by Katy Winter
"It's the future that could threaten the balance, yes," he answered. "It's not just the here and now." He paused, then added, "There'll be a response - Bene can expect it." Lektos sighed even more heavily.
"The prophecy could be a child of their child."
Sophos nodded broodingly, accepting his brother's comment without argument. Lektos' image faded leaving Sophos with a feeling of unease. The balance was all: they had to ensure it. His main focus of attention was going to have to be on somewhere in the central part of Ambros. Sophos Rox wondered if he was being fanciful as his mind began to seek out any sign of Malekim. He stared down at the orb resting against his chest. It was quiescent.
CHAPTER FIVE
Bene was back on Yarilo. He stared out the windows for a long time before he shivered, rose, crossed to the fire and kicked a piece of wood more firmly in the grate. He pulled a chair closer to the fire. An absent flick of the fingers made the fire burn more fiercely. Bene stared into the flames, watching them jet and pulse in flickering orange and yellow, his mind in turmoil. His feelings were mixed.
He was restless. He also felt guilt. Dramas was distressed by being on Ambros. Even though the dragon clearly responded to Cynthas and not directly to himself, something that in itself was highly unusual, still the mage knew he shouldn't have gone.
He wondered how long it would take the Rox to contact the Unseen Ones; he knew he would hear from one or other of them. It was only a matter of time.
It was as if Bene called the Unseen Ones as he thought of them. Sharp queries cut rudely into his mind, along with surprise and amusement. Never before had Bene experienced physical pain as their minds melded with his, but tonight there was no gentleness, their minds curiously probing his emotions and their disinterested comments making him wince. Mostly he was aware of Benth, coldly detached and analytical.
"I acknowledge your presence," Bene said unsteadily.
"As well you might," came the dry voice he knew was Benth.
"What can I tell you that you don't already know?"
"Why you used Dramas as you did, mage," came Marl's voice.
"I wanted to see Cynthas. She mindspoke Dramas and asked him to take me, only the once. I intended no abuse of my dragon."
"Did she indeed?" There was curiosity in Marl's cold voice and the ghost of a laugh. "So Dramas felt obliged, did he?" Again came the laugh. That passed to fleeting deep anger about another dragon called Harth.
"Should I regret what I did?"
"You should. Have you such arrogance?" came a detached voice. A murmur of words and phrases cut backwards and forwards across Bene's mind that he tried to follow without success. "Let us show you, mage, what you've done," came a frigid voice. "Maybe then you'll have your answer."
Bene sat motionless as an image formed in front of him, so real he felt he could touch Cynthas. He looked into the green eyes of a nymph. The eyes were so big and lustrous they dominated the elfin face, the curved mouth smiled sensuously at him and the eyes were alight with laughter. The pointed chin rested on a slender hand as she shook her dark curls at him playfully. When he responded by putting out his hand the image slipped, faltered, distorted and abruptly disintegrated.
A second image quickly appeared. This was of a tall, dark-haired woman with large violet eyes as velvety as Bene's own; it was the face that made Bene flinch back in stunned shock, because the young woman could be none other than his daughter. His mind reeled at this. She held a little boy's hand and she too laughed. The picture changed sharply to a room where huge blond men held the same woman prone on the floor, knives in their hands and pitiless destruction in their eyes. Bene couldn't move. He sat transfixed.
He was swept to another image of a stumbling boy in a slave caravan, the boy's back blistered with sores and welts. The child kept moving, but as Bene watched, the boy lifted his head and licked slowly at tears that trickled down his face. The image fragmented.
Bene next saw a limp figure, carried on a litter, the young man obviously very weak and fevered. His injuries were such, Bene drew in his breath. The image was replaced by yet another. This showed a beautiful boy, no more that ten or eleven Ambros cycles, lying in a pavilion, his dark curly head thrown back, the lustrous velvet purple eyes wild, his hands out-flung and his mouth wide open. A huge blond man was with him. The man smiled, though the smile didn't touch his ice cold blue eyes.
