In the flowing lava are fragments of solid rock that create a constantly changing pattern of dark, swirling shapes on the lava’s surface. Trak focuses on the patterns and allows them to coalesce into recognizable forms. He sees in the flow the face of the old she-goblin, five sword-wielding goblins, the head of a goblin rising above the floor of the loft, and butterflies trapped in a cage. He understands how these images could arise out of his experiences, but he sees other shapes and wonders if they too have a personal significance.
He sees a charging warhorse, galleys sailing on the ocean, a burning ship, bodies floating on the water and his Dragon Fire sword resting on an altar. Do these unfamiliar scenes represent his future? As he opens up to the visions present in the lava, the power of the Earth enters his body. He looks at his tingling hands and sees a faint blue glow forming at the tips of his fingers. He feels the need to release his spirit. His consciousness departs his body and rises to the top of the cavern. He wills it to soar over the countryside, backtracking along the path he followed last summer until it arrives at the old goblin’s cave in the forest. There it meets a beautiful, young spirit seated at a table. The figure is transparent and radiant, the essence of moon shine, a spirit without substance. She smiles the most loving smile. She speaks in a soft voice, “I see that ye be learning to use your gift.” Then the contact is lost and he is back in the cave staring at the flowing lava. Trak is bewildered, “What has just happened?”
The next day he asks if he could begin training in the secrets of the religion. Alrik replies, “To ask is to have already begun.” During the next week, Trak returns alone to the cliff and listen to the earth’s beckoning voice. To get closer to the flowing lava, he follows a tunnel deeper into the earth. It eventually connects with a dark cavern. The light from his lantern does not reach its roof. He walks to the center of the chamber and is startled to see a giant stone goblin standing on a platform. The naked figure towers over him and in the flickering lamplight appears to slowly turn its head and follow Trak with its gaze as he walks across the cavern. Around the huge statue stand five stones made of red volcanic rock. At the edge of the platform Trak looks into the abyss where lava once flowed, but no longer. The stone is black and the heat gone. Magic has left this place, is Trak’s first thought.
Yet when he stands completely still, he senses the spirits of the dead all around him. Besides the dead, Trak feels another presence, something ill-formed and evil. The presence speaks directly to his mind. “What do you want, little priest?” it asks.
The deep, rasping voice startles Trak. “Who are you?” he stammers.
The answer is a hateful laugh that arises from deep in the earth and gradually intensifies until it fills Trak’s brain like the clanging of an enormous brass bell. “I am your future,” the voice echoes in his head.
Trak yells back, “Show yourself!”
The reply is soft and cunning, “In time, little priest, in time.” Trak feels a wave of panic flood through him and breaks his connection with the unnamed evil.
When Trak discusses his out-of-body contact with the woman on the Isle of Uisgebeatha, Alrik smiles. He knows whose spirit Trak encountered, but all he said is, “The ability to project one’s spirit is indeed a precious gift. As you have guessed, the ability is tied to the flow of magma in the earth. In time you may learn to project even when you are not near a volcano.” The priest sighs and admits reluctantly, “Our powers ebb and flow with the fluxing of the earth. The lava once flowed more intensely than it does today.” Alrik doesn’t reveal that Trak’s gift is rare and considered a power possessed only by those descended from the first Thaumaturgist.
When Trak speaks of the evil presence that taunted him from the depths of the earth, the cleric grows quiet and is reluctant to comment, but Trak senses that the priest has also felt the evil. Alrik names the evil Tironock Kan and says, “It is foretold that one day this evil will emerge from the Underworld and threaten the surface world with annihilation. Tironock Kan will be so powerful that no man or goblin can stand against him. It is our faith that if we devote our lives to the service of Shenal Ken, the Earth Spirit, she will deliver us from the coming evil. We live our day-to-day lives squabbling with each other and trying to hold at bay the men in the south, but the real enemy is Tironock. When the evil presence emerges from the Underworld, I believe he will consume us like an unquenchable fire.”
