Crown of Silence

by Constantine, Storm

  Sinaclara laid a hand over one of his where it lay on the table. ‘This disorientation you feel – it will pass,’ she said.

  He shook his head in bewilderment. ‘What happened to me? Was it a dream? How did it happen? It seemed like only a single night.’

  Sinaclara smiled at him. ‘It was a rite that took you from death to rebirth. Perhaps, for you, it was only a single night. I was not with you. I cannot say what happened to your physical body as your mind roamed the ether. All I can tell you is that we left you by the fire at Aya’even and returned at the appointed time.’

  ‘Was I still just standing there?’

  ‘Yes. You were gazing at the ashes of the fire.’

  Shan ran his fingers over his jaw, found a light growth of beard there. He looked down at his clothes and saw they were filthy and torn. His body looked and felt different somehow. He felt heavier, more powerful. ‘I must have taken food and water. I’d be dead otherwise. I must have found shelter.’ He rubbed his face. ‘It doesn’t make sense to me. I saw things, experienced things. It felt real, but it didn’t involve finding food or shelter.’

  You were on the web,’ Sinaclara said. ‘Time means nothing there, and neither do the routines of our reality.’

  ‘It was harrowing, and yet, at the beginning, it wasn’t. Shall I tell you what I saw?’

  ‘If you want to.’

  ‘Don’t you want to know?’

  ‘I am interested, but I respect your privacy.’

  Shan frowned. ‘One thing puzzles me more than anything else. I was told I was older than I am, and I certainly feel different. I don’t feel like a boy any more. Is that possible? Have I aged in some arcane manner while I’ve been away?’

  ‘No, you haven’t,’ Sinaclara said. ‘But what you don’t realise is that you’ve lived in the forest for a couple of years, not mere months as you thought.’

  ‘During the rite? That is even more inconceivable.’

  ‘No, Shan, not recently. I meant you’ve lived with Taropat for that time.’

  ‘No,’ Shan protested, ‘it’s only been months. It was always summer time, no winter, no fall. It’s not possible.’

  ‘You didn’t want time to pass. You hadn’t faced your demons. You wanted to remain a child. Despite what people believe, time is not linear. There is no past point, future point or now point. It’s a cycle of flux and mutability.’

  Shan remembered the mornings he’d awoken feeling as if he’d slept far longer than eight hours. Had he slept the time away? There were too many questions.

  Sinaclara squeezed his hand. ‘For now, enjoy the feast. It is in your honour. Later, we can talk about your experiences.’

  As if her words had been a signal, the drummers started up, and girls ran into the hall, wearing black and silver ribbons. They spun and stamped around the feasters, calling out in strange, ululating shrieks. Shan’s wine cup was never empty. It seemed a strange time of day for such an event. Celebrations of this kind belonged to the night.

  At mid-day, the doors to the hall were thrown wide and hard winter sunlight streamed in across the table. Everyone rose from their seats and crowded outside. Shan and Sinaclara were drawn along with them. Shan was conscious of a sense of new beginnings. The clear cold air was cleansing in his throat and nostrils. It was nourishing, promising new life. Sinaclara took his hand and they walked between two lines of Torozenti, away from the rock village. They followed a broad, yet rugged path that snaked upwards between ancient cliffs. Overhead, wide-winged birds dipped and screamed, their cries echoed by the children that ran in and out of the lines of adults. After only a short walk, the path brought them to the shores of a mountain lake surrounded by cliffs, which Sinaclara said was called Doon Pond. In the centre of the lake was an island, skirted by mist, even though the sun was high. Boats were drawn up onto the narrow beach and the Torozenti indicated that Shan should climb into one of them. He glanced enquiringly at Sinaclara who inclined her head and gestured at the boat. ‘This is a taste of what is to come,’ she said. ‘There will be a time when you remember this place and recognise it as a mirror for the true seat of power.’

  They both climbed into the boat and the Torozenti pushed the boat out onto the glassy surface.

  ‘Row to the island,’ Sinaclara said, reclining against some sacks in the bottom of the vessel.

  Shan picked up the oars and began to row. ‘Why are we going there?’

  Sinaclara only smiled.

  They rowed into the mist so that the shore was hidden from sight. Sound was muffled in that still winter world. All Shan could hear was the creak of the oars, their plash in the icy element.

