Rebiri had come here not for any clear, carefully-thought-out reason, but because it felt right; he had felt his destiny calling him back to this place, and he had come.
The floor was rough, broken stone, not even remotely level, smoothed in spots by patches of mud that had somehow found their way down into this strange realm; gravel crunched and slid under Rebiri's feet, and before him, here and there in the muddy spots, he could see the footprints that he and his father had left more than thirty years before, undisturbed by the passage of time.
The cave smelled of damp stone, a lifeless, unappetizing odor; Rebiri ignored it.
The only sound was the soft padding of his sandaled feet; no wind, no other movement disturbed the eerie silence. Still, Rebiri thought he could sense another presence, something that was not physically there but was nonetheless real.
Save for that feeling of some supernatural presence, he was alone down here; Aldassi had remained aboveground. Aldassi still possessed his magical crystal, that first crystal he had made seasons ago as a student back in Fadari Tu; he had become adept in its use, drawing power from the sun, from the gods who powered the sun. For the sake of his intended experiment Rebiri could not allow that crystal down here, nor did he want Aldassi to leave it unattended.
The experiment would be dangerous; he knew that, and he saw no need to risk his son's life as well as his own. Aldassi was the last in the direct line of the Olnami warlords; if both Rebiri and Aldassi perished, the hereditary title and responsibility would fall upon their cousin Seloti.
Seloti was a merchant in the Domdur fortress town of Kubezhin, back in what was now the province of Olnamia. Despite living in the heart of his ancestral homeland, Seloti had abandoned the old ways and embraced the new; he barely remembered the Olnami language, and had never so much as held a sword. If Seloti became warlord all hope for vengeance was lost. Aldassi's life could not be risked.
Besides, Rebiri liked the boy, perhaps even loved him. Aldassi was a good lad. It was better he not risk entering the cave, and no one else could be trusted. Rebiri had come alone.
The Olnami warlord had to move carefully, watching his footing; he had no hands free to catch himself if he stumbled. His right held the torch; his left clutched a thick bundle of black cloth.
Inside the bundle was the short staff of black wood he had prepared back in Fadari Tu, a staff like the one Tebas Tudan carried, with one of the Diknoi power crystals at either end.
These two were the largest crystals Rebiri could make, each almost as large as his own head, considerably larger than the ones on his teacher's staff. It had taken him the better part of a year to get them made to his satisfaction.
These crystals were not charged with magic, though; indeed, the Nazakri had taken every precaution to ensure that they would not be exposed to sunlight prematurely. He had made two, despite the extra time and effort that required, entirely in case one did somehow trap a little of the gods' power. He had completed them by the light of a single candle, working as much by touch as by sight, then immediately shrouded them in heavy cloth and sealed them in a box. Unlike Aldassi, Rebiri had destroyed his first crystal, which had been used in sunlight, lest it somehow contaminate these others. He had wanted them to remain utterly virgin until he reached his destination.
Now that destination was just a few yards ahead. He paused, considering.
He had come here at the urgings of fate – or of something, at any rate. Now, though, the time had come to think out what he should do next.
Ahead the cave sloped down into a pit, a pit so totally black that the torch's light seemed unable to penetrate its darkness. Rebiri remembered when he had seen that pit before; no light had been able to pierce it. It swallowed whatever light touched it, and almost seemed to reach out for more.
That was the darkness he wanted to capture in one of the crystals of the New Magic. He intended to trap the dark powers of the earth as the others had trapped the bright light of the sun.
Now, though, he faced the moment when he must decide how best to attempt his task. Need he douse the torch to lure the darkness out? Must he plunge the crystals into the pit itself?
If he put out the torch he might never find his way out. Besides, he remembered that when he had come here all those years ago the lanterns they had carried had not kept the dark things from approaching.
There was no point in risking too much. He wedged the torch securely between two rocks, then knelt and carefully unwrapped his staff.
The crystals glittered brilliantly in the torchlight and sent golden flickers across the stalactites overhead as Rebiri picked the staff up in both hands.
The flickers were like eyes watching him. Certainly, he felt something watching him.
Perhaps, he thought, the old gods of the Olnami were not all dead after all. The shamans had said that the lesser gods of blood and clan had deserted the Olnami, had vanished from the world forever. They said that the greater gods of sky and desert had been the same the Domdur had worshipped all along, under different names, and those gods had long ago abandoned the Olnami in favor of the Domdur. But perhaps, Rebiri thought, some divine power had come to see that the cause of the Nazakri was just and right after all, and was guiding him, watching over him.
Leaving the torch and the heavy cloth there on the stone he stepped forward cautiously, down the slope toward the pit's darkness.
The cool, still air of the cave seemed suddenly alive, crawling across the exposed skin of his arms and face like insects, like fluttering spiderwebs. He blinked, and when his eyes opened again the gloom of the pit seemed to be rising toward him. The torch's light was faint and far away, and the stone walls that had been golden an instant before were suddenly grey and dim. His own shadow stretched out before him, merging with the darkness of the pit and spilling up the far wall.
