‘Then give it to me,’ Balten told him. ‘I will return the spell.’
‘How can you?’
‘I can do it, Samuel. Have faith in my abilities. If I can defeat the Paatin arch-wizard I can disarm this little treat you have prepared for me.’
‘You killed him?’
‘Unfortunately, no. He fled again. I’m sure he can feel what you are doing and he will be doing his best to be away from here as fast as he can. Now, give it to me.’
Balten clamped a spell of his own around Samuel’s, and it bore incredible strength. Samuel felt the magician’s energies surround him, and allowed his spell to pass over, until Balten was now in possession of the terrible coagulum of power. Despite his earlier assurances, Balten seemed to struggle with the thing as soon as he received it.
‘I must admit, this is much more than I was expecting, Samuel. You are quite the magician, as I have always said. I only wish I was discovering it on better terms.’
‘Can you return it?’ he asked, but Balten shook his head. ‘So what will you do?’
‘Reach into my pocket,’ Balten said and Samuel reached in as indicated and drew out a shiny silver cylinder. There was only a slight feel of magic to it, but its very construction marked it as being remarkable.
‘What is it?’
‘This is a relic of the Ancients, Samuel,’ the trembling magician explained. ‘It was to deal with you, if you ever got out of control, but thankfully I have never needed to use it. This seems to be a perfect time to trial it.’
‘What can it do?’ Samuel said, turning the thing over in his hands.
‘It can swallow magic, large amounts of it—although I don’t believe it has ever been tested to quite this extent.’
‘It destroys power?’
‘No. It stores it. The magic can be retrieved later, although I should not think anyone would wish to open it once your spell is safely inside.’
‘Like a trigger spell?’
‘Something like that, yes.’
‘What do I do?’ Samuel asked.
Balten was now shaking wildly, his hands quivering on either side of the brilliant hissing spell as he struggled to contain it. ‘Drop it gently into the spell. It will do the rest.’
Samuel did as he was told, holding the cylinder above Balten’s hands. It felt like it was made of solid gold, for he struggled to lift it with both hands, despite its small dimensions; although, it could have been his overtired muscles that were to blame.
He looked to the other magician for reassurance and then let go. The thing fell between them and thumped onto the sandy ground, gulping up Samuel’s tremendous spell as it passed, leaving the air between Balten’s hands empty and quiet. The wind and vortices and shimmering lightning around them fell away almost at once and the world seemed deathly silent. Only the dust remained to cloud the air, and it, too, had begun to slowly settle.
Balten sighed and bent, and picked up his relic from the sand. It had no more feeling of power to it than before.
‘By the gods!’ Samuel declared.
‘Almost,’ Balten replied, wiping his brow and tucking the cylinder back into his shirt. ‘Now I just have to be careful not to release this thing unexpectedly. The most I have ever put into it was the odd mage-light and Lifting spell. This falls firmly into the category of the unknown.’
‘How does such a relic possibly work?’ Samuel asked.
‘I have no idea. It being a relic of the Ancients, I know almost nothing about it. Let’s hope it can hold your spell indefinitely. It could be a nasty surprise if anyone stumbled upon it. I will have to dispose of it safely when the chance arises. Now, let’s go and find the others. We will need to keep moving.’
Samuel followed as Balten marched off into the haze and he slipped the ring from his finger as he went and dropped it into his pocket. He noticed the blisters on his hands had healed and the fatigue he should have felt after struggling with so much power was absent. He could only come to the conclusion that Balten had saved him just in time, supplanting him with energy and healing his body before the damage had become irreversible. The man was quite incredible and Samuel wondered how many other surprises Balten had hidden up his sleeves.
They carried on for several more days without incident or any further sign of the Paatin. Travelling on foot was cruel and slow going, but they had little choice, given that their horses had been lost in the battle. Walking became even more difficult when the hard stones of the desert gave way to expanses of soft, white sand. Trudging up and down the great slipping hills of sand was exhausting, and they clambered over them for several more days, until some hard earth appeared under their feet once more. Finally, they saw some rock formations in the distance and Balten steered them towards the features, across the shimmering heat haze of the arid waste.
It was only when they neared the formations that they could see these were enormous pillars of pale stone, jutting from the ground. There was first one here and there, then more, then many—pressing in together—until the party was walking amongst a forest of towering, stone columns. It almost seemed as if a path led between them and some of the stones had markings or engravings on their sides, although they had been weathered away so as to be indiscernible.
They met an even greater surprise when the dense pillars abruptly ceased and the party found themselves in a vast, walled canyon, hidden away from the outside world.
‘What is this place?’ Eric asked, looking around with awe.
Balten replied without emotion, eyeing the high, natural walls around them, all formed of pale, weathered stone. ‘This is not our destination, but I wanted to stop here and show you something. I think you will find it very enlightening.’
They sauntered across the open bowl of the canyon, keeping close to the northern-most edge. Mounds of squared stone blocks were littered about here and there, but most of them had been weathered to the point of crumbling. It seemed that although the valley was natural, it had also been highly quarried, with sporadic cuttings marking the walls all over.