Bene got to his feet. He stood there, helplessly, while yet another image formed. He looked at a little girl who, apart from her deep violet eyes, was a copy of Cynthas, this child's hand clasped by a blond youth who led her through the gates of a city wall. The scene moved slightly to what lay outside the walls. There, Bene saw a huge army sprawled for miles across devastated land, before the image flickered back to the little girl who looked so fragile. Bene grasped at his hair.
After a long pause a cold dispassionate voice in his mind said, "Should you regret, mage - is that what you said?"
"Can those images be altered?"
"No, mage, they can't. You see a beginning and only a glimpse at that."
"I didn't know a child would be born. Such unions are usually -." Bene stopped, his voice shaken. "I deeply regret - I ask you to believe -."
"Mage," interrupted the cold voice. "You disturb the flow of time and you upset the balance at your peril. There'll be much suffering across Ambros as a result." Bene paced up and down in agitation.
"What can I do?"
"You've done enough one would've thought," came the dry, ironic comment. Bene didn't respond to the amusement in the voice. His voice was sharpened by guilt and despair.
"There must be a way to alter the worst of what may come. There must be some amelioration!"
"Not by you, Archmage." Bene came to a halt and stood still.
"Am I not then to return to Ambros?"
"You won't be permitted to do so for a time, mage, no." Bene didn't miss the note of inflexible finality. He whispered,
"Cynthas -." Bene couldn't go on.
"You'll not see her again because Dramas may not take you to Ambros. He answers to us, mage, not to you, but you know that. You'll remain on Yarilo."
"Are we both to be so severely punished? Cynthas deserves more than this."
There was no immediate comment in Bene's mind in answer; there was just a very long silence before the cold voice spoke again.
"Your punishment, as you term it, hasn't begun. All acts have consequences, foreseen or otherwise. We do not intend you to forget." The dry voice seemed to occupy all Bene's head. The voice was like ice. "It'll serve as a reminder of those you cause to suffer." Bene couldn't have spoken even had he tried. The voice continued with remorseless clarity. "You carry the seed of your own destruction, Archmage. Some often destroy those who mean most to them; you're no better nor worse than any other. You can't take an action without causing a reaction, so be rational, mage, and think what you were taught and teach others. To be fair to her, Cynthas didn't foresee how deeply she'd cause a rift and a reaction. You, mage, know better, don't you? Balance and counter-balance: isn't that what you teach the young?
We know more than we've let you see. Much will be revealed when it's appropriate. You must accept, Archmage, what you've done to your child and to her children. Their suffering will be yours. Know, too, you've caused us inconvenience." Bene made no attempt to move. He slumped back in his chair, his violet eyes dull. "Your place," the voice continued inexorably, "is here. Our concern is with how seriously you've upset the balance. We make no further comment on what's done: it's finished." The voice was devoid of emotion.
~~~
Bene felt the presence fade from his mind, rose, and with trembling hands, trimmed the lamps and turned over the fire. He then sat unmoving as the room darkened. He looked vulnerable and suddenly every bit his age.
CHAPTER SIX
Nymphs were known for their charm, beauty and sensuality as well as for their legendary longevity. Obli, an Unseen One, had enjoyed very many amorous hou
rs in their company over the cycles. They were found in the forests, the rivers and the mountains, especially in the north that was densely forested still, unlike the denuded and harsh southern landscape. The dryads were Cynthas' cousins. They lived mainly in the mandol groves that covered much of central Ambros. Cynthas, however, could never be mistaken for anything other than a water creature, with those deep green, river-shaded eyes. Nymphs were often prophetic. Cynthas was.
She was carried gently on the winds to the midland mandol groves, because it was where she'd asked to go. As she came close to the forests, she thought wistfully of the sylvan valley and clear running water of her home. She came instead to her cousins for help. Her child was due. For seasons she'd lived with a sense of foreboding and dread. She knelt clumsily in the soft dirt, bent her head and sent remarkably and unusually powerfully to Obli, unaware of a subtle movement in the air about her while she stayed motionless.