The comforting guiding presence was gone. He was alone in a cave with those things, those black, evil powers...
He stepped back involuntarily, and lost his footing as a stone went out from under his sandal; he fell, his arms flying up, taking the staff with them.
He landed hard on rough stone, flat on his back, the wind knocked out of him, his right hand still clutching the staff and holding it up above his chest. One crystal was mere inches from the torch.
The darkness was still oozing up from the pit; he could see it crawling across the cave walls, dimming and erasing the torchlight, washing everything it touched in impenetrable shadow.
He lay motionless, dazed, trying to think what he should do.
A tendril of darkness climbed the stalagmite by his right shoulder, reaching for the staff.
That was what he had come for, of course, but at that moment he panicked, thinking only of how precious the crystals were, how long and hard he had worked on them. He swung the staff farther away from the stalagmite.
And one crystal plunged into the flame rising from the torch.
That should have been harmless, meaningless; back in Fadari Tu the students and Tebas Tudan had performed any number of experiments, trying to use light other than sunlight. None of them had worked; to any sort of flame or glow other than the direct rays of the sun, the magical crystals were nothing but ordinary glass.
But here, in the cave where the old dark powers lurked, something leapt from the stone and merged with the flame, and with a flash and a rush of air the crystal absorbed the torch's fire.
The torch went out instantly, reduced to a smoking stump, but the light did not completely vanish; instead the crystal now glowed a smoky red, as if it were a coal from some gigantic forge.
The Nazakri stared at it for a moment, trying to understand. Then he slowly sat up, still holding the staff, still staring at the glowing crystal.
The world around him was red and black now, a world of jagged crimson shapes and crowding darkness, and he could feel the power through the staff.
He didn't know just what this power could do, but he knew it could do something; he felt it st
raining at its bonds, dark and hungry.
Keeping the staff in his right hand, he grasped the tip of a stalagmite with his left and pulled himself to his feet. He stared at the glowing crystal a moment longer, noticing that smoke seemed to be seething in the air around it, not rising and dissipating as smoke ought to, but appearing, swirling, and vanishing in an unnatural vortex.
This was what he had come for. It was not, perhaps, quite what he had expected – he had not planned on using the torch's flame – but it was what he had, and he thought it would serve.
It was time, then, to leave. He looked down at the floor of the cave, trying to find his path.
Thin fingers of blackness were inching across the red-lit stone toward his feet.
“No!” he shouted, stepping back.
The darkness followed him.
He looked desperately at his staff. He couldn't use the glowing crystal; that was the same stuff that was after him, and besides, if he used it here he would have no more light, no way to find his way out.
He turned the dark, unused crystal downward and jabbed it at the nearest of the approaching tendrils.
Something screamed soundlessly; Rebiri sensed it, thought he felt the air vibrate with it. As he watched, the crystal sucked the darkness in, leaving the stone bare and unshadowed.
“Oh,” the Nazakri said.
He could no longer see the dark crystal. Where it had been was a blackness his gaze could not penetrate, a blackness exactly like that darkness in the pit.
He could feel something moving in the staff, something cold and hostile; the black wood seemed suddenly slick and icy in his hand.
That was enough. That was more than enough. The time had come to get out of this place. He had what he had come for, and more than he had reckoned on.
Staggering in the smoky red light, he made his way upward as quickly as he could, up toward where Aldassi waited.
As he climbed, he felt his destiny gathering about him once again.
Chapter Seven
Asari Asakari picked up his begging bowl and rattled it, then grimaced ruefully. He wasn't trying to attract donations, as the courtyard was deserted; he made the gesture from habit.
The clinking of the coins was unsatisfying. The day's take had been poor, which was why he had stayed at his post so late, but there was no point in staying any longer. The streets were empty, the windows on all sides dark. He would have to fast a little, that was all.
He fished a rag from his pocket and spat on it, then began wiping away the make-up that provided his “skin disease” and drew the pity of the city's wealthy.
Maybe he hadn't put it on well today, he thought. Maybe he'd looked too healthy. If... no, when Bekra ever came back, he'd have her help him with his appearance, and he'd do the same for her.
He was just removing the last of the paint when he heard footsteps.
“Oh, the gods do like their little tricks!” he said in his native Olnami as he looked down at the rag he held. If he had waited just another few minutes he might have collected enough for a meal – or he might not; there was no knowing whose footsteps he had heard.
The Matuans of Hao Tan were not likely to be out at this hour, for fear of footpads and assassins, but the Domdur were fearless, especially when drunk, and were often generous, as well. If the steps he heard were those of a Domdur officer, Asari might well have collected a handful of silver in his bowl had he kept his make-up on.
On the other hand, Asari was unsure just how groundless the Matuans' fears were. If the footsteps were those of a footpad or assassin...
Asari peered into the gloom of the street. The sky was cloudy, the light of the Hundred Moons obscured, and most of the town's lights had been doused hours ago, so visibility was very poor.
He thought he could see something, though – a red glow was moving closer.
It was very red – no torch or candle would make such a light. Perhaps a coal lantern might, or hot iron, though Asari could not imagine why anyone would be carrying a hot iron about the streets an hour after midnight.
