Talsy looked up. "That doesn't explain how you know what I can do."
"No, it doesn't." He smiled. "One of the questions my grandfather asked led him to more information than he had bargained for. I don't know what the question was, but the explanation was fascinating. He learnt that there are three staffs that govern the world, the Staff of Life, the Staff of Death and the Staff of Law.
"The Staff of Life governs all things that are alive and ensures that living creatures are viable, fall under its rules, that sort of thing. The Staff of Death does the same for dead things, soil, stone, and naturally, the death of living things. But the most powerful of the three is the Staff of Law. It governs the other two and gives order to the world. Without it there would be chaos. Its power is immense, and I own it."
Talsy took a gulp of water to wash away the sour taste that had formed in her mouth during his revelation. She had no doubt that he was bad, not only because of what he had done to her, but from the nasty twinkle in his black eyes and the cynical curl of his thin lips. Pushing her plate aside, she frowned at him.
"If you have this all-powerful staff, then why do you need a Mujar to protect your city?"
"Ah, well, having it is one thing, using it is quite another. You see, the Mujar never intended my grandfather to have it, they only told him of its existence. But he was a clever man, and he tricked one of them into showing him where it was. He took it, and the Mujar were angry, but of course, being Mujar, they did nothing, just left. This did not bother my grandfather, for now he had the Staff of Law. Over the years, he learnt how to make some use of it, mostly to gain knowledge from it."
The Prince sipped his wine and shrugged. "But alas, he never discovered how to use it for war, if, indeed, it can be used for such a purpose. So, my dear, I used it to watch you and your Mujar, who will now come to rescue you. Then he'll have to protect my city or watch you die."
Talsy raised her chin. "Then he'll watch me die."
"Perhaps, but if he does, the fate of the world will change. The chosen will be no more, and Truemen will be wiped out. You see, without you to guide and teach them, the gods will not allow the race to survive."
"The staff told you that?"
Tyrander nodded.
"Is it also the reason the wind will not aid me?"
Again the Prince nodded, looking smug. "None of the souls may enter the sphere of the Staff of Law, which is bounded by the desert that followed it here. So you see, only your Mujar can save you now."
Talsy stared at her food, sickened by his cold words and harsh, unfeeling manner. His smug attitude and air of confidence told her that he spoke the truth, and no amount of reasoning would change his mind. Prince Tyrander was set upon his course and would not be turned from it. The power he held made him far more dangerous than any foe Chanter had faced before. Perhaps only she could change fate now by escaping him, for how else could he be defeated?
Kieran paused to gaze around at the desert. Golden sand stretched away in every direction, rippled by the incessant, icy wind. Since leaving the river, he had tried to keep a straight course, keeping the sun on his left shoulder as it had been when the hoof prints and wheel tracks had faded. What if they had turned? With no trail to follow, he could become lost in this featureless expanse and never find them or Talsy. The soft sand sucked at his feet, slowed his progress to a walk and sapped his strength. The cold, dry air drained his moisture, cracked his lips and forced him to drink more water from the flask he had filled at the river. Already it was half empty, and he forced himself to abstain despite the terrible thirst that raged in his dry throat.
The sand turned a deeper gold as the sinking sun withdrew its light and guidance. With its fading rays, its warmth receded and the fierce cold nipped his skin. He pulled his short cloak closer and slogged on, knowing that the only warmth he would gain now would be from his exertions, and without it he would freeze to death. This precluded any hope of rest, and he prayed that his strength would last the night.
Chanter stopped and raised his head, his nostrils flaring as if he scented the wind like a wild creature. Shern, following close behind him, watched him doubtfully, his eyes resting on the Mujar's sharply etched profile. The rest of the chosen, who dragged leaden feet after the arduous march from the city, sank down for a moment's respite. Since leaving the road, Chanter had paused only twice to allow the people to rest and eat during the night and day that had passed since then. Now the gathering gloom added to the peoples' weariness as another night descended. Tired children, most of whom were now carried by adults, whimpered as they were laid on the ground and wrapped in blankets. Shern had longed to ask Chanter for time to rest, but could not find the courage. The Mujar seemed unapproachable, and none had dared to complain as yet. Chanter turned to Shern, breaking his silence.
