by Adrian Cole
Korbillian looked at the girl, then back to Gronen. ‘If you do not, then I must begin again, as I have done before.’
'Begin what?’ challenged Hengrom.
'Let him speak!’ snapped Brannog before his daughter could say anything more.
'You all live,’ went on Korbillian, ‘in a peaceful world, a world without gods or power. Such things do not exist here; or rather, they did not. Yet I am here, a man from another world, a world that you would find incomprehensible, for in it everyone has a degree of power. I speak, for convenience, of magic. Each man and woman of my world, Ternannoc, has power. Some have a little, some much, and a few have vast power.’ He paused to let them consider this. They did not react openly, but Brannog could feel their minds rejecting the idea. Even in his own mind there was a strong doubt. Sisipher knew Korbillian spoke honestly. He was no madman, not as Quanar Remoon was mad. And they had all seen a demonstration that he possessed power, even if it had been illusion, which he refused to believe.
As though Korbillian had heard Brannog's very thought at that moment, he held up both gloved arms. ‘I possess power, I will not deny it. I see you flinch before it. Part of you believes the truth. You have seen me use it. It is not something I would have chosen to do, because I know what fears it must hold for you. But it was necessary. The wave would have destroyed your village.
'In Ternannoc such forces of nature could be tamed by certain men, but not by all. Most powerful of all the men of my world were the Hierarchs. Individually they were men who wielded power with great skill, and there were women also who possessed such skills.’ He glanced at Sisipher as he said this, and his look was not lost on Brannog. It was as though a clouded part of the big fisherman's mind was slowly clearing. Eorna was there, too, eager to hear this tale, but Brannog had not noticed her. ‘Individually, I repeat, the Hierarchs were very strong. They operated in different parts of our world, working mostly for the benefit of all. Ternannoc was no perfect world, for there was strife, even war in places, but it was a good world.’
'Strange,’ said Yarnol quietly, though everyone heard him, ‘that you have left it.’
Korbillian's face seemed even more anguished, almost as if he had been stabbed. ‘I had no choice,’ he breathed. ‘Ternannoc is dead. The Hierarchs destroyed it.’ It anything convinced the men that he was being honest, it was his face. No man could act out those lines of despair. ‘At a gathering of the Hierarchs, one of them spoke about other worlds that he was certain existed. He did not speak of the stars, though the skies of Ternannoc were no less spangled than the night skies of Omara, bright with worlds impossible to reach across the frozen immensities of space. He spoke of worlds around us, aligned in some way to our own. It would be possible, this Hierarch promised, to open gates to these worlds, and in time he persuaded the gathering that it must be so. I will not try to explain this. It is another truth you must accept.
'In order to open these gates, the Hierarchs were told, it would be necessary for them to combine their power in a working that would release more power than had ever been released before. There was a great deal of argument over that. Yet in the main, the Hierarchs were in favour of this working, for the possibilities were too intriguing to ignore, though some talked of the dangers of releasing such power. Surely, they argued, too little was known of what could happen. For days the debate raged, but the lure of other worlds was great. So, a decision was reached. The working was to be effected.’ Korbillian shook his head despondently. ‘They should have been content. Ternannoc was a fine world, with beauty enough.’
'This working,’ said Brannog, ‘it failed?’
Korbillian shook his head again. ‘It opened the gates to other worlds, but it was like an explosion that throws out gouts of molten fire, volcanic and destructive. Ternannoc died, slowly, like a mortally wounded beast. Such gates as were opened were like wounds in the worlds beyond them, wounds into which poison flowed. Power, but blackened power, like disease. Some worlds perished along with Ternannoc. Others were not harmed. The gates held, some for a long time, but in the end they all closed again, as flesh closes over a wound, so that the paths between the worlds were sealed once more.
