by Martin Ash
‘It is more important that I have men I can trust to oversee the day-to-day running of my affairs here until my return.’
I felt again that clutch of fear in my innards as I said this: the thought that I might not return - or the person who did return would not be me.
Bris left, and I climbed the stairs to my study. I sat for some time brooding as the darkness closed in and stole the features of my room. A servant entered to rekindle the fire and light neglected candles. I found myself gazing again at the lump of rare green amber that I had acquired from the travelling merchant and eel farmer, Wirm of Guling Mire. I picked it up and held it before me, rotating it back and forth in my hand. It was a queer shape, as such pieces generally are. It was irregular, angular, assymetrical. No attempt had been made to smooth its edges or faces, as is often done. I stared at the tiny, still creatures trapped inside.
I am like one of them, the thought came. Trapped, in circumstances over which I have no control.
I could move, yes; I could make decisions and act upon them. But it felt more and more that I was no longer the master of my actions. Whatever I did it seemed I was obliged to do, without real choice of free will. I felt restricted, trapped; uncomfortingly I felt myself to be a victim, my movements and choices determined by others, hardly more free than these insects trapped in amber.
I did not like the feeling.
*
‘Feikermun is dangerously unstable. His behaviour is erratic; he
suffers grim delusions. He feels himself persecuted and trusts no one. He rules with an iron hand and murders indiscriminately and unquestioningly on the merest suspicion of a plot against him.’
‘A charming companion, then,’ I said. ‘What else can you add to his list of delights?’
It was Eldana who was addressing me. She was a gracile young woman, calm and perceptive, with a tranquil, sensitive grey gaze and a smooth olive complexion. Already, at the age of twenty-one, she had attained the office of High Sashbearer and was a member of both the Hierarchy and the Council of Elders. She was being carefully groomed for advancement, and would almost certainly be Chariness one day.
Her solemn expression did not change. ‘This is virtually all we know of him with any degree of certainty.’
‘It tells me little that I was not already aware of, or at least suspected.’
‘We know. But the point is that an acquisition of power combined with that instability is a terrifying prospect.’
Terrifying for whom? I thought indignantly. You’re safe. It’s me that you are casting to demented monsters.
Disconcertingly, Eldana replied as though she had read my thoughts. It was a trait I had perceived in her on previous occasions, and it left me feeling a little uneasy. ‘Such power would represent a threat on an international scale. There is no doubt that Feikermun would forcefully extend his influence, were he able.’
I knew it, and she knew that I knew it. I had already discussed the issue with old Hisdra; but I was being reminded now of my role in the greater game of politics and foreign relations, the balance of power between nations and bodies of influence.
We were assembled in a convocation chamber deep within the Zan-Chassin catacombs. Hisdra was there, as was her daughter, Crananba, who seemed almost as old as she. Also present were Lord Yzwad of the dhoma of Tiancz, who was of the Hierarchy, and Mostin, the king’s High Chamberlain. The stated purpose of the convocation was to avail me of all that was known about Feikermun and his two rivals in Dhaout. Precious little had so far been revealed. Even so, I liked what I was hearing less and less.
‘He is addicted to gidsha root, which as you know promotes visions of strange intensity,’ Eldana continued. ‘This no doubt exacerbates his madness and his tenuous grasp on reality. The visions it invokes may help promote his mastery of power.’
This was news. Gidsha is the sacred drug of the natives of Nirakupi, a wide tract of deep forest which lies over the White River to Khimmur’s northeast. They are an inoffensive lot once you understand their ways. They spend their entire lives in the dream-state the drug induces. They alone are believed to know the secret of its cultivation - for, improperly prepared, the gidsha root is poisonous.
Before I could make further enquiry, Mostin spoke. ‘He also takes great pleasure in drinking the blood of his victims, chosen often at random or on the spur of the moment. He considers sacrificial blood, human blood, to be the source of great power, the source of life. He frequently opens the veins of a member of his company simply to slake his thirst and renew his vitality.’
I looked at him sharply. There was a thin, sardonic smile upon his pale lips, and his gaze was glassy and cold. He was a silky-voiced, stoat-eyed little man, a few years older than I. He occupied a position of great power and privilege, being perhaps the closest confidant of the king, and had recently attained Second Realm and showed himself adept in certain aspects of Zan-Chassin magic. He bore me no great affection, being ruthlessly ambitious and perceiving in me a rival, I believed. Mostin was not a man to whom I would willingly show my back on a dark night in a lonely place; and I knew that he, for one, would shed no tears were I to fail to return from Anxau.
I chose not to respond, and addressed Eldana once more. ‘From where does Feikermun acquire the root?’
‘That we have been unable to determine.’
‘One of your tasks, Dinbig, will be to attempt to discover from where or whom Feikermun acquires the drug,’ said Hisdra. ‘If it comes out of Nirakupi, the people should be informed. It is their fetish, their god, revered by them, the key which provides them access to lands inaccessible to others. They would not normally permit it to fall into the hands of an outsider. If it derives from a source other than Nirakupi, we wish to be apprised. It could do much to enhance relations were we able pass such information on to them.’
