Hero Grown

by Andy Livingstone

  Cannick cleared his throat. ‘If I may ask, what is the point in keeping such a store of knowledge if it is unknown to the world?’

  Grakk smiled. ‘It is a question debated long and often by our elders, and always they conclude the same. Great knowledge makes for great power, and great power can work for good or for evil, can be misguided or subject to errors of judgement. It might only be abused once, but such is its power that the one occasion could be the end of us all. We have not the right to unleash that possibility. So we merely retain it, nurture it, protect it. We are its custodians until those wise enough to benefit are walking this world.’

  ‘Pardon me for asking, and don’t take this as doubting you, but…’ Hakon was sounding anything but convinced.

  Grakk’s eyebrows twitched. ‘But?’

  He nodded at the building. ‘Are you sure that place is big enough for what you describe? You’re talking about an awful lot of stuff.’

  The tribesman smiled but it was Gerens who spoke. ‘The city in the desert? The temple? The chambers within? Do you think maybe…?’

  The big boy’s face broke into a delighted grin as realisation swept across it. ‘You’ve dug into the mountain.’ He looked at Grakk. ‘Well, not you, personally, of course. Your people. And long ago.’

  Grakk nodded. ‘And, in this case, downwards. Ten levels, it has. Room aplenty for all we have and more.’

  ‘Impressive,’ Cannick mused.

  Marlo’s eyes were wide as a thought struck him. ‘Did you people create all of this? Was it they who dug out this entire mountain to create this valley? Or was it the people who built the City of Ghosts?’

  ‘Neither, young Marlo, neither. No race of man could create this, only the gods and the world itself. There is fire under the ground, fire hotter than you can imagine, with a heat that can melt rock itself until it runs like water. Some say it is the furnace of the gods, others that it is just the way it is. Either way, it can shape the land and build mountains such as this, for sometimes the fire burns so hot the ground itself cannot hold it and it spews forth, piling high and cooling to form mountains. Some are wide inside such as this, and some have just the narrowest of chimneys; some spit forth still, bubbling and boiling within; others wait generations before surging forth once more; still others are like this, cooling and hardening for evermore.’

  Marlo shifted uncomfortably, looking down at the valley floor. ‘You are certain it is for evermore? Absolutely certain? It would seem not the safest place to hide your treasure.’

  ‘You do not live in a land without gaining an understanding of how that land works. We have a trade where men and women are taught the secrets of this land. They study the other mountains formed from fire-rock. The very ground for miles is formed from that same rock as well, and they learn to read it all. Most is inhospitable to life but, strangely, where soil is formed, it is more fertile than any other. We learnt to live here long ago, and if it ever shows signs of turning on us, we will know.’

  Cannick stood and walked forward to stare across at the House of Treasures. ‘Your people place a great burden upon themselves.’

  Grakk shrugged. ‘From birth, it is all we know. Some are trained to write, some to be custodians of the documents. Some to farm, some to study the land, some to search afar for new knowledge. All are taught to fight, for should our secret be threatened, there should be no means of defending it that we cannot employ. Everything is to preserve the treasure we hold. We see it not as a burden, but a privilege.’

  Brann spoke softly. ‘Still, though, you say nothing of why you left.’

  Grakk’s face clouded. ‘There was a boy, my age near enough. He loved knowledge, loved order, loved everything we stood for and strived for. He would read and read, delving in his own moments in the bowels of the House of Treasures. He was destined to be a great custodian. But those times became not enough for him. He started taking documents from that place, into his family’s house to read through the night. Always, he would replace them, perfectly preserved, for he loved them, lived for them as if the written sheets were his brothers and sisters, but still he took more. It was only a matter of time before he would be discovered. And so he was. It was late afternoon, still and hot, and he sat to drink on a bench at the side of a path through the city. I also sat there, for my training had but recently finished and I was resting, time on my side, as my mother gave birth to none but me, and died before I was old enough to know her, and my father would be working still at that time of day.’ He picked up a fragment of rock, turning it in his fingers as he stared at it. ‘I can feel it as if it were playing out here and now. The boy’s bag lay between us and a sharp-eyed elder saw the corner of a document protruding from within. That tiny scrap of paper turned our lives to a path never imagined.’

  Sophaya shrugged. ‘He was not a thief. He was returning it. Why worry?’

  Grakk’s piercing gaze turned her way. ‘The knowledge on the paper is our whole reason for existing, it is everything to us. It must never leave the House of Treasures. To take anything from within its walls is to court the penalty. The penalty is death.’

  Marlo was shocked. ‘He was put to death? For that?’

  ‘You think that unfair, young Marlo, when he was on his way to return those documents?’ The boy nodded hard. ‘I also. I did not know the boy well, but I knew him, and it was plain to all he encountered just how much he loved the treasures we kept. He would never see them harmed, or lost. He loved them too much. He would have died for them. And now, ironically, that was exactly what was about to occur. I could not sit there and let it happen.’

  Hakon was engrossed in the story. ‘So you killed those who discovered them and the pair of you escaped the mountain.’