They continued on, following the walls of stone and they soon passed another mound of broken stones. Although this one was only about waist high, it was more than fifty paces wide at the base, as if a platform had been constructed in the middle of nowhere. And, in the distance, was another such construction.
It took them ten minutes to reach the next site but, when they did, they found it had been a building at one time, several storeys high in places, but now weathered away to almost nothing. Following that, they found another such ruin—little more than a mass of fallen pillars and dirt that had been blown in by the wind. These constructions seemed evenly spaced and each one seemed slightly grander—or perhaps merely more intact—than the last. Some were vast, still standing five or six storeys high, but all were broken in some way; worn down by the Ages.
‘What are these buildings?’ Samuel asked their guide.
‘This is the Valley of the Ancients,’ Balten replied, but he would say no more and led them on in eerie silence.
It took them nearly an hour before they reached a point where the buildings looked less decrepit. They rose up like a series of towers that looked out over the canyon walls and into the desert. Samuel imagined that from the desert these constructions would appear to be only small piles of rock.
A number of black-skinned desert-men were ahead and seemed to be working on one of the structures. It was taller even than the rest and built up in layers, each layer smaller than the other and tapered together so that the top ended in a narrow point. Its design certainly seemed sturdier than the others, forming a square pyramid, with each level taller than a man.
The top of the building bore a great carving of an eye, open and staring, looking to the centre of the valley and surrounding the building with a sphere of shimmering magic. Inside was something or someone immensely powerful, powerful enough to encase the entire structure in magic.
‘They are putting the finishing touches to this
temple,’ Balten explained. ‘It has been under construction for over a hundred years. At times, there were tens of thousands of workers labouring on it, and towns built all around to house and support them. Now, only these last few artisans are left, finishing their carvings, making the final adjustments.’
‘But why would anyone build such a thing out here?’ Eric asked, but again Balten was silent.
Some dark-skinned boys ran to the tall magician’s side, wearing sandals and short skirts, and they jabbered to Balten excitedly, and he replied to them in their own tongue. The party stopped under a canvas at the base of the temple and they all drank from gourds of water that were brought by the Paatin women.
‘Follow me,’ Balten said, after they had each drunk their fill, and he started up the stairs that had been cut directly into the side of the great stone slabs.
The others filed after him, following him into a shadowed opening and into the side of the temple.
Their footsteps echoed in the stone halls. Every inch of wall space was carved with figures: gods and demons battling, people cowering from wild beasts, crops and rivers and symbols of harvest. Passages were written in Old Tongue, with letters hewn large and deep into the stone, but Samuel could not read more than a handful of words before Balten’s voice sounded back, hurrying him along.
‘Why do you think they call this the Valley of the Ancients?’ Eric whispered to Samuel.
‘I’m not sure,’ Samuel replied, somewhat louder, for he was trying to resist the strange temptation to whisper. ‘I think we are about to find out.’
They climbed a further set of square stairs that led up into the heart of the temple, passing the odd craftsman sitting here and there in the dim light, chiselling or hammering at their work. Statues lined the chambers they passed, but the figures they represented were unknown to them. They passed several enormous rooms, several of which were filled with shelves of books and papers. They caught a glimpse of figures standing in the aisles: not the local desert-men, but fair-skinned westerners. Some of them were common folk, but others had the unmistakable aura of magicians.
Balten waited ahead at an open doorway and motioned for them to go in. ‘Please go in and everything will be explained.’
Samuel did as he was told and passed the man by. ‘Who is in there?’ he asked, for the magic that surrounded the pyramid seemed to emanate from within that room, flowing out the door in regular, rhythmical pulses that were immense and stifling.
‘Go in,’ said Balten, ‘and meet my teacher. Don’t worry. He will speak with you and then you will be free to leave.’
Samuel stepped wide-eyed into the room, for not only was it dense with magic, but also with precious artefacts: vases, jewels, paintings and sculptures of gold, piled and stacked against the walls and to the ceiling. A small space had been left bare at the centre of the room. It consisted of only a circle of padded chairs, crammed amongst the teetering treasures and each facing inwards.
The others had already sat themselves before their host, who had been waiting quietly in his seat. Samuel had to subdue his magician’s sight, for the aura around the man was blinding, as if the blazing sun had fallen across his shoulders and was fused around his body. Whoever he was, their host had access to unspeakable power and Samuel was eager to see what such a man had to say.
He made his way to the last vacant chair and sat beside Sir Ferse. It was only at this point that he realised Master Celios was now missing, but looking to the rest of the group, he realised they had either not noticed or were unworried by the fact.
Their host waited patiently, smiling as they settled themselves. He wore robes of brown, tied with a simple white cord at his waist. His bare feet were flat on the floor and his hands rested lightly upon his thighs. He was a bald and bony man, brown of skin, although it looked like he had gained his colour from wandering under the sun, rather than from birth. His age was undefinable, for he was smooth and without wrinkles, but his nose was bulbous and his earlobes drooped almost to his shoulders. His bones were knobbly beneath his flesh, yet the knots of his muscles stood out like clumps of iron.
