The Crown of Silence

by Storm Constantine

  Valraven sighed deeply. ‘I can’t,’ he said.

  ‘Why? This is me, Val. Remember everything. Remember it now. Forget the anger between us. I’d give you my soul for your help. I beg you. I beg you.’

  ‘I can’t,’ Valraven said again. He was luminous with a strange indigo light. He was inhuman, like a demon.

  Khaster fell to his knees, clasped his hands upon the table, as if in prayer. ‘What can I do? Tell me. I’ll do anything. Forgive me. Help me.’

  ‘Go,’ said Valraven. ‘I cannot help you. I am not the man you knew.’ He spread out his left hand on the table top and raised the knife. ‘This is who I am now.’ He plunged the blade into the back of his hand, skewering it to the wood.

  For a moment, Khaster stared at this sight, then at the dark pulsing countenance of the man before him. He was physically repelled by the black force that emanated from those eyes. He did not know this man. It was not even a man. It was something else.

  Khaster ran from the pavilion. He was like a spirit cut free from reality. He was adrift, helpless, insubstantial. His only thought, born of desperation, was to offer his own life in place of Tayven’s. Somehow, without remembering how, he was in Bayard’s pavilion again, on his knees before the prince. There was activity around him. He could hear Tayven’s guttural moans of agony. He was praying.

  Bayard was a blade of radiant light, the power of the sun. Yet he was serene, controlled. He listened to Khaster’s outpourings in stillness, perhaps fascinated. Then he raised a hand and murmured, ‘Stop.’

  Behind Khaster, there was a thump as the two men who held Tayven dropped him to the floor. A third man stepped away, tidying his clothing. Khaster could hear choking rasping breath, like a death rattle. He raised his head, implored with his eyes, but there was no compassion in Bayard’s face, just a watchful calculating chill.

  ‘I have never seen anything like this,’ Bayard said. ‘It isc strange. I almost do not want this power – to make a man an animal.’ He smiled faintly. ‘Tayven Hirantel, look at this man.’ His cold shining eyes snapped towards his followers. ‘Raise him. Make him look.’

  Khaster could not look away. He was nothing more than a shuddering nerve of pain, and he had no right to be, for he had not suffered like Tayven. He heard Tayven groan as they lifted him.

  ‘Tayven Hirantel, denounce this man,’ Bayard said softly. ‘Cast him from your life, and I will give you leniency. I will send you back to Magrast.’

  Tayven expelled an indistinguishable sound that may have been a word.

  ‘I cannot hear you,’ Bayard said. ‘Speak more clearly. Say, “Khaster Leckery, you are worthless scum. You are nothing. You cease to exist in my sight.”’

  Khaster could not look at Tayven, as haltingly, brokenly the words came out of him with bubbles of blood. Khaster watched the floor where the blood dripped down. Hearing them, these strange confessional words, Khaster felt flooded with an almost beatific relief. What he was hearing was truth, a truth he’d always known in his heart. The experience was religious. The condemnation, wrenched from a scapegoat, was a divine judgement.

  Eventually, there was only silence, but for the heaving breath of the boy.

  Bayard nodded thoughtfully. ‘It is done,’ he said. He stretched his arms languorously, yawned. ‘I am bored of this.’

  Khaster let his shoulders slump. Bayard had what he wanted, perhaps what he’d desired all along; revenge. But it didn’t matter. Khaster’s martyrdom had been restored to him. His life was nothing. He was nothing. For a few scant moments, this revelation was spiritual in its purity and simplicity. He felt release.

  ‘Finish it,’ Bayard said.

  Khaster stared at him, uncomprehending. Then, he heard Tayven cry out. The men had lifted him again, laughing. ‘No,’ Khaster said.

  Bayard raised an eyebrow. ‘So trusting aren’t you?’ he murmured. ‘Will you stay to watch?’

  They didn’t detain him. They let him run, chasing him only with their laughter. Tayven was screaming in a hideous, monotonous way. He would be ripped apart.