Possibly, I thought. In my experience the Nirakupi have no interest in relations outside their own clans. They are a stupefied race, barely aware of the existence of others. You could walk among them, doing as you wished, and you would be ignored. Pillage their homes, ravish their women, disembowel their children - the chances were they would be oblivious and would take no action against you. To acknowledge your existence they would have had to have previously dreamed you. Were that not the case they would be unaffected by your presence, no matter the atrocities. To the Nirakupi natives the dreams, the visions and the sacred root are the only true reality; the world as we experience it is a non-place, illusory and insubstantial. Life has no reality; it is insignificant, nothing but a dream.
In many ways, I suppose, theirs is an enviable state.
‘The gidsha root may also be your way into Feikermun’s confidence,’ Hisdra continued.
‘How so?’
‘We have given much thought to the manner in which you should approach Feikermun. The perfect way is to offer him what he desires most.’
‘You have gidsha?’ I had not expected this. The treated root is jealously guarded by the Nirakupi, the one thing they value above all else. It is not easily acquired.
‘A small amount. A sample, specially alchemized by ourselves. You will offer it to Feikermun. We believe it will please him more than the root extract he presently ingests. He will be eager for more.’
‘And there I am undone, unless you are able to furnish me with a regular supply.’
‘You will carry sufficient for several doses. Have Feikermun understand that you can acquire more, but that it will take time. In effect you will be bartering for your own sure survival. Keep the root ever like a carrot dangling before him. As long as he believes in you, I think he will not do you harm. But you will be reliant upon your own judgement to determine when he begins to suspect that the carrot does not exist.’
‘At which point..?’
‘Get out. Fast.’
I was not reassured. The whole thing seemed calculated to place me at ever greater risk. My spirits, already sunken, plummeted to subterranean depths. ‘And in that
time I shall be expected to have determined the degree of mastery of Feikermun’s power, and the means by which he has acquired it?’
‘That is your primary task. There is one other thing.’ Hisdra spoke evenly, her old eyes levelled unblinkingly upon me. ‘If Feikermun has acquired the power it will make him an extraordinarily dangerous foe. It would be expedient, therefore, if he could be eliminated.’
My blood ran suddenly cold. ‘You are asking me to assassinate Feikermun?’
‘Assess the situation, Dinbig, and keep us apprised. We will let you know what is required.’
‘Keep you apprised?’ I was, to say the least, bewildered. Was I being offered a ray of hope? Was I not, after all, to be entirely alone in Dhaout? ‘How?’
You may, if you judge it safe, establish contact with us via your Custodian.’
‘But you have already told me that Feikermun is sensitive to the use of magic.’
‘That is so. You must select your moments with extreme care. If you believe yourself at risk, do nothing that might reveal your talents. But it takes mere moments to summon your Custodian and have him relay a message to us, and a summoning is not like the casting of a rapture. It leaves no subtle residue.’
I considered this. The Custodian is the Realm Entity or allied spirit bound by all successful First Realm initiates. Its role is to take charge of the initiate’s corporeal body when he or she chooses to leave the physical world and journey in the Realms beyond. In addition, the Custodian can be instructed to communicate with other Realm Entities, or with the spirit-bodies or bound-servants of other Zan-Chassin.
‘We shall remain vigilant for your Custodian’s coming at all times,’ Hisdra continued.
Again, I felt the numbing fear. I was to inform upon Feikermun’s state, and if the Hierarchy did not like what they learned I would be ordered to bring his life to an end.
‘But what of the status quo?’ I said, hopefully. ‘Should Feikermun be removed, Gorl - or Malibeth - and the Golden Lamb will gain.’
‘If Feikermun has attained the power he will crush them effortlessly. That is what he craves. The fact that he has not done so is almost certain proof that he cannot, yet. That is why we must act now. It will not end there, of course. He will establish himself as absolute ruler of all Anxau, and then his gaze will focus beyond. This must not happen.’
I brooded wretchedly, then asked, ‘What of the other two? What do we know of them?’
‘Gorl is dead, of that we are quite certain,’ replied Eldana. ‘Malibeth, his lover for some years, has succeeded him. We were concerned at first that she might be in Feikermun’s employ, that Gorl’s death might be an act of revenge for his betrayal of his brother. But that seems not to be so. Gorl’s followers support Malibeth, and she opposes Feikermun with a hatred and zeal that equals, and even surpasses, Gorl’s.’
‘You can perhaps make use of that, Dinbig,’ said Hisdra.
‘Malibeth is considered to be a beautiful woman, and as ruthless and dangerous as Feikermun himself,’ Eldana said. ‘Take care in your dealings, Dinbig, should your paths cross.’
I looked at her and she met my gaze. I tried to read her face, for I thought I had detected something more than a detached relating of facts in her voice. There was the briefest dimpling at the corners of her mouth, the faintest smile, and her eyes held, just momentarily, an expression of concern.
