He might have tried then, with one last effort, to fight back against the injustice and finality of his predicament, but his numbed brain and body hadn't the capacity to rally. Yet the moment of clarity had brought other memories -- memories of the girl to whom he had pledged everything and who had carelessly abandoned him to his fate while she turned her fickle affections to another man who could offer her greater status. Keridil and Sashka would sleep easier in one bed without his existence to trouble their dreams, and somewhere deep within Tarod a cold rage began to take on shadowy form...
They reached the place where the tortuous patterns of the floor were broken by the impenetrable black design that was, so the Circle believed, the heart and focus of the Marble Hall's power. Now though, the mosaic was obscured by the bulk of a huge altar carved from black wood, waist-high and about the length and breadth of a tall man. It was roughened with age, gouged with marks that might have been made by fingernails or knife-blades, and slowly recognition dawned in Tarod's mind.
This was one of the oldest artifacts in the Circle's possession. For several generations now it had lain disused in one of the Castle's deep cellars, but over the centuries it had borne mute witness to some of the most powerful and devastating rites known to the highest Adepts. On its unyielding surface, long-forgotten perpetrators of evil had been magically bound, cursed and destroyed -- and tonight, another name would be added to the toll.
It was the sight of that grim travesty of an altar that brought the shock of understanding to Tarod's numbed mind. He faced the realization that he was about to die -- that his life would be bled and burned from him on that block -- and for the first time he was afraid. Yet the fear of torment was eclipsed by the infinitely greater terror of what might follow in the wake of his destruction.
He had to live. No matter what the cost, he had to defeat Keridil. The knowledge came with ice-cold clarity, sweeping aside the last remnants of the drugs' effects on his brain. The Circle could kill him, but they couldn't wipe out the spirit contained within that stone. They might seal it away, bind it with the most powerful magic known to them, but Chaos wasn't so easily bested; Yandros would find a way to wield his dark influence through the gem again. And if the Circle tried to use the stone against its masters, they would unwittingly open the gate that had been shut since the fall of the Old Ones; the power locked in the stone would manipulate them like children, as it had manipulated Tarod himself. The Adepts were strong, and they had the wisdom of generations behind them -- but they didn't understand Chaos. Only one who had once been Chaos -- and he shuddered inwardly at the aeon-old memories that came crowding into his mind -- could hope to use their own forces against them.
He had to thwart them. In the final extreme, only one power in the world could crush the soul-stone and banish it forever -- Aeoris himself. And only one man could fight the stone's pervading influence for long enough to see such a task through to its conclusion. He had to live!
Once, he could have stopped this madness with the flick of an eyelid; but now, even though his mind was clearing rapidly, he didn't have the strength of will to summon the power he could have once wielded. If only --
"Hold him!"
The voice barked out, shattering Tarod's thoughts and echoing eerily through the Hall. Freed from the constraints of silence, Keridil had moved to the northward-facing head of the altar and now turned to face Tarod. He had some suspicion that the black-haired Adept might make some effort to fight, and was disconcerted when Tarod seemed incapable of offering resistance. His two guards forced him to his knees at the altar's foot so that he half sprawled with arms outstretched across its pitted surface. Their gazes met, and the High Initiate said, so softly that Tarod wondered if the voice might be a delusion, "The ring, Tarod." In the dark colors of his ceremonial garb Keridil looked unreal, a dream figure, and Tarod involuntarily clenched his left hand.
"You have a choice," Keridil continued when it became apparent that his adversary wasn't going to speak. "Surrender the ring to us of your own will, or we'll fake it." His hand played lightly on the pommel of his ritual sword.
Tarod looked up into his face and saw that his one-time friend's eyes were stone cold, emotionless. A strange mixture of jealousy, hatred and fear seemed to lurk behind the coldness, and a momentary insight also betrayed the specter of Sashka in the High Initiate's look. To reason with Keridil, to plead with him, would be a mockery... and, fed by the burgeoning but as yet unrealized rage, a spark of rebellion flared. Tarod still had pride -- and this man, who had now betrayed him twice over, would never know the satisfaction of seeing him capitulate. With an effort he twisted his haggard face into a malevolent smile.
