The First Stone

by Mark Anthony

  You must take them, the dervish had said, giving the scrolls to Farr. All my life I have searched for them. I have sacrificed everything to seek them out: my home, my people, my blood.

  The scrolls had been filled with writing Farr could not understand. What are they?

  They are a story, the dervish said. The story of the birthing of all the worlds. Those that are, and those that are not.

  All night Farr huddled in the ruins with the dervish, listening to the old man speak. He told Farr everything that had happened to him in his years as a dervish, everything he had forsaken and everything he had learned. Then, as the horizon turned from gray to white, the old man fell silent; he was dead.

  As the sun rose, Farr took the dervish’s bag of food, his waterskins, and the scrolls, then donned the old man’s black serafi. He set out on foot, in the direction from which the dervish said he had come.

  For three days Farr walked through the desert, beneath the blazing sun, avoiding scorpions, vipers, and sandstorms, until his water was gone. Another day he walked, but still there was no sign of a village. The vultures began to circle again; death drew near. At last Farr fell to his knees, ready to die. Only then he remembered there was one other thing he had taken from the dervish: his knife.

  Farr cut his arm, let his blood spill upon the sand, and called the morndari to him, just as the dervish had described.

  “I didn’t really think they would come,” Farr said, the words quiet. “Even after all that had happened, after all I had seen, I don’t think I truly believed in magic. Only then they did come, just as the old man had said.” His eyes went distant, and he touched his left arm. “At first I was nearly intoxicated, and they drank deeply of my blood, drawing it from me with terrible force. Then fear sharpened my mind, and I commanded the spirits to lead me to water. To my amazement, they did.

  “They carved a line in the sand, and I stumbled along it before the winds could blow it away. It turned out I was very close to a village. It was just on the other side of a ridge. However, if I had kept on in the direction I had been walking, I would have passed it and never known. I managed to stumble into the village, and I fell down next to the oasis and drank as the spirits buzzed away.”

  Vani studied Farr with a look of grudging respect. “Only one in a hundred has any talent for sorcery. And only one in a thousand might call the morndari and command them successfully on the first try. It is fate you came here, for you were born to this. And yet . . .” A knife appeared in her hands.

  “Are you going to kill me?” Farr said. He made no attempt to move away from her.

  The T’gol ran a finger along the edge of the knife. “To be a dervish is anathema. The working of blood sorcery is forbidden by my people.”

  “I am not one of the Mournish.”

  Vani sheathed the knife. Only then did Travis realize he had been holding his breath. He glanced at Grace; her eyes were locked on Farr. Larad watched with cool interest.

  “You are right about one thing,” Farr said, sitting down at the table again. “To be a dervish is to be an outcast. I learned that at the village I first came to. The people came for me, throwing stones at me, driving me from the village. Luckily, I had had time to refill my waterskins, and this time there was a road to follow, leading to a larger city. Once there, I made sure to hide my black serafi and dress in the garb of common folk.”

  “You’re not hiding your robe now,” Travis said.

  “One can only hide what one truly is for so long. I believe you understand that well, Travis Wilder.”

  “So you really are a dervish,” Grace said softly.

  Now the expression on his face became one of wonder. “I didn’t mean for it to happen. At first I thought I was still being a Seeker. And what Seeker wouldn’t want to understand the origin of all the worlds? I began to study the scrolls I had taken from the old dervish, and to research how I might read them. But the course of my studies kept leading me back to ancient Amún. And to sorcery.”

  “Was it only that?” Vani said. “Was it only research, as you say? Or was it not that you enjoyed summoning the spirits and wished to do it again?” Her gaze moved down to his arms.

  Farr pulled down the sleeves of his serafi, but not before they all saw the fine scars that crisscrossed his skin.

  “So have you ever learned what was in the scrolls?” Grace said after a long moment.

