Four years had passed, and everything had gone well. The Riders, whose loyalty to me and to my vision never ceased to touch me deeply, had barely begun to build the smallish settlement we planned when people started to arrive from the areas nearby. It had become quickly apparent that the city’s growth would result in chaos if ungoverned, and I had suddenly become not only a builder, but an administrator, responsible for planning decisions and records maintenance—who had come, where they lived, what they promised Kä. The price of admission for everyone had been a portion of time or skill devoted to what was soon dubbed “government city,” and Kä had been built with truly unbelievable swiftness. Water channeled from the Pleth turned the waste of white sand into a green and fertile oasis.
Three years after our arrival at Kä, Skerral had left me. Now it was more than a year since, and I was sitting in the sand block shelter in which the sha’um had slept, facing the terrifying thought that Skerral would not come back.
I reached into my pouch and drew out the Ra’ira. Not once, since the short-term experimentation in which I had indulged after the experience with Mira’s father, had I attempted control through the Ra’ira, but I had used it often to see into the minds of others, with specific purpose: to find my enemies, and learn how to make friends of them; to detect problems before they festered beyond reasonable solution.
Now I contemplated using the power of the stone for my own gain. Perhaps, with its aid, I could reach through the blankness that blocked my contact with Skerral, and end this torturous uncertainty. It was my purpose, I told myself merely to find out if he would return to me.
I lay down on the floor of the shelter, clutched the Ra’ira tightly in my hand, and projected my thoughts in search of Skerral. I found him in the Valley, with his mate and cubs. His mind was strangely different now, ruled by instinct and physical need, and I sensed an enviable contentment in him.
I also sensed that, while he did not think of me, he had not forgotten me. The mindlink we had shared was still there, suppressed though it was by the life needs which had drawn him back to the Valley. I realized then that I had deceived myself. It was long past the usual time when Skerral should have returned; I had already known, though could not admit, that whatever factors caused a sha’um to abandon his Rider had occurred for Skerral.
*You are wrong,* Skerral said clearly.
It was as if the thinking creature had lifted itself from the animal and turned its face to look at me directly. I was shocked, and oddly shamed, as though I had been caught eavesdropping. My joy in renewing the mindbond swept away those feelings for a moment, then was checked by my recognition of what the sha’um had said.
*How am I wrong?* I asked.
*I choose,* he said. *I will stay.*
*Why?* I asked, bewildered and not a little frightened. Had I found Skerral only to lose him again?
As was always the case, the sha’um was sensitive to my feelings as well as my thoughts, and sadness and resignation radiated from him as he answered me.
*People need you,* he said. *Not together.*
Understanding crushed down on me. Building and running a new city and a new government at the same time had been an all-consuming job, and my “runs” with Skerral had been infrequent these past few years. I had learned to accept a place in life which forbade intimate friendships—the Sharith thought of me as a part of them, but our tasks lay in different areas. Through all the increasing isolation, the sha’um’s mind-presence had been comfort and support for me—the thought of living the remainder of my life without it was terrifying.
*Please come back,* I pleaded with the sha’um. *I need you.*
*Still here,* Skerral said. *In Valley.*
*You mean we can still talk to one another, even though you’re in the Valley and I am in Kä?*
*Yes,* the sha’um answered.
I tried to believe it was possible, but I could not. The Valley would stimulate the sha’um’s life instincts, gradually weaken and destroy our bond. And I would be alone.
*Come back!* I said desperately. *Come back!*
Skerral’s mind recoiled from mine, shocking me into awareness. Unconsciously, I had been using the influence power of the Ra’ira, sending a message, not of need, but of compulsion.
*Skerral, I am sorry!* I told the sha’um, deliberately eliminating any taste of compulsion from the communication. *I did not mean—please, I do need you. Come back to Kä.*
*No,* Skerral said, and there was still a sense of greater distance between us. *Link will fade,* he said, agreeing with my earlier thought. *Better end now. Sorry *
And he was gone, closed to me, totally immersed in hunting food for his family. Frantic with guilt and loss, I clutched the Ra’ira with the impulse to force a reopening of the link. Two things stopped me.
First, a glimmer of rationality considered the fact that compulsion had not affected Skerral earlier, and probably would have no effect now.
Second, my regard for Skerral finally found its way through the maze of need that had gripped me. In the Valley, Skerral had the close companionship of his family. His return to Kä would deprive him of that, and no substitute could replace it.
In spite of this terrible cost, above all personal needs and private horrors, one truth had never wavered: I was the first King of Gandalara, not solely by contrivance or by destiny, but by choice and commitment. Even had he come back, I could have spared little time for physical companionship with Skerral.
I resolved, in that moment, that no one—no man, and no sha’um—would ever be forced to face these choices again. There would come a time when a means to determine my successor must be detailed. Among those criteria would be a restriction: future Kings of Gandalara could not be drawn from the Sharith.
11
Somil pulled me away from Zanek, saying: “We must go now.”
In spite of our earlier conversation, I protested.
“No! Did he ever marry, ever find any personal happiness? What did the Sharith say about the restriction he proposed? Did he ever see Skerral again, or share a mindlink?”
