The Initiate

by Louise Cooper

  As though invoked by Keridil's frustration Grevard's voice sounded from the outer room, cutting authoritatively through the speculative babble of voices.

  "Keridil?" The physician was rumpled and his clothes awry, and under happier circumstances Themila might have been amused. Grevard had never taken a wife, but he still enjoyed his pleasures when there was a woman available and willing to oblige. Now though, his professional manner was back in full force. Keridil explained in as few words as possible, and Grevard examined the cup. One sniff, and his expression darkened.

  "Spindrift! Where in the name of the Gods did he get that? It's the most dangerous narcotic known!" He stared for a moment at the still figure on the bed. Then: "I want every superfluous person out of these rooms. Keridil and Themila, you may stay if you wish; but everyone else must go."

  They filed out, and Grevard locked the door firmly behind them. When he returned he began to examine Tarod, and Themila was the first to break the silence. "Grevard, what can you do for him?"

  The physician continued his work without answering for a few moments. Then at last he straightened, sighed and said, "Nothing."

  "Nothing?" Keridil swung round from the window, his voice rising harshly in protest. "But -- "

  "It's a simple matter, like it or not," Grevard interrupted him sharply. "The Spindrift Root, as it's known, is a valuable drug when used correctly. Used incorrectly, it's deadly -- and there's no antidote to it." He turned back to the bed and pulled back one of Tarod's eyelids, grimacing at what he saw. "What escapes me is the reason why Tarod should have wanted to meddle -- poison himself, damn it -- with such a drug."

  "You think it was by his own hand?" Keridil sounded incredulous, and Grevard snorted.

  "Don't be a fool, Keridil -- of course it was! How could anyone, let alone Tarod, be persuaded or tricked into drinking a concoction like that? Besides, we don't have any would-be murderers in our midst."

  Keridil shook his head helplessly. "Tarod, suicidal? I can't credit that, Grevard!"

  "Then you'd better start thinking of a better explanation. He could have made a mistake in the preparations; that would be my guess, at any rate. But it doesn't take genius to get the brew right, and I find it very hard to believe that a seventh-rank sorcerer would make such relatively simple mistakes."

  This time, when Keridil looked at Themila she refused to meet his eyes, and only said softly, "Perhaps there are circumstances where anyone would make an error...."

  Grevard gave her a very hard glance. "Perhaps. But for the time being that's neither here nor there. I'm only concerned with his physical condition. We can worry about his mental state later -- if he survives."

  The words shocked both of them, and Themila cried, "He must! Grevard, you don't think -- " she couldn't finish.

  Seeing her face, the physician's manner unbent. "I'm sorry, Themila; sometimes I tend to be too blunt for my own good. But the truth is, I don't know. Tarod has a peculiar constitution -- you or I would probably have been dead within minutes of swallowing that concoction. But the fact that he has survived this far is proof of his strength. If it's within the capacity of mortal man to fight this level of poisoning, then yes, I think he'll live." He began to gather his belongings together. "Will you inform Jehrek of this, or shall I? There'll have to be a full investigation."

  "I'll speak to my father." Keridil didn't relish the interview, for he could predict what Jehrek would have to say. The High Initiate had never lost his original forebodings about Tarod, and although he was always scrupulously fair in his dealings with the black-haired sorcerer he nonetheless felt strongly that Keridil's own judgment was prejudiced by friendship. Keridil anticipated a thorough tongue-lashing for allowing matters to come to such a pass without taking action.

  "You'll keep me informed of anything you discover?" Grevard asked.

  '' Yes -- yes, of course.''

  "Good. Now -- I'll visit regularly, but I want someone here with Tarod at all times. If there is any change whatever, I must be summoned instantly."

  Keridil nodded, and the physician laid a hand on his shoulder. "I'm only sorry there's nothing more I can do for him."

  "You're doing all that's humanly possible."