"Wait here."
As the seer nodded, the Mujar vanished in a rush of wind and beating wings, a raven arrowing skywards. Shern walked back to the huddled chosen, avoiding their enquiring looks. None chose to question him, all too grateful for the rest. They passed food and water around and massaged aching legs. Shern sank down with the rest, wondering, as they all doubtless were, where the Mujar had gone.
Chanter soared on the wind high above, tilting his wings to steady himself. The wind spirit he had sensed below stayed with him, tossing him playfully. Ignoring its antics, he glided down to alight in a clearing. With a rush of Ashmar, he resumed his man form, the Shanar close by. He raised a hand to touch its wild cool substance, running his fingers through it in a caress. The Shanar responded with a gentle gust that lifted the hair from his neck.
"Shyass," he addressed it.
"Blessed One, good greeting." The wind's whispery voice tickled his ears.
"Did the girl summon you?"
"The wild heart is caught, the wind denied."
"Who can deny the wind?" Chanter asked.
"None but one, know you. The Law of the Land denies all, neither Life nor Death may defy it, yet trapped it is within its realm."
"The Staff of Law." Chanter's eyes roamed the empty skies. The Shanar's unseen presence was a cool whisper against his skin, moulding his face and running fingers of air over his features. "She is within its sphere." He nodded. "Did you see the one I sent after her?"
The wind chuckled, a breathy whisper of mirth. "Crawling across cold sand, soon to perish, with Mujar power at his side."
"Also within the sphere."
"Know you, ask me not," the wind breathed. "Foolish errands I abhor, freedom and skies I adore."
Chanter frowned. "I did not ask you, Shyass."
"Blessed One of Land and Skies, chastise not the wind who seeks to aid. The wild heart in danger lurks, and not the black ones, beware."
The wind gave a low moan as it rushed away, bowing the trees on one side of the clearing with the power of its passing. The Mujar gazed after it, his brows drawn together. What was Talsy doing in the sphere of the Staff of Law, and who had taken her there? No one could live in the blood-red desert that surrounded the staff unless they controlled it. He had never given much thought to the three staffs, for they were passive, holding the boundaries of the world in place, and not intended for any other use.
The Staff of Life was his own, and for a Mujar to call on it was a simple thing. He held out his hand, palm up in the Mujar gesture that Lowmen so misunderstood. Not a gesture of pleading or surrender, but of Life abounding, springing from his palm as now the image of his staff did. It took the aspect of a warm brown egg that nestled in his palm. Chanter smiled, rubbing the smooth shell that held the promise of quickening life, growing and flourishing within its hard shelter.
Turning his attention to his left hand, he frowned and closed it into a fist, the denial of Life, symbol of Death, the staff that rejected his power. The Staff of Death responded to his summons, its image appearing on the ground beside him. As with death, its aspect was ever changing, from a pile of bleached bones to a grave, to a broken sword and then a bedraggl
ed dead bird. For an instant it became a spot of utter darkness too deep to look at, then changed again.
Chanter looked away. Now that he held the images of the two lesser staffs, he summoned the image of the Staff of Law. The greater staff required a trifle more power, and he sensed the swirling of the four Powers around him as he summoned Law. Fiery flickers flashed amid Shissar's gentle mist, Dolana's cold seeped into him and Ashmar gave movement to all. Their slight manifestation was brought about by the exertion of his will to draw the Staff of Law's image to him, for he had not summoned any of the Powers.
A shining globe, like the sun's image, formed before him, hovering in the air. Its gentle, golden warmth brought him joy, and its simple, splendid symmetry was a wonder to behold. The Staff of Law held none of the burgeoning of Life, or the withering of Death, but the steady, all-powerful constancy of Order. As he gazed at it, he noticed the slim black lines that marred its perfection, shimmering in its light. Like a cage, the lines criss-crossed its image with dark scars, trapping it in an unknown web of force.