'During the time that the gates were opened, some of us managed to flee our world. I cannot say how many of us survived. For many years our scattered people settled on other worlds, adopting them and starting new colonies. It is long in the past, this first migration from Ternannoc. Many generations have passed since it happened. But not all of those who first fled Ternannoc have died. It is a gift of our world that some of us, and I am one, live far longer than normal men. And it seems that the passing through the gates somehow prolongs or alters the power. When I left my world, knowing there was nothing more that could be done to save it, I travelled through several gates. I found worlds where the power of the working was eating into the heart of those worlds, destroying them as surely as a canker destroys its victim. My task was clear. I determined to use my power to try to destroy the power of the Hierarchs’ working. A mad dream, perhaps.’
He paused, and did not seem to be aware that he had an audience. Instead of the faces, he saw before him some ravaged landscape, or some violent destruction. He shook himself wearily. ‘On four worlds I attempted to reverse the effects of the power. Each time I failed. The grip was too strong for me alone. I moved on into another world, and behind me the gate decayed and died. I knew there would be no more gates, no more time.’
'Omara,’ said Sisipher.
'Omara,’ he nodded.
'The evil is here?’ gasped Gronen.
'At first I thought not. I was far to the west of here, and in southern lands I searched. But over the years I have spent in your world, I have felt it. I must find it. It grows stronger, but is not as strong as the power I have tried to overcome before. There is time for me to succeed here. But,’ he went on, ‘I must have help. I must win the belief of the people of Omara. People such as yourselves. I have tried. I thought that in the Chain of Goldenisle, a strong Empire, I would find help, but when I sought to impress its Emperor, I found a man without reason.’
'So Guile has told us,’ said Hengrom.
'Did he tell you also that without his own quick wit, I would be a prisoner of Quanar Remoon yet?’
'If you have power,’ said Yarnol, ‘why did you not use it to win free of him?’
Korbillian smiled, but it seemed to take an effort. The question was predictable, but reasonable. ‘Even without power, I could have killed him. He was like a child. I could have slipped a knife into him, for we were often alone and there were weapons about his palace within reach. But if I had slain him, I would have had to do the same to half of his palace. I had no wish to indulge in such slaughter. It seemed to be exactly the reverse of what I came to Omara to achieve. Also I was sinking into a despairing mood, fearing that it was pointless to attempt my grand dream. It was only when Guile arrived that I decided to steel myself. His tongue proved stronger than a knife.’
Guile bowed, and for him the smile was effortless. ‘And so to sea. By now the Emperor will not even recall us.’
'Our captors listened to what I have told you of Ternannoc,’ Korbillian said to the fishers. ‘I tried to enlist their help, but they held only derision for me. I think they would have killed both of us had they not been a little wary. Some dozen leagues from your shores, they cast us adrift.’
'We should have perished,’ said Guile. ‘Just as the Emperor's ship must have.’
'They drowned?’ said Brannog.
'Perhaps,’ admitted Korbillian, and for a moment there was silence, for the fear of drowning hung over all the fishers.
'But you survived,’ said Brannog. ‘How?’
'By my arts,’ said Korbillian, as it describing the simplest of acts. ‘I deflected the storm, though the power behind it was awesome. I have wondered about that. Is your coast familiar with such blasts?’
Brannog scanned the faces of his people. None of them would have denied th
at the storm had been out of proportion to the worst of that winter's excesses.
'And the wave,’ said Korbillian, ‘the wave that came not from the east as the storm did, but from the sea. What of that?’
'There has never been such a wave before,’ said a youth who had pushed himself to the fore of the watchers. His eyes were alive with excitement. The men would have cuffed him for daring to speak out of turn, but his words were perfectly accurate. No one denied them. The wave had been beyond anything seen before.
'I thought not,’ said Korbillian. ‘It required much power to divert.’ He considered this in silence.
'This evil of which you speak,’ said Gronen. ‘I have been alive more years than most of Sundhaven's children, but have heard almost nothing of the inner lands. No word has ever reached us here of an evil beyond the mountains. What is the nature of this evil?’
