‘Your imagination is fecund,’ he said. ‘Shan is like a son to me. I do not desire him, and never have. He is not Tayven, and I do not delude myself to think that he is. We bicker, as family do. It’s no more than that.’
‘Yes it is. You hurt him. He wants you to acknowledge him, be proud of him, but you just carp and criticise and behave as if you’re always looking for someone better, an apprentice to take his place.’
Taropat opened his mouth to speak, but Varencienne interrupted him before he could utter a word. ‘I know what it is! Everyone you’ve loved has let you down in some way. So you’ve built up this defence and refuse to allow yourself to care about anyone. If you showed your feelings for Shan - it’s irrelevant whether they’re fatherly or otherwise - you’re in danger of being hurt again. That’s it, isn’t it? I dare you to deny it. Taropat is a great magus, isn’t he? Doesn’t he ‘know himself’, as a magus should?’
‘Thank you for the analysis,’ Taropat said coldly. ‘Perhaps you are right, perhaps not, but ultimately it is not your concern, and I’d be grateful if you’d keep out of my private affairs. You think you know me, because you fell in love with a picture once. You don’t know me at all.’
‘I do. I’ve travelled with you for weeks, and in such circumstances, people get to know one another very quickly.’
Taropat slapped a hand against the ground, sending up a spray of black gravel. ‘Is this what we’ve come here for? Do you want to be my conscience? Stop trying to make claims on me.’
‘I can’t stop,’ Varencienne said. ‘Remember what I said about fighting my instincts? Wellc’ She took a deep breath. ‘I still love you.’
There was a silence.
‘I can’t deny it to myself,’ Varencienne said, ‘and whatever you think of it, at least acknowledge I’m brave enough to admit it.’
‘Great Foy,’ Taropat said beneath his breath. ‘You are insane.’
‘No, I’m completely sane. I don’t expect a positive response from you. Far from it. You’re too damaged.’
‘Then why tell me of it? What good can it possibly do you? Where’s your Malagash pride?’
‘At the bottom of that damn lake!’ she cried and got to her feet. ‘I have shed my pride, along with many other things during the course of this journey. I’m awake, alive, full of feelings and thoughts. They are mine. I am not ashamed of them. I want to be. I want to be part of this world, not a spectator. I want to be real.’ Her mind was whirling. What had possessed her to speak this way? She wanted to cry, but fought the tears. This was hideous, the worst of bad ideas.
Taropat did not speak, and for some minutes, Varencienne stood rigid beside him, but eventually could not resist looking down at him. He held his head in his hands. Utter wretchedness poured out of him like a noxious steam. Varencienne’s first instinct was to apologise, but why should she apologise for honesty? ‘Just know,’ she said, ‘that I love you. I will always love you. It’s unconditional. There’s no cost attached. I expect nothing from you, but I hope you can glean a small comfort from it, knowing that at least someone in the world really cares.’
Taropat did not move.
‘Perhaps we should go now,’ Varencienne said.
Taropat lowered his hands. ‘The blindness,’ he said, gazing at the lake. ‘There is a message here, but I can’t figure it.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘At Pancanara, I refused to surrender the Eye of the Dragon to the lake, and for a while I was physically blinded. I’d been an irritant to everybody during the quest, and Pancanara was the turning point, but I didn’t take the right path. This is a replay of some kind, a second chance, but I don’t know what to do.’
‘I wish I had the answer,’ Varencienne said. ‘More than anything, I wish that.’ She paused. ‘What exactly should you have done at Pancanara?’