  Khaster ran through the night once more. He ran among the dark tents, only barely conscious of the faces that turned to him as he stumbled past. He lurched out towards the battlefield, and someone called his name. Called him back. He did not heed it. He ran among the corpses, not yet hauled away from the ground made muddy by blood. He fell upon half-buried blades, lacerating his hands and knees. He trod upon mutilated, lifeless faces and dismembered limbs. He slipped in the entrails of a horse. And still he ran. Towards the Cossics, towards conclusion. The enemy was his redeemer. In the darkness beyond life, pain would end. As he ran, he stripped off his uniform, unaware of the cold. The Magravandian cloth and leather burned him like gall. It was a symbol of all that had destroyed him.

  For what seemed like many days and nights, Khaster fled from life, out of the valley, down the narrow pass that led to wider vistas and beyond. He could not stop running; a supernatural strength gripped his body. Strange, pulsing symbols appeared before his eyes, oozed past him. He neither ate nor drank nor slept, but still his strength did not diminish. It was almost as if something called to him, drawing him onwards. The otherworld, perhaps. In his flight, a detached part of his mind wondered if he was already dead, and this was the hinterland, which would lead to the extinction of consciousness he craved. But there were no answers, only the drive to keep moving.

  One morning, in the dawn, he found himself lying on his belly upon a rocky platform, looking down on a land exquisite in its beauty. He realised he must have slept at last, falling exhausted in his tracks. Below him, he saw green forests, swelling hills, cascading water. It was a paradise. But he knew he was still alive. He stared at his bloody hands, furious he could not escape the prison of flesh and attain oblivion. Where were the terrorists so eager to take Magravandian lives? Perhaps he should have kept his uniform. He was anonymous now, a naked body. How long would it take to starve to death? He was thirsty, but revelled in the discomfort of it. He would not drink. He would run no more, for there was nowhere to run. He would lie here and wait for death, however long it took. He rolled onto his back and closed his eyes.

  At first, he thought he had imagined the sound. It was faint beneath the murmur of water, the hiss of wind in the leaves. A human sound, weak but full of entreaty. Khaster listened to it for a while, until he came to his senses enough to realise it meant someone nearby was in need of help. He could not ignore it. Stiffly, he rose to his feet and, swaying, looked about him. The sound came from beyond the rock face behind him. There was a narrow path to the left and Khaster followed it, squeezing between the dark stones to emerge into a flat area, where a ring of shivering birches surrounded a pool. Water fell from a rocky lip above and the ground was a soft carpet of short green grass. The scene was idyllic but for one aspect. Half lying in the pool was the body of an old man, and it was from here that the sounds were coming.

  Khaster went over to the pool and knelt down. Even despite his own pain and bitterness, his heart was touched with sympathy. The man’s legs were immersed in the water. His bearded face was ashen with the approach of death, yet still retained the remnants of a handsome countenance. His clothes were not of expensive cloth, but something about him spoke of nobility. He had no weapons, no possessions Khaster could see. Perhaps he had been attacked and robbed, but he did not seem to have any obvious injuries. He might have been lying there for a long time, weakly calling for help. His pale eyes blinked at Khaster, their expression bewildered, as if he dared not believe someone had come to his aid.

  In silence, Khaster took the man’s head in his hands and rested it on his lap. He leaned forward and scooped a palmful of water from the pool, which he dribbled between the cracked lips.

  ‘You have come,’ croaked the man, in a voice that was at once feeble and surprisingly strong. ‘I was afraid you would not. I have waited for you, willed you speed.’

  ‘You do not know me,’ Khaster
said. ‘Where do you live? I can help you home.’

  The man smiled wearily. ‘You have come, as I have prayed for.’ He reached up with long shaking fingers and lightly touched Khaster’s cheek. His hand was hot and dry and slightly rasping like the hide of a snake. ‘Empty of all, you are. My vessel.’ He beckoned with his fingers. ‘Lean close to me. I cannot raise myself and there is little time. I have hung on with all my strength, but I can feel it leaving me. I must give it to you. Come close.’

  Khaster thought the old man had some further nonsense to mutter so leaned down and placed his ear close to the shuddering lips. But then the man grabbed hold of his hair with an unexpectedly strong grip and pulled Khaster’s face towards him. He expelled a gust of foul breath that somehow forced itself into Khaster’s mouth. It was a hot and writhing wind, like a gaseous serpent, that seemed to have a life of its own.

  Khaster was unable to utter a sound. He felt at once paralysed and overwhelmingly nauseous. He had been violated, infected, but why?

