“I assure you, my lady, I have concealed nothing from you. Birds come to my private estate also and…..”
He stopped, as Shkosta walked round and stood very close behind him.
“No more games, Melim.” It was the first time she had used his given name. “I know about your private messages too. Are you using magic? The penalties are very unpleasant, so is the examination. And there’s no need for all that. I have no intention of making your secret public, once I have it. I can’t, can I? I’ll be an accomplice.”
She could sense his inner turmoil. Some powerful compulsion was still holding him back and she had to break it. He was no magician, that she knew, and she had had him under increasingly close observation for weeks now with no obvious result. She had a suspicion of where he was getting his information, but how was the impossible being achieved?
She touched him precisely on the back of the neck. For the colonel it was as if he had been stung by a gigantic wasp. The bitch had stabbed him! He couldn’t breathe, paralysed with pain. Then just as suddenly it was gone and he slumped sweating in his chair.
“I have no wish for this,” the Princess said softly in his ear, her voice husky and extraordinarily seductive. “I can think of much pleasanter things we could be doing together.”
Another shattering bolt of pain, longer this time. It vanished, but the colonel still couldn’t move or breathe. In panic he realised his lungs were simply refusing to work, he was suffocating. Shkosta paced slowly round to face him and watched casually as he began to die.
“You would tell me now to save your life, Melim. But you have left it too late. You can’t speak.”
She shook her head in mock sorrow at his mounting fear and agony. Spasms shook his rigid body and his eyes were bulging wildly. She patted him gently on the head and leaned down to speak into his ear, making sure he could still hear her.
“I would rather be your friend, Melim. It’s so simple, just tell me.”
With that she released him with a touch. The colonel fell limply to the floor, gasping for air, his limbs moving slowly like an injured insect. When he quieted, she helped him gently back into his chair and resumed her own seat opposite. The silence grew and lengthened. The colonel’s eyes were closed, but she could sense his activity. He was thinking hard and after what had just happened, that made him a dangerous man. Good, she liked dangerous men.
After several minutes she was about to speak, when the colonel’s eyes opened and looked straight at her with. . .fear? No, more like respect. Something new, she realised: until now the arrogant bastard hadn’t seen her as an equal. ‘Ah, men!’ she thought, amused, and yet reassured by their predictability.
“It’s the Stone of Ajeddak,” Colonel Theyn announced boldly.
“What, sacrilege as well as magic?” Her tone was light to cover her amazement. Shkosta had never taken much interest in the Ajeddak religion. Comparing it to the extraordinary age-old knowledge which had been revealed to her, she could only view it as another passing cult. And politically, like her grandfather, she considered it just a tool to serve the throne, so if the priests had some old relic which scared everyone witless, so much the better. The Ajeddak priests had spent centuries eradicating every kind of magic from the Empire with the obvious purpose of leaving themselves in control of the only source of paranormal power, their stone which she had viewed as no different from the shamanistic relics it had replaced. That the Black Stone could be used as anything other than an instrument of terror came as a surprise.
“I have the cooperation of the priesthood, my lady. In fact I am unable to communicate with the Stone directly, I have to use the Prentex, the Translator.”
Theyn paused again, then plunged ahead and told her all of it. Translators were specially chosen priests, only one at any time, who had the dubious honour of tending the Stone. The selection process was apparently brief and lethal: only the successful candidate survived. The Stone was known to have a certain malign power, which tampered with men’s minds and could at times prove fatal. So the Prentex’s role was to interpret its ‘moods’ to which he alone was immune, to deal with any unfortunates ‘sent to the Stone’ for punishment, and to see to its display at public festivals. That much Shkosta knew. What followed was a revelation.
When Theyn had taken over the Special Forces, he had been approached privately by the Prentex who had asked if he wished to continue using the priest’s services in the same way as his predecessor Semikarek. In view of the fact that Semikarek’s head was still rotting on the Enclave wall, the colonel was cautious; he had no idea what the priest was talking about. What emerged was astounding and also irresistible.
It appeared that the Prentex was able to communicate over great distances by drawing on the power of the Stone. A few uniquely suitable people could be linked to the Stone - it touched their minds in some inexplicable way the priest said - and from then on it could convey messages to and from that person anywhere in the Empire. This ability had been revealed to a previous Prentex in a vision during the reign of Azzai the Younger and it had been kept a total secret ever since, even from the throne and the priesthood. Its only use had been purely religious, to help spread the word of Ajeddak throughout the Empire.
Then some twelve years ago a vision of the god Ajeddak himself had appeared to the current Prentex. The god had told his servant of great dangers ahead for the Empire. It was time, he said, to use the gift of transpeech. The priest was to seek out General Semikarek, the commander of the newly-formed Special Forces, and to put his special abilities at the man’s disposal. The power was to be used, but still kept absolutely secret. Betrayal would invoke a terrible vengeance from the god.
“Looks as though Semikarek couldn’t keep his mouth shut,” Shkosta murmured thoughtfully. She didn’t believe the religious stuff, but if this transpeech actually worked, she also wanted the secret kept for reasons of her own. Then another thought struck her. “That’s why you wouldn’t tell me, you’re afraid you’ll go the same way. Oh, Melim, I’m so sorry.” Should she cry? No, that would be too much, he wouldn’t believe it.