Trak asks if the Thaumaturgist has the power to stop the scourge that is coming. Alrik explains that each Thaumaturgist is different and not necessarily the temple’s most powerful wielder of magic. The Thaumaturgist is special because he is the Spirit’s chosen voice. When the Spirit wishes to communicate with the faithful, he speaks through the Thaumaturgist.
“When was the last time the Spirit spoke?” Trak inquires.
“The last public utterance of the Spirit was recorded three hundred years ago.”
“The Spirit is not very talkative,” quips Trak.
“It seems like a long time to mortals who barely live three-score years,” says Alrik with an apologetic smile on his bone-white face. “It is not clear what role the Thaumaturgist will play in the fight against the evil that is coming.”
“What is the next step in my training?” inquires Trak. He craves to explore every facet of the power that comes from the flowing lava.
“It is different for everyone. You must find your own path; but I caution you, paths to knowledge are most dangerous.” Trak assumes that Alrik is speaking allegorically when he refers to danger, a mistake he will later discover.
Trak wishes he could find Myrel. She has lived in the temple her entire life. She could help him understand the mysteries of the ancient religion. He looks for her in the gardens in the volcano’s ancient crater. He finds the butterfly zoo. The plants are there, but the butterflies have all lived out their brief lives and died. Girls are playing near the cage. He asks where he could find Myrel. “She is undergoing testing,” he is informed. “She must pass a test to become an Initiate, those who devote their lives to serving the Spirit. She is in seclusion and can see no one.”
Chapter 10
Neu Ardonbrae, Holy Mountain: The Trial of the Initiates
The day Myrel dreaded arrives suddenly. She is in school listening to her teacher discuss the accomplishments of a long-dead goblin king when she and two other girls are summoned to the school’s administrative center. She is surprised to see the cleric Alrik in the office. He welcomes them and bids them sit.
“Your teachers have informed me that you three are ready to undergo the Trial of the Initiates.” The faces of her two friends show their excitement. Myrel’s face produces a small frown. “Your time as a novice is over. When each of you successfully completes your Initiate’s testing, you will take your vows. The next few months are the most important of your lives. During this time you will be evaluated; based on your performance your instructors will help you select your life’s work.
When her classmates leave, Myrel remains. The cleric’s blood red eyes regard her; he asks if she has something she wishes to discuss. Myrel nervously speaks, “I have no idea what my life’s work will be, but I don’t think it is here in the temple. I was raised in the temple because my mother came here seeking refuge, but I feel that I belong out in the world.”
“My advice to you is to discuss your concerns with your father and mother before you begin your testing. Once testing has begun you will be in seclusion and unable to speak with them. The test will reveal to your instructors if you have the aptitude to be an Initiate, but the results will also help you understand what is best for you. No one is forced to take vows. However, if after passing the test you decline to take vows, you will be asked to leave the temple.”
That evening at dinner, Myrel announces to her parents that she must begin the Trial of the Initiates. “Tomorrow I will go into seclusion and begin testing. When finished, I will either become an Initiate or leave the temple. In either case, I will not be living here any lo
nger.”
“If you leave the temple, where will you go?” asks her mother.
“I have no idea,” Myrel responds, “but I can’t become an Initiate just because I’m afraid to leave.
Krage lightly touches her hand, “Daughter, I regret that I haven’t been here to guide you, but if it is your wish to leave the Septantrak, perhaps I can help you find a place in the world.”
The next morning Myrel departs. Her childhood is over. She gives each parent a long hug and walks away with only the clothes she is wearing. The queen immediately feels her absence; without her daughter to care for, her purpose is over. She can even leave the temple. She is free to go where she likes, or so she imagines.
***
The instructors describe Myrel’s first test as a spiritual journey. She is told to search her heart for what is most important to her. They hand her food and water for ten days and without further explanation lead her to the entrance of the temple’s catacombs. “When you are ready to leave, knock loudly on the door and you will be released.” An instructor offers her parting advice. “In the past, some have not been able to tolerate ten days of isolation and returned early, but most make themselves comfortable and spend the time in meditation. You will find that time loses all meaning in the catacombs and petty concerns vanish. Think of the catacombs as a cocoon from which you will emerge as a new individual, transformed by heightened spiritual awareness.”
