The name of God was complete.
It had no end, and no beginning.
Kyra was filled with awe at this paradox, and prepared to abandon herself to the vortex.
What she was experiencing now could not be expressed through words available to man. She knew she must let go, let go of the world, of reality as she knew it ... whatever came she must allow to come, without filtering it through the comforting, but limiting, mesh of her mind.
She could hear the thundering of presences, feel the pull and tug of light as it spiralled past her, the abrasive wing of darkness as it swooped into the eye of the Vortex.
There was no way back ... only through...
Kyra let go... and in that act of relinquishment so changed the mode of her Being that she burst into the spirit sphere in a myriad fragments of light, each fragment experiencing a form of existence she had never known before.
But the human frame cannot hold such transformations for long, and, trembling with the strain of it, her body in pain from the unusual demands made upon it, she had to return to being Kyra.
Around her in the inner sanctum of the great Temple of the Sun were grouped the spirit-forms of the Lords of the Sun.
‘Is this reality not enough that I have to take on the knowledge of others?’ she thought wearily.
Sometimes the awareness of the immensity of existence, its complexity and its beauty, was too much to bear.
Sometimes she longed to be an ordinary person, content with the immediate and the visible.
And then she looked around her at the figures of the spirit-travellers from distant places on the earth, and the excitement of knowing that she was part of a growing and limitless process of understanding, filled her with joy.
* * * *
Khu-ren was communicating their problems to the Lords of the Sun.
They shared, in vision, what he knew of Na-Groth.
One, a tall man in a long feathered cloak, responded with recognition.
He knew of Na-Groth.
Instantly all attention was upon him and Khu-ren’s mind was incisive in its questioning.
It seemed that in this particular Lord’s country a certain plant grew that was used for making dreams.
In their underground Temple there were bare stone cells where supplicants slept after having inhaled the smoke of the burning plant.
In the morning they would tell the Seer-priest of their dreams and he would interpret them.
Kyra thought about her own priests who had great respect for dreams, but would not have confused illusion with inner reality.
It seemed Na-Groth had been one of these Seer-priests, and, at first, had done his work well and conscientiously. But, as priest, he had free access to the sacred plant and began to use it more and more for his own purposes. At last he claimed that he, and only he, was in touch with God, and God was ordering him to take command of all mankind to lead them to worship him as he had always wanted to be worshipped.
The first indication that the feathered priesthood had that all was not as it should be was when they began to notice that people were leaving the Temple of the Sacred Smoke tense and worried, instead of relaxed and happy.
Some took their own lives, some the lives of others.
The priests at first were reluctant to doubt one of their own, but there came a time when Na-Groth’s excesses could be ignored no longer.
Their land was in darkness and fear, much as Klad now was.
‘You speak of the past. Is your land now free and happy once again?’
‘Yes ... and no. Yes, we defeated Na-Groth. But no, we have not returned to our former innocence, for our people no longer trust the smoke and our Temple has fallen into disfavour. Our priesthood lives in the hills and is consulted by only a few people. The others prefer to live without a god than with one they hate. They blame us for Na-Groth’s god. You see it was our sacred smoke that conjured him to life.’
The Lords of the Sun waited patiently for the continuation of the story, their hearts heavy with what they already knew.
It was Kyra who asked the next question.
‘How did you defeat Na-Groth?’
The feathered priest looked at her.
‘I am ashamed to tell you.’
‘Tell us.’
There was a long pause.
Faintly Kyra was aware of the drumming, the pulsing, the turning of the people in the circles beyond their inner stone ring. She knew they could not hold the spirit-travellers for long, the thread was fine and fragile, and time was already straining it.
‘We used his mother against him.’
The regret in the priest’s mind touched all the Lords of the Sun with sorrow. ‘How?’ prompted Kyra.
‘She lived in a village a long way from the temple. Na-Groth had long since abandoned her and she was bent with age and loneliness. We visited her and probed her memory for anything we could find to help us against her son. She was not aware that that was what we were doing.’
Again they could feel the pain of his remorse.
‘We felt it was justified at the time, but when she found out what we had done, and that it was her words that had helped us to it ... she killed herself. She still loved her son.’
The man’s mind was full of grief, and they could all feel the suffering of the mother.
Gently Khu-ren turned their attention from the mother to the son.
‘We must know what she told you, and what was done.’
His thought was steady and urgent.
‘There is not much time!’
‘As a young child,’ the feathered priest continued, ‘he was savaged in the face by a wild cat, and this has so scarred his memory that he is consumed by dread of these animals.’
The memory of the young Na-Groth’s ordeal came to them with terrifying clarity. They lived again the pain as the animal tore at his face. They felt his fear of blindness as he struggled to protect his eyes. They experienced the surge of hate and vengeance that was his as he picked up a stick and flailed at it. When it was felled at last they shared his terrible, cruel joy as he reduced the living creature to a mass of blood and bone and sticky fur.