  Farr shook his head. “I have learned some of the ancient tongue of Amún, but not enough to translate the scrolls fully. They are written in a peculiar script—used only, I believe, by a secret cabal of sorcerers long ago. It is possible that some among the Mournish might be able to read more of the scrolls than I have, but I wouldn’t exactly expect a friendly reception if I were to go to them.”

  He cast a glance at Vani. The T’gol said nothing.

  “What I have been able to read is intriguing,” Farr went on, and he seemed more like a scholar or researcher now, speaking with growing excitement. “Of course, it’s all heavily coded in metaphor. It reads like a myth—though like all myths, I think there is truth at its heart. The scrolls describe how in the beginning there was nothing. Then the nothing, quite spontaneously, spawned two twins. The twins were opposites in every way: one light and giving, the other dark and consuming. From the moment they were born, the twins were separated and kept apart, and each built many cities beholden to him. However, the scrolls speak of a time when the twins will come together again. When they do, they will war, and all that both of them created will be destroyed. Even the very nothingness that spawned them will be annihilated. All of existence will be like an empty cup, only with no chance of ever being filled again.”

  The story made Travis sick. “It’s just like what you said about the rift, Grace. It’s the end of everything.”

  Larad leaned on his elbows, his fingertips pressed together. “Do the scrolls speak of how the twins might be prevented from warring?”

  “Not in any passages that I have been able to decipher.”

  Travis stood up. He had heard enough. “We can worry about what’s in the scrolls later. Right now we have to find Nim. The sorcerers will be taking her to Morindu, won’t they?” Vani nodded. He turned his gaze on Farr. “And you know the way, don’t you?”

  Farr hesitated. “I believe I do. There has been an increasing number of tremors in Moringarth in recent months. Many ruins, previously buried and lost, have been uncovered. Not long ago, while investigating the rumors of just such a ruin, I came upon a Scirathi. He had crawled out of the deep desert and was nearly dead. I think he was hallucinating and thought I was one of his kind, for he clutched at my robe and babbled that he had seen a spire of black stone jutting up out of the sand. He told me where he had seen it, but before he could tell me more, a band of his ilk attacked, and I was forced to flee.”

  “A black spire,” Vani breathed, her gold eyes gleaming. “Of all the cities of ancient Amún, only Morindu was built of black stone.”

  “That is why I believe what the sorcerer said was true: that after all these eons, Morindu has at last been found.”

  “What happened to this sorcerer?” Larad asked.

  “I can only believe the Scirathi retrieved him, and that they learned what I did from him, and perhaps more.”

  Vani clenched a fist. “You should have slain him.”

  Farr glared at her, and Travis stepped between the two. They didn’t have time for arguments. “You can fight about this later. The Scirathi know where Morindu is, and that means right now they’re taking Nim to it. The storm is over—there’s no more reason to wait here. We have to go.”

  Grace stood beside him. “I’m going with you.”

  He gave her a grateful look. She took his hand and gripped it tightly.

  Vani turned away from Farr, a look of shame on her face. “Travis is right. Nothing matters now save for finding my daughter.”

  “What of the rift?” Master Larad said, rising from his chair. “I journeyed here with
Queen Grace because I wished to speak to you about the weakening of rune magic, Master Wilder. I believe it might be related to the rift, as well as to the Last Rune. If we answer one mystery, we may answer the other as well.”

  Seldom in his life had Travis felt certain about what to do. At that moment, he did. Nim was more important than everything else. Even the world. All the worlds.

  “We can talk about it on the way,” he said.

  27.

  They made ready to leave the village of Hadassa as evening drew near.

  “It’s best if we journey into the desert by night,” Farr said as they let the camels drink their fill from the village’s oasis. “The moon is almost full. We will have more than enough light, and it will be far cooler than traveling by day.”

  The T’gol Avhir crossed lean arms, his bronze eyes on the former Seeker. “The heat is not the only danger in the Morgolthi.”

  “No, but it’s the only danger we can hope to easily avoid,” Farr said. He turned his back on the assassin. “I will be on the south edge of the village. I want to see if I can spot any storms while there is still light. Meet me there when you are ready.” He walked away among the white huts, his dark serafi gusting behind him.