“Once each day, a temple worker will enter the catacombs and replenish the lamps that illuminate the central corridor. The worker will not speak to you.”
“This is morbid,” Myrel says to herself as she enters the catacombs. She stands in the crypt surrounded by thousands of sarcophagi; her first reaction is typical. A claustrophobic weight squeezes her chest, even though the corridor is wide and well lit, it is hard to reject the crushing sensation. “I’ve been buried alive,” she says out loud.
Bays have been cut into the walls of the corridor. In each bay stone sarcophagi and mummies wrapped in linen lie on platforms. Lamps sit atop sarcophagi at regular intervals. Myrel is relieved that, although the air is stale, it is not tainted with the pungent, sweet smell of putrefying flesh. Most sarcophagi are unlabeled, the dead now forgotten and unvisited by the living. Myrel walks halfway down the central corridor and passes a dozen branching side passages. These are not lit and look menacing.
“Ten days. These could be the longest ten days of my life. I should have brought a book.” Being surrounded by the dead is unsettling. She sits on an unoccupied platform that is a good distance from any linen bundles and tries to calm her breathing. She thinks I am after all perfectly safe. The instructors are probably watching me at this very moment.
At some point she falls asleep and awakes with a start. How long have I been asleep? Not long, she guesses, but it is most disconcerting not to be able to measure the passage of time. “How can I tell when ten days have passed—when the food is gone? This must be why the instructor described the catacombs as timeless.” She decides to extinguish one of the lamps. If it is relit, she would know that a temple worker has made his daily rounds. “Is there only one door?” she asks herself. Myrel places several small pebbles across the threshold. “If the pebbles are displaced, I will know someone has passed through the door.”
“I can make a clock!” She finds a sharp stone and scratches a line at the level of the meniscus of the lamp’s oil reservoir. She counts four thousand heartbeats and scratches a second line. That is one hour, she estimates. She then makes a series of evenly spaced scratches on the reservoir. With a full reservoir of oil, the lamp will stay lit for about 30 hours. Counting so many heartbeats proves to be remarkably calming. When her clock and her stomach both tell her it is time to eat; she nibbles at her bread supply. Only the noise of her chewing breaks the silence of the tomb.
“Now what?” Myrel proclaims out loud. She is already talking to herself. The quiet is otherwise too unsettling. She is beginning to believe she can hear the blood circulating through her head. She decides to try whistling. She imitates a birdcall until she gets the hang of it. After that, other note patterns come more easily. The notes echo off the vaults where the dead sleep. “I can do it. Won’t Trak be surprised?” She admits, despite misgivings about the boy’s truthfulness, she is drawn to Trak. She imagines herself running off with the cross-breed sorcerer. Her friends would be aghast. The thought of doing such a wicked thing gives her pleasure. Then she remembers that as an Initiate, it probably will not include Trak.
She is feeling restless from having sat so long. It is obvious to her that she can’t sit and meditate for ten days. Besides, she has thought about her uncertain future for her entire life, how could ten more days make any difference? She wonders if exploring the dark corridors of the catacombs would be adventurous. She stands up, brushes the red dust of the catacombs from her robe, picks up her clock-lamp and sets off down the first side corridor. It goes on for a hundred strides. She thinks a lot of workers must have died during the temple’s thousand-year history. If a new generation comes along every twenty years and each generation contributes five hundred temple workers, then there could be as many as twenty-five thousand corpses in the catacombs. At the far end of the corridor, Myrel has the unsettling thought, if her lamp suddenly goes out, she would have to find her way back to the main corridor by groping in the dark over the sarcophagi and linen bundles of the dead. She resolves to carry two lamps the next time she leaves the central corridor. According to her clock, her exploration of the corridor lasted about an hour. Myrel’s interest in numbers and measurements is a decidedly atypical. Most goblins count, but few find an occasion to multiply.