  The old man sighed, his narrow chest seeming to cave in before Khaster’s frozen eyes. ‘Take it all,’ he murmured. ‘I am yours, my friend.’

  The air became very still. A birch leaf fell from a branch overhead and landed on the old man’s open left eye. He was dead.

  Khaster sat numb, the corpse resting on his lap. He felt strange stirrings within his body, as immense as the cracking of mountains, as small as the nip of a flea.

  The sun arced across the heavens, seeking repose in the west. Khaster became aware of cold and stiffness. He gently eased the old man’s body from his lap and staggered erect. The light was red around him, full of imminence. I am in Breeland, he thought, a county of Cos. How do I know that?

  Because you are Taropat, murmured a voice in his mind, and he knows all.

  Chapter Nine: The Face in the Mede

  Shan found himself outside the tall narrow house and could not remember how he had got there. The forest, the sward, even the water in the pool, were blue in the twilight before dawn. The air was cold and damp, smelling faintly of wood-smoke, the beginning of autumn. Dew shimmered in the spiders’ webs beneath the eaves of the house, upon each blade of grass. Shan staggered out towards the mill pool. Nausea burned the back of his throat. So many memories had come back, and not just mentally. He could smell hot leather, hear their laughter.

  By the water, he collapsed upon the wet grass and wept, not only for Taropat, but for himself. How small, how fragile a human being was. No matter how powerful you might feel, whether magically or physically, ultimately others, in concert, could always stamp out your life. Shan was consumed by the desire to attack the Magravandian empire, to destroy it. There must be a way. There had to be a vulnerable chink in its armour. And yet, hadn’t Taropat’s story indicated clearly that evil was not peculiar to Magravandians, but to all humans? To rid the world of one empire merely made room for another. Did evil have more provenance in this world than justice? Would it always be that way?

  By the time Shan heard Taropat venture out of the house, the sun was higher and bird-song filled the garden. Taropat’s steps came shushing over the grass, and eventually he stopped, his presence uncomfortably real, looming over Shan, who lay on his stomach beside the pool. ‘The world is not the place we want it to be,’ Taropat said. ‘It never will be.’

  Shan rolled onto his back. ‘Then why bring me here? Why talk of rebellion, of heroes, of victory?’

  Taropat shook his head. ‘I thought I could make a weapon of you. It was not my desire to make you a force for the good particularly, merely a force for effect.’

  ‘But all I’ve learned in the forest is beyond such human concerns. I’ve learned little bits of the knowledge of a magus. Not enough to be powerful, but enough to hook me, hold me, make me hungry.’ Shan sat up. ‘I know now why Thremius rejected me. He disagrees with your plans. He knows what inspires them.’ He shivered and murmured, ‘It’s so clear to me. You wanted to make me Tayven, send me out as an avenger.’

  ‘You will never be Tayven,’ Taropat said shortly, which made Shan flush.

  ‘I meantc you know what I meant.’

  ‘Perhaps you are right,’ Taropat said. ‘Now you know the truth.’ He sighed. ‘I have deluded myself. You should return to your people.’ Without further words, he went back into his house and closed the door.

  Shan sat on the grass, shivering. It would take some time for the sun to warm the air. Autumn was coming with its invitation to winter. Did he want to go home? He stared into the gloom of the forest, perceiving the subtle moves of animals and even the unseen flicker of less material creatures. He had changed. He was not the person he’d been. How could he go back now, with only half an education of this new unknown world? He would tell Taropat this. The man must accept some responsibility. He couldn’t cast Shan off.

  Shan got to his feet. He examined the door to the narrow house for a while, wondering whether he should go inside. Because of what he knew about Khaster, he was afraid Taropat might damage himself in some way. Taropat had been right: the story had changed Shan’s attitude towards him. He knew now that he and Taropat were more alike than he’d thought. But in other ways, more distant than he’d ever believed. He didn’t understand how Khaster had become Taropat, because the story had ended before Taropat explained exactly what had happened with the old man in the pool. Listening, Shan had been too sickened to feel curiosity. He’d wanted to shut his ears from the moment Taropat had begun to tell of Tayven’s suffering. He could smell it, taste it. He’d wanted to escape, run into clear air.