  “Well, it’s nice to see he’s as cuddly as ever,” Travis said.

  Grace followed Farr with her gaze. “He’s only doing his job. He’s promised to take us to Morindu.”

  “And the brooding helps with that how?”

  “I’m going to go get my things,” Grace said, and headed toward one of the huts.

  Travis sighed and turned his attention back to the four camels, amazed at how much the animals could drink. A thought occurred to him. He approached Avhir. Of the three T’gol who had accompanied Grace south, the tall man seemed the most talkative—which wasn’t saying much.

  “We’ve packed water for ourselves,” he said to Avhir, “but where will the camels get water?”

  “Nowhere. I do not imagine the beasts will survive this journey. I can only hope they will bear us close to our destination before they perish.”

  His words shocked Travis. “This isn’t right. We can’t kill them for nothing.”

  “So you believe this journey is for nothing?”

  Travis clenched his jaw. They both knew the answer to that question. “Maybe we could go on foot.”

  Avhir shook his head. “You cannot travel as fast on foot as T’gol, and time is against us. The sorcerers are already on the move.”

  Travis couldn’t disagree. However, he doubted that saving Nim was the assassin’s sole reason for hurrying.

  They want to find Morindu the Dark. They’ve been searching for it for three thousand years. Now it’s been found, and they think I’m going to raise it from the sands that bury it.

  And was he? Travis didn’t know. If that was what it took to save Nim, he would find a way to do it. Otherwise, Morindu the Dark could stay buried for countless eons more for all he cared.

  “Do not pity the beasts, Sai’el Travis.” Avhir stroked the neck of one of the camels as it used its long tongue to draw water into its mouth. “After all, you do not pity the animal whose flesh you eat. Instead, be grateful for their sacrifice and accept it.”

  These words were scant comfort. Travis started to move away, then paused. “So how are we going to get back? If the camels don’t survive, how will we leave Morindu?”

  “You and the dervish are great sorcerers. Once the power of Morindu is at your disposal, there will be little either of you cannot do.”

  Travis stared at him; the assassin’s eyes shone in the gloom.

  “Come,” Avhir said. “The camels are ready. It is time to go.”

  They set out as the enormous Eldhish moon rose above the horizon, flooding the desert with white light so that the dunes seemed made of snow rather than sand. Of the four T’gol, only Vani and Avhir were in view, and even they were difficult to see, skimming over the sand like shadows. Travis could only assume the other two were up ahead, scouting.

  The camels moved at a languid but unceasing pace, keeping to the troughs between the dunes, and the huts of the village quickly vanished from sight. Just as when she rode a horse, Grace looked assured and regal atop her camel, clad in a flowing white serafi, as if she had done this all her life. Even Farr did not seem so at ease as she though he was clearly a practiced rider.

  Travis, in contrast, bounced in the hard, square saddle that perched on the hump of his mount, his black serafi flapping around him. The camel paced with an odd gait that rolled from side to side, and he felt like an egg sitting on a tray balancing on the top of a mountain. In an earthquake. The sand was shockingly far below him, but at least it would provide a soft landing if—or more likely, when—he took a tumble.

  Besides, Travis could take consolation in the fact that he wasn’t having nearly as hard a time as Master Larad. The Runelord’s scarred face was pasty in the moonlight, and evinced a greenish cast.

  “Up and down, back and forth,” he hissed between clenched teeth. “Cannot this wretched beast stop rocking? By Olrig, this is worse than being on the sea. Steady, now. Steady!”

  Travis made a poor attempt to stifle his laughter. He had planned to speak to Larad once they set out; the Runelord had wanted to talk about the rift. However, Travis decided it could wait. Besides, he had other matters on his mind.

  Once the power of Morindu is at your disposal, there will be little either of you cannot do. . . .

  Travis’s laughter died. What had Avhir meant by those words?