‘We had to surrender the three dragon artefacts in order to acquire the fourth. I was caught up in a frenzy of disillusion, anger and a lust for revenge, and wanted the Crown for myself. I also wanted to keep the Eye, unaware that once I surrendered the physical artefact, its power would be mine for eternity. Merlan took it from me and cast it into the lake. He took on my responsibility. Shan carried me into the water, to the city of angels. There, Tayven was given the crown. We were deemed worthy of having it, for all that we’d been through together. We took it to Breeland, to Sinaclara, and that’s where everything fell apart for the last time. I, who’d been the curse of the quest, was then responsible for the final destruction of our company. My rage scattered us. My rage at Valraven for always getting the better of me, for always meaning everything to everyone, for being the light that I could never be. That is the dark root of it. The rage fed on my terror of being a mere shadow to Valraven’s sun. In denying this fear, I am still blind.’ He looked at her in raw appeal. ‘How do I reverse that here and now? It’s impossible.’
Varencienne spoke carefully. ‘Only you can be your liberator. You have come this far.’
Taropat rubbed a hand over his face, shaking his head. ‘I don’t know. All I do know is that no-one, for millennia, had reached Pancanara, but we did it. That meant something. We all had our part, but I wouldn’t play mine. I’m not in control, Taropat isn’t in control, but I know that I, as Khaster, have to take responsibility for everything, and do it now! The sick energy of fear, of all that’s happened to me, has dictated how I behave. It’s like an outside force, determined to ruin anything good.’
Varencienne was silent for a moment, then said, ‘Are we dreaming, Khas?’
‘We’ve been through this,’ he said.
‘No. I meant that, in dreams, anything is possible. In a dream, you could have the Eye of the Dragon in your hand.’
He stared at her for a moment, then got to his feet. He held out a hand, and she took it, felt the warmth of him course up her arm. Without speaking, he led her down to the edge of the water. He gripped her fingers tightly and raised his free arm. ‘I call upon the spirits of the primal waters!’ he cried. ‘I call upon all the gods and goddesses of the world. I call upon the power of the Dragon’s Eye.’
The high cliffs around them rang with the echo of his words. The hair stood up on Varencienne’s neck and arms.
‘I surrender my power,’ Taropat yelled, ‘in the name of Azcaranoth, the Peacock Angel, and in the name of the True King!’
He flung his arm outwards, as if casting something from him, and for a moment, Varencienne swore she could see a spherical object shooting through the air. But there was no splash, no ripple. Only the silence of the peaks around them.
‘Now you can truly see,’ she said.
Chapter Twenty: The Words of Aranepa
Shan was awoken by the sound of a bell. He opened his eyes to find Ellony curled up against him like a little cat. At the doorway to the dormitory stood a robed vana, ringing a hand bell. Around them, people were beginning to stir. The air in the long wooden dormitory was fusty with the smell of humanity, all of whom were bundled side by side like packed fish. Babies began to whine, men to belch and stretch, while the women uncoiled themselves from their sleep tangled hair. These were not well-to-do people, such as those who lodged at inns like ‘Wind, Rain, Wind’. These pilgrims had no money or goods to barter with the vanas, and thereby gain a good seat at the afternoon’s honsha. Shan knew that he and his companions were no better than these people. They had used all but the last of their currency to secure a relatively comfortable room, but it was a waste of funds.
Shan glanced at the pallet beside him and saw that it was empty. Perhaps Taropat had changed his mind about attending the honsha, although that was unlikely. Shan sighed. He’d given up trying to predict Taropat’s movements.
Shaking Ellony to wake her, Shan sat up on the hard bed.
‘Where’s Taro?’ the girl demanded at once.
‘I don’t know,’ Shan replied. ‘I think we should go along with the crowd and find some breakfast.’
‘I thought you’d changed your mind about the honsha,’ Shan said. He shuffled up the bench so there was room for Taropat to sit down. The man looked haggard, his clothes and hair unkempt. There was, however, a certain shine to him. ‘Where have you been?’
Taropat didn’t answer for a moment, as he held out his bowl for porridge, but then he placed it carefully before him, staring at the table.
‘Taropat, what’s the matter?’ Shan said.
Taropat looked up and fixed him with a rather fevered gaze. ‘Have I ever told you I loved you?’ he said.