  Perhaps Taropat should not be left alone. Perhaps they should talk more. Yet something impelled Shan’s feet towards the forest path that led to Thremius’ tree. Gust was nowhere in sight. It seemed he’d fled the scene of human emotion, perhaps distasteful of it, or afraid.

  Shan found Nip and Mater Thremius outside their dwelling, cooking fish on an open fire. He heard their voices long before he saw them, and stole silently along the path, curious. Between the branches of an elder tree, he saw Nip squatting before her mentor, who was adding fuel to the fire. Nip was chatting away, and occasionally Thremius would answer her, snap out a question. She would respond and he’d nod, smiling to himself. Shan felt excluded from this scene. He and Taropat had never enjoyed such easy friendship. It also surprised him to see how close Nip and Thremius were. He considered turning away, then almost involuntarily fought his way through the branches into the glade. He had to speak to Nip. He did not care what Master Thremius might think.

  Nip looked up, momentarily surprised, and Thremius twisted round to see. His face changed, from animated to expressionless.

  ‘Shan!’ Nip cried. ‘What’s wrong?’

  Shan knew he’d been right not to turn away. It seemed as if a warm wave of affection surged towards him. He went to her, knelt down, embraced her. She curled her arms about him and for some moments, said nothing. Then Shan raised his head. ‘I have spoken to Taropat,’ he said.

  Nip’s brow was furrowed. She shook her head, her mouth pursed.

  ‘He told me his story,’ Shan said.

  Nip stared at him, as if searching for words, but Thremius said gruffly, ‘You’ve come here to unburden yourself of it.’ Then his voice softened. ‘But first you must share our breakfast.’

  Nip nodded. ‘Yes.’ She sniffed, rubbed her nose and began to arrange plates before her. Shan noticed, with interest, that there were three plates. He noticed also that Nip was close to tears and knew in his heart that Thremius had told her he would come, perhaps even some of what Taropat had revealed to him.

  They ate the fish with bread, and drank smoky milk, warmed over the fire. Shan’s heart felt like a bloated weight within his chest. He sensed more unspent tears clogging the clarity of his mind, yet there was comfort in being aware of this. At one time, he wouldn’t have understood these sensations within his body.

  After the meal was consumed, Thremius lit his pipe and Shan knew
it was time to talk. He expelled the story without pausing, and neither of his companions interrupted him. Sometimes, it felt as if he was telling his own story, and he realised that mixed up with the tragedy of Khaster were images and feelings from when the Magravandians had sacked Holme. When he related Tayven’s violation, he spoke in the first person. Yet it was so different.

  At the end of it, he was exhausted and drained. The only sound in the glade was the popping of the embers in the fire. Then Thremius said sharply, ‘You are forgetting yourself, girl. Do what you must.’

  Nip settled herself opposite Shan and put her hands on his head, her fingers pressing against his temples. He felt her hands grow unnaturally hot and, for several minutes, basked in a lazy, healing energy that flowed into him. When she drew away, his whole body was cold and shivery, although he no longer felt so diminished.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  ‘Pleasure,’ said Nip, and put more milk into the pan on the fire.

  Shan rubbed his face. ‘It’s only half the story,’ he said. ‘What happened to Khaster? How did he become Taropat? I couldn’t ask him. I should have done.’ He paused. ‘Now, I am afraid it is too late.’

  ‘No, no!’ Nip exclaimed.

  Thremius raised a hand to silence her. His teeth clicked against the stem of his pipe. ‘I have known Taropat for a long time,’ he said. ‘If you are afraid this release of pain will induce him to take his own life, have no fear. Khaster’s suffering is not Taropat’s. He can remember it, and even feel it, but not as acutely as you do now.’

  Shan frowned. ‘How is it possible? How could he become someone else?’

  ‘He is not. He is all he ever was, and more. Taropat is a great magus. He has lived through many life-times. He is also a proud creature and feels his knowledge is too valuable to be lost. Unlike me, he has no faith in apprentices, because he feels that once he is dead, they can do whatever they like with the precious skills he has given to them. Therefore, he chose a different way. He finds himself an avatar and teaches them from within.’ Thremius sighed. ‘A tiring path. I, for one, will not be sad to relinquish this barbaric world when the time comes.’