Although Shan did not try to speak aloud, he chattered to Gust constantly in his head, supposing that the grim could hear. After a week or so, he dared to venture into the forest. Gust scrambled up trees and jumped through the branches. Everywhere was unbelievably green, even the great trunks of the oaks and the beeches. Once Shan was sure he saw a group of aspen women dancing in a glade. When he crept forward to spy on them, he saw it was only a shimmering rainbow dancing over a waterfall. Perhaps.
Another time, Gust offered him a red, fleshy flower, which he had plucked from high in a tree. He gestured that Shan should eat the petals. Filled with a sense of daring, Shan did so, and after a while, began to see spirits everywhere. Panicking, he tried to run blindly back to the narrow house, and got lost. Taropat found him some time later, huddled amongst a nest of tree roots, his hands over his eyes.
‘I’d advise you not to eat anything Gust offers to you again,’ was all he said, then led Shan home. There, he gave him a foul-tasting drink and presently reality reasserted itself.
Gust crouched on the stove looking slightly abashed. Shan could not feel angry with him. He felt that Gust had only tried to give him something he sensed Shan wanted, something for which he was not quite ready.
If Gust became Shan’s friend, the same could not quite be said for Taropat. In the mornings, Shan would come downstairs and find that some breakfast had been left for him, and he would eat alone in the kitchen. Sometimes, Taropat would be present at mid-day, when he’d nibble a frugal lunch, but he’d always have his nose in a book, and hardly seemed to notice Shan was there. In the evenings, he became a little more companionable, and would read to Shan from history books, although the history was bizarre, and rarely involved human folk. Shan supposed they were just stories, although Taropat would say it had really happened. At these times, Shan wished he had a voice because his mind would be full of questions. He discovered that the inner voice is easier to ignore than the spoken word. If he formed questions in his head, Taropat would rarely answer them properly, although it was clear he knew what was on Shan’s mind.
One morning, Shan woke up with dry eyes, and instead of feeling a painful hard lump in his chest, he was filled only with a wistful melancholy. He thought about how the memories of his father and aunt were happy. Other children in the village had had harsh parents, and had been beaten, but his own recollections were of laughter and warmth. He had worked hard, and it felt strange now to be so idle, but his life had been simple and good. This had gone forever, and whatever future Shan had would be far larger than any he could have expected in Holme. It was as if he had to wrap it up in leaves and bury it among the roots of a tree, like an offering to the guardians. It was over.
Feeling strangely elated, he washed and dressed and went downstairs, thinking that he and Gust could go further afield in the forest today. The morning felt so enchanted, something marvellous was bound to happen. He was surprised to find Taropat sitting by the hearth smoking his pipe, just as he had on the first morning Shan had awoken in the house.
‘Sit down,’ Taropat said, and his voice was stern. ‘Now I must talk to you.’
Shan did so, filled with apprehension.
‘The whole of history is made up of stories, you know,’ continued Taropat airily. ‘Everything has a beginning, a middle and an end. Like life. You understand that?’
Shan nodded slowly.
‘Well, the beginning of your story is nearly over, and soon you will reach the really interesting part. The middle is always the longest bit.’ He paused. ‘Do you follow?’
Shan shrugged uncertainly.
‘Stories happen around us all the time. Some are marvellous, some poignant, while others are tragic. Some are long and last for centuries, while others endure only for an hour. Who can tell when a story really ends?’
Shan wriggled uncomfortably and wished Taropat would get to the point.
‘The Magravands are part of a long and gory epic. It might have happened that their story never touched you - but that was unlikely.’ He pointed at Shan with his pipe. ‘In any case, now you are a part of it, whether you like it or not.’
‘No,’ said Shan, a shaky word. Its arrival surprised him more than it appeared to surprise Taropat, who made no comment.
‘Yes,’ he said softly. ‘That day I found you, I was looking for a boy, a particular boy. It was important to me that he did not miss his destiny. Why do you think the soldiers wanted to kill everybody? It wasn’t only blood-lust, no.’ He stood up. ‘Come with me. I want to show you something.’