Drunk or raving? Shan wondered. He shook his head. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘I do love you,’ Taropat said, ‘and I want you to know you are more as a man than I ever could have envisaged when I first found you. I have never had a son of my blood, but you are certainly the son of my heart, even though my vanity urges me to remind you I’m not old enough to be your father. Not physically, in any case.’ He began to eat.
Shan stared at him, wondering if, at last, the final seams of sanity had burst and what was left of Taropat was leaking out completely. ‘What happened?’ he asked dourly. Without question, something had happened.
Taropat wiped his mouth fastidiously. ‘I met Varencienne last night. We were both lured from our respective beds by a strange creature, which to Ren looked like a leopard. I don’t know what I saw. But the creature led us up the holy mountain to the lake at the summit. It was very similar to Pancanara. I replayed my part of the Lakes Quest there, the part I played badly before. Symbolically, I relinquished the Eye of Dragon of my own free will. It wasc cleansing.’
‘Hence the declaration of love?’ Shan queried warily.
Taropat shook his head. ‘No, that is the fruit of a conversation I had with Ren. She thinks I abuse you.’
‘I see.’ Shan glanced down at Ellony who was frowning at her food, as if it was the most absorbing and interesting thing in the world. She had uncanny awareness for someone so young. ‘Where is Ren?’ Shan asked sharply.
‘She has returned to the inn to sleep. She feels she has nothing to gain from attending the honsha.’
‘Are you all right, Taropat?’
He nodded briefly. ‘Yes, completely. There is something else I must say. You are not my apprentice anymore.’
‘What?’
‘There is nothing more I can teach you. Know that I am fully satisfied with your progress and hold you in high regard. If I have ever offended you, I am sorry. I trust we can now be friends, as equals.’
Shan felt as if he’d woken up into a strange, alien reality. This was more absurd than a dream. ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ he said.
‘Yes. I know this sounds abrupt and you probably think I’ve lost my mind, but in fact I feel in full possession of it for the first time in years.’
Over the years, Shan had become inured to Taropat’s strange shifts of mood and eccentric behaviour. Now, there was nothing else to say. He would just have to wait and see whether this apparent change of heart was genuine. A needle of jealousy pricked him that Taropat had apparently spent the night with Varencienne. He realised that part of him did not want Taropat to change, to become whole again, because then he might be more like Varencienne’s fantasy figure of Khaster. A changed Taropat might not be celibate, and in Shan’s eyes, no man alive could resist Varencienne.
After the meal, the pilgrims were herded into a temple courtyard, where a high-ranking vana in ceremonial robes chanted at them. Most of the crowd knew when to mutter responses to the ancient prayers. Shan sat with bowed head. After the space and solitude of the mountain journey, this procedure felt too regulated and perfunctory to be spiritual.
Four hours of this was torture. After only an hour, Shan was ready to fall back to sleep. Taropat’s eyes were closed, as if he travelled some inner continent, while Ellony stared at her fingers, which she moved in curling gestures – obviously absorbed in imaginary play. Whatever mysteries Hanana had to impart, Shan was sure none were to be found here. It was a religious placebo for tourists. Only the fact that he would have to fight his way through a huge seated crowd prevented him from getting up and leaving. He also suspected he might be stopped by the vanas. He had been given a bed for the night and a breakfast meal. Labour was expected from them: he was sure the priests would make sure they got it. Unable to pray or meditate, he spent the remaining time fretting about Varencienne. He was terrified he was about to lose her to his mentor and couldn’t stop himself visualising a series of upsetting scenarios. He imagined finding Taropat and Ren together, her telling him she no longer had feelings for him. But she had never told him she cared for him, in any case. Once they left Hamagara, their relationship would undoubtedly end. She was Valraven Palindrake’s wife and belonged to a different world. Only the magic of this country had brought them together, like shooting stars colliding briefly in the night sky. Shan had enjoyed dalliances with many women during his travels with Taropat, but he’d never experienced an enduring relationship. It was different, terrifying. He hated the power a beloved could have: the power to wound and destroy.
