The Initiate

by Louise Cooper

  By the time the brief day ended, he knew he was going to die. For endless hours he had crawled like a wounded animal, parallel to the track along a shale ridge, always hoping that the pass would end around the next outcrop to reveal a village and always suffering bitter disappointment. Far above him the Sun had climbed aloofly into the sky, reached a weak meridian and slipped down again, and never once had a single ray of warmth penetrated the shadows. Eventually he had lost touch with reality, and the narrow world of the mountain pass seemed like an eternal dream, with no beginning and no end. Each twist and turn looked the same as the last, every bare, hostile crag above him the same as its fellows. But he kept moving, knowing that once he stopped, once he admitted defeat, then death would come swiftly and inexorably. And he didn't want to die.

  He became aware at last that his vista was darkening once more, and as the grim day deepened into twilight the rocks seemed to close in on him, as though trying to enfold him in a final embrace from which he would never wake. By now he was murmuring wordlessly to himself, sometimes trying to laugh through parched lips, once even shouting some confused challenge to the crags. And as he crawled, the name, his one lifeline, reverberated over and over in his mind.

  Tarod... Tarod... Tarod...

  Finally the moment came when he knew he could go no further. The last of the light had all but fled, and when he raised one hand in front of his face he could barely make out the pale outlines of his fingers. A boulder loomed in his path and, reaching it, he huddled at its foot, pressing his face against the rock and listening to the pounding of blood in his ears. He had tried to save himself, and he had failed. There was no more he could do....

  And then, through the roaring of his own pulse, he heard another sound.

  It was slight -- nothing more than the faint rattle of a stone dislodged and sliding on the shale. But he was instantly alert, for the noise could mean only one thing -- someone, or something, was moving nearby.

  Heart hammering, he shifted his position until he could look in the direction from which the sound had come, and his eyes strained to see into the deepening darkness. And just when he was beginning to think he must have imagined it, he heard another soft, slithering rattle of stone on stone, this time from a little further away.

  Then he saw them. Three silhouettes, only slightly darker than the surrounding terrain, moving with careful stealth across his field of view. They stood upright, and although their heads seemed to be shrouded in caps or hoods of some kind, they were recognizably, unmistakably human.

  The shock of encountering human beings at the very moment when he had given up all hope was indescribable, and only self-discipline stopped him from screaming aloud with what little strength he had left. He lurched forward, trying to rise... until an instinct warned him to hold back.

  Something in the way the silhouetted figures were moving had sounded a warning bell in his mind, telling him not to reveal his presence. The figures were making their way cautiously along the ridge; he saw an arm raised, darker against the backdrop of the crags; heard a muffled curse as someone slipped. The accent was unfamiliar... Then abruptly, at a signal from one who appeared to be their leader, more figures emerged from the dark. Holding his breath and trying to ignore the painful pounding of his heart, the boy began to count their numbers -- but almost before he could begin, a new disturbance diverted his attention.

  Hoofbeats. Far away as yet, but as his ears strained the sounds resolved into greater clarity. Several horses -- it was hard to judge the numbers, as the sounds echoed and re-echoed in the pass -- and they were approaching rapidly. The men, too, had heard them, and the scattered silhouettes tensed. Something glinted in the hand of one of them; dully gleaming metal...

  The boy saw the lights before he saw the horses and their riders;, small, bobbing pinpoints approaching like fireflies along the pass. Three lanterns, borne on long poles, and as they drew closer their flaring glow illuminated the faces of the riders.

  Almost all the travellers were women.

  Women, riding through a forsaken place like this? Before he could muster his thoughts the shadowed figures on the ridge moved. The boy saw their plan immediately, and realized that these men were nothing less than brigands -- he was about to witness an ambush! The women wouldn't stand a chance... A cold deeper than the chill of pain and exhaustion and the bitter night penetrated to the boy's marrow and he shrank further back against the boulder as the first of the riders clattered by a mere few feet below him.

  The attack was swift, and shockingly efficient. The brigands gave no warning; they simply sprang from their vantage point like phantoms materializing out of the night, and three riders and two lanterns went crashing to the ground as the leading horses reared whinnying in terror. Women screamed, a man's voice bellowed raucously, the sounds echoing back from the peaks, and pandemonium erupted in a matter of moments.