'Just as a disease runs in the blood of a man, just as a poison courses his veins, so does this black power run beneath the earth. Omara is like a man with an evil growth in him. It is mindless power, with no purpose, but it spreads. Only when it has consumed Omara will it cease, for it, too, will perish with its host.’
'How are you to destroy it?’
'I must find as many people as I can who have either power, or remnants of power, or who will lend me the strength of their arm or heart. Power comes from the earth. There must be power in Omara.’
Brannog again felt himself going cold. ‘You say there are people with power? Who are they? Men of Omara?’
'There must have been many people of my world who fled its destruction and came here before the gate closed. I suspect that their descendants now abjure power and will have nothing more to do with it, word of its potential having been passed down through time. Now they would welcome the Omaran belief that there is no power.’
Yes, thought Brannog, now I see the picture clearly. He speaks of people like the reclusive villagers of Frostwalk, descendants of these runaways. Like my own wife, and our child, Sisipher. Is it from this that I have sheltered her? Is this to be her destiny?
'So long ago,’ said Korbillian. ‘The legends of these people will be faint. They may not even be aware of the power within them. Even so, I have to search for them, to persuade them.’
'How will you know them?’ said Gronen.
Korbillian looked impassively at the elder. ‘I will know them,’ he said, and to Brannog it was as if he had already pointed a finger directly at his daughter.
4
THE GIFT
They had listened patiently to Korbillian for an hour before he concluded his story. He seemed tired, as if talking had taxed him even more than his actions in the harbour. When he fell silent, no one seemed sure what to say, or how to react.
'I think,’ said Brannog, ‘Korbillian and Guile should retire for a while. I have a room I am willing to let them use. Gronen? Hengrom? Yarnol? What do you say?’
There was no disagreement. ‘We must discuss these matters,’ the elder told Korbillian. ‘Though it will not be for long,’ he added pointedly.
'Come with me,’ Brannog told his guests and they followed him to the stairs. Their host took them up to an unused bedroom. There were pelts and blankets on the wooden bed. Brannog held his lamp high as they entered, for the late afternoon was already darkening the sky.
'They believe very little,’ said Korbillian.
Brannog knew that he was expected to reply. ‘I think none of them will help you. How could they?’
'Tomorrow I must begin the ascent of the mountains. Will none come with me? You, Brannog?’
'To what end? I have never been there, and would lose us. There is that young puppy, Wolgren. Little more than a boy, but he boasts to have scaled some of the heights. You understand how young men must parade their prowess. How far his boasts are true is arguable.’
'Would he come?’
'I will not speak for him. But the others, well, they are men of the sea, as you said. Our lives are simple enough, though hard. But we struggle this winter to live. Our existence here is threatened by the cold, and by starvation. That is what we fight. We have little time for your unseen evil. You must understand that.’ Brannog spoke calmly and reasonably.
Korbillian nodded tiredly. He had heard such words before, many times. ‘Yes, of course. But you can help.’
'I?’
'Your daughter.’
Brannog felt again the cold clutch of his fears. He had known this would come, but it still felt like the turn of the knife. ‘How can she help?’
'Surely you must know.’
Brannog considered denial, but only for a moment. He nodded.
'She has power,’ Korbillian went on. ‘Have you masked your knowledge from her as well as from others?’
'It is true,’ Brannog sighed, knowing that he had to relieve himself of the burden of hiding it.
'Does the girl realise?’
Brannog shook his head. ‘No. No one is aware of it. Bad dreams, they know that much, no more.’
'She has the gift of telling.’
Brannog was not shocked by Korbillian's simple statement. He had known that the stranger had seen it as soon as he met the girl, but still it frightened him. He could feel his grip on his daughter slipping. ‘She has. But she has never used it.’
'Will you allow her to try?’
Brannog flinched under Korbillian's gaze. It had become desperate. ‘I will not force her. If she chooses not to—”
'That is good,’ said Korbillian. ‘I would do much harm if I sought to bend the power of others. It must be freely given. Listen, after your people have gone, we must talk. And any others that will stay.’
'Very well.’