  ‘This mist isn’t normal,’ Shan said.

  ‘Some parts of the lake are hot,’ Sinaclara replied. ‘The phenomenon is entirely natural.’

  ‘Where’s the island?’ Shan looked behind him. All he could see was a dull white wall.

  Sinaclara stood upright in the boat. ‘Stop rowing.’ Shan saw her breast rising and falling as she drew in long, slow breaths. Then, with a final inhalation, she threw back her head and raised her arms. ‘King of the water, king of the deep, king of the heart, king of sleep, rise unto me, come unto me, bring forth the precious thing you guard, for you must give up your treasure. I command you, in the name of Azcaranoth, the star and your master.’

  All was silent. Sinaclara stood rigidly, her arms still raised. After some minutes, she sighed through her nose and muttered, ‘He guards his treasure too jealously.’

  Shan wondered kind of king hid in isolation upon a tiny island in the middle of nowhere. Where was the island? Sinaclara could see it presumably, even though it was hidden from Shan’s eyes. Perhaps she sensed it. She might have been here a thousand times before.

  ‘Why are we here?’ he asked.

  Sinaclara glanced down at him. She would not speak. Shan felt a cold shiver of anger pass through him. Things had happened to him since he’d met this woman. He had not instigated hem, nor taken action. She had given him knowledge, yes, but she held all the cards. She had given him no forewarning or preparation concerning what had happened to him on Aya’even. ‘You must tell what we’re doing and why. I have to know.’

  ‘Hush,’ said Sinaclara. ‘Look.’ Without taking her eyes from Shan, she lowered her arms and pointed at the water.

  At first it seemed a man was walking towards them across the still surface, which Shan knew was impossible. That could only happen in dreams or visions. Then he realised that the figure was actually emerging vertically from the lake. He must have been swimming, but in full dress? His clothes were soaked, his hair a waterfall around his gaunt face.

  ‘Lord of this land,’ said Sinaclara in barely more than a murmur. ‘Have we disturbed your cold sleep before the appointed time? It is bad of us, but essential. Come to me, King Morogant, bring me the Claw.’

  The figure hung motionless in the water before them. Shan gripped the oars, his knuckles white. If the man was wholly human, he must be mad. But from the way the hairs were prickling on his arms and neck, Shan sensed this was no mortal man.

  ‘Do you doubt my judgement?’ said Sinaclara.

  King Morogant shook his head. ‘No, Lady.’ His voice sounded like the wind sighing through the high canopy of the forest. He fixed his eyes on Shan, and they were like starlight seen from the bottom of a pit. ‘Come to me, boy,’ he said.

  ‘Enter the lake,’ Sinclara commanded.

  ‘Why?’ Shan said. ‘Why should I?’

  ‘Because the king of the deep has something to give to you. It is important.’

  ‘What? What has he to give to me?’

  ‘Enter the water and find out.’

  ‘He is in doubt,’ said the king.

  ‘Yes,’ said Sinclara, ‘but you know that is inevitable.’

  ‘He is afraid.’

  ‘No, not that.’

  ‘Why?’ Shan said. ‘Why not that? I might be afraid. You cannot see inside me.’

  ‘No?’ said Si
naclara.

  Shan glared at her for a moment, then let go of the oars, stood up and lumbered over the side of the boat into the water. He made sure the vessel rocked alarmingly and took satisfaction from the fact that Sinaclara stumbled, reaching out wildly to stop herself falling into the lake.

  Shan had imagined the lake was shallow, for the man stood waist high in it, but as soon as he entered the water, he sank down into darkness. For a moment, he felt utter terror, believing Sinaclara had tricked him and entered into some dark covenant with the Torozenti to sacrifice him to the land. Then he was rising in a caul of bright bubbles. His head broke the surface and he saw King Morogant rearing over him. He was a giant, terrifying. From his neck, the king took a cord and lifted it over his head. A talisman depended from it. With one hand, he took hold of Shan’s hair and lifted him bodily from the water. Shan cried out and struggled, but his strength was no match for the giant. Ignoring Shan’s flailing limbs, the king slipped the cord over Shan’s head and then released him. Shan sank again immediately. He took in a lungful of water. Above him, he imagined Sinaclara was laughing at his ignorance, delighting in the game of perplexing him, and subjecting him to experiences she took for granted, yet knew were incomprehensible to others. Damn her, Shan thought. When he rose in the water again, coughing out icy fluid, he did not attempt to climb into the boat, but struck out for the shore. He would not be her plaything. She could row herself back, or get the mad giant to do it.