  You know what he meant. Morindu was an entire city of sorcerers—the most powerful sorcerers that ever lived. Who knows what knowledge is buried in there, what secrets, what artifacts?

  He found himself gazing to his left. Did Farr know what was buried in Morindu? Is that why he was helping them? Not to get Nim back, or to stop the Scirathi in their quest for power, but rather to claim those secrets, that power, for himself?

  Travis studied the former Seeker, as if the moonlight might reveal secrets that daylight had not. Before they had set out, Farr had cleaned himself up. He had shaved his beard and trimmed his hair, and except for the black serafi he looked like the man Travis remembered: darkly handsome, compelling, but dangerous as well, like the haunted protagonist of a noir film. Then Travis looked past Farr and saw that his was not the only gaze locked on the former Seeker.

  He waited until they began to wind around the base of a curving ridge of sand, then—with far more tugs on the reins than he would have thought necessary—brought his camel close to Grace’s.

  “Can we trust him?” he said in a low voice.

  Grace gave him a startled glance, then her gaze moved ahead, to where Farr rode.

  He seems di ferent, Travis said in his mind. He knew she— and only she— could hear him.

  He is di ferent, Grace’s voice—her presence—spoke in his mind. Sareth said that working blood sorcery changes a man, and that’s why we shouldn’t trust him. But I don’t think we have a choice.

  Travis licked his lips; they already felt dry and cracked. “He fell in love with you, Grace, when he was watching you as a Seeker. Deirdre told me about it.”

  “I know,” Grace said. “At least, I think I did.”

  “And do you love him?”

  She smiled: a sorrowful expression. In Malachor, I would think about him sometimes. I would wonder what I might say if I saw him again, what it might be like if he was near. But I didn’t believe it would ever happen. That made it safe to think about him. Only this feels . . .

  Dangerous, he said in his mind.

  She shook her head. Whatever I feel for him isn’t important. The only thing that’s important is finding Nim. I’m no expert when it comes to feelings, but there’s one thing I am certain of: I love you, Travis, and I love Beltan. And we will find your daughter.

  “Thank you,” he managed to croak.

  “Don’t worry about him, Travis,” Grace said, speaking aloud now. “If Hadrian tries
to do something, she’ll know about it.” She nodded toward a shadow that flitted just behind Farr’s camel.

  Travis sighed. We don’t love each other anymore, Vani and I.

  I know.

  He felt Grace’s reply as much as heard it, and it was enough; she understood. And even though he didn’t love Vani, he knew he could trust her. Vani had spent the last three years doing everything she could to protect Nim. She was not going to stop.

  They rode in silence after that. Travis concentrated on breathing through his nostrils, to preserve the moisture in his breath. And to keep himself from breathing too deeply. He had not forgotten Vani’s warning; the air of the Morgolthi was intoxicating to sorcerers. This place was dangerous because it could make him dangerous.

  The moon soared to its zenith, then began to descend. The dunes rose and fell like ghostly waves, and the rocking of the camel caused Travis to drift into a kind of waking sleep. From time to time he saw a shadow slink down the lee side of one of the dunes, or flit by on the edge of vision, and he knew one of the T’gol was close. They were keeping watch, and if there were any perils in the desert, the assassins skillfully led the party around them.

  Travis jerked in the saddle. They had come to a stop. He looked up and saw the last sliver of the moon just vanishing behind a ridge.

  “We will stop here,” Avhir said.

  They made camp in a hollow beneath the lee side of a dune. Travis clambered down from his camel, limbs stiff and aching. He noticed Grace shivering, fetched a blanket from one of the packs, and wrapped it around her shoulders. The desert night had grown cold, though Travis didn’t really feel it. These days, his blood was always hot.

  Once the sun crested the horizon, the need for blankets evaporated, and in minutes the air began to shimmer with heat. The T’gol erected a simple shelter by tying the blankets to wood staves pounded into the sand. The tent offered a small patch of shade, and as the blankets were woven with desert colors, it offered concealment as well.