Then disaster struck, when a party of hunters discovered his campsite. Josan had grabbed what he could and fled deeper into the woods, pursued by angry shouts.
He did not know what had led the men to his camp. Had they been hunters who simply stumbled across him? Or had they sought him on purpose? He knew he had stayed in that place for too long, but the village had been large enough that he thought no one would notice the disappearance of an occasional chicken, and the common granary had neither lock nor guard dog.
Still he had not been completely lost to caution. He had thought his campsite far enough away in the woods that no one would find him. He had been wrong.
And now he was worse off than ever. He had lost not just his campsite, but also his blanket and food. Even his tinder and flint had been left behind. In his haste he had grabbed the sack that contained his spare clothes, and his writing case. He could not have chosen more poorly if he had deliberated for hours.
He was a monk. A scholar. He could speak seven languages flawlessly and make himself understood in a dozen more. The ancient picture writings of the first Ikarians were as clear to him as plain script, and he comprehended the mathematical mysteries that underpinned the work of the great builders and governed the movements of the stars. He could plot a course across the great sea, and recite the epic tale of Zakar and Ata without a single prompt.
What he could not do was light a fire. He brought his hands to his mouth, blowing on them softly to warm them up, as he stared balefully at the contraption he had crafted. It was not elaborate, merely two pieces of wood. In the longer piece of wood, he had used a sharp stone to scrape a furrow, exposing the soft inner wood. Along this furrow he had placed shredded strips of bark. The second piece was a sharpened stick, wrapped with string fashioned from the torn hem of his cloak.
According to the writings of Brother Telamon, the primitive natives of Abydos routinely used such a device to start a fire. The sharpened stick was placed point first into the trench, then rapidly spun until the heat from the rubbing created a spark. The monk had described the process in great detail, but he must have left something out. Perhaps the trees in Abydos were harder than the soft pine he had to work with. Or perhaps there was a secret step that the natives had not shared with their visitor.
His failure was not from lack of trying. Indeed, his hands were rubbed raw and cramping, with nothing to show for his efforts. Beside him lay the trout he had caught earlier, its glassy eye seeming to mock him. Josan’s belly grumbled with hunger, but he was not yet willing to concede defeat. He would try once more, then he would eat the fish raw. At least he still had the dagger, so he could clean the fish. Though that was a task that required daylight or firelight, and he was rapidly running out of the first.
Flexing his fingers one last time, Josan knelt on one end of the length of wood, to hold it in place. Grasping the sharpened stick with both hands, he began turning it back and forth, as fast he could make his hands move. “Come now,” he told himself. “This time it will work.”
But no faint wisp of smoke appeared. He concentrated even harder, putting all of his energy into twirling the stick, but it jumped out of his hands, skittering along the base until he jabbed himself in the thigh.
He cursed, giving vent to the anger and frustration of these weeks. The pain in his leg was just the latest indignity. Angrily he jerked the stick free, ignoring the blood that welled up from the puncture. With his right hand he felt the grooved trench. It was warm, but it would need to be many times hotter to start a fire.
“All I want is a hot meal. Is that too much to ask?”
Josan picked up the wood and threw it. It tumbled through the air into the growing darkness.
When it struck the ground, it burst into flame.
Later that night, his belly full of hot food for the first time in a fortnight, Josan allowed himself to ponder the events of that afternoon. Was it possible that the barbarian technique had succeeded in creating a faint spark, which was then fanned to life when he flung the wood across the clearing? But he had examined the wood and knew there was neither heat nor smoldering spark. Thus his first hypothesis had to be discarded.
Which brought him to the next question. How could someone spontaneously create fire? Magicians regularly impressed the naïve with their ability to call fire at their command, but Josan knew their tricks were based upon a mixture of antagonist elements, which when combined in their powdered forms produced sudden intense flames. Any street magician could have produced a similar effect, but only if he possessed the ingredients of his trade, which Josan clearly did not.
Which left him with a third alternative. That somehow he possessed the talent for fire-starting—one of the hallmarks of the Old Magic, possessed by the ancient rulers of Ikaria. Legends said that the gift had been passed down to their descendants, but it had been two hundred years since a ruler of Ikaria had publicly demonstrated such talents. And their line had died out with the ill-fated Prince Lucius.
Plus, even considering the possibility that he had somehow performed magic offended his logical mind. If he had such a talent, shouldn’t there have been signs before? Josan was nearly thirty; surely there would have been some sign if he possessed this latent power. He had made no study of magic, nor of the sorcerous arts, and knew nothing about how to invoke such power. And if it had been need that unlocked his talent, why now? He had been cold and hungry before.
Though he had never been as angry as he had been when he threw the stick. Such rage was foreign to his nature, and yet in that moment he had been filled with all-consuming anger, ready to lash out at anyone and anything. It was as if a stranger had taken control of him, and he was uncomfortably reminded of how he had felt during his fight with the assassin.
