by Roger Taylor
‘I was only ordering my thoughts,’ Atlon said. ‘I wouldn’t attempt to take him away. Not least because there’s no saying how dangerous he’s liable to become, nor how soon.’
Heirn looked at the slight figure on the bed. Atlon anticipated his question. ‘He mightn’t look dangerous, but he is, believe me. If he’d released the Power he intended for me just now, you’d have been killed as well, and no small part of this building wrecked.’
Heirn’s doubts flared. ‘I’m doing my best with what you’re telling me, but he’s not the size of two good nails, for pity’s sake. What could he possibly…’
‘Have you forgotten how casually you were pinned against that wall, so soon?’ Atlon cut across his outburst, almost angrily. ‘And that Kyrosdyn was little larger than Pinnatte here.’
Pinnatte stirred. Despite his protestations about Pinnatte’s size, Heirn jumped back. Atlon took a deep breath and moved to the side of the bed.
‘You feeling better now?’ he asked, as Pinnatte’s eyes opened.
Pinnatte levered himself upright. ‘Yes. Did I fall asleep in the middle of something?’ He started and turned anxiously to Heirn. ‘The time, the time. I mustn’t be late to see Barran. He’ll forget me for sure if I keep him waiting.’
Without waiting for a reply, he swung off the bed.
‘It’s all right,’ Heirn replied, taking note of Atlon’s studied calmness, and trying to copy it. ‘You just nodded off. There’s plenty of time. I wouldn’t let you miss your appointment.’ He was not entirely successful in keeping an edge from his voice.
‘Do you remember what you just did?’ Atlon asked.
Pinnatte looked at him, automatically assuming a puzzled and innocent expression, and preparing to reach for one of his extensive collection of well-rehearsed excuses. He hadn’t taken anything here, he knew. Oddly enough, the idea had not even occurred to him while he had been with these people.
‘Don’t you remember getting angry with me, a moment ago?’ Atlon pressed.
Pinnatte became genuinely puzzled. Then the memory of the nightmare crashed in on him with a force that was almost physical – the scents, the screams, the emotions, the helplessness. He gasped and lifted his hands as if to fend them off.
Heirn took another pace backwards. Dvolci planted his front legs on the side of the bed opposite Atlon, his eyes flicking intently between him and Pinnatte. Atlon managed to remain outwardly calm, but his mind was racing. The disturbance about Pinnatte that he had felt before had returned strongly, and though it lacked the power and vividness it had had when first he encountered it in the Jyolan, it nevertheless confirmed that Pinnatte’s condition was not improving. If he let him return to the Jyolan, who could say what the consequences would be in that awful place?
Another thought came – startling him with its obviousness. Why was Pinnatte wandering loose? It did not seem probable that the Kyrosdyn would have performed such an experiment on him and simply let him walk away. Or did they not know what had happened to him – that their experiment had been marred? Both options alarmed him. Despite the risks, he had no alternative but to try to win the confidence of this young man. At least this time he would be ready for a violent reaction. Reaching the decision calmed him, and his voice was soft and encouraging when he spoke.
‘If that dream’s still troubling you, you’d be best advised to spit it out. Many night-time monsters shrivel at the touch of the light.’
Once again, Pinnatte shot him a look full of doubt and suspicion, and for an instant Atlon sensed the antagonism that he had faced before, though this time it was distant and weak.
‘I don’t understand,’ Pinnatte blurted out. ‘I don’t have dreams. At least, I don’t think I do. I’ve never remembered one, ever.’
‘Some people don’t,’ Atlon said, heartened by this first response.
Restraints suddenly broke in Pinnatte. ‘It’s the creature,’ he said. ‘I know it is. I didn’t realize until just now. It looked at me last night. Looked up at me -me. Singled me out of the entire crowd and bowed to me. It wants me for something.’
Atlon said nothing but motioned him to continue. Pinnatte’s voice fell to a whisper. He was almost a child now. ‘It’s joined to me in some way. It reached into my mind last night – took me hunting.’ He shuddered.