‘We sent our people out with traps and caught two wild cats,’ the priest of the Sacred Smoke continued, ‘and then we released them in the temple when Na-Groth was alone.
‘I can hear his screams still!’
The great Lords were silent as the tale ended.
But the energy in the Sacred Circle was beginning to dissipate as the weariness of the people circling grew.
Kyra could see the images of those around her beginning to break up and fade.
‘We thank you,’ Khu-ren managed to project. ‘Perhaps you have helped us to save our land.’
The priest of the Temple of Smoke was the last to go.
Khu-ren and Kyra bowed to him.
When he was gone Khu-ren looked at Kyra.
‘And so the mother will destroy her son again?’ she said regretfully.
‘No,’ Khu-ren said. ‘The son destroys the son. He was entrusted with a Mystery which he has misused. It is only fitting that fear should destroy the one who rules by fear.’
The people of the circles were dispersing, the priests supervising their orderly exit from the great Temple.
The inner council gathered round Khu-ren and Kyra and were told what had taken place.
‘How will we use the knowledge?’ they asked at once.
But Khu-ren and Kyra were exhausted.
‘We will think on it and meet again. This is too important a matter to be decided by tired minds, in haste.’
Birds flew down and sat upon the Stones, and in the very place that Kyra had had her experience of the Vortex, a cricket began its familiar song.
9
The Preparation
Lark looked deep into Berka’s eyes and knew that she had found a friend. Without questioning, she followed the child into the depths of the sprawling, ugly township, Berka’s ragged cloak o
ver her shoulders so that she would not be so easily recognized as one of Maeged’s slaves.
She was led to the broken wreckage of the house in which Gya lay hidden, and the makeshift entrance door was pulled back.
Inside Gya woke with a jerk from his long and restless sleep, to find himself observed by Berka and a stranger. He was on the defensive at once but the smile of the older girl put him at ease. She put her hand to her lips to indicate that he must make no sound and sat down beside him. Berka remained standing, the cramped conditions not affecting her small frame.
Gently Lark put her hands on Gya’s head and shut her eyes.
She seemed to be concentrating deeply.
Puzzled, he stared at her.
So far no words had been used, but he could feel that she was to be trusted.
He found himself thinking about Isar and the adventures they had been through together. Suddenly he had a flash of inspiration. This must be the dumb girl, Lark, Isar had spoken so much about!
As soon as the shock of this registered in his mind, she smiled and opened her eyes, looking straight into his.
‘You are Isar’s Lark?’ he whispered.
She nodded.
He looked shaken.
Berka stood in her customary way, watching and listening.
‘Have you seen Isar?’ Gya whispered next.
Lark nodded.
‘Where?’ he almost cried aloud, thinking that if Lark was free, Isar might very well be free too.
Lark could not answer and looked to Berka for help.
‘The tall one ... hair like ... sun?’ the child asked.
Lark nodded.
Berka turned to Gya.
‘Groth,’ she said, haltingly in a language she did not find easy to speak. ‘He make Groth face.’
Gya looked bewildered.
‘Groth no face,’ Berka repeated using her hands to mime what she was trying to express. She hid her face in her hands and then suddenly revealed it, pulling her features into a fierce and ugly shape. Gya in spite of the circumstances, could not help laughing.
She pointed to her face as it was now.
‘He make. He make,’ she said.
Gya was still very puzzled, but he decided not to pursue this line of questioning. It now seemed clear Isar was still in the clutches of Na-Groth.
‘Will you help me to free him?’
Lark did not know how to mime the answer to this. She wanted to say that she would help him to destroy Groth, and that way he would eventually be free. She wanted to say that it would help neither Isar nor his people if he were taken from the palace now. But she had no tongue to say all this.
She looked at Berka.
The child shrugged. She too did not know how to put into the words of his language the complex thought she had only half caught from the mind of the dumb girl.
It began to dawn on Gya that they were not going to help him.
He gripped Lark’s thin wrist roughly.
‘You must help me!’
He was met with a look of gentle reproach, and he dropped her wrist, ashamed.
But what was to be done?
Now that he was rested he was determined not to stay idle another moment. He would find a way into the palace of skulls and shadows, and out again, without their help!
As he began to gather himself together, the girls could see from his eyes that he was desperate and impatient.
Vigorously Lark shook her head and put a restraining hand upon his arm.
He shook it off angrily.
‘You will not help me. I will do what has to be done alone!’
Again she shook her head, her eyes worried.
Berka now took his arm, but he instantly pulled himself free of her small grip.
The two girls looked at each other, and then, together, they looked at Gya.
Their eyes were strange.
It was almost as though they were no longer separate entities, but had become one, and that one was an ancient Being, familiar with the Mysteries.
He drew his breath in sharply as he met the unexpected power in their eyes.
He could not move.
It was as though a voice in his head made it clear to him that he was to follow Berka and that she would show him what he must do.