‘And the Golden Lamb?’ I asked.
Eldana lowered her eyes. ‘We have learned nothing of this person. He appeared at a time when the conflict between Feikermun and Gorl was at its height, and he used it to his advantage to gain a foothold in the town. This he quickly exploited, establishing himself in strength in the western quarter and refusing to be dislodged.’
‘But who is he? Where has he come from?’
‘I am sorry. We have no physical description, though we suspect he is not an Anxau native. His troops are seasoned, disciplined fighters, with a cohesive organization suggesting trained professional soldiers.’
‘Foreign soldiers?’
‘Or Anxau mercenaries, schooled in foreign armies.’
‘Once more, Dinbig,’ Hisdra interposed, ‘we would welcome reliable information. We need to know the precise situation in Dhaout, and whether intervention is required.’
‘I do not anticipate that my time in Dhaout will be long, Sacred Mother,’ I replied. The words held a hollow ring, imbued with a fatalistic note I had not intended.
She nodded her old head. ‘But you will do what you can.’
I said, ‘Sacred Mother, you were going to research the archives in the hope of shedding some light on the symbol I showed you - the one on the back of the note from Sermilio.’
‘Yes. That symbol is associated with an ancient mythical race called the Avari.’
‘The Avari?’ I racked my brains. The name was distantly familiar.
‘The Tutelary Spirits,’ said Hisdra. ‘The Companions of the Soul.’
Now it came to me, out of the blur of a long-forgotten past. I knew the Avari as creatures of folklore, things of childhood tales, ghostly spirits said to walk unseen at the shoulder of every individual throughout life. They came at birth, one for each newborn child, and their role was to be protectors and guides, communicating with us by subtle, subliminal means, striving to ensure that we each passed through life without undue hazard or suffering, without succumbing to the grosser temptations of the physical world. The Avari, for those who believed, were the guardians of the innermost being, protective spirits of the soul. At the end of one’s life, it was said, if your Avari had remained with you throughout - that is, if you had not wandered so far from the path of goodness that your protector had lost sight of you — then your Avari would embrace your soul as it slipped free of the body, and escort it safely to a higher realm beyond.
I did not recall the origins of this belief: it derived from a time long past. Elements of the Avari mythos could still be found in some form within numerous religious and spiritual doctrines. Zan-Chassin discoveries of the Realms beyond the physical had broadened our perception of existence. We had found entities there as diverse, fickle and unpredictable in their own strange ways as we were in ours. But we had not made contact with the Avari, and nor did we expect to. They were considered powerful mythical figures, elemental figments of an ancient imagination.
I put this to the Chariness, wondering again whether there were things that I, as a lowly First Realm Initiate, had never been told. She hesitated momentarily before giving her reply. ‘There is no evidence for the existence of the Avari outside the minds of the fanciful and those inclined to a specific form of worship.’
‘Then Sermilio’s note ...’
‘The symbol upon the paper is the insignia of a secretive group known as the Arch of the Wing. They were believers, fanatics even, who attracted converts through claims of a transcendent knowledge and exclusive understanding of the ways of the Avari. The Arch of the Wing has not been heard of for many hundreds of years.’
Lord Yzwad spoke for the first time. ‘The Old Religion which was the source of the Avari myth describes another phantasmal race, the Scrin. The two were said to be mortal enemies, for they were complete opposites. The Scrin were evil, scuttling things whose task was to drag men’s souls into darkness and depravity from which they might never know redemption.’
Old Hisdra nodded. ‘Perpetual war raged between the two races, so it was said, in a dimension beyond our own. Life and the continuance of existence were believed to be held in the balance by their struggle, and the need to prevent the Scrin from corrupting the souls of men.’ She paused and shrugged her frail shoulders almost dismissively. ‘These are things of childhood tales, drawn from a time beyond telling. They are stories passed to us by our parents and grandparents, who had them from their parents and grandparents, who had them from theirs ... So it goes on.’
She said more, but I did not hear, for I was aware of the stir of individual memories long buried beneath the sediment o
f the river of my greater memory. I recalled the only description I had ever been given of an Avari. I could not remember who had told me this - my mother, I assumed, or my father; perhaps my childhood nurse. Certainly it was an image that harked back to my earliest infancy. But it filled my inward vision now, blotting out all other perceptions, for it was a powerful image, suddenly strangely familiar.
It was a youthful figure I envisioned, unclouded by time. A person of rare and exquisite beauty, male or female - an androgyne, I should say, embodying qualities of both genders. Its hair was golden, its eyes crystal-clear, almost devoid of colour. The figure wore a loose white kirtle, and from its back sprouted a pair of fabulous coloured wings.
I remembered my dream of the previous night — the winged youth gazing intensely upon a sunset, the youth who had directed me to the strange well, who had made a plea for my help and then fallen back dead upon the ground.
And it came to me that, as the Avari had risen into the air, its diminishing figure with its wings partially outstretched against the vivid sky had seemed vaguely familiar. I saw now what it resembled. The symbol on Sermilio’s note: a birdman.