Perhaps Cynthas knew what awaited her. Maybe she didn't. She accepted her hard labour without complaint, scarcely aware of loving hands that held her. She barely felt damp cloths laid across her forehead. She felt cool liquid on her lips. As the birth progressed, Cynthas became feverish. Distressed, she began to cry with pain. She called for Bene.
The dryads held the nymph as best they could, aware there was little comfort they could offer. Her child was born some time before and lay cradled and dozing in a young dryad's arms. Cynthas wept very softly. The child was taken away and only a few dryads remained. What little they could do they did, taking it in turns to hold the dying nymph, their words soothing and their hands gentle. None expected Cynthas to linger. She was white, her breathing shallow. The huge luminous eyes were clouded with unspeakable sadness that touched each of the dryads who knelt beside her.
Her eyes unexpectedly opened wide. Cynthas stared up at those near her and spoke. They bent to listen, straightening in shock and with words of protest forming on their lips. When Cynthas shook her head slowly, the dark, damp curls clinging to her wet cheeks, the dryads looked at each other and then back down at Cynthas.
"I beg you," she whispered. "She's not a nymph and she'll die among you. Her father will find her in time."
~~~
As Cynthas died, her eyes had unusual clarity before they closed. She looked at peace. Without words, the dryads faded from the grove. After they'd gone, a form materialised beside Cynthas, the man very tall and powerfully built, with eyes that looked down at the nymph as green as her own. They held an unusual light and were unreadable. He stooped and very gently lifted Cynthas. She became a shadowy silhouette as he carried her through the trees, the man pausing at the river where he knelt, right at the water's edge and waited. A shadow slipped from his arms and was absorbed into the flow. Obli sighed. The Unseen Ones were once again aware of Ambros. In a moment he was gone.
~~~
At the moment of Cynthas' death her catlin, who'd been beside her unmoving, gave a despairing cry that startled the dryads and made their hair stand on end. As Cynthas' shadow silently departed, so did the catlin.
~~~
Bene missed the catlin's teleth, but outside, weak though the call was, Dramas heard it as he was ascending to leave Yarilo. His distressed trumpet was transmitted to Bene, both through sound and teleth, but in his tower no one saw the mage go anguished to his knees. The cry echoed around Ice Isle and Lilium.
~~~
The following day, the dryads could be seen shimmering through the trees, one of them carefully holding the newly-born girl. Within hours, just as dawn broke, they came to the walls of a merchant city where they paused, and hesitating, began to argue in whispers, some saying they could never do what was asked of them. But they did, out of respect for the memory of Cynthas.
They waited until the sun was nearly risen, before they drifted through the town gates and along an avenue of huge and very old gnarled istak trees; and there they laid the child in the undergrowth. Giving the child a final benediction, the dryads drifted away.
~~~
A mage of Yarilo looked up in response to the call. There was a volume lying open in his lap, but the Archmage merely stared at the page without reading it. His hair was, if possible, madder than ever, and the violet eyes looked tragic. Sophos Rox kept his mind open. He showed the usual Rox tact of not intruding, but at that instant Bene responded to teleth automatically, his mind locking with that of the Rox.
Together, they hovered above a clearing where dryads gathered about a newly-born child. Even though the mother's being faded rapidly, Sophos didn't need to be told who she was. He'd known both Bene and Cynthas intimately for many, many cycles. Even though he'd fought alongside them, he felt he couldn't adequately respond to the surge of grief from the Archmage that overwhelmed him at that instant.
He waited until he and Bene found themselves inside city walls in central Ambros. It was barely sunrise, Sophos noticed. He watched the dryads drift like shadows from tree to tree along an avenue that led from the main gate to a common. He and Bene saw the child carefully laid against the trunk of one of the huge trees, saw how she was briefly blessed, then, like wraiths, the dryads were gone. The child gave a wail. Then there was silence.
Sophos and Bene remained in communication for only a short while, both acutely aware of what Bene's action might have precipitated. It wasn't a Guardian's place to comment: Sophos knew the Unseen Ones would already have done that. He felt a wrench of profound compassion for Bene as the mind link broke.