Samuel knew he should feel worried, but there seemed to be an air of calm in the room that had everyone enthralled. Samuel, too, felt compelled to sit quietly and await the address from their host, although he could not explain the feeling. Only Horse looked unsettled; he had a bead of sweat on his brow and was holding onto his armrests tightly.
After a moment, the old man sitting before them spoke and his voice was composed and welcoming. He oozed compassion, but it was also an uncomfortable feeling, as if it was being impressed upon them without their consent.
‘Welcome to the Valley of the Ancients,’ said the host. ‘This is my home and you now find yourselves in the heart of my Temple of Shadows. I know your journey has been long and you all have much yet to do, but I am glad to see you finally here. I had instructed my student, Balten, to assist in this as required and, once again, he has not disappointed me. You may notice that Master Celios is not present. I have arranged for him to be taken to his room to rest. I will be requiring his unique skills almost immediately, so he will not be continuing with you on your quest.
‘I see before me two young magicians of great fame: Master Pot and Lord Samuel—the Saviour of Cintar, no less.’ Then he looked at the Koians sitting on his left. ‘And here we have some guests from the distant Koian Empire, a very mixed and intriguing group. I am pleased to finally meet one of the fabled Koian warriors. In all the Ages, few cultures have reached such a high order of physical and mental discipline. I am honoured.’ And he gave a small, yet humble, bow of his head, closing his eyes solemnly as he did so. ‘The denizens of Amandia call this language the Old Tongue, for lack of a better name, and it is only practised by magicians and those who wish to cultivate its power, but you have kept this language alive and in everyday use. You should be applauded, for your culture excels in preserving its traditions, while other people have perished altogether or given up their old ways many times over. The Old Tongue, as many of you are aware, is a language of great importance. It is the language of our history and of our forefathers and it has been inscribed upon the walls of this temple to preserve the fruits of our knowledge for future generations.’
Then he turned to the Koian god-woman and gave her a smile that looked truly disturbing. It seemed he was making an attempt to be welcoming, but it did not suit him. His teeth seemed sharpened and feral, and his cordial air was rapidly evaporating. ‘It’s not often that I can welcome a god into my temple, so I am very honoured to be in your presence, O Nameless One. You will not be staying long, but I hope my hospitality is befitting of one such as you, who has lived a host of remarkable lives.’
‘How do you know of us?’ It was the Emperor who spoke, and he addressed their mysterious host with suspicion.
‘I know many things,’ the gnarled, old man replied. ‘I have many reliable people under my command, a network of the most trusted and powerful men and women that spans every continent of this world. I have been on this earth for longer than all your natural years combined and, by any measure, I am perhaps the most powerful man in the world. I build empires, then devour them; I raise kings, then destroy them. I control everything of importance that has, and will be—to a point. There is not much upon this world left to interest me, but I must say that such a collection of individuals comes close,’ and he moved his eyes across them all. ‘I doubt that such a feat has been accomplished since the New Ages began. I have been watching and following the progress of each of you for most of your lives. I am Cang, and I am the leader of the Circle of Eyes. Welcome to my humble home.’
Everyone was quiet and Samuel and Eric looked at each other, unsure of their predicament. Nobody seemed willing to break the silence and Cang continued looking at them with his strangely bared teeth, like a cat about to devour a mouse.
‘So what does this have to do with the current state of affairs?’ the Emperor asked, seemingly oblivious to the
tension in the room. ‘Why are we wasting our time here when we could be on our way?’
Cang clasped his hands before him, and he had great, gnarled clumps of hands. He looked like he could tear knots out of tree trunks. ‘This has everything to do with the current state of affairs, especially with your Empress. Patience, Edmond.’ The Emperor however was not worried and did not flinch in the slightest at the sound of his name. ‘I organised for the Empress and her boy to be taken. I even arranged for the Paatin to invade your lands although, admittedly, it would have happened soon enough anyway. I have engineered almost all of the events of all your lives for one ultimate goal. I did all this because I had to, for we have reached a point in time that can no longer be avoided.’
‘What you say is ridiculous,’ the Emperor responded. ‘Such machinations are beyond any one man. How do you expect us to take you seriously?’
It was then that Samuel went to shift his legs and found that he was locked stiff in his seat. The room was so saturated with magic and he had subdued his senses almost to nothing. As such, he had not noticed any Holding spell take effect. They were all stuck fast, until such time as their host decided otherwise. He could not even wriggle his hand into his pocket.
‘Always so self-assured. Then please allow me to illustrate. It was a trivial matter to bring you, in particular, here. You would never have come willingly, being the stubborn goat that you are. So Master Celios, long your faithful friend, planted the notion of an assassination amongst the Order—in the form of a prophecy. This false hope—of a dead emperor and a pliable Empire—started the self-assured fools out to achieve what they otherwise would never have dared. Finally, through luck and perhaps determination, they succeeded and the Emperor was indeed slain. You certainly proved yourself useful, good Sir Ferse, in those days following the assassination. Master Celios strung you along with his advice and his visions and you never seemed to realise that, most of the time, his words veiled mine. From there, I only had to lay some bait to bring you to my door. Stealing away the heir of the Empire was a simple matter. I had the feeling you would come running after him—and I was right.’
She Who Has No Name (The Legacy Trilogy) Page 31