Shan followed Taropat to another room, the largest in the house. It was clearly his study or workroom. Its length was filled with tables and bookcases and strange mechanisms whose purposes were not immediately obvious. Taropat sauntered into the room, and reached out with one hand to set an astrolabe spinning. ‘This is my temple,’ he told Shan.
Taropat paused at a table mid-way down the room, and sorted through the clutter that covered it. ‘Ah, here…’ He summoned Shan to his side. ‘Do you know what this is?’
‘No,’ croaked Shan, looking at what appeared to be a quantity of black ink confined between two sheets of glass and surrounded by an ornate wooden frame. The liquid flowed back and forth as Taropat tilted the frame.
‘It is a portable scry-mede. Very useful.’ Taropat cleared a space on the table between them and laid the object down. ‘Now look. If you concentrate, pictures will form in the medium. That is how I learned the fate of the villages around Holme.’
Shan glanced at Taropat in amazement, then stared at the scry-mede. Try as he might, no pictures came. ‘I can’t see…’ he said.
‘Well, it takes practice,’ Taropat said, seemingly amused. ‘The trouble with this type of information is that you never get the whole story, just tantalising fragments. For instance, I learned that Magravandias is on the move again, after what we must suppose was a winter break. At first, I didn’t know where their armies would strike, but they’d been moving close to Breeland with every year’s campaign. Then, I discovered that the emperor’s magi believed that a threat lay in our humble land, which must be destroyed at once. A potential leader had been born - always a bother. Hence, I suspect, the genocidal sweeps.’ Taropat straightened up. ‘I went out to find this person, to save him from the slaughter.’ He sighed. ‘Unfortunately, I was unsuccessful. The Magravand magi were too thorough. By the time I reached Hambone, the boy was already dead. Doubly dead, you might say, and the sight was not pretty. So, the hero is dead and the legend is over.’ He smiled in a private kind of way, the light in his eyes turned inwards. ‘But then I thought, it doesn’t have to be. I shall throw myself into the arms of chaotic forces. I will roll a die at every cross-road to choose my direction. This led me to Holme. When you threw the stone at me you happened to fulfil a prophecy I had made up during the journey. I said to myself that whoever, out of all the wretched people I saw, presented to me some kind of spirit, they would be the one. I let fate sniff out the potential.’ He put a hand on Shan’s shoulder and spoke theatrically, his large dark eyes rolling. ‘You, my boy, are that potential.’
Shan stared up at Taropat in terror. The man was mad. It was all the more horrifying because he clearly believed absolutely in what he was saying. ‘Not me,’ said Shan. ‘No.’
Taropat put his head on one side and cupped his well-shaped jaw in one hand. ‘Hmm. Perhaps. However, what I forgot to mention in the other room is that the endings of stories can be changed by clever individuals, and whether you are a potential hero or not, I intend to make you one.’
‘Why?’
Taropat laughed. ‘The standard answer, I suspect, is “because I can”. Do I have a great love for this country? Not particularly. I could ply my arts anywhere, perhaps even in the court of the emperor, which would be a magnificent irony. I am not a flag-waving sort, although I don’t approve of brutality, especially if I have to witness or experience it.’ He shrugged. ‘I suppose, like you, I have been chosen for a role
. It was not my idea in the first place.’
‘Then whose?’
Taropat’s eyes took on a sparkle. ‘Ah, that would be telling. Let’s just say it was the voice of a god in my head. I have to do what he wants, otherwise he’ll become affronted and might make things inconvenient for me.’ Taropat sighed again. ‘Ah, you look so stricken. Don’t worry. The fact is, if the Magravands believe they have killed a future leader, we might as well give them another one. It amuses me to inconvenience the empire.’
‘You be this hero, then.’