  Grakk smiled. ‘Not so dramatic, my Northern friend, and thankfully so. The boy was asked if the bag was his. He said that it was. So I did so also.’

  ‘You what?’ Hakon was aghast.

  Grakk shrugged. ‘If there is one thing my people are, it is considered and logical, and slaves to justice. They could not execute an innocent, and it was clear that the bag could only belong to one person. The boy tried desperately to persuade them that it was he who was guilty, but the more he did so, the more I did as well. As we both claimed to be the guilty one, they could not put us both to death. Instead, we were cast out.’

  ‘That must have been hard,’ Brann said quietly, sympathy for the young Grakk welling up in him. ‘What did you do?’

  The tribesman looked across the valley, as if drinking in what he had been forced to leave. The evening sun gleamed on his scalp. ‘Saw the world. I travelled, thinking that if I found some new knowledge of value they may let me back early. I experienced much, learnt much, but nothing of value enough to atone. I found places and people I had never imagined, and word eventually reached me that age had claimed enough of the former Council of Elders for the new regime to hold a different attitude to my punishment. I could return, but as I made my way back, pirates found our ship and I added rowing to my list of skills.’

  Marlo was curious. ‘And what of the other boy? Did you travel together?’

  ‘At first. But he felt guilt at my punishment, even though it had been my choice to do what I did. Indeed, he had tried his utmost to change my mind. Guilt, as it often does, turned to bitterness. It gnawed at him, draped itself over him, and he grew to resent me as the source. We parted on poor terms.’

  ‘That is unfortunate. Did you ever wonder what became of him?’

  ‘Often. And then we met once more.’

  The Sagian boy’s face lit up with heightened interest. ‘You did? How was he? Where was he? What was his fate?’

  A sigh escaped Grakk. ‘You know as well as I. He is the Scribe to the Emperor.’ His voice became soft. ‘His name was Narut-ul-Taripha.’

  Images of the aloof slave filled all of their memories in a long silence. Brann wondered what knowledge the Scribe had shared with the Emperor. Or worse, with Loku.

  ‘So,�
�� Brann said, a thought occurring to him, ‘will you stay? When we leave in the morning, will you stay or travel with us?’

  The solemn man turned and stared long at him, then slowly looked at each in turn. ‘A quarter of a century, I was away. A different life is formed in that time, a different man too. I will always be drawn to this place, but I would never settle here; restlessness would always claim me. My place is elsewhere. And, for now, my place is with you. After all,’ he looked at Cannick, ‘I made a promise to a wise old lady.’

  ‘But you could stay here if you wanted to? They would let you, wouldn’t they?’ It felt important to Brann that this was so.

  Grakk nodded. ‘After all, I did at last bring them something of sufficient interest. Something they felt had a combination of factors that were already worthy of note, and that held the potential for further significance to come.’

  ‘Really? What?’

  The piercing eyes locked with his. ‘You.’

  The sun had set on their conversation, and it rose on their departure.

  There was little fuss about their leaving, and little notice taken. Those who focus their life on a duty find most else merely of passing interest.

  Brann found an opportunity to take Hakon to one side. ‘I want to speak to you about something,’ he said, looking up at the broad honest face. Right now, it actually felt like it was the last thing he wanted to do. ‘I remember … from before.’ Hakon looked enquiringly at him. ‘From where I met you …’ The bigger boy’s eyebrows raised, requesting more. Brann groaned. ‘From where I met you and, you know, met you and …’

  Hakon guffawed. ‘I can’t keep it up. I was just enjoying you being Brann again.’ He grinned and slapped Brann on the back, almost knocking him from his feet. ‘Valdis.’

  Brann nodded. ‘Your sister,’ he said lamely.

  ‘My sister,’ confirmed Hakon. ‘So?’

  Brann could feel the heat in his cheeks. ‘Well, you know … Myrana. You must think terribly of me.’

  ‘Brann.’ The boy eased his large frame onto a rock to bring his head closer to Brann’s height. ‘I come from a people hardened by danger from the sea and from each other. It makes us very practical. It is not the first time a young man falls in love, that is important, nor the second third or whatever, but the last, for that is the one he stays with. It may be that life gives us many choices or that the dangers of the waves and the sword reduce a man’s or woman’s options, but that is just the way it is. You may find someone you fall for more than my sister, but if you return to her, you do so knowing with more certainty that she is the one for you.’ His grin returned even wider. ‘But if you hurt her, I’ll take your head from your shoulders.’

  Brann jumped as Cannick laughed right behind him. ‘I was worried, big Hakon, that this place was getting to you and turning you all philosophical. But you redeemed yourself at the end.’

  Brann stared at the older man. ‘How much of that did you hear?’

  Cannick’s eyes twinkled. ‘All of it.’ He whistled jauntily as he sauntered on his way.

  Brann groaned at more discomfort than he could remember. But when Hakon amiably clipped him on the back of his head, he also felt the relief course through him.

  It took moments to gather their possessions, and food and water were brought and received with thanks. Grakk had spoken privately with his father the night before, and though the older man was present when they mounted the camels, a nod was all that either needed to add to what had been said. There was, however, a warmth in the exchange. Brann found himself smiling.