Chanter frowned, likening the black lines to the tar webs around Lowmen cities. Holding the images of the staffs of Life and Death and with the power they bestowed, he summoned the Staff of Law's reality. The golden image flared, almost obscuring the dark lines, and filled the clearing with light. He was forced to avert his eyes from its blinding radiance as it obeyed the Mujar summons, strengthened by the lesser staffs.
Prince Tyrander woke with a scream, clawing at the burning strand that cut into his neck. The gold chain dug deeper, redoubling his agony as he strived to rid himself of it. He bellowed with pain and indignation, twisting in the tangled sheets. The door of his bedchamber flew open, and several wide-eyed servants ran in, amongst them his chief advisor, Ardel. The rumpled group, clad in various stages of disarray, gawped at the grimacing Prince, spellbound.
Tyrander tried to pull the chain away from his neck, but the force was far too strong. It dragged him from his bed and across the room. He fell as his night gown tripped him, sliding across the polished floor towards the far wall. Ardel broke from his trance and rushed to the Prince, fell to his knees and added his strength to Tyrander's struggle to remove the chain. Others joined him, and three of them pried the chain over the Prince's head.
The monarch shouted, "Don't let it go!"
Ardel hung onto the chain that cut into his hands, as did the two servants. Tyrander clasped his bloody neck and stared with bulging eyes at the glowing stone within the golden cage on the chain. The size of a hen's egg, the previously inert and ugly pebble burnt with a brilliant red light. The servants used cloths to pad the chain that sliced their hands, but even with three people hanging onto it, the stone dragged them across the floor. Tyrander glanced in the direction they were heading, straight for a solid stone wall.
His eyes narrowed, and he snapped, "Let it go."
"Highness?" Ardel shot him a surprised look.
"Let it go! It won't get far. You're wasting your energy."
Ardel and the servants released the Staff of Law, and the stone flew across the room to slam against the wall, trapped within its cage. It hung there, the chain dangling, glued to the wall as if it was a magnet. Tyrander rose, brushed himself off and pushed away the servant's hands as they tried to dab the bleeding gash in his neck. He walked over to the stone and gazed at it with wonder.
"What are you doing?" he asked the burning pebble.
Fiery lines appeared in the air and formed into flowing writing, as they always did. This was how the Staff of Law spoke, since it had no voice, by writing its answers in runes. The sentence was brief and readable for Tyrander, who had learnt to decipher the staff's strange writing in his youth.
“I am summoned.”
"By whom?" Tyrander demanded.
The lines of fire twisted and reformed into a single burning word. “Mujar.”
"Refuse."
The fiery writing changed again. “I cannot.”
"Nor can you obey," Tyrander snapped. "You're bound to me. It's useless to try to answer the call."
“I have no choice,” the runes wrote. ‘I must try.”
"Try then." Tyrander smiled. "It will do you no good. The gold binds you. You cannot even pass through one of your illusions while you're in the cage."
“True.”
"Where is this Mujar?" the Prince asked.
“Many leagues away, in a forest.”
Tyrander twisted fretfully as his servants, having fetched a stool to combat his height, tended the cut on his neck. He tried to ignore them.
"Is he coming here?"
“No,” the lines of fire answered.
"Can you bring him here? Summon him as he's summoning you?"
“No. Mujar command the staffs, not the other way around.”
Tyrander frowned. "Yet you are more powerful than he."
“No, I am not. Nothing is more powerful than Mujar, nor can they be gainsaid by any.”
"Show him to me," the Prince said.
The fiery writing smeared together and became a burning ring. Within it, an image of a dark clearing in a forest formed. A black-haired man stood there, his eyes glowing in the darkness. In his right palm he held an egg, and beside him lay a pile of bleached bones. Before him, a brilliant globe floated, scored by dark lines.
"Explain this," Tyrander growled.