‘Me?’ Taropat chuckled. ‘No. I excel at arcane arts and like telling people what to do, but I hate responsibility. Training you will be an interesting project, a gamble, if you like. Who knows where it may lead?’ He began to walk up and down beside the table, gesturing. ‘The Magravands’ story has to have an end, because every story does. Empires rise and fall; that is the way of the world. They become too big at the top and topple over. When that begins to happen, an enterprising soul can take advantage of the situation. It won’t happen yet, but it will. We have to play a long game.’ He stopped prowling and cupped his chin again. ‘Come, come, there is something else you must see.’
Shan followed him to another table further down the room. Here, the aqueous light of the mill pool outside fell into the room in mysterious rays, illuminating what seemed to be an enormous game spread out on the tabletop. There was a map, divided into hundreds of countries, each of which was covered in different coloured beads. ‘Help me scoop up the men,’ Taropat said. ‘Sort them into colours.’
Shan did as he was bid, until all the beads were separated. Taropat sifted through the largest pile, which was black, with his long fingers. ‘Now watch.’ He scooped up the black beads and dumped them onto one of the larger countries. ‘That is Magravandias and her armies, clustered together in a hideous mound. Ah, they are on the march!’ He placed some of the beads on adjoining lands. ‘Now, they have to keep a strong garrison in these places to keep hold of what they’ve gained. Never know what might be rising from the rubble! But that means they have fewer men at home to send further afield.’ He spread all the beads out on the board. ‘Now do you see? The armies are spread thin, and easier to pick off.’
‘They’ll group together, though,’ Shan said, getting into the spirit of the idea. ‘Then they’ll squash the new leader in the first country he takes.’
‘If he was stupid enough to remain there, perhaps,’ Taropat said, ‘but if the Magravands panicked and did that, it would leave other captured lands even more vulnerable wouldn’t it?’
‘Then the leader would have to have a scry-mede like yours, only powerful enough to tell him what the Magravands were doing all the time.’ Shan’s eyes took on a feverish gleam. He pointed to the board, to the central country where only a single black bead remained. ‘The weakest land would be Magravandias herself, right in the heart of the empire!’
‘Well done!’ said Taropat. ‘Time for lunch. Are you hungry again yet?’
Shan nodded, then laughed. ‘I can talk again,’ he said.
‘Can you?’ said Taropat, and ushered him from the room.
They ate thick white bread and strong peppery cheese at the kitchen table, while Gust munched on a piece of coal atop the stove. ‘How old are you, boy?’ asked Taropat.
‘Fifteen, nearly sixteen,’ Shan answered. He felt excited by Taropat’s ideas. It was all so unreal, just like a game.
Taropat nodded. ‘Hmm, that gives us a few years to play with.’
Shan grinned. He couldn’t believe Taropat was serious. ‘How will you train me?’
Taropat fixed him with dark eyes. ‘Well, we shall start small. You need to be educated, because there are few things worse than an uncultured barbarian. I shall pass certain aspects of my wide knowledge on to you - in a discerning manner, of course - and then we shall see about the rest. Fighting and leadership are not just about athletic skill and brute force, or even cunning strategy. My task, as I see it, is to build your character and your spirit. There will be other teachers for you afterwards. There always are.’
Shan chewed thoughtfully for a moment, then laid down his bread. ‘I haven’t thanked you,’ he said. ‘You saved me.’
Taropat’s face darkened. ‘If I’d really saved you, I’d have come before you lost your innocence in that vile way.’
Shan reddened. He had a feeling Taropat had seen what had happened to him in the scry-mede.
‘Never doubt,’ said Taropat in a low, terrifying voice. His eyes looked wild, insane. He leaned towards Shan, who shrank away. ‘I have seen the harvest of Magravand lust a thousand times. It took from me all that was human, all that could feel. There is a debt to pay, a debt of the soul. I cannot lead an army, and fighting disgusts me, but destiny, or the forces of chaos, saw fit to equip me in other ways.’ He bunched a fist before his face, the knuckles straining white. ‘Nothing happens by chance. Nothing. Especially not if you put your will into living.’
Shan swallowed with difficulty, feeling slightly light-headed. He sensed then that Taropat was a man with a great hurt deep within him that only vengeance might allay.