  It was hard to turn their backs on the peace of the valley, but Brann knew the truth in Grakk’s words. Each morning when he woke, the feeling was stronger that he was waiting – hoping – for something to happen. It was too tranquil. Still, there was also an ache at leaving something so beautiful, and a longing that he would someday return.

  The conversation with Grakk from the night before played in his mind. He sighed. As if a prophecy from a Soothsayer, adorable as she may be, was not a burden enough, he now had to shoulder the interest of these secret guardians of knowledge.

  But when the door of rock shut silently behind them and they faced down the road towards ul-Detina, the only vision in his head held the faces of Einarr and Konall. And, behind them, Loku.

  Prophecies and mysterious tribes could wait. He had business in Sagia.

  Chapter 8

  Good never comes without bad in its pocket, and never bad without good.

  His mother had said that and he had thought of the truth in it more often than any other advice through the years. In planning, reacting, manipulating, redeeming, always it had served as his starting point. Never be complacent, never assume; never panic, never freeze.

  Today there was more dry dust in the air than usual, but it was brought because a soothing breeze blew in to where he sat on his balcony. Bad and good.

  The soft wind was not the only thing the desert had sent this morning. The boy had returned, entering the city shortly before dawn.

  ‘He is here,’ she said. ‘In the city.’

  ‘Think I do not know?’

  ‘I assumed so, though your lack of contentment hinted that you may not. It does not please you?’

  ‘It pleases me. But it is done and immediately we must move with the news. And now we must entrust everything we plan, everything that must be, in the hands of one whose stability may be that of a desert cat.’ Good and bad.

  ‘It that is his state, it is one due wholly to the horrors he has endured and the realisation of what he had become. All, I point out, instigated by you.’

  He snapped. ‘You know it had to be. He had to become what he must be. Man cannot teach that, only life can. I did not make him, I put him where he could learn.’

  ‘He could have been killed. Or worse, destroyed. He may yet be damaged. He has been through a dozen hells and the effect of that will never leave him.’

  ‘I am counting on it.’

  ‘You care not for what he has suffered?’ She shook her head. ‘I wonder if you are a greater monster than those we seek to oppose.’ There was a soft rap at the door, and she moved to answer it.

  He waited until she had moved from earshot before he whispered, ‘Of course I care.’

  ****

  Brann stood before a door with a grand-looking crest burnt into the wood, feeling far too vulnerable for comfort in the palace corridor.

  They had been met outside the house they had left what seemed a lifetime ago by a stout slave who pointed at Brann and beckoned. Marlo had recognised him for who he served and, on that basis, Brann was allowed to accompany the slave alone. Given their destination, the fewer who went, the less was the chance of being noticed.

  Brann was certain that Gerens had been close right until they had slipped through a small gate in the outer wall designed for use by those who maintained the sewers of the citadel. With a surety that spoke of the slave’s frequent passage by this means, they strode quickly on treacherously slick walkways alongside channels of dark water and through a stench that made Brann’s head swim. Such was the length of their journey through intersecting tunnel after intersecting tunnel that they were only partway along their route when the smell was forgotten and his steps became confident. They reached a square shaft just wider than the span of Brann’s arms. It extended out of sight directly up, narrow steps winding around the outer edges to leave only a third of its width clear in the centre. They were well up the steps, the bottom and the top both out of sight in what dim light they were afforded, when a shape flicked down past them, followed by two more. Brann flinched away, his shoulder blade bouncing against the wall. The slave’s arm steadied him as he threatened to lurch towards the emptiness and follow the shapes to the bottom.

  The slave looked at Brann, at the middle of the shaft, and back at Brann, his face impassive. ‘Don’t ask. Just avoid the centre, to avoid both the drop and what may come from above.’ They were the only words he spoke duri
ng the entire journey. Brann just nodded in return.

  They climbed through what he could only assume, from the height they went, was the central keep, occasionally passing shadows in the wall that proved to be doorways when he almost fell through the first he came across. They neared the top and the slave led him into the doorway there. It bent to the side almost immediately and the stocky man motioned him to wait beside him in the cramped space and to be silent.

  A man coughed, hawked and spat. Brann almost shouted in surprise, catching the sound barely in time. The wall in front of them, though stone to the touch, must have been only as thick as the width of a couple of fingers. He heard some shuffling, then silence. A grunt led into three explosive farts. Both of his hands pressed against his mouth, desperately stifling the giggles that threatened to rival the man’s wind for ferocity. The slave glared at him. After what seemed eternity, the man gave a sigh of contented relief. Brann squeaked as tears ran down his cheeks.

  ‘Bloody rats,’ the voice grumbled. The door banged as the footsteps quickly receded.

  The slave waited, listening intently, then slipped a catch and slid a section of the wall to one side. As Brann had guessed, they stepped into a privy and the man went immediately to peer from the door. Satisfied with what he saw or, more particularly, satisfied with seeing nothing but empty passageway, he stepped forward without hesitation and Brann followed with alacrity, almost caught unready by the suddenness of the movement. Half a dozen paces took them to a corner, where they turned, and a dozen more brought them to the door with the grand crest.