"Then take it, High Initiate," he managed to whisper ferociously. "Take it -- if you can!"
He expected them to try to wrest the ring from his finger, and so was unprepared for Keridil's reaction to his challenge. Almost as he spat the last words, hands clamped down on his wrists, pinning them to the altar, and though he tried to twist away the Adepts were too strong for him. Keridil moved slowly, deliberately around the altar until he stood directly over Tarod. Then undipped the sword from his belt and reversed it, so that as he hefted the scabbard the pommel formed a heavy club. He nodded briefly to the two men beside the altar, and they tightened their grip on Tarod's wrists as the High Initiate raised the sheathed sword.
There was nothing Tarod could do. Pride made him bite back any protest or plea. He tensed, jerked his head aside as Keridil swung with full force -- then a scream of agony tore from his throat as the sword-hilt smashed his left hand, shattering fragile bones, breaking the silver ring so that the soul-stone fell free to leave only the buckled base on his ruined finger. For a moment, through a scarlet haze of shock and pain, he saw Keridil's face triumphant, his hand clasping the glittering prize. Then, as the Adepts released his arms, Tarod slid to the floor as a merciful oblivion washed over him.
"Where is the stone... ?"
"They took it... my hand..."
"You must retrieve it, Tarod. You must."
"I can't..."
"You must! So much depends on you. You must take it again, and wield it, and understand. If you die, there will be nothing. You must not die."
"I have no choice..."
"You have a choice. Take it. If you love this world, take it..."
Tarod's mind twisted in protest, and the sibilant, characterless voice faded away and was gone, leaving only the memory of its urgent words. Only the memory... it was nothing but a pain-dream, a delusion. It had no meaning... sighing silently, he let his consciousness sink down again into emptiness....
"By the Will of Aeoris shall evil be bound!"
"Bound, by the Will of Aeoris!"
"By the Blood of Aeoris shall evil be scourged!"
"Scourged, by the Blood of Aeoris!"
"By the Sword of Aeoris shall evil be sundered!"
"Sundered, by the Sword of Aeoris!"
"By the Fire of Aeoris shall evil be destroyed!"
"Destroyed, by the Fire of Aeoris!"
The slow, grim chant rang through the unfathomable dimensions of the Marble Hall, the High Initiate's voice soaring in a trance-state to be answered by the descant of the Adepts. A strange, pale light glowed around Keridil; he felt the power at his command increasing like a surging tide as the inexorable chant continued, fed by the composite will of the Circle who now formed a complete ring around him and the massive blackwood altar. The sensation was dizzying, almost terrifying; and he felt as though the countless shades of his predecessors stood at his back, joining their ancient strength with his own. Greater though Tarod's powers might once have been, a spark of divinity seemed to possess Keridil now as the long-disused rite gathered momentum.
Tarod came up from the black vastness of unconsciousness with the sound of the Adepts' chant ringing chillingly in his ears. A searing, pulsing pain throbbed through his entire body and focused in his left hand; he couldn't move.... Straining, he half opened his eyes, a
nd flinched from a blinding shaft of blue-white light that seemed to hang in mid-air before him. He felt the presence of something unhuman; something that filled the Hall with power, that held him, pinned him effortlessly to an iron-hard surface.
The shaft of light moved suddenly as the chant swelled to a crescendo, and he realized where he was. He lay face upwards on the altar, head hanging back over its edge, and the light was the brilliant radiance flickering along the length of a huge sword which Keridil Toln held upright in both hands. Tarod felt heat pulsating from the blade like a hellish breath on his forehead, saw the High Initiate's face illuminated by its glow, eyes closed, expression a mask of inspired concentration.