Theyn shrugged. “I’m no believer; but even if Ajeddak is really there to hand out punishment, the reason he made transpeech available to us, as I heard it, was to defend the Empire. Semikarek forgot that.”
So, instant contact with Razimir, with For Dendak, with Tarkus, wherever, whenever she wished. The possibilities were endless. Even the Quezma war when she was ready. The barons knew nothing of this. It was all hers to use as she wished. Shkosta had to slow the rapid beating of her heart as the colonel continued to explain how the chosen people touched by the Stone, the ‘conduits’, were controlled.
All his ordinary agents simply reported to their superiors with no inkling that their information reached Theyn within hours. Apart from the conduits only six men in the entire Empire knew of the existence of the Network, as Theyn called it, men bound to him by favour, fear and ambition. Men who knew that the single penalty for a word out of place was death.
The conduits themselves of course represented a major risk, or would have done without the strange influence of the Stone. The Prentex, who apologised that he did not really understand it himself, had assured Theyn that the conduits were under an unbreakable compulsion: they were completely unable to speak about their communications with the Stone, in fact it was as if they had no conscious knowledge of it. And truly, no hint of their activities had ever become public.
Shkosta felt a slight warning chill. This priest was probably spinning a tissue of half-truths and lies to present the picture he wanted. And yet that black monstrosity in the Temple must contain great intrinsic power, far more than the straightforward malignance everyone attributed to it. Either that or the Prentex himself was a sorcerer with unheard-of powers, pretending to use the Stone.
She took a firm grip of her apprehensions. Either way, Stone or sorcerer, they could be used by coercion or by cunning; Armen knows, she was well enough trained in both and this w
as worth the risk. It could bring forward her plans by several years. Even the Dagun would be surprised. The vision of what she could achieve by this miraculous new means returned and set her thoughts racing, while she listened to the colonel’s long and careful explanations.
Chapter 7
And so my brethren, I commend this exercise for finding the centre of one’s being, or ‘touching the ground' as it is often called, to your earnest attention. It is of import to us all, from acolyte to abbot, and the basis for much further study. Many varieties of this practice have been put forward by different teachers, but all hold one thing in common, that successful attainment is the result of long and arduous striving. Be diligent and persevere.
Steps on The Path - Unknown Abbot of the Vimo Church
Esparan, Eastern Mountains
Caldar awoke full of well-being and hungry. An irresistible aroma of cooking filled the tirot and made his stomach growl. He sat up and drew breath sharply as he bent his left leg to get up: his thigh was truly sore and stiff now. The noise brought Patamo from the stove: she peered at him, then made a curious gesture of putting her palms together in front of her face and inclining them towards him. Then she smiled, signed to him to stay where he was, and bustled out. Moments later she returned with Nyokhen, who came across and studied him with a long searching look.
"Do you feel any injury? We have not examined you. It was better for you to sleep."
"My leg's very sore. I think that's all. I feel very well, Nyokhen, very happy. Maybe because I'm lucky to be alive."
"Perhaps that is true. Hreshin, the little girl, is even more lucky. And so is your friend, the herdsman. People around you, Caldar, seem to be very fortunate." It was the first time he had called Caldar by his name. It was like another stage of recognition; now he was not just a guest or a boy, but a person in his own right.
Nyokhen's serious eyes suddenly twinkled with mischief again. "Of course people around you seem to get into a lot of trouble too. I can see that you are a dangerous person to know. And you will soon be in great danger yourself. The four girls who went with you today are already dividing you up between them. I think you will have to leave the camp soon, my young hero, or you will find yourself trapped."
Patamo produced some delicious stew at this moment with freshly baked bread and Caldar fell to ravenously. It was already dark outside and he realised he had slept right through the evening meal.
"How’s the girl? Hreshin?" he asked between mouthfuls.
"She is well. Her sight is still a little blurred, but she is improving every hour. Like you, she is very happy to be alive, and she is talking unceasingly."
"And Rasscu? Has the Tinker come with your son? I'd forgotten all about them."
"No, there is no sign of them yet. We have had people watching for them since midday, but they have reported nothing. They will come."
"Where's Berin?"
"Berin is sitting in the tent of Hreshin's parents, becoming drunk. You are honoured visitors to our camp now. You yourself are not in good condition to be entertained, so your friend has to drink for both of you." He eyed his guest critically. "You are still weak: you must sleep again."
"I’m not arguing," Caldar said as he lay back with a contented sigh.
He began to imagine himself telling Hamdrim all that had happened to them since they left the farmhouse, but the thoughts did not last long. When his friend came in unsteadily an hour later and had considerable difficulties in removing his shoes without falling over, Caldar did not even stir. Berin looked down at him with eyes which did not focus perfectly, feeling unusually affectionate and protective towards his young 'brother'.
"Protecshun. Ha!" he muttered to himself. "Sh'like Dolli, Dollivar shed 'bout Rashcu. Sh'no ushe telling hup…. him take care." He sighed deeply, then collapsed on his bed and was instantly asleep.