  The boy watched, unable to move, unable to tear his appalled gaze from the mayhem below. By the light of a wildly swinging lantern he saw the bandits' long knives, saw a horse go down, blood fountaining from its throat and a hideous, thin shriek bubbling from its mouth. A woman, vulnerably visible in a long and cumbersome white robe, was trying to crawl from under the flailing hooves; a hooded figure shadowed her suddenly; he saw a knife flash, but her cry -- if she cried out -- was lost in the uproar.

  To attack a woman... she was defenseless! The boy's stomach churned suddenly as a terrible emotion rose in him, and seemed to flood his whole being. His fists -- even the fist of the shattered arm -- clenched convulsively, and rage and bitterness surged to the surface. The feeling made him want to hurt, to kill, to avenge the brigands' victims, and as the desire formed, an exhilarating sense of power swept through him and took control, fuelled by his anger and blotting out all other forms of consciousness. Had he had time to reason, he would have realized that that power was twin to the force that had struck down Coran -- but reason was beyond him. Without knowing it he was on his feet, the strength of pent-up fury filling his body. He raised an arm high above his head, and the world about him seemed to turn crimson -- for an instant the upturned face of the brigands' leader was caught and held with terrible clarity in his field of vision; disbelief registered on the broken-nosed features, then was frozen forever as a single bolt of livid crimson brilliance seared with a deafening crack from the boy's fingers. The bolt struck the brigand full on, and his body seemed to erupt in a second, lesser flash before the scene was plunged into a stunning darkness and silence.

  The boy rocked dangerously on his feet. What had he done? What had happened to him? The flood of power had taken him over totally, but now, expended in a single moment, it had gone, leaving only a hideous aftertaste. He wanted to be sick, but his stomach was empty; he could no longer control his muscles.... For a moment he saw the faces below him, stunned into immobility by what they had witnessed. Somewhere, far away he thought, men were yelling, footsteps scrabbling and stumbling as someone fled. Then a wave of nauseous darkness rose, ebbed, rose again, stronger this time; he felt his legs giving way --

  Thankfully, there were hands waiting to catch him as he pitched forward from the ledge into the pass below.

  Tarod... Tarod... Tarod...

  The name was calling him back to consciousness. He tried to open his eyes, but pain filled him at the smallest movement and he gave up the attempt.

  His tongue was swollen and leaden in his mouth, his throat raw, but he couldn't find his voice to ask for water. If, indeed, there was anyone to hear him....

  But there was a presence. He could sense it -- or, rather, them -- moving quietly about him. And he was no longer lying on the cold shale but on rough fabric, warm against his flesh. A sense of being closed in... a shadow passed across his lids and again he tried to open them, but again was incapable.

  Tarod... Tarod... Tarod... This time the word in his mind resolved into other words; low-pitched voices, physical, real...

  "And I tell you, Taunan, that the boy is
badly injured! Would you have him die on the journey? My Cot is no more than half a day on -- ''

  "Lady, I appreciate your concern; I share it." A man's voice, this. "But you saw what happened with your own eyes! Evidence of such a power is -- is -- " words seemed to fail the speaker momentarily, "unheard of! No; if he can be mended, our physician can mend him. He must be taken to the Peninsula."

  The woman stood firm. "He shall be brought to you when he's healed. Unless, of course, his clan should claim him in the meantime."

  Horrified, the boy wanted to protest, to tell them that he had no clan and nothing in the world could induce him to return to Wishet. He was desperately relieved when the man replied, "He shall come with me now! And damn his clan -- no one can spawn such a prodigy and expect the Circle to shrug its shoulders and ignore the fact! Aeons preserve us, when Jehrek hears of this -- "

  "He will quite probably have your addled brains on a silver dish for your carelessness, if I know the High Initiate!" the woman retorted tartly.

  Initiate! The boy managed this time to gasp, and immediately another female voice, lighter and younger, spoke close by his ear. "Madam -- Taunan -- I believe he is stirring!"

  The man swore roundly under his breath.

  "Thank you, Taunan, I would remind you that there are novitiates present," the older woman chided him. "There now, Ulmara, let me see the boy; ah yes, he's regaining his senses even if he tries to hide it." A rustle of clothing and he felt a second presence at his side, smelled a faint, unfamiliar herbal scent. "To think that without him, we might all now be dead... child, can you hear me?"