  Shan walked out of the water, his ragged clothes icy and sodden around his body, which felt surprisingly warm. The Torozenti were waiting for him. A girl ran forward and offered him a wreath of ivy. He presumed he was to crown himself with this. Instead, he took the ring of foliage and placed it upon the girl’s head, leaning forward to kiss her cheek. ‘It suits you better,’ he said and began to walk away from them.

  ‘Wait,’ said the girl. ‘Return with us to the village. We have warm clothes for you, more food, more wine. There will be dancingc’

  Shan raised a hand in salute but did not stop walking. ‘Enjoy your feast,’ he said. ‘A friend is waiting for me.’

  He could feel the Torozenti’s perplexity. Perhaps he wouldn’t be able to find his way back to Sinaclara’s house, but at that moment he didn’t care. He thought only of his friend, Nip, who was always eager to tell him things, share her knowledge. She was the open book to Sinaclara’s triple-sealed parchment and she had promised she’d return for him at mid-winter.

  The path from the caves to the clearing where the rituals had taken place was wide and well-defined, with no confusing turnings, so Shan was able to find his way there quickly. He paused for a moment to stare at the damp ashes of the fire. He had learned much during his stay in this place, but the knowledge had come at a cost. He had learned pride.

  A boy had walked this path to Aya’even, a man returned at mid-winter. How had this happened? Tricksters, illusionists – who could he trust? He knew none of these people, really, not even Nip. His life seemed to be a dream. He had always been who he was now; the past had not existed. Was this how Khaster Leckery had felt the day Taropat’s essence entered his body? Shan shuddered. Could that mean an alien presence was inside him? He did not feel so. His hand went to the talisman King Morogant had placed around his neck. It wasn’t a natural claw, but carved from stone and covered in intricate designs. He felt no power in it. He knew then that the artefact itself was not the reward; it was the experience of attaining it that imparted knowledge and power. Yet Shan could feel none of it. After his sojourn in the forest of the night, the episode at the lake seemed inconsequential. He felt as drained as if he’d wept for days.

  When he returned to Sinaclara’s house, Shan found she was there ahead of him, sitting by a small table on the terrace. He’d been able to find his way fairly easily. He knew the forest now, as if he’d lived there all his life. The Lady was wrapped in a soft woollen shawl of peacock blue. Her hair appeared a little damp, and she sipped from a tall glass. A slim carafe, another glass, and a plate containing wafer-thin biscuits lay before her. Shan tensed when he saw her. Would she be angry that he’d left her? He drew in his breath resignedly and marched onto the terrace. Sinaclara smiled at him, apparently without irony.

  ‘Did you fly back here on a broomstick?’ he asked.

  Sinaclara put down her glass carefully and wiped a biscuit crumb from her lips. ‘I know the quickest routes from Doon Pond.’ She held out a woollen shawl to him, which had been draped over the back of her chair. ‘Put this around you. Your clothes are still damp.’

  Shan took it although he didn’t feel that cold. ‘I thought Nip would be here. Perhaps I’d better set off to meet her.’

  Sinaclara ignored this suggestion and regarded him thoughtfully for a moment. ‘Did you believe it would be easy? Nothing can be gained from the easy path. You already know this in your heart. We must talk. Sit down. Have a biscuit.’

  ‘I’m not sure what I’ve gained,’ Shan said, but sat down at the table.

  Sinaclara poured a measure from the carafe into the spare glass. ‘You speak from pique. You know very well what you’ve gained.’

  Shan lifted the talisman from his neck. ‘This? It is a pretty ornament, and no doubt very old. Or does your friend in the lake carve them himself to give to any hapless soul you deign to mystify in the name of learning?’

  Sinaclara pushed the glass towards him. ‘There are three artefacts,’ she said. ‘They are old, and were constructed at a time when they were needed. It might be said they are needed again now. The men and women who crafted them put their own will and intention into the objects. They are like windows onto the past.’

