It was Kav Daven, he guessed, who had spoken, though the voice was firm and smooth, a younger man’s voice.
The priest’s silken scarred palms folded themselves around Stavros’s outstretched hands. He pressed them palm to palm, then gently spread the thumbs so that the hands were cupped. The strength of the priest’s hands surprised Stavros, for they seemed to have no bones in them.
Not strength, he thought. Power. Powerful. Full of power. Ah, for a touch of such power in my own hands to serve my cause!
Stavros rested his hands within the priest’s willingly.
Or rather… will-lessly.
It was strange to be so aware, of the Kav’s soft hands, of the sun’s heat, of the rustle of the white robes around him, of Ghirra’s light touch on his neck, so aware and yet so unable to act. Helpless again, but willingly. Aware enough to feel self-conscious. So aware and yet in such confusion:’
The priest’s hands cupped his own. The old man bent low. Stavros could feel the whisper of breath against his ear as Kav Daven spoke.
Do you will this calling?
Stavros heard the old words and the sense of them as if with two separate parts of his consciousness. His voice returned to him long enough to answer.
“No, Kav.”
The sun weighed heavily on his head and back. Its light was thick and amber, like honey. What is happening? he asked himself, amazed at last.
Who wills it then?
“Kav, I know not.” This at least was true, though it frightened him to hear his voice replying as if it were someone else’s.
Ghirra’s fingers twitched against his skin, then steadied. There was a quiet stir behind, someone approaching through the crowd. Aguidran’s booted feet moved suddenly from behind Kav Daven and stepped to Stavros’s left side as Ghirra shifted to his right. He felt their strength as a single presence, brother and sister protecting him.
From what?
He looked up then. A flash of silvered lenses in the crowd jolted him with unreasoning terror. He jerked backward against the fingers at his neck, and Ghirra’s free hand gripped his shoulder, steadying him before the rage that quickly displaced his terror could seize control. The rage felt clean in him now, sharp as honed steel, a weapon to draw quick and fatal blood. But Clausen kept his distance, his slouch confident, his mocking smile implying he was merely there to observe the native antics.
Kav Daven murmured, drawing Stavros’s attention back to him. The sudden fear had cleared his head. The weapon of rage seemed once again a double-edged blade as thirsty for his own blood as for Clausen’s. As he set aside both fear and anger to concentrate on the old priest, the sense of compulsion eased. He could see Kav Daven clearly, no longer through a mist of awe. He could focus on his own paler hands held between the knotted brown fingers. He felt no need to look anywhere else. He forgot Clausen for a time.
The Kav spoke again, and a PriestGuild journeyman in embroidered red and white came forward, holding a small cloth-swaddled bundle. The loose white wrappings masked the shape of the object inside, but to Ghirra’s tight-lipped mutter, Stavros merely nodded. He had known what it must be the moment he saw it.
Guar. The rock that burns.
Stavros’s entire being drew in to focus on the shining scarred flesh of the old priest’s palms.
Do you accept this calling?
“Tell him no—you can still,” whispered Ghirra urgently.
Stavros tried to answer the healer’s sincere concern, but his voice had left him once again.
“You understand this, Ibi, what he means?”
He could not move his head.
Do you accept?
No… but how can I do otherwise?
How could he refuse a visitation of Power that came swooping down from a place unimaginable to take without asking, to sweep him unsuspecting along into the cosmos like so much stardust?
What is happening to me? a part of him asked again, more desperately, while another part bid joyful welcome to this manifestation of Power beside which Emil Clausen and CONPLEX and all the mundane issues of money and politics were reduced to insignificance.
Kneeling with hands extended, in the age-old supplicant’s posture, Stavros was granted an instant of true knowledge. He saw himself as through the wrong end of a spyglass, with the harsh objectivity of distance: a romantic silly young man on his knees, in the grip of the incomprehensible and afraid in his soul for his sanity. He thought of the Catholic saints and martyrs, wondered if this was how it was with them, no climax of faith at all but an accidental visitation of terror, like a window opened into the Void that only faith could close again.