The rite had begun -- and he was powerless to stop it. Already the forces conjured by the Circle held him fast; and now Keridil was beginning to chant the eerie, high-pitched Exhortation and Exorcism that would call down the Gods' damnation on their victim. Soon it would be done... and when the ceremony reached it. frenzied climax, the High Initiate would summon the White Flame -- the pure, supernatural fire that, legend had it, burned eternally in Aeoris's heart, and which alone could destroy the essence of a demon of Chaos.
Sweat broke out on Tarod's skin, as though his body already felt the White Flame's touch. He didn't want to die... and with that realization came a shock like a hammer-blow, as the fury pent inside him and kept at bay by Sister Erminet's drugs came flooding into his mind. Before they broke his hand to take the soul-stone from him, he'd cared nothing for his own fate. But now a new sensation was in him... a raging, savage need to hold to life, to defy and defeat the Circle, eclipsing all other desires. And something else... something that only gradually dawned on his awakening senses.
The High Initiate still chanted, the Adepts almost howling their responses as they too were caught up by the incredible charge of power. But their voices washed over Tarod and left him unmoved. Carefully, he concentrated on the fire of pain that filled his body. It receded... He turned his mind towards his left hand, exerted just a little of his will....
The pain vanished altogether. When, tentatively, he flexed his fingers he knew that they were whole again, the damage inflicted by Keridil healed as though it had never existed. And he began to understand.
Keridil had taken the stone that contained his soul, but the High Initiate had reckoned without the effect such an action might have on his enemy. A mortal man, soulless, would be an empty husk -- but Tarod wasn't entirely mortal. In losing the stone, he had lost his links with the full, awesome power of Chaos -- but he had also gained something that neither he nor the Circle had foreseen. Power still remained to him -- and it was a power stripped of all the taboos and constraints imposed by humanity; for he was no longer human.
He believed that that power was great enough to save him. The way was fraught with hazards beside which the Circle's death-rite would seem child's play, but now Tarod was incapable of knowing fear. Neither was he subject to pain or conscience -- a coldness lodged at the core of his heart where before there had been the pitfalls of human emotion. Though he had fought to suppress the devastating forces which deep down he knew he could command if he chose, they were there, dormant, waiting. Now he would use them without compunction -- and if that meant freeing the insane power of Chaos locked within him, then so be it. The Circle must take the consequences.
Above his head the huge sword hung, still pulsating with light that obliterated the shimmering mists of the Marble Hall. Keridil's voice rang shrieking, the Adepts half shouting, half singing a grim dirge in counterpoint. Slowly the blade's brilliance was increasing, and Tarod felt tremendous forces dragging him downwards, trying to pull his mind into the Circle's power. Silently he resisted, but even as the influence faded he knew that time was rapidly running out.
Time. It was as if a key had turned in his memory, unlocking a kernel of knowledge so old that he had been unaware of its existence. Yandros in his cryptic way had referred to it, but Tarod had never truly understood, until now....
Long ago, when the Old Ones ruled. Time had been a plaything of the Lords of Chaos. The unhuman minds behind the hands that shaped this Castle had chosen it as a focus for their manipulation of temporal forces, and that ancient property still lived on. The Circle had never been able to fathom its mysteries; as a Circle Adept Tarod had been as unenlightened as they. Now though, the secret lay open before him....
The chant was a wall of sound battering against his senses as the ritual neared its climax. Tarod closed his eyes, shutting out the image of Keridil in his trance-state. A darkness hovered on the brink of his inner vision and he recognized it as emanating from a spot directly beneath where he lay; the black circle that marked the very center of the Marble Hall's peculiar dimensions. He let his mind follow it. felt it call to him... slowly the real world faded away, until his consciousness hung, alone and unsullied, in darkness. Beneath the closed lids his eyes glazed, and a trance far deeper than the High Initiate's took hold of him....
A wall of sheer rock barred his path. Black basalt, glittering with razor-sharp facets of crystal embedded deep in its surface, it reared into a sulphurous sky and offered no passage. Tarod gathered his will, remembering, then raised his hand and spoke a single word.