But you have given her this power, he told himself. You allowed yourself to fall in love.
These nagging thoughts, though depressing, effectively passed the time. Shan only realised the torment of the prayers was over when Ellony nudged him in the ribs and hissed, ‘I think we can go.’ He smiled down at her, his heart clenching painfully in his chest. Ellony was like a daughter to him now. He stretched his cramped legs and got to his feet. Ellony took his hand.
‘I wonder what is planned for us next,’ Taropat said with a wry smile.
Shan could not bring himself to return it. Despite Taropat’s earlier unexpected words, Shan could only look upon him now as a rival. Four hours of concentrated fear had done nothing to alleviate the condition.
The high temple was surrounded by courtyards of workshops. In some of them, yarn was dyed and woven into fabric, which would eventually make up the robes of the vanas. In others, corn was milled, while yet more were concerned with the creation of devotional cakes. The temple complex was vast, and it was clear other areas must be devoted to different industries. Shan and his companions were herded, along with many others, to the bakery. Here, in stifling conditions, they stood in a line shaping dough into flat circular cakes. In the late afternoon, a whistle was blown, and several vanas clanged gongs at the threshold of the workshop. The labourers shuffled past a series of stand-pipes, where they were allowed to wash their faces and hands of flour. No one looked smartly dressed and nearly every face registered tiredness. Shan doubted that such a scruffy lack-lustre bunch would be given prominent positions in the presence of Aranepa.
Shan’s suspicions presently proved correct. The honsha took place in a vast hall, where everyone was required to sit upon the floor, which was inlaid with magical symbols. By the time the workers reached it, the hall was already more than half full of the monied individuals who could afford to buy decent positions for themselves and their families. The vanas were attempting to create some kind of spiritual atmosphere. Some blew upon sacred horns around the edge of the room, while others played chimes. In a corner, upon a low dais, a few female vanas chanted in perfect unison. Shan suspected this was as much of a chore for the priesthood, as the earlier te
dious labour had been for him. None of the vanas looked particularly interested in the proceedings. Despite the efforts of the musicians, the hall was dominated by a muted cacophony: children’s babble hushed by parents, low mutterings, coughing and shuffling. The crowd had made the air hot and stuffy: now vanas lit thick, heavy incense, which did not improve conditions.
Shan and the others sat near the door, where at least a fresh breeze made it easier to breathe. After twenty minutes or so, great gongs were sounded, and the crowd more or less fell to silence.
Curtains lifted at the back of the hall to reveal a circular gold dais containing a magnificent carved throne of wood, ivory and precious metals. On this was seated a diminutive veiled figure, presumably the venerable Aranepa. On either side stood tall female vanas, waving immense fans of peacock feathers over their spiritual leader. A severe-faced, older male vana, dressed in dark purple robes that left one shoulder bare, came forward to stand before the crowd. He bowed to them, his long braids nearly touching the floor, and told them that Aranepa would bestow blessings upon them. First, the Revered One would recite a short prayer, which might or might not be followed by prophecies. After that, every person present might come forward to receive the blessing of his touch.
‘That can’t be possible,’ Shan whispered to Taropat, his deliberate ignoring of the man forgotten in a moment of disbelief. ‘It will take forever.’
Taropat shrugged. ‘We have paid for it,’ he murmured back, ‘as has everyone else present. Let’s just wait and see.’
The feet of the boy on the throne did not reach the floor. He was dressed in magnificent tapestried robes of emerald and crimson fabric that engulfed his body. His veil was suspended from an ornate head-dress and his golden slippers were covered in pearls. Only his small brown hands could be seen, resting gently upon the arms of the throne. And now he spoke. Though he was small, his high voice carried far. He recited in a dialect unknown to Shan, and even Ellony beside him looked perplexed. ‘It is the ancient language,’ she said.
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