‘I don’t understand. What do you mean?’
Briefly the antagonism flared again, but it could not survive against the torrent of fears that Pinnatte had released. ‘I was there with it. No, Iwas it. I could hear prey screaming.’ There was cold resonance about the word prey. ‘I was making them scream. I was feeding on their screaming – their terror.’ Pinnatte shuddered again, but this time the shudder turned into an uncontrollable shivering. Though he did not move, Atlon braced himself inwardly, for he could feel a maelstrom of conflicting forces struggling for supremacy within the young man’s tortured frame. Carefully he held out a hand to prevent Heirn from stepping forward to help.
Pinnatte’s shivering showed no sign of abating, and indeed, Atlon could feel his inner struggle worsening. He could not sit by and watch idly, but in such confusion there was no saying what the results would be of anything that he did. His every instinct was to put his arms around the young man again and offer him some simple comfort in his pain. But he knew enough to realize that Pinnatte had probably never had such treatment and that its unfamiliarity might be more disturbing than calming. Instead he risked an approach he thought Pinnatte might well have encountered. He took him by the arms and shook him firmly.
‘Enough!’ he shouted. ‘All you’ve had is a nightmare – a bad dream. It’s out in the open now, and it’s gone. There’s nothing to he frightened about. Besides, do you think Barran would be interested in someone who trembles at his dreams?’
Almost immediately, Pinnatte became calmer. Atlon felt the darkness within him slip away.
Then it was back again, taking him completely unawares.
Pinnatte’s hand shot out and struck him in the chest, hurling him against the wall. The same fate befell Heirn who reached forward to seize him.
‘No!’ Pinnatte bellowed at Atlon, even as he was brushing Heirn aside. ‘I know what you are, warlock. The time is coming. You too will be prey soon.’
Then the room was echoing to the sounds of his fleeing footsteps.
Chapter 24
Rostan was unashamedly afraid. Twice now he had explained in great detail what he had done to Pinnatte, and the circumstances that led to it. Such few lies as he had told at his first confession he had reiterated so often to himself subsequently that they had now become the truth for him, but that gave him little comfort. Imorren’s manner was glacial as she probed relentlessly into every nuance of the event, peeling back layer after layer, cruelly dissecting his actions. He had not seen her like this often, but he recognized the mood. Something was appallingly wrong. So wrong that someone could die for it – and very unpleasantly. Already he had a list of scapegoats to hand.
Then there had come this silence, with Imorren sitting motionless and unreadable, and a sense of oppression so filling the small room that it threatened to choke him. In the end, he could do no other than speak.
‘Ailad, may I ask what has happened?’
The question released Imorren from her circling thoughts. Such that Rostan had done he had done correctly – or in accordance with what had been decided for the Anointing. That he was lying about the circumstances she knew and accepted. It was of no importance. For even had he Anointed the wrong person, the consequences could not have been what she had felt when she was so violently torn from her dream. And it had not been the wrong person. Rostan must indeed have been moved by His will to do what he did, for there was nothing amiss about the Anointed when she had felt his presence at the Jyolan the previous night. All then had been well. A feeling of wholeness, of the coming together of many disparate threads, had pervaded her, almost ecstatically.
But now?
The bonding of the Anointe
d to her and the creature, in some region beyond the dream, had been a strange and unexpected experience, yet there was an order to it that did not seem untoward and which doubtless would yield its secrets to careful study later. But the Anointed’s terror, his violent severing of the bond when he should have plunged with her into the creature’s offering, was deeply disturbing. Even worse however, was the fleeting glimpse she had had as she tumbled back into wakefulness: the Anointed had acquired the ability to use the Power. Just as Rostan was endlessly repeating his encounter with Pinnatte, so Imorren returned to this revelation over and over. It was an impossibility – but she had felt it, surely? Or had she misunderstood, misinterpreted? No, she had felt what she had felt. It had been the Power. But wild and uncontrolled – another impossibility. But…
Round and round.
Something had happened to the Anointed since last night.
‘Tell me about the dead novice,’ she said.