  Something in her voice, firm but kind, made the boy want desperately to respond, but his vocal cords would not obey his will.

  "Water, Ulmara. There's a flask over there; I think it's undamaged."

  Something cold was put to his lips and he swallowed convulsively. The water was stale but welcome, and at last he felt throat and tongue beginning to unlock.

  "That's better," the older woman said with satisfaction. "Now, can you speak? Can you tell us your name?"

  Name? He had no name, not any more, and with that thought the fear resurged. Without thinking he tried to move, and the pain it brought to his shoulder and arm was so great that he moaned aloud and fell back.

  "Sweet Aeoris, Taunan, the wound's opened again. Fetch me a cloth, Ulmara, quickly. Yes, yes, that will do; no matter if it soils!" A pad was applied to his shoulder, and the coldness of it was a balm to the fire that seemed to be trying to sear his flesh. Calmed, he wondered what he could tell them, and at last, goaded by confusion, he found his voice. But he couldn't form the word he wanted to say, and instead whispered, "Brigands..."

  The man made a sound that might have been surprise or amusement. "The brigands? They're gone, lad. Scattered like babes before a Warp; all except the leader they left behind, thanks to you -- "

  "Taunan!" said the woman warningly.

  Taunan brushed her protest aside. "He knows what he did to that piece of offal, or what's left of it, and he should know, too, that he saved all our lives by doing it!"

  "Nonetheless, he might be in shock and it'll do no good to remind him -- "

  "No, not this one." A hand touched the boy's forehead. "He's strong, lady -- stronger, I suspect, than you or I or anyone we know. A strange fish, and no mistake."

  Something in the boy's consciousness rebelled at their talk; they spoke as though he were some inanimate piece of meat to be discussed and dissected at their leisure. What had he done? He couldn't remember now... He clenched his teeth, made a tremendous effort to combat the pain, and forced his eyelids to open.

  At first the scene before him wouldn't focus, but remained a blur of shapeless shapes, colorless colors. Then he saw that just a pace away from him was a cloth wall; above his head a cloth ceiling. He was in a tent, or at least a crude and hastily constructed shelter. The small, cocoon-like world it formed was comforting; he felt -- however illogically -- safe from the night that lurked beyond. He blinked crusted lashes, and someone dabbed gently at his eyes with a wet cloth, so that at last his vision cleared and for the first time he saw the faces of his companions.

  The woman who knelt beside him was older than her vigorous voice had implied, her face long and strong-boned, the skin pale, the eyes a faded blue. Her hair was invisible, drawn back under a wide, white linen band that circled her head, and she wore the distinctive white robe of a Sister of Aeoris over what appeared to be coarse travelling clothes. When she smiled she showed several missing teeth, although the lantern-light, casting a soft glow over the scene, mellowed the deep lines on her face. Other figures moved and he saw a girl only a few years older than himself, rounder and snubber of feature, her eyes staring widely at him. Two more women sat gazing at him from a distance; they too wore white robes, torn and stained after their ordeal, and one held her bandaged arm at an awkward angle. Intuition told him that she was the one he had seen trying to crawl away, the one the brigand had struck. So she had survived without too much injury... he was glad. The boy tried to smile at her, but before she could respond, the man whose voice he had heard interposed his body between them. He was tall and spare, the hair light brown, cut roughly to lie on his shoulders. His eyes, too, were light, framing a sharp, high-bridged nose, and something in their look told the boy that there was a good deal more to Taunan than first impressions suggested.

  Now Taunan squatted on his haunches and leaned forward. "Can you see me, lad?" he asked.

  The boy nodded with an effort, then bit his lip hard as pain shot through him again.

  "Don't move more than necessary," the old woman admonished. "You've lost a good deal of blood, child, and you are weak. But you're safe with us. The brigands are long gone." And she stared down any further comment Taunan might have made on that score.

  Taunan's gaze flicked from the woman to the boy once more. "We owe you a debt, lad," he said seriously. "And we'll repay it, if we can. What is your name, and your clan?"

  The boy would dearly have loved to tell Taunan the truth, but wariness made him hold his tongue.

  "Either he doesn't know, or he doesn't want us to know," Taunan murmured. The words were not intended for the boy's ears, but he heard them nonetheless. "Or he could be a stray -- he's nothing but skin and bone."