‘Whatever!’ Taropat leaned back again, apparently relaxed, and took a bite of cheese. ‘Every experience, however disgusting, builds character and is the will of the gods. Would you like some ale with that bread?’
Shan nodded, once again mute, but this time from fear. If Taropat believed people could change the end of stories why did he believe in the will of the gods? Shan couldn’t ask. He drank the ale that was given to him and stared at Gust who was flaring his nostrils on the stove.
Chapter Three: Basilisk Hunting
Living with Taropat by the mill pool, Shan lost track of time. Perhaps it didn’t pass at all and they existed in a strange reality beyond the world of men. Sometimes, when Shan awoke in the morning, he had the strangest sensation he’d been asleep for weeks. Most days, Taropat would take Shan with him into his study, so that Shan could watch him working. Taropat spent hours concocting peculiar philtres with the most arcane equipment imaginable, which often created only an abysmal stinking fluid that had to be poured away. The more successful mixtures Taropat kept in labelled jars on a shelf, then apparently left them there forever. He began to teach Shan about the properties of plants, the phases of the moon and the movement of stars. He would take the boy into a bare room off the main chamber, where he usually performed magical rituals, and there instruct him in the use of the scry-mede. Try as he might, Shan could never see anything in it but darkness. He was never invited to attend one of Taropat’s rituals, for which he was grateful. He was sure he would be terrified.
As well as this more esoteric training, Taropat introduced Shan to the wonders of books. Shan could already read and write, albeit rather ineptly, but he had never read a whole book before. The experience amazed him. Lost in someone else’s words was like living another life. It made him realise how big the world was, and that an infinite number of things were going on all the time beyond his limited perception.
If I owned a thousand books, thought Shan, I need never leave this house. Everything in the world could be seen through the eyes of those who’d written the stories and histories, who’d lived them.
He mentioned this to Taropat, who only smiled. ‘One day, perhaps, you will write your own.’
Shan didn’t want to think about that. He was happy with his life of study. He didn’t want to leave the tall narrow house and its surrounding forest, ever.
One morning, Taropat announced after breakfast that the day had come for Shan to take his education further. ‘You will go to a friend of mine who lives nearby,’ he said. ‘His name is Master Thremius and he is a great magus.’
Shan was surprised by this. He’d assumed they lived far from anyone else and said so.
Taropat laughed. ‘This forest is like a vast brain full of little cells, and in each cell is a thought. The thoughts are witches, sorcerers and mystics. It is an odd community, and it
took me a while to get used to it myself. I have kept people away from you because you needed time to be alone.’
Shan did not like the idea of having to meet other people. He enjoyed his simple existence with Taropat. Nothing much was happening, true, certainly nothing to do with the destiny Taropat claimed to have created for him, but privately Shan was relieved about that. If he kept quiet and obedient, cut wood, tidied the house and helped tend the garden, perhaps it might never be mentioned again.
‘Don’t worry,’ Taropat said. ‘Thremius has an apprentice, a girl near your own age. It’s about time you started making friends again.’
Nip was seventeen years old and lived with Master Thremius in the hollow of an ancient oak. Their dwelling was extended by a lean-to of mud and sticks. When Shan first visited the place, he couldn’t imagine how an old man and a young woman could live together in such a small space. Then he discovered that there were rooms underground, beamed with arthritic tree roots.
‘The rooms go so far down,’ Nip explained, ‘that they lead into tombs and the palaces of kings who were buried by earthquakes.’
Shan very much wanted to believe these tales, and hoped that he would one day see the evidence for himself.
Gust had taken him to the glade and he’d first seen Nip sprawled along a wide lichened branch, picking at her toenails with a short knife. At first, Shan thought she was a boy. When she spotted Gust, she jumped down and said, ‘Hello, grim thing. How are you today?’ and made some coaxing noises one might utter to a cat or a dog in order to make friends. Then she caught sight of Shan. ‘Oho, what’s this?’ Her voice suggested she looked forward to sport of some kind.
‘Taropat sent me,’ Shan said. ‘I’m here to see Master Thremius. He’s going to teach me.’
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