His back arched as the voidwind rushed through him.
“Ibi?” Ghirra’s voice was strained.
“Ah…” he managed, a gasp of ecstasy and fear. He felt the parts of himself, already imperfectly joined, breaking up like a ship on the rocks, scattering timbers, sails, rigging, all.
Do you accept?
“You understand this, Ibi?”
“Yes!” he answered, to silence their questioning, that kept drawing him back from the Void.
The elation singing in him only hastened the breakup. Internal vibration stretched the last ligaments of his consciousness toward a final snap that would fling the scraps of his being to the farthest corners of the universe. He found it hardest to bear that his physical body would remain after his mind had shattered. If this disintegration must be, he would prefer it to be total.
“Too weak, I am,” he murmured, failing.
Ghirra’s fingers searched the side of his neck, checked the pulse point, then moved upward to probe beneath the curve of his jawbone. Already surrendering his sanity, Stavros offered up his life as well to a pair of hands whose delicacy concealed a strength that could snap his neck with a single motion.
Kav Daven smiled. He leaned over and spat into Stavros’s cupped hands. He gently drew his own hands along Stavros’s palms, spreading the moisture and reforming the cup. Then he turned to the bright-robed journeyman and received the white cloth bundle. He let the wrappings fall open, and with both hands raised the chunk of guar for all to see.
The throng murmured its approval.
Silver-white metal flashed in dull gleams, enough like mirror to rouse a spark of will in Stavros’s yielded consciousness. He remembered Clausen.
A hot magma of rage boiled up within him. Dizzy in its heat, he thrust his cupped hands forward. With the sureness of the sighted, the blind priest lowered the guar, transferred it and its wrappings to one palm, then placed his other hand in a little dome over the metal. With a deft twist, he rotated the palms, balled the white wrapping in one fist and let the knobby fingers of the other close around their silvery burden. His ancient face showed no change, no sign of pain. The white cloth he slipped between the brown layers of his clothing. Finally, he joined both hands around the guar and rested them lightly within the bowl of Stavros’s hands. He bent lower, swaying on ancient legs, kissed Stavros on the brow and opened his hands.
Stavros felt no impact as the guar dropped into his palms, but the moisture of the priest’s saliva made the pain instantaneous, and as excruciating as molten metal poured onto his skin. He shuddered, knowing he would not be able to bear it, but a moment later, knew he must, as Clausen moved into his line of sight, insinuating himself through the crowd as if something had suddenly stirred his interest.
He must not weaken, must not let the rock fall. He must deny himself the oblivion of the Void a little longer. But the pain seared him. He felt the guar, greedy for moisture, eating wormholes in his palm, and had no idea where he would find the strength.
His throat made noises he could not control.
Ghirra’s fingers pressed hard into the curve of his jaw. It was no longer a caress but a sharp businesslike probing that at first hurt almost as much as the corrosive guar. Stavros moaned in a delirium of agony. Then the pain eased, marginally, or his tolerance of it increased. Kav Daven’s brown hands embraced h
is once more, and squeezed them gently to flatten their curve, so that the guar was imprisoned more tightly. Stavros could feel nothing but a fiery locus of agony in the center of both palms that would have had him screaming like an animal, begging to be released, but for the steady relieving pressure of the Master Healer’s hand.
But even the pain itself was steadying, now that he could imagine enduring it. He was not so shipwrecked as he thought. What the touch of Power had riven in him, the pain drew together again as he marshaled his resources against it. No mere physical pain could be as annihilating as that wind from the Void. Suffering the pain in order to conceal the guar became reason enough for Stavros to recall his scattered parts and renege on his surrender.
There was movement to his right, a flash of silver, then an instant of scuffle. Ghirra’s hand was ripped away from his neck with a speed and economy of movement that left Stavros no doubt who now stood behind him. The crowd backed off in surprise, giving room to Aguidran as she moved to steady and restrain her brother. Stavros had no time to consider the simmering of his rage. Its heat was mild compared to the fire in his palms. He braced himself, sucked air as his deadened nerves rewoke, and clamped his hands still tighter about the source of his agony.