  The old woman sighed. "Yes... and that's an added danger, with the injury he's suffered. If only we had something to nourish him; some milk -- "

  "Milk?" Taunan gave a short, sharp bark of a laugh. "Lady, you'll not find any milk within a day's ride of this hellhole! The best we can do for him is brackish water and a bite or two of whatever provisions any of us are carrying, if he can stomach it, which I doubt."

  The boy felt his mind beginning to drift away, detach itself from the quiet scene in the shelter. It was a peculiar sensation, like floating on a cloud of damp air, and he relaxed his grip on his senses enough to indulge it a little -- until Taunan leaned over him again. As the man moved something glinted at his right shoulder, catching the boy's attention, and when he looked at it his pulse quickened. It was a gold brooch, an insignia that formed a perfect circle bisected by a single, jagged lightning-flash. He had seen such a brooch once, in a picture... it was the badge of an Initiate!

  Against all odds it seemed that his saviors were the servants of Aeons himself! If only he could --

  Agony flooded him when, without thinking, he tried to sit up. Taunan caught him as he started to retch in reaction to the pain, and when he was laid back on the pile of cloaks and coats that formed his bed he felt as though the whole world were a single scarlet vortex of torture, twisting and tumbling around him. Taunan swore again and they gave him more water to drink, but this time when the pain decreased it left behind a sick, throbbing pulse that wouldn't be quieted. When he opened his eyes once more, everything he saw -- the shelter, the two women, Taunan -- was surrounded by an unsteady and garish aura.

  "He can't stand much more, Taunan," the old woman said worriedly. She seeme
d to be speaking out of a vast, empty distance. "However strong his constitution may be, he has suffered a great deal. And he's only a child! If we delay much longer, then any decision as to where he should be taken will be academic."

  Was he going to die? He didn't want to die....

  Tarod... Tarod... Tarod The secret name came back unexpectedly, catching him off guard. Delirium was beckoning although he tried to fight it; he was on the borderline between consciousness and illusion, and finding it harder each moment to distinguish between them.

  Tarod... Tarod...

  The old woman stood, brushing down the skirt of her robe and flexing numb toes inside her heavy leather boots. "I'm afraid I must give you best, Taunan. The child is in poor shape and, as you said earlier, if he can be mended, your physician can mend him. We haven't Grevard's skills at the Cot. If he's to be saved, the Castle must save him."

  Castle? The word triggered off something deep within the boy, something he needed to articulate. He was only half conscious, close to the borders of an uncertain nightmare, but he had to find the strength to say it, before the world of delusion stole the chance away.

  "Tarod." He surprised himself with the clarity of his own voice, and was gratified by the momentary stunned silence that followed.

  "What did he say?" Taunan hissed.

  "I don't know... it sounded like a name. His name, perhaps?" The boy felt the old woman coming closer. "Child, what was it you said? Your name? Can you say it again?"

  "Tarod..."

  They heard him better this time, and the word was echoed on Taunan's lips. "Tarod... it's unfamiliar to me, but..."

  "His name," the old woman agreed. "It must be. His name is Tarod."

  The boy was slipping away, across the chasm that divided him from reality. But as his eyes closed he smiled a confirmation, and in the confirmation were satisfaction and relief.

  The early spring dusk was cold and silent. In these far northern latitudes the sun never climbed high, and at setting it was a bloated crimson orb, old and jaded and gloomy. As she and Taunan emerged from the mountain pass that isolated the Star Peninsula from the rest of the world, the Lady Kael Amion, Senior and seer of the Sisterhood of Aeoris, looked down at the roughly constructed litter which the animals drew between them. It was a thoroughly unsatisfactory way to transport an injured child, but there had been no other choice if they were to make good speed to the Star Peninsula. And by the grace of Aeoris, she thought, at least the boy was still alive. Shivering, she recalled the way he had raved as they prepared for this ride; the unease on the faces of Ulmara and the other women when she had packed them off to finish their journey to the Sisterhood Cot in West High Land. She had reminded them forcibly that the story of the child with mysterious powers would spread like a southern grass-fire in high summer, and no brigand would dare set foot in the district for many a day to come, but still she prayed silently that her charges would reach their destination without incident. While she rode back to the Castle on a bizarre mission, still not certain in her mind why she had agreed to it at all....