  Keridil persuaded Themila to leave with Grevard, and when they had gone he sat down on the edge of the bed and looked at his friend. Tarod's face was bleached white but for the dark, hollow circles around his eyes; his breathing was stertorous and halted. He looked as if he could die at any moment. For a while Keridil watched his immobile face, trying not to think about the torments which had brought him to such a desperate and perhaps fatal pass. The signs had been clear for anyone wise enough to see them; and though he had seen, he hadn't acted in time.

  But there was more -- far more -- to this than was thus far apparent to anyone, Keridil thought, and shivered suddenly as though with a premonition. He had been wrong in not informing Jehrek at an earlier stage... now, the wrong had to be righted.

  If it wasn't too late...

  Tarod didn't regain consciousness during the night, nor for many days and nights after that. Those who kept vigil reported no change in the motionless figure, and anxious enquiries -- especially from Keridil and Themila -- to Grevard always met with the same response: "No development -- I can do nothing more."

  Yet within the damaged world of his own mind, Tarod was, after a fashion, awake and aware. To him it seemed that he hung timeless and ageless in a twilight of dreams and delirium. Endless processions of events marched past his inner vision; he relived his own past, though the memories were so distorted that they only served to create a monstrous confusion.

  Then as coma deepened the faces began to appear. At first they were sly and subtle, but as the nightmares gathered momentum they grew bolder, so that wherever he turned he found himself confronted by wall after wall of screaming, gibbering elementals. The bloated, idiot features, the insane sounds they made, recalled another time and another life, when he had been able to deal carelessly with such minor spirits and control them. Now he was helpless against their onslaughts and could only twist and turn as if bound by invisible ropes, while the sea of faces tossed around him and their shrieking beat against his senses like a tide. And finally the last shreds of his resistance broke down, so that the dark chaos of nightmare became the only reality.

  But at last there was a change. At first Tarod's battered mind was hardly aware of it, but eventually he realized that the endless horrors were fading, giving way to a peculiar, tense hiatus. There was something familiar about the haze of pale and ghostly colors that suffused the air around him; something familiar about the dimly visible pillars that soared towards an invisible roof... suddenly memory came back, and Tarod realized that he was in the Marble Hall.

  He couldn't think clearly enough to wonder how he had been brought here; and anyway, it seemed that his presence was purely astral. But the relief of finding surroundings that were known to him, and to which he could anchor his consciousness, was indescribable. He turned -- drifted -- in search of the most familiar landmark of all: the seven defaced colossi that had always fascinated him.

  They were there, menacingly indistinct in the shimmering mist. He projected himself towards them, his mind reaching out --

  One of the statues moved. Tarod felt a shock strike through him and stopped, staring harder. Again, unmistakable now; a shudder as though the ancient stone were struggling against centuries of immobility, coming to a ghastly semblance of life. And as he watched, the outlines of the colossus seemed to waver and disintegrate, metamorphosing into a fully human figure, man-sized, which stepped lightly down from the granite plinth.

  The face -- so like his own -- smiled, the eyes constantly changing color in their frame of gold hair. This was no mortal man -- the chiselled features, beautiful yet cruel mouth, tall, graceful frame, were too perfect to have any true humanity. This was some denizen of a world beyond imagination... and as the entity extended a long-fingered hand in greeting, Tarod felt a
terrible thrill of recognition, a sensation that delighted and yet repelled him at the same moment. This was the figure which had haunted his dreams -- the architect of his nightmares!

  "Tarod..." The being spoke, his voice ringing clear and musical in Tarod's mind. He fought against the constriction that held him, and finally managed to form words.

  "You -- who are you?"

  "Do you not know me, Tarod? Do you not remember Yandros?"

  Remember...

  Elements of the dreams came back to him, and he shuddered, he felt, to the core of his soul. He knew the name, knew it as well as he knew his own, and yet understanding eluded him. And the memory was so deep that no will in the world could call it out of the nether darkness....

  "Why?" Tarod croaked at last. "Why are you haunting me?"

  Yandros ignored the question, instead fixing him with a stare under which he felt himself blanching. "You are dying, Tarod," he said at last. "The poison you took is in your blood, and perhaps an end to your mortal life is what you desire. But it is not what we desire for you."

