane masters in the city temple. Leaning close, he lost patience and warned Thameron directly. “The jewel is mine! Do not attempt to alter the destiny that has been given to you!” His cold eyes made Thameron hurt, and Guburus knew that he had won the argument. “Respect me as your teacher, and I will respect you as my pupil. That is our bargain.”

  Thameron stared at him and stayed quiet. A part of him was afraid—of Guburus’s powers, which were great—but another unsettled part of him wished only to attain his robe of sorcery and begin to do the things that ached in his heart. Given a destiny? True—and Thameron knew that the light that burned within him, unclear though it was, was a light beckoning him to do more than live in a cave for numberless years, slowly learning to separate fire from fog. He wanted power, and he would have it.

  But at this moment, he told Guburus, “I will do as you say.”

  Guburus’s expression softened only slightly. “Do not attempt to steal the gem or do anything against me in private. If you misstep once, Thameron, I will punish you; if you err a second time, I will banish you from me. If you dare to return to me after all that, I will slay you.”

  Thameron was now nervous. “But teach me,” he insisted, “as much as I can absorb, as quickly as you can. I want to succeed—I want all of it. Respect that in me, please.”

  Guburus nodded solemnly. “Then I shall do so. But if you cry out, I will not answer you. If you scream, I will be deaf.”

  Apprehensive, Thameron nevertheless agreed to that challenge. “Let me surpass my teacher,” he said.