Somil’s mind carried me firmly and swiftly along the glowing spokes, outward from the center of the All-Mind. “We cannot stay,” he said, with true regret. “But I sense that you already know the answers to your questions.”
I considered that. Yes, I did—they were implicit in what I had learned about Zanek and his life in those few contacts. He would remain isolated, bestowing all his love and energy on the newly founded Kingdom. I knew that Skerral’s withdrawal had been final; it was only sympathy for the lonely and dedicated man that had let me hope for any change there. And as for the Sharith …
Suddenly the Bronze and the other sword made sense. The Sharith had been, in Zanek’s time as now, fiercely proud. Zanek would have known that, even with full explanation of the reasons for his action, the Sharith might have seen his prohibition of future Sharith Kings as an ungrateful and disloyal act, and a waste of the best resources available.
He would have taken great care to reaffirm the importance of the Sharith to the Kingdom. Had I been Zanek …
I could see the plan progressing secretly through the later years of Zanek’s life. Using only people whose silence he could trust—as only Zanek could know such a thing—he would have ordered the forging of two swords made of rakor, and he would have commissioned the huge bronze plaque, possibly traveling to Eddarta personally to guide the imprinting of its special message.
Back in Kä, he would have begun his search for a successor, touching the minds of young people, seeking not only a basic mindgift but integrity and responsibility. Those he thought suitable, he would have brought before the Bronze. The person who read it most easily and was moved by its message to vow sincerely the commitment required to be King, would have been chosen by Zanek as his successor.
He would have called a formal, festive meeting to announce who his successor would be. He would have carried the Ra’ira in plain sight, as he would have done
for some time. It must have been seen in his possession frequently throughout the years, but Zanek’s carefully limited use of its power would have allowed it to gain the reputation of only a symbol. The room would have been large, palatial. One wall would have needed full covering by movable drapes, and there must have been a platform or table, also draped. The civil leaders of the city, representatives of other cities, and several Sharith (including the Captain, of course) would have been present in the audience hall.
Zanek would have restated the purpose of the meeting—to inform the Kingdom of the identity of his successor. (It is not unlikely that the Captain would have moved slightly at that point, looking over the Sharith in the room, speculating on which man would be the next King.) The King would have given the criteria for his choice: a person young enough to receive extensive training before assuming responsibility; a person filled with commitment; a person who was not a Rider. (Shock would have run through the company, more than the Sharith having expected that the choice lay with them.)
Zanek would have recounted his personal tragedy, but only in passing. He would have stressed the point that the Kingdom needed both leadership and power, and that King and Sharith must be forever separate, but forever bound to one another. He would have called the Captain to his side, then, and undraped the wonderful, valuable, shining swords, displayed so that the entire company could see them. Perhaps Zanek would have offered the Captain his choice of swords, then gripped the hilt of the other for himself. Zanek would have given everyone time to see the significance of the symbolism—King and Captain with identical swords unique to the Kingdom—and then he would have asked the Captain to stand against the draped wall for a moment, with the rakor sword having replaced the bronze sword in his baldric.
The Captain would have stood there proudly while Zanek placed the Ra’ira on a small table toward the other end of the wall, leaving a large blank space in the center of the drape. Then Zanek would have faced the company again, and called the name of his chosen successor. The boy would have appeared from the far doors, and walked with quiet dignity among the staring eyes.
Zanek would have uncovered the Bronze then, and asked the boy to read aloud the first part of the message hidden in the mass markings:
I greet thee in the name of the new Kingdom.
From chaos have we created order.
From strife have we enabled peace.
From greed have we encouraged sharing.
Not I alone, but the Sharith have done this.
Not we alone, but the Ra’ira has done this.
Zanek would have told the group that there was more of the message, that the reading of it would be part of the test for those who would follow himself and the boy, and that it clearly directed the respect of the King for the Sharith. He would have said that, on the day the boy took from Zanek’s hand the blue stone and the gleaming sword—on that day, the boy would be King of Gandalara.
Thus Zanek would have vested such dignity and value in the Sharith that being prohibited from the Kingship would have seemed less insult than privilege.
“I require your attention,” Somil’s mindvoice said, sounding weary.
I withdrew from my speculation about Zanek, as sure of what I had guessed as if I had truly shared the memory. We were at the edge once more, the intensely bright core of the All-Mind far behind us; only the amorphous, concave, intangible inner surface of the glowing sphere looming close.
“Yes, Recorder,” I said.
“Hold closely to me as we leave the All-Mind,” Somil ordered, and I obeyed. “I shall withdraw our minds from the All-Mind,” he said. Brilliance faded into absolute darkness. “And mine from yours,” he added. I seemed to slide into something very cool, and an emptiness appeared where Somil’s mind voice had been.
I opened my eyes. The dimness of the room seemed to have a different quality. I looked around and found that no daylight came through the narrow windows, but a shaded lamp stood on a ledge below them, casting only a little candleglow into the darkness. I was very cold; my arms responded sluggishly, the skin tingling, as I brought them over my chest to enfold some warmth.