Yarilan Chronicles 2464, Crescent Astral Yarilo Cycle 2207, Third Age.
I'm Dagobar, Chronicler of Yarilo. I'm often asked why mages keep chronicles. Of what value are they to us?
They give us understanding as we record, analyse and attempt to interpret life as we see it. We write little of ourselves because our concerns are with the peoples of Ambros. Ambrosians' past and future are inextricably linked with those of us on Yarilo. It's not part of our function to ignore them. We're the instruments of balance: it's our fate to be so. We don't belong on Ambros. We can't choose for Ambrosians.
We aren't the guardians of Ambros. Although it isn't easy, we try to ensure the equilibrium there remains steady. When we battled there to hold a balance, we suffered. However, since then, the balance has held for many hundreds of Ambros cycles. We pray for peace to continue.
What concerns us, I wish to note, is the disturbance in southern Ambros. There are signs of disruption and upheaval as southerners fight among themselves. There's a rippling of power centred to the deep south. We're sending an observer to monitor the actions of those involved. We can only hope this is an aberration.
Yarilan Chronicles 2465, Crescent Astral Yarilo Cycle 2207.
The situation in the south of Ambros is seriously disturbing. There appears to be a warrior warlord in the making, to whom southern tribes and peoples are submitting at an alarming rate. We have records of atrocities, especially among the captured Yazd. The Conclave keeps us fully informed. Their people are under attack.
The power source in the deep south increases. We've advised the Guardians that it's becoming necessary for us to know who or what is at the centre of the power.
The balance in southern Ambros becomes more seasonally unstable.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Ortok was a large city-state by the standards of the other five city-states making up the Samar Confederation, a city of wealth and learning, where merchants and scholars mixed freely and comfortably. Here there was no poverty. All the peoples' wants were catered for by a ruling oligarchy of citizen emarchons, chosen by the citizenry every five years. No person could stand for office more than three times. It was considered an honour to be an emarchon.
Even a greater honour was to be asked to stand as the city's representative for state affairs both at home and abroad. To be Paramon ensured respect for the rest of an individual's life. That was the only title in O
rtok. People in authority answered to their given name just as ordinary citizens did: sometimes the masters of the various guilds were addressed as either Master or Guildmaster, but mostly only by those they taught. There was equality in Ortok.
It was to this city that the infant girl was brought, the child found by a scholar who was childless. Saren took the child home to his mate Mylasca who, like him, was a scholar at the Antiquities Centre. They brought up Melas as their daughter. She was deeply cherished. When they were asked why they'd named the little girl Melas, both Saren and Mylasca looked blank, saying that it had seemed the most natural name to give the child. Alone they pondered the name but, as the cycles passed, it became increasingly irrelevant.
She had a childhood like any other Ortokian, going to school from the age of three cycles. She was an intelligent and apt student who did very well. She had an unusual affinity with the world around her though she never told her parents she could speak with animals and with trees. Even at a young age she had an instinct that this wouldn't be acceptable so, in time, she sublimated her potential talents and became just an ordinary girl. At nine cycles she entered the artist guild where she learned to become proficient at enamel and inlay work.
By the time she was sixteen cycles Melas was a very lovely girl, with long, thick black curls. She'd inherited the elfin-shaped face from her mother Cynthas, and the large violet, almost purple eyes that were always merry, from her mage father. Melas was a young one who laughed at a life that was good to her. She attracted boys with both the way she tossed her head and the graceful way she moved a tall and slender body. In obedience to her parents' wishes, she stood as a candidate at Choice in her sixteenth cycle.
Already a youth had made advances. He was a merchant's son, in training to be a scholar at the Antiquities Centre. Saren and Mylasca looked upon this young man with approval. He was a gentle and courtly youth, very tall even for an Ortokian who were not a short people; he was as dark-haired as Melas though his eyes were as black as the wings of an anandar. He was intense and very gifted.