Old tales began to stir in the back of his mind. Would an assassin have a use for hot iron?
Perhaps, Asari thought, the essence of wisdom would be invisibility. He retreated toward the mouth of an alley, trying to move as silently as he could; he scooped the pitiful few coins from the bowl and tucked them in a pocket, where they wouldn't rattle.
“Olnami!” called a voice from the direction of the light.
Asari froze.
Whoever was there must have heard him speak a moment before, and must have recognized the language; no one could have known his nationality otherwise. His rags were scarcely his people's traditional robes; they had largely been collected from Matuan sources.
Was there, perhaps, some other Olnami about? Or was this mysterious stranger simply exclaiming about something else, rather than calling to someone?
“Olnami, come here! I would speak with you!”
Asari hesitated. The words were in Olnami, rather than Domdur or Matuan.
The footsteps were coming closer – two sets of them, he realized – and the red glow was growing brighter, lighting the tiled walls in a hideously distorted parody of their true colors. A scent of something burning, something unpleasant, reached him.
Asari could still not see the source of the glow. “Who calls?” he asked, in Olnami.
A figure appeared, a black outline at the center of the red glow, but Asari could make out little of it; it seemed to be swathed in black smoke.
Another figure, behind the first, was clearer – it was definitely a man, though Asari could not see his face.
“I am Rebiri Nazakri, rightful hereditary warlord of the Olnami,” the first figure said. “Who are you?”
Asari blinked.
As a child he had heard stories about the old days, about how the Nazakri had led the Olnami in the war against the Domdur conquerors – but weren't the Nazakri all long since dead? The Olnami had no warlords any more. The Olnami were herdsmen or craftsmen or merchants or laborers, or beggars like himself, not warriors. For the most part the Imperial army would not have them. They were not even welcome among the local guards.
“My name is Asari Asakari,” he said warily. He peered at the mysterious arrival who called himself Rebiri Nazakri, and thought he could make out a man in a black robe, holding a staff – the red glow seemed to come from one end of the staff.
But there was smoke, or something like it, swirling about him – swirling, and not dissipating.
“The Asakari keep cattle in the southwestern hills,” the apparition said. “What are you doing in this place?”
“Begging,” Asari said, holding up his bowl. “I came here seeking a better life, and did not find it.”
“The Domdur denied you?” the Nazakri asked.
It had been the Matuans, more than the Domdur, but the more Asari saw of this stranger the less natural he looked, and Asari did not care to argue with him. “Yes,” he said.
“Would you avenge yourself upon them?”
It was obvious what answer the apparition wanted, and while Asari had no particular grudge against the Domdur, he had no objection to giving the desired response. Beggars learned to be agreeable – either that, or they starved.
“Yes,” he said. “If I could.”
“Join me, then. I have sworn to destroy the Domdur, in vengeance for all the wrongs they have done to our people, and I believe I have found the means to do so.”
“What do you mean?” Asari asked uneasily.
The red glow suddenly faded, and darkness seemed to pour from the shadowy figure.
“I have found a way to use the powers of black magic,” the Nazakri said. “Our own gods deserted us, and the Domdur gods cast us down in defeat, but there are other powers than those gods. There is a destiny guiding me. There are dark powers beneath the earth, and I have mastered them!”
The darkness seemed to wrap about Asari, an unnatural darkness that was
thicker and more tangible than mere night, and he was suddenly cold, colder than he had ever been before in his life; then the darkness sucked the air from his lungs, and he was suffocating. Panic surged through him, and he suddenly knew that he was doomed, he would never see Bekra again, he would die here, alone and unloved. He dropped his bowl, and the sound of it striking the cobbles seemed to come from a great distance, as if echoing down a long tube...
And then the unnatural darkness was gone, and only the ordinary gloom of the late-night streets remained.
Asari gasped, trying to recover himself.
When he could think clearly again, he saw that he was facing two men – the pair had approached while he was dazed.
One was a young man in traditional Olnami garb somewhat the worse for wear, a man of medium height, strongly built, carrying a large sack.
The other was an old man in a ragged black robe, carrying a staff with things at either end that Asari could not see clearly. One end glowed a dark red – that was what had lit the street moments before. The other end seethed with darkness, a blackness deeper than any night; Asari shuddered as he looked at it.
“What do you want of me?” Asari asked.
“I have spent my life in exile,” the old man replied, “and know little of the modern world. I do not even know the name of this place. I need your knowledge of this city, and the others like it.”
“This city?”
“Yes. What is it called?”
“This is Hao Tan,” Asari said.
“Not Pai Shin?”
“No.” Asari shook his head. “Pai Shin is the provincial capital of Matua, and much larger than this. This is just a market town.”
“Ah. You know the way to Pai Shin, though?”
“I know Pai Shin,” Asari agreed. “I lived there for a season.” Had he been speaking Domdur he would have said “a few dozen triads,” but in Olnami the older term came more naturally. He had not held so long a conversation as this in his mother tongue since he had left his parents' home, long ago.
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