Isar must be left in the care of Lark.
He bowed his head slightly.
The force with which they held him, left them as suddenly as it had come.
Berka lifted the boards at the entrance and looked out.
‘Come!’ she said to him in her child’s voice.
Still shaken by the experience of what he had seen in the girls’ eyes, he followed her.
* * * *
She led him skilfully between the shacks until Gya became uncomfortable at the distance he was from the palace and his friend. Several times he almost pulled away from her, telling himself he must be crazy to put himself into the hands of a sickly child, an enemy child. But the memory of that special look returned to him, and, although he now began to doubt that it had happened at all, he could not be sure.
She came to a standstill at last before the doorway of a house.
She gave a low call which was immediately answered from within. Gya found himself pushed gently but firmly through the doorway.
Inside he was startled to find himself surrounded by enemies. He clenched his fists and tensed his muscles ready for a fight, but he was not challenged.
Silently the gathering of strangers considered him.
Berka spoke long and persuasively to them in their own tongue and Gya could feel the hostility in their gaze lessening.
When she had stopped speaking, one moved forward and took Gya by the arm to show him where he was to sit amongst them.
Gya looked from face to face and everywhere he saw scars, hollow cheeks and haggard eyes. He could almost smell desperation in the air. These people were not the arrogant master race he had seen swaggering about the place, they were hunted animals like Isar and himself, though of the same race as the hunters.
Berka had brought him to a meeting of conspirators, dissidents who were tired of being party to killing and repression, who had finally turned against the laws that took people’s loved ones forcibly from them, and forced them to shed their blood in Groth’s name.
Many of their number had been discovered and destroyed.
These were the ragged remnants.
They welcomed Gya with reservation. They had been taught to believe the local inhabitants were ignorant savages to be used as a work force, but good for nothing else. They no longer believed this, but it was still not easy to accept one as their equal.
‘Berka tells us that you want to join us?’
Gya hesitated, not sure if this was true.
‘What is it that you have to offer that would be of use to us?’ The slight edge of scorn to the man’s voice stung Gya’s pride.
‘I am a bowman,’ he said, drawing himself up tall. ‘Probably the best in the land.’
A disbelieving snort came from a man crouching in the shadows.
‘Then where is your bow, bowman?’ asked the man who had spoken first.
‘It was in the possession of a friend when he was captured by Na-Groth’s men. It is within the palace.’
A murmur went round the group.
‘Then it is lost forever!’
‘No!’ Gya said with conviction.
‘Nothing that is taken by Na-Groth is ever free again.’
‘Na-Groth is a man. He can be outwitted.’
There was a tense and uneasy silence in the room.
‘Na-Groth is the right hand of Groth. He is no ordinary man.’
‘Na-Groth is a man like any other man!’ insisted Gya.
‘He sees everything!’
‘He hears everything!’
‘He knows everything!’
The voices came whispering out of the shadows and the smell of fear was strong in the room.
Gya suddenly knew why h
e had been brought here.
He knew what his role was.
These men had been so conditioned to fear Groth and Na-Groth that they were helpless to carry their rebellion through.
They needed a leader from outside the conditioning, outside the fear.
Gya could be that leader.
He knew it, but whether they would follow him was another matter...
He stood straight and proud.
‘If I prove to you that Na-Groth does not see everything, does not hear everything, does not know everything ... will you follow me to destroy him?’
Eyes stared at him.
For a long while no one said a word, and then one spoke for all of them.
‘If you can prove it,’ he said, ‘we will follow you.’
Berka smiled with relief and slipped unnoticed from the room and was gone.
* * * *
Lark had not followed Gya and Berka, but had gone straight back to the palace.
In her dreams a wise and beautiful old man had come to her and through his eyes she had seen many things.
She knew that he was of the Spirit realms, but whether he was one of the free Spirits or one of those awaiting rebirth on this earth, she did not yet know. Much would have to happen before she would learn that he was the spirit form of Maal, the priest-friend of Kyra, Karne and Fern, who had been killed by Wardyke, but who had promised to return when his help was needed.
It was he who had led her to seek for Berka and Gya, and it was he who had given her strength to speak with thoughts and to quell with looks.
On her return to the palace she learned that men had been sent to bring timber for the huge mask that Isar was going to carve.
The place was buzzing with speculation about the Face of Groth.
‘It is a sacrilege that a local savage is to be given the privilege of carving it!’ Lark heard someone say as she passed by.
‘No, it is better so,’ someone else replied. ‘Whoever carves it cannot live to say he carved the Face of Groth. He will be killed.’
‘I expect Na-Groth will make a festival of the killing,’ another voice joined in.
‘It will be slow!’
‘My woman loves festivals of sacrifice.’
‘You are lucky. Mine wept for hours after the last one. I had to keep her hidden in case Na-Groth was offended.’
Shadow on the Stones Page 10