A titanic crack rolled from the cliff face and it split, revealing a narrow fissure from which a deep green light glowed. Tarod moved forward, feeling the rock shroud him, and saw within the cliff a shaft that fell away into mind-bending nothingness. The green radiance filtered up from the shaft and he headed towards it --
Stay.
He stopped. The voice had spoken out of nowhere, and the green radiance began to quiver as though some unseen presence disturbed it. The tide of memory surged again, and Tarod formed a stern question in his mind.
Who thinks to command me?
The answer came back to him, ponderous and heavy. The Guardian of this place.
Tarod smiled. He raised his left hand, and beckoned. Show yourself, Guardian.
It formed slowly, taking its shape and substance from the living rock that surrounded him. Manlike, but hunched and ill-formed; a stocky dwarf with basalt eyes, crystal glittering in its throat as it opened an ugly but humorous mouth in a grin.
Welcome, traveller, it said, its voice like shale sliding on granite. What is your business?
It was half Tarod's height, but it had a strength and a stability which he knew he would find hard to combat. Nor did he wish to combat the Earth-Guardian. There were better ways... and older allegiances.
He said softly. Do you know me. Guardian?
The stone-dwarf frowned as memory stirred, and for a moment the basalt eyes flickered uncertainly. You are a stranger, mortal... and yet not a stranger...
Tarod's green eyes glowed, and his astral form shifted subtly, so that the dwarf's eyes widened in sudden recognition. The peculiar, squat figure went clumsily down on one knee and the Guardian murmured. Master!
Tarod laughed, softly but it was enough to awaken a thousand echoes in the rock all around him. Old friend, he said to the stone-dwarf, ours were good days...
The being raised its ugly head to regard him with something resembling affection. The Earth does not forget.
Then aid me.
Another grin split the pocked and jagged features. Master... Earth is yours. Take what you will.
Tarod drew breath. The dwarfs outlines wavered and he felt a sensation as though his own frame were turning to stone. Granite bones, basalt flesh, crystal skin... the essence of the earth-plane filled and strengthened him even as the squat Guardian's shape dissolved into nothing.
He had passed the first barrier... slowly, Tarod moved towards the yawning shaft and its shimmering green glow. Its radiance bathed him like cool rain; he gave himself up to it. let his consciousness sink down into its quietly shining depths...
He moved with the ease and grace of a fish, through a world composed only of water. Strange, elemental shapes flickered at the limits of his vision and a gentle murmuring fill
ed his mind, lending his thoughts a tranquillity that he had never before known. He absorbed the feeling, letting it permeate his being, drawing more strength from it as he felt his way steadily towards the third of the seven astral planes.
And then suddenly he was in air. Air that screamed and shrieked around him, buffeting and whirling with a vibrant life of its own. A giddying sense of vertigo swamped Tarod, and pale, lurid colors shot through with darker veins danced before his eyes. He forged on, letting himself become one with the wild gale, twisting and turning on the air-currents, until --
Heat seared him. Sand burned under his feet and the sky was crimson fire from horizon to horizon, a blaze far more spectacular than any sunset. He might have been standing at the very heart of the sun itself. A fireball blazed overhead in brief glory, and flames leapt like exotic trees from the ground only inches away, to die back as their brief but violent energy was expended. Tarod focused his mind and drew on that energy -- he had reached the fourth plane now, and the exertion was telling on him despite the strength he had taken from the three he had so far traversed. And impinging on his consciousness was the knowledge that, far away in another and more material dimension, the death-rite of the Circle was drawing towards its grisly conclusion. If Keridil summoned the White Flame before he could reach his goal, then his mind would be snatched back to the mortal realm, and he'd die screaming with his task unfulfilled.
A geyser of white-hot fire erupted skywards only 'a pace ahead of him, roaring like a furnace. Tarod's astral form flickered as he launched towards it and it overwhelmed him -- fire flashed through his veins so that he became a living flame, hurtling upwards, outwards, until he burst into a realm of illusion.
The Initiate Page 29