  "We... ?"

  Yandros made a dismissive gesture, again ignoring the question. "Your will, of course, is your own; your life too, to dispose of as you please. But I don't believe you truly wish to die."

  Did he? Confusion raged in Tarod, and he tried to break it down and remember more clearly. He had cared nothing for his own existence when he distilled and drank the Spindrift; but now, faced with the reality of death, his perspectives were changing. And Yandros's will seemed to be influencing his own in ways that he couldn't hope to combat....

  He said, harshly, "You tell me I'm dying. Surely my desires are therefore irrelevant?"

  "No." The entity shook his head, and the mist of colors shivered and re-formed. "It is within my power to save you, if you ask it. But there will be a price."

  A little of the old dark, cynical humor returned to Tarod's answering smile. "You already hold my life in your hands -- I have nothing better than that to offer you, Yandros."

  "On the contrary. There is a task -- a destiny, you might call it -- which must be fulfilled. That is the price, my friend."

  "Destinies?" Tarod was derisive. "I'm no hero!"

  "Nonetheless, you are the only inhabitant of this world who can fulfill it. And it must be done." Venom tinged Yandros's voice momentarily. "It is inescapable, Tarod. And one day you will understand, and be glad."

  The dreams... suddenly, Tarod knew that here lay the source of the nightmares which had led him to this moment; the power which had been calling him for so long -- the reason why he was different. And he knew Yandros told the truth when he said such a power was inescapable. If he turned his back now, it would continue to haunt him and there would be no second chance. This -- or death -- was the only path he could take.

  He said quietly, "What is it you want of me?"

  Yandros smiled, triumphant. "As yet, nothing. Bide your time, and you will learn all you need to know when the moment is right."

  He had no choice.... "Then I accept," he said.

  The being -- whatever he was -- nodded. For a moment there was a flicker of mischief in the many-colored eyes. "You bind yourself on an oath you cannot break. Do you accept that?"

  "I accept it."

  "Then no more need be said. Except..." Yandros hesitated, and the mischief flowered suddenly into malevolent amusement. "The tides of life and death cannot be overmanipulated once they are set in motion. You will not die, Tarod -- but another life will be forfeited in your stead."

  "Another life... ? No! I won't allow that!" Tarod protested.

  "You cannot stop it." Yandros's smile broadened. "You have given your oath."

  "Then I gave it on a false assumption!" Tarod felt a mingling of fury and panic. "If you had told me -- "

  "But I did not tell you. I was remiss, perhaps; but it's too late for second thoughts."

  Yandros had trapped him, he realized with a sick sensation. And because of this being's machinations, some innocent soul would die in his place...

  "We will meet again before long," Yandros said. "And then it will be clear to you why I do what I must. Much depends on you, old friend. Never forget that." He reached out, and touched Tarod's left hand lightly, his fingers brushing across the silver ring. "Time. That is the key, Tarod. You will understand."

  Even as the being spoke, Tarod felt a new sensation somewhere in the darkest pit of his consciousness. A slow, regular pulsing like a monstrous heartbeat... its pitch was almost beyond the threshold of awareness but nonetheless it seemed to take hold of him and suffuse through and beyond him, until its awesome rhythm filled the entire Marble Hall. A terrible half-memory snatched at Tarod's mind; he looked wildly around him through the Hall's quivering, shuddering mists, but before he could begin to form an answer the memory evaded him and vanished.

  Abruptly the outlines of Yandros's figure began to waver and dim, and Tarod cried out, "Wait!" There was so much more he had to ask, needed to know. But Yandros merely smiled.

  "Yandros, wait!"

  His voice echoed into a sudden, shocking emptiness and silence.

  ..."Yandros!"

  The young first-rank Initiate who had been dozing in a chair beside Tarod's bed sprang up as though flailed, and the heavy book which he was supposed to be studying thumped to the floor. Heart pounding with shock, the boy looked at the sick man -- and almost cried out in alarm. Tarod's body was jerking in violent spasms beneath the blanket that covered him and his eyes were open, staring madly, blindly at nothing as he seemed to struggle to speak or shout.