“Do not rise,” Somil said. His voice was weak, but still had that commanding quality. I saw his arm reach out to a table near him, and heard a soft, mellow tone—a chime of some sort.
The drape was moved aside immediately, and the two young girls hurried in, one carrying a tray of food, the other a fully bright lamp. They set down what they carried and came to kneel beside us. The girl who had opened the front door tended me, massaging my arms and legs briskly, helping me to sit, offering me a dish of steaming rafel. Hunger nearly doubled me over when I smelled the food, and I ate it greedily. Somil was attacking his dish with equal ardor.
“How long—” I began.
“It is nearly dawn,” the girl beside me said. “It is the longest dear Somil has been away; we feared greatly for you both.” The girl beside the Recorder did not touch him as he ate, but her eager expression made me think that a massage and a hot meal were not the only rituals of renewal Somil demanded after a trip to the All-Mind. The expression changed to surprise and hurt when Somil pushed her gently off his resting ledge and asked both girls to leave the room. They protested, but went.
Somil looked at me across the food tray.
“It is rare that I learn so much of the seeker,” he said slowly, “or that what I do learn only leads to greater mysteries. It is fitting that you should seek out Zanek—for are you not, as he was, a man committed to his destiny?”
My hands tightened on the bowl I held.
“Do you know what my destiny is?” I whispered, but my hopes fell when he shook his head.
“The future is yet unformed,” Somil said. “I cannot say why or how it is given to some men to guide its forming, but I have seen it, in Zanek. I have met it, in you.”
There was a commotion at the doorway, the voices of the girls protesting and another voice speaking angrily—Thymas. “I hear their voices,” Thymas said. “I have to talk to him. Stand away!”
“Can you rise?” Somil asked me urgently. I nodded. “Then go and calm him,” he ordered. “He must not enter this room.” I stood up, a little shakily, and stretched my arm to the wall for support as I moved toward the doorway. “I say again, Rikardon, that what I have learned of you remains yours.”
I turned at the doorway and said: “Thank you, Recorder.” Then I shoved aside the tapestry and stepped into the anteroom, colliding with one of the girls who blocked the doorway.
Thymas had drawn his sword, but the girls had called his bluff and held their ground. Relief flooded into his face when he saw me.
“Rikardon, we have to go back to Thagorn. Right away.” He put away his sword, without apology, and drew a many-folded slip of paper from where it had been tucked into his belt. There was a solid deliberateness to his actions that was more alarming than his normal barely controlled wildness. “The messenger found me here just after nightfall,” he said. “I did not dare disturb you, but when I heard voices …”
I took the paper from him—the pattern of its folds was typical of a message sent in the breast-packet of a maufa, the Gandalaran message bird—and opened it, stepping away from the door as Somil emerged from the inner room.
It was a hasty scrawl that said as much, and was as unsettling, in its disarray as in its words:
Thymas
You are Lieutenant.
Dharak
“Is this Dharak’s writing?” I asked the boy. He nodded. “Then let’s get going,” I said.
“Not before I am paid,” said Somil. He was leaning against the wall, one arm around a girl, the other extended toward us.
Thymas muttered something, drew out the two gold coins, and dropped them on Somil’s open palm. “Thank you,” Somil said, closing his hand around the coins. “Do come again, if I can be of service.” His words and manner were cynical, but I heard sincerity in them, and touched his shoulder in farewell before I turned to fol
low Thymas out into the street.
We dashed into Grallen’s hotel and stayed only long enough to retrieve our bags and pay the extra night’s rent on the room. Then we ran down the stair-stepped entry avenue and out of Omergol. Ronar was waiting for us; we mounted and started for Thagorn.
*Keeshah,* I called. *Is anything wrong? What’s happening there?*
I had wakened him; his mind voice was sleepy. *Nothing wrong,* he said. *Female always hungry *
I let him drift away, back into his sleep.
“Keeshah can’t tell me what’s wrong,” I said. “Yayshah’s fine; that’s all he cares about right now.”
“Thank you for asking,” Thymas shouted back.
I could feel the tension in the boy’s body.
“Lighten up,” I urged him. “You’ll wear Ronar out before noon.”
Only consideration for his sha’um could have penetrated his fear, but I felt him nod and make an effort to relax. I patted his leg in an effort to offer some comfort.
I knew what he was thinking, and it scared me, too. The only way I knew for Thymas to become Lieutenant was through Dharak’s death.
12
Ronar, of course, was sensitive to Thymas’s distress and urgent need to reach Thagorn, and the sha’um pushed himself to his limits. Thymas had left Somil’s house briefly, during the night, to gather supplies for the trip, and I could only admire the commmon sense of his planning. The bags we had retrieved from the Green Sha’um Inn contained a small portion of food for him and me—cooked meat, bread, small fruits—but by far their major load was in chunks of raw meat wrapped in oiled cloth. They were no more than mouthfuls to Ronar, but in combination with a recent full meal, they were adequate to sustain a minimum energy level in the sha’um.
The Search for Kä Page 10