A stranger who possessed talents Josan might well need to stay alive. He could bank the fire to keep it burning as long as he stayed here. And when he was ready to leave, he could bring a hot coal, carefully wrapped so he could use its embers to start a new fire. But in time such a trick would fail him, and once again he would be faced with the challenge of trying to start a fire.
And then what would he do? He did not know how he had performed the trick once, so how could he hope to repeat it? What if rage was the only way to unlock this power? Did he truly want to drive himself into such a state of passion? What kind of man would deliberately give himself over to mindless anger?
He was already greatly changed since his days of scholarship at the collegium. How much more could he change before he no longer recognized himself? If he was not a scholar, then what was he? A criminal, as so many believed? A fugitive, with no ties to any person or any place?
Despite the warmth of the fire he shivered, drawing his cloak tightly around himself. His thoughts chased themselves in endless circles. He had too many hypotheses, but no facts to test them against. All of his life he had been taught that fear was no match for the power of reason. But the precepts that had seemed so clear in the marble learning halls of the collegium now seemed mere platitudes, suitable for a sheltered monk but not for a friendless man far from civilization—a man who feared the secrets that lay within him and had no one to give him counsel.
It took him a long time to fall asleep that night, and when he did his dreams were filled with violence, and the jumbled images of a city burning around him.
Josan stayed at his new campsite for two days, carefully tending the fire. Foraging yielded handfuls of wizened berries that the birds had somehow overlooked, and an afternoon’s patience earned him another trout. But he could not stay indefinitely. Even if he fashioned himself a shelter out of pine boughs, he lacked both the tools and the knowledge to hunt for game, and the late season’s gleanings would only sustain him so long.
Carefully he considered his options. Fear of discovery had driven him deep within the pine woods, where the only tracks to be found were game trails. But survival meant food and shelter, and to find both he would have to return to the places where people dwelle
d. Carefully he ran one hand through his hair. It was still short, but in another month, or two at the most, it would reach a length not uncommon for that of southern laborers, who kept their hair cropped because of the summer’s heat.
As he packed his few remaining possessions, he considered the question of why a southern laborer would be found in the northernmost fringes of the empire. Perhaps he had left for the south in his youth and now returned to claim his inheritance?
He gave a grim laugh. In a twisted way he had come into his inheritance, though it was certainly one he had never thought to claim. For the first time in years, he wondered about the person who had left a screaming baby on the steps of the collegium, with no clue to his birth other than the customary sack of golden coins. Had his father been a nobleman whose revered ancestors once shared a tie with the former rulers of Ikaria? Or was he descended of a bastard line, kept hidden for fear of attracting Emperor Aitor’s wrath?
He had not forgotten the lizard tattoo that the assassin had borne. It might have been the seal of the former imperial house, or it could be the sign of a secret society. Lizards—with their talent for changing their appearance and regrowing lost limbs—had long been associated with magic. Had the assassin known of Josan’s hidden talents? And if so, why had he tried to kill Josan rather than recruit him to his cause?
Unless, of course, Josan was already known to him, his fate sealed by deeds that he could not remember.
Whatever secrets the assassin had known, was it possible that Brother Nikos knew them as well? Was this the reason that he had refused to let Josan return to Karystos? Were his old teachers in league with his enemies, consciously keeping him in ignorance? Or was his long isolation playing tricks with his mind, making him see conspiracies and plots where there were none?
If answers there were, they would not be found among the whispering trees. Carefully he scooped up a coal from the embers and packed it in his clay cup. He had already prepared a handful of wood chips to use to feed the fire during the day’s journey.
With a glance at the sun to mark his position, he began making his way south. His wanderings had taken him far from the main imperial road, but within two days he came across a narrow mud track where boot prints mingled with the occasional hoofprint. He followed that track to a small village, barely more than a cluster of a dozen houses. He was greeted with suspicion, as befit an unkempt stranger who had emerged from the woods. But rumors of a murderer posing as a monk had not reached these people, and for that he gave thanks.
The chill air proved his salvation, for fearing a frost that night the villagers were harvesting the last of the yellow gourds, making haste to bring them in from the fields before frost could kill them. Grudgingly they allowed Josan to help, in return for a hot meal of barley soup and the opportunity to sleep in a byre surrounded by a half dozen fragrant goats. The widow who offered him this hospitality seemed to expect him to refuse, but exhaustion won out over pride. And indeed the goats proved fine companions; for the first time in weeks his sleep was not troubled by nightmares.
He woke the next morning to aching arms and back, and a rime of white frost on the ground. The frost disappeared with the first rays of the sun, but it was an ominous reminder that winter was growing closer.
The widow gave him a bowl of groats, standing over him as he ate lest he abscond with her precious bowl. Then, firmly, he was advised to leave and not return.
Following her directions, he continued along the track that led from the village, taking the easterly fork when the road branched. He spent a night in the woods, then the next day he reached another village. The folk there were even more suspicious, and he was not permitted to drink at the common well. Still, they raised no hand to him and were content to let him pass through.