Rostan started at this sudden departure from the intense scrutiny of the Anointing. Imorren herself was surprised by it, coming to her unbidden as it had.
‘There’s little to tell, Ailad,’ Rostan said, tentatively relaxing. ‘He left on a routine task – alone – then he was found this morning by a passer-by who reported it to us in the hope of a reward. I sent some Lesser Brothers to pick him up. He was…’ He hesitated. ‘Badly spent. So much so that the crowd who gathered just presumed that he was one of our older Brothers who had simply collapsed and died.’
‘How badly spent was he?’
‘Completely, Ailad,’ Rostan said. ‘Although I only discovered that myself a little while ago when I examined him personally.’
Imorren touched her throat. ‘And his crystals were gone, you said?’
Rostan nodded. ‘Stolen, presumably. They’d have been transmuted completely. Worth a fortune.’
Imorren became practical. ‘And they’re still ours. Contact Barran. Tell him that first-water greens – worked greens – have been stolen, and to detain anyone trying to sell them. We may as well put our novice’s contribution to some use. Crystals of that quality aren’t easily come by.’
Rostan made to stand up. Imorren waved him back to his seat. ‘Later,’ she said.
She became thoughtful. ‘It’s a long time since anything like this has happened. What do you know about this novice?’
Rostan gave a dismissive shrug. ‘Nothing much. He was competent, conscientious. He’d have made steady progress, quite probably to the Higher Brotherhood eventually.’
‘And his sensitivity?’
‘Better than average, his Teaching Brother said.’
Imorren frowned slightly. ‘Temperament, control?’
‘His control was appropriate to his sensitivity – above average – more than adequate for his normal duties. As for temperament, who can say? Apparently he wasn’t someone that this would have been expected of.’
Imorren turned to him, cold again. ‘You haven’t thought about this, have you?’ she said.
Rostan, suddenly afraid again, opted for honesty without a moment’s consideration. ‘No, Ailad. Not at all. I’ve had little time with all that’s been happening.’
‘Think about it now.’
Rostan bowed slightly. ‘I imagine he’d been experimenting in some way,’ he said casually. ‘That’s the way these things usually happen.’ A flicker of movement in Imorren focused his concentration with brutal swiftness. He rejected his remark before she did. ‘But in an alley far from his own cell? And on his own?’ He stopped as the implication of the novice’s death unfurled with stark clarity. How could he have missed it? He added quickly to his list of scapegoats even as he put his hand to his head and voiced the inevitable conclusion. ‘And completely spent?’ He paused significantly. ‘Unless he accidentally stumbled on a more advanced technique… which is unlikely, to say the least… he couldn’t possibly have taken the crystals through the phases like that on his own.’ It was not necessary to say more. He cursed inwardly. As if there wasn’t enough happening at the moment. Someone – another Brother – had murdered the wretched man! But why? For some petty slight? Novices could become dangerously intense, but that was always watched for. Or perhaps it was a jockeying for position. Or a woman? He blurted out excuses before they were sought.
‘But there’s not been even a hint of trouble amongst the novices. There hasn’t been in years, not since your re-ordering of their duties. And they’re watched constantly for signs of instability.’
Imorren nodded slowly. ‘Nor would I expect one of them to resort to such sophistication to murder someone. Especially when by doing so they’d only point towards themselves. It’s not as if there aren’t assassins enough to be hired in the city.’
‘It might have been a sudden quarrel.’
Imorren’s hand dismissed the idea. ‘A novice who had done this would almost certainly fall victim to the crystals himself. And who else amongst us would bother killing a novice thus?’
The analysis was accurate and Rostan, with nothing to add, remained silent. Something was pending.
‘Which leaves us with the possibility that someone other than one of our own did this.’
Rostan’s eyes widened and, in spite of himself, he ventured to argue with his Ailad. ‘But that’s not possible! There’ve been no users of the Power other than ourselves in generations. Our control’s been absolute. No one could suddenly appear with the ability to use the Power – especially like that.’
‘I did.’