Myrel spends the remainder of the day exploring corridors. They are all about the same—dry tunnels with niches cut into the volcanic rock and platforms on which stone sarcophagi are placed. The only exception is one corridor that ends in a dome-shaped chamber. Four stone goblins carved out of the red volcanic rock hold up the ceiling. In the center of the room is a marble altar, its sides covered in ancient script.
The language on the altar is archaic and many of the words Myrel puzzles over, but it seems to say. “Many arrive, none depart.” A terrible thought flashes through Myrel’s mind. What if after ten days, no one lets me out?
She explores what seems to be the oldest section of the catacombs. The side of one sarcophagus has cracked; Myrel holds her lamp close to the crack and sees fragments of bone and cloth. When her clock-lamp tells her it is late, she returns to the main corridor. The lamp she extinguished earlier in the day has been relit, and the other lamps refilled. A blanket has been placed on a stone platform. Myrel notes the time and transfers oil to her clock-lamp. After eating a little, she rolls up in the blanket and goes to sleep on the stone platform. Sometime later, Myrel awakes, wondering if the temple worker who brought the blanket entered through the same door as she. She walks back to the entrance and sees that the pebbles are still in place. “There must be another door,” she gasps.
***
On the second day, Myrel walks the remaining corridors and scratches a map of the catacombs on the wall. She wonders if the instructors will be upset about the graffiti she is generating, but the rules of the test are clear—there are no rules. The instructors probably think she is spending her time meditating, but again they did not say she had to. Anyway, there is plenty of time for that later. Myrel watches her clock. As the time approaches for the lamps to be refilled, she hides in a dark corridor to observe. She watches an old temple worker arrive at the expected time and fill the lamps. He returns the way he came, down the corridor where the altar stands surrounded by four stone goblins. She attempts to follow his light, but it disappears at the far end of the corridor. Perhaps he has turned into a side passage. A moment later she hears the sound of stone scraping on stone. A door in a side passage, she thinks. She goes quickly to the corridor’s end and looks down the side branches. She does not see the lamp or the attendant.
She spend
s the next day practicing her whistling and exploring the walls at the end of the corridor. She looks in every possible nook and behind every sarcophagus but she can’t find a door. Her plan for the third evening is clear. She will hide behind a sarcophagus at the end of the corridor that holds the marble altar and watch the temple worker enter and exit the catacombs. Solving the mystery of the second door seems a silly preoccupation, but it gives her a challenge to occupy her time.
She selects her hiding place and makes herself comfortable. She eats a little before drifting into a light sleep. At the sound of scraping stone she awakes. A glow appears in the center of the chamber and sends the shadows of the stone goblins dancing across the walls. The temple worker climbs out of the altar. The image of the dead rising from their graves is most unsettling. She waits until the worker is far down the corridor before she leaves her hiding place and in the dim light from the lamps in the main corridor peers into the opened altar. I hope what I find isn’t disgusting, she thinks. The inside of the altar is dimly lit by a light coming from a staircase within. She hides herself again and waits for the attendant to climb into the altar and close the lid. An hour after he departs, Myrel attempts to slide the marble lid open. It wouldn’t budge. Apparently, there is a way to lock the lid from inside.
On the fourth night when the attendant is filling lamps at the other end of the catacombs, Myrel climbs into the altar and descends the stairs. She emerges in a storage room where a lamp sits burning on a table. She feels panic when she hears voices in the next room. From her hiding place behind a stack of barrels, she hears the scraping of stone on stone and the footsteps of the attendant descending the stairs. He collects the lamp on the table and exits the storage room via the door. Myrel moves toward the door and peers into the room beyond. It is filled with tables and stools. On the tables are books, stacks of parchment and inkpots. Myrel recognizes the temple’s scriptorium. The voices come from behind a bookcase. Myrel thinks the voices sounded vaguely familiar. One sounds a lot like Alrik, the High Priest.
Forging the Half-Goblin Sorcerer Page 13