After he left the village it began to rain, a cold and miserable torrent that soon soaked through his cloak. At first, the wet leather of his sandals chafed his feet, then his feet became numb from the cold. Even the trees provided no shelter from the rain-driven wind and so with his head bent, he kept walking, even as the track under his feet disintegrated into a muddy swamp.
At last, when the clinging mud threatened to tear the sandals off his feet, he was forced to concede defeat. He found a pine tree larger than the rest and sat down with his back against its trunk, the hood of his cloak drawn over his head to shelter his face from the rain. A check of his clay cup revealed that water had seeped through the holes in the makeshift lid, extinguishing the embers within.
He felt oddly calm at this discovery. It had been bound to happen sooner or later. As sunset approached, the wind died down, and the rain lessened in intensity. Josan rose and foraged for the driest branches he could find, though there was no truly dry wood, merely a choice between damp wood and waterlogged branches.
He stacked the small branches in a neat pyramid, with the dry kindling from his pack in the center. It was time to find out if the events of that night had been a fluke or if he really did possess the old power. He stretched both hands out over the wood, as if he were a street conjurer. With all the mental discipline at his command he focused his will.
“Light, I command you.”
Nothing happened.
He tried again. “Fire, I summon you forth,” he said, feeling foolish.
This, too, did not work. He banished from his mind the absurdity of what he was doing and tried to focus his thoughts on the belief that he would succeed. He had done this before; he could do it again. But even bending all his will to the belief that he could call fire from within the depths of the wood brought no results.
At last, reaching deep inside himself, he summoned anger.
Dancing flames filled his vision and his thoughts. His gaze locked on the fire before him, there was no room in his mind for anything else. Lost in admiration of its beauty, uncounted time passed, until the crackling of a resin-filled branch startled him out of his reverie.
The scene that met his eyes was so strange, he was convinced that he must still be dreaming. Frantically, he shook his head, then rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands. But when he opened his eyes again, there was no change. He was still in this wooded place, with only trees for company and a dying fire to protect against the night’s chill.
This was not the first dream that he had had. There had been others, filled with jumbled images of foreign places and the faces of strangers. But this dream seemed more real than the ones before. He could feel the warmth of the fire on his feet and the damp ground underneath him. He was cold, and his belly ached with hunger. He could smell the stench of the rags that he wore and feel the soreness of his legs. Even his skin itched, as if he had gone days without bathing.
What had happened to him? His last clear memories were of being in the collegium with Brother Nikos.
Was this some strange form of the afterlife? He had been prepared for death, after all. What if these dreams were a test? A series of challenges that he must pass through, in order to prove himself worthy of returning to his rightful station? It made sense, in a way. He could hardly imagine sinking any lower than he was already. But why would the gods do this? Surely they knew him well enough to judge him. And there was nothing of value that he would learn from living as a peasant.
Or perhaps this was a drug-hazed dream. Was his body still safely in Karystos even as his mind wandered in this wilderness? Or was this his first true awakening, his past dreams not mere dreams, but rather memories of the life he now led?
He shivered as he remembered his nurse’s tales of the demon-haunted—men whose souls were possessed by great evil. It had been easy to scorn such tales in familiar surroundings, when abundant lamplight banished all specters. Now he wondered if there had been some truth in her stories.
Did it matter? Whether waking dream or hellish test, he would prevail. If this was a dream, he would force himself to stay in control until he truly awoke. He would not let himself be sucked back down into unknowingness. Even now he felt the echo of terro
r within him, and he imagined it was the demon fighting to break free.
If it was a test, then he would prove himself worthy of returning to the world he had left behind. It would be a simple enough thing to do, as long as he did not succumb to the madness within him.
And if this by some chance was part of some bizarre plot to destroy him, then he would find those who had betrayed him and see that they paid for their sins.
But if he was to stay awake, he needed food. He searched the leather sack that lay beside him, finding only a well-wrapped dagger and a handful of dirt. He nearly threw the dirt away, but on impulse brought his hand to his face as he caught the faint scent of dried oats. Any horse would have curled his lip at such fodder, but he forced himself to chew the mouthful, then washed it down with the last of the water from the skin tied to his belt.
Carefully he looked around, but clouds shrouded the moon, so he could see no farther than his small campsite. There must be a road nearby, but he would have to wait until morning to find it.
A road would lead to people, and where there were people there would be food. He had no coins, but he had a weapon of sorts, and he could take what he needed. And then he would set about finding his answers. For the moment he gathered tree branches for the fire. Tending it would keep him warm and his mind focused. He knew that he could not afford to fall asleep. This might be his only chance to free himself, and he would not waste it.
Josan started as sizzling fat dripped from the roasting chicken into the fire, then blinked in confusion. It was possible that he had summoned fire, but there was no magic that could create a roasting chicken out of empty air.
The First Betrayal Page 11