The reply cut through Rostan. He stammered before lapsing into an uncomfortable silence.
‘Yes… but… you were…’
‘I was not from this city.’ Imorren’s tone told him nothing, but when she turned to him, he sat very still. ‘In common with most of the people who are Arash-Felloren born, you make the mistake of imagining it to be the whole world. Many things it is – more than you know. But everything, it is not. There are powerful lands far from here which eventually, when the city is wholly ours, we will have to deal with. And in these lands are people who study the Power as we do – quite openly – though they have neither the crystals nor our knowledge. They should not, however, be under-estimated. It is possible that someone has come as I did. Perhaps a passing traveller, perhaps someone with a more sinister intention. Such a person could well have been challenged by our novice and done this as a result.’
‘But…’
‘I am speculating, Highest,’ Imorren said. ‘Speculating that this is what could have happened. To speculate further would be pointless, but it’s an alternative that mustn’t be ignored.’ She became brusque. ‘Discreetly examine the novices, of course – by way of trying to discover how the poor man might have come to be where he was. Did he experiment, talk of experimenting, was he concerned about anything… you need no counselling from me about how to deal with this.’ Then she was thoughtful again. ‘But tell everyone to be watchful when they’re out in the city. On the pretext of looking for the stolen crystals, tell them to report any unusual manifestations of the Power that they encounter.’
Rostan bowed again. ‘I will, Ailad,’ he said. He carefully adjusted his robe preparatory to a formal leave-taking.
‘The Anointing has been marred.’
Imorren’s words jolted Rostan back to the condition he had been in before she digressed on to the subject of the dead novice. His mouth opened to echo her last word, but no sound came.
‘I don’t understand, Ailad,’ he managed to say, eventually.
‘It is marred – flawed – not as it should be.’
Imorren did not need to look at him to feel his terror. It gave her some pleasure, but she needed him and she needed him alert, not paralysed with fear. Unusually and reluctantly, she released him.
‘The fault is not yours, Highest. What you did, you did well. But while all was satisfactory last night, now it is not.’
In a surge of relief, Rostan risked a question. ‘How has this made itself known to you, Ailad?�
��
‘That is of no import.’ She stared at him, grey eyes piercing. ‘Gariak lost track of him at the Jyolan, you said?’
‘Do you wish him punished, Ailad?’
Imorren shook her head. ‘Give the Anointed’s sign to the Lesser and Higher Brothers and tell them he’s to be found and brought to me. But gently. He must not be harmed. He must not even be frightened. Make that clear on pain of my gravest displeasure. His role is too uncertain at the moment for any rashness. But he must be found, and found soon. See to it.’
* * * *
By the time Atlon and Heirn had reached the door, Pinnatte was nowhere to be seen. Atlon, rubbing his bruised chest, glanced up and down the busy street. ‘That way,’ he and Dvolci said simultaneously. Heirn put a restraining hand on Atlon’s shoulder as he made to set off.
‘Where are you going?’
‘After him, of course.’
‘He’s a street thief, Atlon. He’ll run three paces for every one of yours, weave through a crowd you couldn’t charge a horse through, and climb walls you wouldn’t tackle with a ladder. Not to mention the fact that he knows the city and you’d be lost two streets from here.’
‘Don’t worry, Dvolci and I can track him.’
Heirn released him. ‘Maybe so, maybe not. But when you’ve tracked and caught him, what’re you going to do then?’ He acknowledged a greeting from a passer-by.
Atlon sagged. He looked up and down the street again then at the surrounding buildings. Despite the solidity of Heirn’s presence, the city was a deeply alien place to him.
‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘But I can’t just let him wander free. He’s dangerous, for one thing.’
Heirn was sympathetic. ‘The city’s full of dangerous people,’ he said. ‘Always has been. What’s one more?’
‘In Pinnatte’s case, it’s one too many,’ Atlon replied.
Heirn did not speak for a moment. ‘You can’t sandbag him and hurl him across your saddle, can you? You can’t do anything about him if he doesn’t want you to. And I think, on reflection, you’d be well advised not even to try.’