  "Gods!" The boy backed away, frightened, then rushed for the door to find Grevard.

  "Simik Jair Sangen requested an interview with me this morning," Jehrek Banamen Toln said.

  "Inista's father?" Keridil was instantly wary, though he hid it well as he reached forward to pick up his wine-cup from the table and take a sip. "Did you oblige him?"

  "I could hardly refuse. He owns some of the best arable land in Chaun Province, and we need his goodwill if we're to continue receiving our yearly tithes without a lot of haggling."

  Keridil's heart sank. "Then I suppose I needn't ask what he wanted..."

  "He made a formal dowry offer, Keridil. He believes that you and Inista would make an excellent match... and his arguments were very persuasive."

  Keridil rose and began to pace the room restlessly, hiding his expression from his father. He knew that a man destined to take on one of the highest ranks in the world should have the stability of a wife of good breeding, and was aware of Jehrek's concern that he had not, thus far, shown an inclination to marry anyone. Many matches in the higher echelons were made for reasons of status or convenience, and most of them worked well enough; if his father were to put forward a candidate with whom he could get along on a passable level Keridil would have done his duty and agreed. But not Inista Jair...

  At last he turned to face the older man again. "Is that your feeling, Father? That the arguments are persuasive?"

  Jehrek sighed, looking at his only son with a mixture of affection and wistfulness. He normally enjoyed these occasional quiet evenings, when there was time to discuss Circle and Council matters at leisure and perhaps progress a little further with the grooming that was so necessary if Keridil were to one day succeed him as High Initiate. But sometimes he could sense the personal war in his son; the conflict between the demands of duty and the desire to be free and unrestricted that was only natural in a young man. Sometimes the war spilled over and led to clashes between the two of them, and that was something Jehrek deeply regretted -- but his responsibilities were clear, and he believed that he was slowly winning the battle. The Circle needed a strong leader for the future; someone who could stand against the insidious tide of change and uncertainty that Jehrek felt in his bones had been creeping up on the world and on the Castle in particular. It was a formless fear still, despite years of increasing concern, and Jehrek felt that he was now too old and too jaded to have an
y hope of resolving it.

  If Malanda had lived, perhaps his task would have been easier. From the day he married Malanda Banamen, as she was then, she had been not only his anchor, but also his talisman and a fount of sound, earthy wisdom. To die in childbirth, giving life to their only offspring... it was an irony that Jehrek had been hard-pressed not to fight against, and only his deep-rooted belief in the unshakeable, if sometimes incomprehensible, justice of the gods had sustained him then. But Keridil, growing up without a mother -- Themila Gan Lin, widowed and childless herself, had done all in her power for him but she was nonetheless a surrogate -- hadn't had that same anchor through his formative years. And now, perhaps, they were both paying the price.

  He attempted to answer his son's question at last, but found the specter of his long-dead wife standing between him and what he wanted to say. He couldn't wish for a more suitable daughter-elect than Inista Jair... yet his own marriage had been such a love match...

  "Yes," he said at length. "The arguments are persuasive. But before I even consider a final decision, I'd like to know your feelings on the matter."

  Keridil bit his lip. "And do you want me to be honest?"

  "Of course."

  Keridil opened his mouth to speak -- but at that moment something beyond the uncurtained window distracted him. Some commotion in the courtyard...

  "Pardon me, Father..." He reached the window in three strides and peered through the glass. Then he swore -- or so Jehrek thought -- under his breath.

  "Keridil?" The old man stood up stiffly. "What's amiss?"

  "I thought... yes! It's Koord, running as though his life depended on it -- "

  "Koord?" Jehrek was puzzled, and Keridil made an impatient gesture. "The boy, first-ranker -- he was set to keep vigil with Tarod -- "

  The High Initiate frowned. "Perhaps there's been some change. If so, it's long overdue!"