“You all right, Stav?” demanded Clausen loudly.
Stavros held himself still, erect, silent. He let his anger harden around him like a wall of cooling lava.
“Stav, can you hear me?” The prospector put a hand to his shoulder, bent closer and hissed, “Open your hands, Ibiá. I want to see what you’ve got there.”
Stavros made his shoulder relax within the prospector’s grip. He let the pain be his center, his hardening rage his shield. He was on his own, braving it without benefit of Ghirra’s analgesic touch. Calm enveloped him, cool as an evening breeze. His rage became brittle in its chill. He dared a smile, though it came with effort, and looked up to find it shared by the old priest. Stavros shivered, but this time with joy.
Not helpless! No!
He began to laugh softly. He let the anger crack and fall away like a molted shell. He needed it no longer. He had never felt so whole, so in control as he did this moment, giving his entire self willingly to the pain that its secret might remain concealed. If this was the guar ritual that welcomed an apprentice into the priesthood, though the Master Healer might think it barbaric, Stavros now thought he understood its purpose.
Clausen shifted, pressing his knee sharply into Stavros’s back. It was no surprise to the linguist when the sleek chill of the laser pistol slid up like a metal snake to nestle behind his ear.
“Open them, boy. Now. No one will know any better when I say I was too late to stop these native pals of yours from making you a human sacrifice.”
Stavros kept his smile focused on Kav Daven. The Ritual Master returned it as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred, as if there were only the two of them alone beneath the hot amber sun. At last, he nodded. He laid his fingertips to the top of Stavros’s rigid hands and broke their seal by gently uncrossing the thumbs. His smile widened as he spread the palms apart.
Stavros stared as his rational universe turned inside out once again.
The guar was gone.
His palms were intact. No blood and stink and charring. No ghastly burns. The skin was as clear as if freshly scoured.
My god, he thought. A miracle.
But that could not be. He knew that miracles were a proof of faith, and his faith was anything but proven.
He heard gasps and murmurs and exclamations of surprise all around him, and Clausen’s muttered oath beside his ear. He gazed down at his hands uncomprehendingly, held still in Kav Daven’s grasp. They hurt as if the burns were real. He tried to flex his fingers and sent agonizing shocks of pain up both his arms. His mind felt the burned tissue ooze and crack, but his eyes saw only clear olive skin.
“What does this mean?” he asked the old priest fearfully.
Kav Daven regarded him with satisfaction. His smile grew inward until he seemed to be smiling to himself alone as he drew his fingertips slowly across the linguist’s uninjured palms. He nodded again, a finish to the ritual, and drew his hands away. As he turned to go, Clausen was on the old man like silent lightning, imprisoning his fisted hands at the wrists.
Stavros forgot his pain and bewilderment. Without thinking, he launched himself at Clausen’s back. But his legs would not hold him. Real or unreal, the ordeal had drained his strength. He stumbled, and Ghirra, released from his sister’s grasp, caught him before he fell and held him back.
“Leave him alone!” Stavros snarled at the prospector, struggling vainly against Ghirra’s restraints. The ghostly agony returned to sear his palms. He sagged back against the Master Healer, cradling his arms against his chest.
“Tut, Ibiá,” Clausen remarked over his shoulder as he gripped Kav Daven’s scrawny wrists with surprising gentleness. “Hurt a blind old man? A coward’s act. Do you think that ill of me?”
Firmly but kindly, as if dealing with a child, Clausen pried open the fingers of first one and then the other of Kav Daven’s hands. The old priest did not resist. He gave the prospector his jester’s grin and proudly extended his hands, palm up.
Clausen seemed surprised that the hands were empty. “Now you see it, now you don’t,” he muttered, and stared at the silky scar tissue for a long moment, stroking it once with a curious finger before he released the priest’s hands and stood back.
“A thousand pardons for doubting you, ancient sir,” he said with a twisted smile and a little bow.
“Aren’t you going to beat him up?” Stavros growled.
Clausen scoffed. “If you think what I gave you was a beating, Ibiá, you don’t know the meaning of the word.”