Part of the fiery ring detached itself and formed into writing again. “He is Mujar. In his right hand, he holds an image of the Staff of Life, on his left is the Staff of Death, and before him is my image.”
"Why only images?"
“He does not need to wield the staffs; he only seeks to see them. He has seen the force that holds me, that is why he has summoned my reality.”
Tyrander looked smug. "So now he'll come to free you, even if he cares nothing for the stupid girl."
No, the staff denied. “He will not. I cannot be used for any evil purpose, and the Hashon Jahar will free me.”
"But they would also kill the girl."
“Yes.”
The Prince grunted and shrugged away the servants who tended his wound. "Then he must come for her."
Chapter Seven
Chanter sighed and released the images, waiting until all three vanished before he turned and strode back towards the chosen. The Staff of Law was trapped within a cage of the alien metal that disagreed with everything in this world, especially Mujar. Whoever held the Staff of Law also had Talsy, and he was glad that he had armed Kieran with the Starsword. The wind's report of Kieran's plight worried him, but surely the warrior would find a way to cross the desert and find Talsy.
Chanter emerged from the trees to find the huddled people sound asleep, their faces drawn with exhaustion and their heads pillowed in each other's laps. Even Shern had succumbed, and lay propped against a tree, his mouth open as he snored. The Mujar paced amongst them, wanting to push on, but aware that people needed rest and sleep. Perching on a log, he settled down to wait, his ears tuned for danger. He hoped that he would not have to leave the chosen to save Kieran, for that would place them in danger, too. If the warrior thought about the gift he had received, he would find the answer to his problems.
"Use the sword, Kieran," Chanter muttered.
The Staff of Law stopped glowing and fell to the floor with a soft clatter. Tyrander bent and picked it up, holding it by the long gold chain. Within the cage, the smooth pebble lay inert, as plain and ugly as ever, a common sea-washed stone. This disguise had guarded the staff since the world's creation, lying as it had done on the shores of an inland sea surrounded by the cold red desert. One pebble amongst millions, with nothing to distinguish it from all the others. Until King Roane, Tyrander's grandfather, had used a Mujar to find it, the Staff of Law had been safe. Tyrander often wondered why it was called a staff when it was only a pebble. He placed the chain around his neck once more, over the fresh bandages that protected the ugly gash, and tucked the caged stone under his nightgown.
Turning to Ardel, he smiled. "The Mujar has given up. He has failed."
The tall, balding advisor bowed. "Your Highness is wise. But perhaps you should not wear the stone, in case he tries again."
"Why should he? No, I will wear it as I always do, so it is safely with me at all times."
Ardel bowed again. "As Your Highness wishes."
Kieran gasped cold dry air, his numb brain's commands forcing his aching legs to take staggering steps. Never had he been so tired, thirsty and cold. The sand hampered his steps, making each one an effort, a task almost too great to achieve. The moon had risen and the night was almost half over, yet he doubted that he could last much longer. His armour seemed to weigh a ton and the bag of supplies another. He longed to throw it off, but common sense prevailed. His knees buckled and he sank down, glad of the dangerous rest even though the cold attacked through his clothes. With icy fingers, he opened the water flask and drained the last few drops of frigid liquid. He chewed a little dry meat and bread, but what energy it imparted was used to warm him.
Putting away the food, he contemplated the rippled sand before him. Like a mighty ocean, it undulated in sweeping dunes, a sea of sand creeping before the wind. His hand dropped to the Starsword’s hilt, an old habit that reassured him of its presence. He remembered Chanter's explanation of the sword's powers and his enigmatic assurance that Kieran would discover the rest of them in time. Perhaps now would be a good time to find out if it could help him, for he was in dire need. With a swift, well-practised movement, he drew the blade, which lay in his hands like a cold window on the firmament.
Between chattering teeth, he gritted, "I need warmth."
The blade warmed enough to defrost his frozen hands, but it did little to counter the icy wind. Kieran took hold of the hilt and plunged the blade halfway into the sand, released it and backed away.
Broken World Book Two - StarSword Page 11