Apart from Berin, who was snoring gently next to him, the tirot was deserted when Caldar opened his eyes. His leg was very sore; for the rest, he felt refreshed and full of energy. He got up quickly and went outside. The sky was clear. It was early and cool, the sun still working its way down the mountainside above the camp. Crossing to Tsandro's tirot, he called her name softly from outside. She stepped out immediately and motioned him away from the entrance.
"How is he, Tsandro? Has the Tinker come?"
"Your friend same. Tinker inside here now. Must be alone. Long time perhaps. When finished we tell."
Frustrated he wandered back in hope of breakfast, collecting friendly nods from all the Hamna he passed. Patamo was already at the fire preparing porridge and laughing openly at Berin's groans as he struggled to get dressed. Later she brought the sufferer an evil-smelling concoction in a small cup and stood there until he drank it all, then she waved them outside.
The sun was just reaching the edge of the camp, so they went a little way up the western slope, both for their own reasons moving slowly. From their vantage point they could see the whole encampment including Tsandro's tirot, so they kept a lazy watch while they chatted away the morning.
It was nearly noon when Caldar commented, "I'm more worried about Rasscu now this tinker's arrived than I was before. This is it. He actually gets better now or…… ." He didn’t finish.
"Tsandro was gloomy about his chances last night. She says she's never known anyone stay in this state so long."
"He's not going to die,” Caldar said stubbornly. “After all he's......."
"Look," Berin interrupted pointing. "They're going over to Nyokhen's tirot. Come on, there's news."
A few minutes later the boys entered the tirot to find a brisk four-way conference taking place in Hamna, of which they understood absolutely nothing. They sat and waited patiently spending much of the time studying the newcomer.
He seemed much older than any of the others, grey hair and beard framing a seamed and weatherbeaten face. His shoulders slumped, as if in weariness. His voice was slow and quiet. Caldar felt his hopes ebbing. What could this tired old man do to help? After half an hour the talking stopped abruptly and Patamo waved the two youths to join them, seating them either side of her husband.
Nyokhen began, "Let us speak in the Lake tongue now for our guests. I will explain to Patamo later. This," he put his hand on Caldar's shoulder, "is Caldar, the impulsive young man who plays around on glaciers and jumps into the path of avalanches. And this," his other hand went on Berin's shoulder, "is Berin, who I guess has spent much of his life rescuing his friend from the trouble he has got himself into. They have a right to know about Rasscu; they are more responsible than anyone for him being alive until now."
This was addressed to the stranger who sat facing Nyokhen and the boys, his head bowed, almost as if he was falling asleep. There was a long silence. At last Nyokhen started to speak again, "Come, Pithar . . ." The older man raised a hand and Nyokhen stopped.
The tinker raised his head and looked at Caldar. His eyes belied the general impression of advanced age. They were dark, like Hamna eyes; full of energy and brilliant, as if lit from within. That first direct glance caught Caldar with a physical shock, which went on vibrating in him, even when the man turned away towards Nyokhen.
"The boys can come with me. They know this man, which may help. I’m not sure that it’s safe for me to become involved with such desperate characters, particularly when they’re clan. A quiet tinker will be out of place in their blood-curdling adventures, but I'll take the risk."
All this was said in colloquial Esparit with the familiar accent of the Easterleng. The boys immediately felt at ease with a fellow countryman, even if he was joining Nyokhen in making fun of them.
He turned back to face them. Caldar received another shock. There was a tired old man in front of them again, the inner fire completely veiled. He felt the light brush of fear, as this strange man went on, "I need to take your friend a little further down the valley. Nyokhen will arrange for him to be carried down. I would be grateful if you would come and help me, while I do my bes
t to cure him."
It all sounded rather hopeless again; but the tinker really seemed to want their help, so they duly found themselves setting off in mid-afternoon down the steep path into the valley below.
It was slow going. Rasscu was tied firmly onto a stretcher, which was then manhandled as gently as possible by six Hamna. By contrast the two long-haired Hamna cattle, which accompanied them, scrambled down the precipitous trail with ease, despite their bulky loads. They did not go far. A short distance from the camp they turned along a small side trail which led them up through dense forest high along the west flank of the valley. After half a mile they came to an open hollow in the mountainside, where a small, vigorous stream came leaping down from above and paused momentarily in a few broad pools before plunging spectacularly towards the valley floor below.
The load on one of the cattle turned out to be a tirot. The complicated structure was erected at a speed which amazed the boys. It seemed only minutes before the Hamna were walking back with the cattle, leaving the four of them with a tirot, bedding, food and a hastily constructed fireplace.
"Now, my young helpers," the tinker began, nothing old or tired about him now, "we have things to do before nightfall. We need wood for our fire, nice dry dead stuff. And while you're gathering the wood, I’ll find the herbs I need.”
They had no sooner piled up a respectable heap of firewood beside the tent than they were set to starting the fire, fetching water and chopping up the vegetables, while the old man prepared supper. When they had eaten, they sat outside the tirot. The last light was fading from the peaks opposite and shadows were deepening, as the tinker began to talk.
The Tears of Sisme Page 13