He watched as Kav Daven turned away once again, still smiling but shaky. The old priest extended a frail arm to Aguidran, who was instantly at his side. The Master Ranger gave Stavros a single piercing glance, then the pair resumed the interrupted march along the line toward the waiting sedan chair. Ashimmel followed, looking perturbed and solemn, the other priests and flag-bearing apprentices falling in behind her. They moved more slowly than before, for Kav Daven showed signs of fatigue and there were many left who wished to exchange greetings with him. The chant was raised again, with some confusion at first, then building to its previous joyous intensity as the throng followed after the priest and his escort, streaming past with only the occasional awed smile for Stavros or nod of support. The whole incident happened very fast, and most of them had not seen enough of it to be amazed.
Clausen sighed, his hands in his pockets, one of which Stavros knew must conceal the little laser gun. “Besides, that blind old man outfoxed me fair and square, and I have to admire that. We must treat the elderly with respect, Ibiá. They have seen so much in their lives. I hope there’s someone tough as me around to admire me when I’m that age.”
“You’ll never live that long,” returned Stavros sullenly, wondering what the hell the prospector was talking about.
Clausen gave him a nasty smile. “Neither will you, at the rate you’re going. You’d better pray this traveling circus gets itself on the road while you still own your skin.” Jiggling his hands in his pockets, he nodded in the direction of the wagons. “Ah. Here comes the Ladies’ Auxiliary, to see to your welfare. What are you going to tell them, Ibiá?”
“That you bulled your way in when a high priest was showing us the honor of including me in a harmless ritual.”
The silvered glasses flashed as Clausen shook his head wonderingly. “Perhaps I’ve misjudged your intelligence, Ibiá. Well, suit yourself. You’ve had ample warning.” He shrugged and strolled off to lose himself in the crowd.
Ghirra released him, and Stavros slumped forward onto his knees, unsure if he would ever have the strength to stand again. He thought it odd that his body should feel so weak when he felt so strong inside. He heard a rumbling growl from above that he thought was the priesthorns resuming their call. He hel
d his burning unmarred hands out to Ghirra in wonder. “What does this mean?”
The Master Healer grasped him by the elbow and hauled him roughly to his feet. The crowd was slowing, halting, gathering in groups to stare apprehensively at the sky. Stavros held back to follow their gaze, but Ghirra guided him abruptly away, ignoring Susannah’s and Megan’s calls as they approached, losing them in the milling confusion. Stavros’s feet scuffed in the dust, his legs threatened to fold.
“Ghirra, what…?”
The Master Healer dragged him into the shadow between two close-set wagons and released him ungently. Stavros slumped onto a wicker crate, still staring at his hands.
“How did you do that?” Ghirra demanded harshly.
The physician’s anger confused him. “The guar…” he said helplessly.
“That is not how it goes with a calling!” Ghirra growled.
“I did nothing… Ghirra, I…”
Ghirra paced away angrily, glancing between the wagons, tossing a black look at the sky as another booming roll shook the air.
Not the horns, Stavros realized. He looked up to see a single dark cloud puff speed by overhead.
Ghirra paced back, grasped one of his hands firmly and turned it palm up to study. He drew his finger across the palm as Kav Daven had done, but with far less satisfaction. Stavros winced.
Ghirra’s eyes narrowed. “This hurts you, still?”
“Yes,” Stavros whispered. “Though not so much now.”
Ghirra looked incredulous, but his touch eased as he held the offending hand.
Stavros realized the Master Healer suspected him of fraud.
“The pain was real, Ghirra, I swear. I felt it! Even with your… help.” An insight reached him. “Will you do that for Liphar when the time comes for him to hold the guar? For all the apprentices?”
Ghirra nodded. “When they are called. It is nerve damping,” he muttered, in Susannah’s diction but with his own tone of professional dismissal. “Simple tricks. But those who hold the guar are not like this.” He explored the palm more gently, pressing the joints, stretching the clear skin as if willing it to show a crack, a sear, a blister, some sign other than obviously radiant health.
The Wave and the Flame Page 39