  Shan sighed, picked up the glass, sipped. Birch sap wine. ‘Why would I need it? We are playing games out here in the wilderness of the world, while all manner of atrocities take place beyond our sanctuary. We cannot affect that. We are too caught up in dreams.’

  ‘You know that isn’t true.’

  ‘Do I?’

  Sinaclara leaned towards him so swiftly, Shan could not resist drawing back from her. ‘You are on a hard path, Shan. But remember you chose it.’

  ‘Taropat chose me.’

  Sinaclara shook her head. ‘Have you learned nothing? Perhaps you will fail, for simply making the choice does not guarantee success. Your responsibility is to learn, to become worthy of the task.’ One of her hands had curled into a fist upon her breast.

  ‘Are you filled with hate?’ Shan said. ‘Have you suffered at the hands of the empire?’

  Sinaclara collected herself. ‘I see the future,’ she said. ‘I see the fork in it. One way will lead to a soulless world of greed and cold, spiritless thinking. The other is the way of the divine, where great kings and queens will lead their people forward full of wonder for the mystery of life.’

  ‘That is an ideal.’

  ‘Of course, but without ideals there is no hope.’

  ‘One man alone cannot change the world, nor one woman.’

  ‘No, but one can inspire many others. How do you think Leonid Malagash’s ancestors took control?’

  ‘I don’t know. Tell me.’

  Sinaclara refilled both their glasses. ‘It happened at a time when Magravandias was nothing more than a hundred tiny realms governed by warring, feudal lords. The great empire of the world was Mewtish then, and the divine sun kings of Akahana had brought prosperity to the eastern lands. Magravandias, or the Western Territories as they were then known, was inhospitable, and although their mineral resources were of interest to Mewt, the empire had more accessible and fertile mines elsewhere. The territories were largely ignored. There were no cities, and little culture. Barbarians roamed across the plains and through the mountains slaughtering one another. One tribe, the Malagashes, were more warlike and successful than most. Their leader, Casaban, though a great drunkard, was a charismatic character. There was something about his fearlessness and strength that heartened people, to the extent that other tribe leaders felt they could do with
some of his magic. It is said that a meeting was called and Casaban Malagash rode to a sacred site in Magravandias and there met with the chieftains of six other tribes. Seven. A magical number. He offered them his help if they would swear fealty to him, be princes to his king. The chieftains were seduced by his persuasiveness. They agreed to his demands, and there performed a rite to cement their alliance. Spirit site guardians spoke to them. At this place, there were seven lakes and at each lake, a different lesson could be learned.’

  Shan drew in his breath to interrupt, but Sinaclara raised her hand to silence him. ‘Each chieftain allied himself to a different lake. They became the embodiment of the spiritual powers that resided in the landscape there. What they actually did was rediscover an ancient mystical landscape that had been set down millennia before by the descendants of Azcaranoth’s people. Its power was dormant.’

  ‘I thought you said there was little culture, that the early Magravandians were barbarians. How did they possess the knowledge to reawaken the sites?’

  ‘They acted in ignorance at first, but the experience they had at the lakes changed them. Casaban elected to take for himself the seventh lake.’

  ‘That’s impossible,’ Shan said. ‘Taropat has told me about this place. It’s Recolletine, isn’t it? No-one has been to the seventh lake. I know.’

  ‘Of course people have been there,’ Sinaclara said, ‘but there’s no easy way to reach it. How do you think Casaban became emperor? He was wilder than the others. He did not trust them. He wanted their lands for his own. He took it upon himself to learn the lessons of all the lakes. Only in this way could he gain ascension to the seventh, and once he had done that, the others had no power over him. No-one did.’

  ‘But how did he do that? Prince Almorante tried it. He couldn’t. It’s inaccessible.’

  ‘The path is hidden and, once revealed, perilous. But Casaban had advisors. He was king, but he had also a mystic, a bard and a warrior in his court. The mystic gave him the desire to learn, the bard gave him the spirit of freedom, and the warrior gave him might in battle. It was coincidence, perhaps, that four such men should meet in one lifetime, but their union was powerful. They shared a vision and they realised it. Casaban unified the territories, and for many generations it was a nation to be reckoned with. Mewt respected it, and later so did Cos, but Casaban’s descendants were more ambitious than he had been. They worshipped fire and the lessons of the lakes were lost. Still, the might of their chosen element seared the world and continues to do so.’