'If your daughter consents, will you allow her to open her eyes on tomorrow for me? I do not have her gift.’
Brannog hesitated. He put the lamp down for them. ‘Aye, if she is willing. But no harm must come to her. If it does, power or not, I will seek vengeance.’
'No harm,’ agreed Korbillian.
'No harm,’ echoed Guile from the shadows, but Brannog could not see his face. Brannog left them, and as he returned through clinging darkness to the gathering below, his mind churned. He felt a sharp premonition that he would lose Sisipher, but shrugged it off. As he rejoined his fellows, he saw at once that more than a few of them had already gone. They wanted no more of this stranger and the confusion he had brought. Gronen remained at the forefront of the fishers.
'Well?’ he said clearly, and it was a challenge.
'Why must you look to me?’ Brannog growled at them. ‘I am not your custodian. You are responsible for yourselves! You all heard this man from another world.’
'You believe that?’ said Hengrom, whose face indicated that he, too, believed it. ‘And in power? A world where everyone has that power?’
'What reason can this man have to lie? I told you that all we should ask of him was the truth. I do not consider him to be mad,’ said Brannog. Why am I defending him? He seeks my daughter, and yet I find myself supporting him! If I spoke against him now, the village would throw him out.
'It seems,’ said Gronen, ‘that he asks for things that are not to be found in Sundhaven. Maps. There are none. And no one to speak of the interior. Had he asked for sea passage, perhaps I would have considered helping him. But not now. Who wishes to die in a land that has not been heard of?’
Many voices were in agreement, just as Brannog had guessed.
'Tomorrow,’ he said, ‘they will leave us. This Korbillian has promised me. He is intent upon crossing the mountains and will not be dissuaded. I will give him what provisions I can spare.’
'Let us wish him well,’ said Hengrom. ‘Whatever his cause. He has not harmed us. I, too, will give provisions. But I think the man is foolish to leave Sundhaven, particularly for the mountains. Who could live up there?’
No one was prepared to act as guide. The youth, Wolgren, kept silent, and Brannog tried to read his eyes, but could not. He knew
, though, that he would discreetly ask the boy to remain. ‘And what are we to say to other men we meet, on the seas, or at the spring fairs?’ he asked the fishers. ‘Are we to warn them?’
'Of what?’ grunted Gronen. ‘Men of power? The death of Omara? Who would believe us?’
Brannog sighed. ‘It is a grim task this wanderer has set himself. Omara will laugh at his plea for help.’
'I think we must help him with our silence,’ said Hengrom. ‘We should say nothing. Perhaps we will meet with the spies of Quanar Remoon upon the seas. I've traded with the ships of the Chain. Let us lead them to believe Korbillian has gone to the south. If the Emperor does seek to kill him, well, let him look elsewhere.’
'Well said,’ agreed Brannog. ‘I see no reason to betray him.’
Gronen coughed. ‘Then I will go home. I have no more to add, though I wish the man Korbillian safe crossing.’
Slowly the fishers took their lead from the elder and departed, until only two remained, Wolgren and Hengrom. The latter grinned at Brannog. ‘Had I not a fine wife and two sturdy sons aching for a chance to sail their own craft even though they are yet children, I would think hard on this crossing.’
Brannog was stunned by his friend's confession. ‘You would go with Korbillian?’
Hengrom nodded. ‘I will not sleep easily with so many mysteries brought to our door. It grieves me that I am not to know the answers. I have never been far from the village, not by land. You, though, had your adventures, eh, Brannog? I envied you then. So, my thanks for your hospitality.’ With a last grin, he was gone. In the vacuum he left, Wolgren rose steadily to his feet. He was a tall lad for his age, usually taciturn, but with boundless energy locked within his wiry frame, as Brannog knew well.
'And what will you do, young man?’ said Brannog with a smile. ‘Your father was here. Does he not act for you both?’
Wolgren glanced quickly at Sisipher, who had never been far from her father's back. ‘He does not. I am his son, but my own man.’