The Crown of Silence

by Storm Constantine

  Nip made a sarcastic sound. ‘Yet you’ve held onto this life for considerable time.’

  ‘My tasks are not complete. I own certain responsibilities.’

  Nip glanced at Shan, while cocking her head towards her mentor. ‘He is very old, you know, older than your great grand-father would be if he was still alive.’

  Shan was not surprised by this information, but he had not come here to discuss Master Thremius. ‘Why did Taropat choose Khaster, though?’

  ‘It was not a choice exactly,’ Thremius said. ‘Taropat asked the powers of the universe to send him an avatar and one came. He’d had an inkling of it for some time, as he received an image of the lakes in Recolletine in his scry-mede. He saw Khaster there and knew he would be the one. I remember he was very puzzled about it, and more than a little perturbed. It was not a choice he’d have made himself. By the time Khaster came to him, he was very damaged, as you know. This exasperated Taropat. He’s had to expend a lot of time healing the mind of his avatar. I don’t believe the job’s yet finished.’

  Shan was confused by the image of Taropat and Thremius conversing about the matter, as if Khaster wasn’t there. But of course he had been, on every occasion. Khaster’s own mouth had talked about this ailing, weakened being inside him. It was bizarre.

  ‘But what does Taropat really think about me?’ he asked. ‘It was Khaster who abducted me, Khaster’s desires for revenge that inspired him.’

  ‘Khaster and Taropat are one,’ Thremius said. ‘It is hard to grasp, I know, but there is really no division.’

  ‘You talk as if there is.’

  Thremius shook his head. ‘No. You misunderstand.’

  ‘You don’t approve of what he’s done though, do you? You wouldn’t teach me.’

  Thremius laughed. ‘And what a disappointment that must have been. You’ve learned well enough, boy. All that you should have.’ He got to his feet and picked up his staff, with which he tapped Shan upon the shoulder. ‘But now is the time for you to walk upon the steeper path.’

  ‘You will teach me yourself?’

  ‘You should not believe someone is so much wiser just because they are old,’ Thremius said. ‘Some wisdom can be learned only from the young. I know this, because I do so constantly.’ He tapped Shan again. ‘Get up, boy. Go home.’

  Shan frowned. ‘To Holme?’

  Thremius raised an eyebrow disapprovingly.

  ‘To Taropat,’ Shan said.

  ‘Return here in seven days’ time. Not before.’

  As Shan emerged from the forest into the mill pool glade, he saw that Gust was crouched miserably upon the roof of the house. He called the grim down to him. Gust settled fawningly beside him. He seemed disturbed. For a few moments, Shan’s heart stilled. Had Taropat done something to himself after all? He ran to the house and threw wide the door, expecting to find Taropat dead or drunk. But he was sitting beside the fire, his feet on the fender, reading. He looked up when Shan came in, and Shan could see he was trying to conceal his expression, perhaps smothering embarrassment, concern or urgency. ‘I’ve been to see Master Thremius,’ Shan said.

  Taropat nodded. ‘Have you eaten?’

  ‘Yes.’ Shan sat down on a chair beside the table, resting his chin in his hands. ‘I’m not going back to Holme,’ he said. ‘This is my home now. You’ve made it so.’

  Again, Taropat nodded. ‘I spoke hasty words. I did not think, for one moment, you’d heed them.’

  ‘Master Thremius is pleased with me. He says he’s going to teach me properly.’

  ‘Did he?’

  Shan wrinkled his nose. ‘Well, in a way. He told me to return to him in seven days. What do I do in the meantime?’

  Taropat shrugged. ‘That is up to you.’

  ‘I want to learn, though. I want to start now. Now you have told me your story, I feel there’s a reason behind everything that’s happened to me. I don’t know if I can make a difference to anything, but if people don’t try, nothing will ever change. I’m eager to try. I want knowledge and strength. I want to go from here one day and find the dark heart of Magravandias. I want to crush it.’

  Taropat smiled. ‘I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself.’

  Shan got the impression that Taropat felt he had done whatever part he had to play, and was passing responsibility to Thremius and Shan himself. Shan felt uncomfortable with this distance. ‘I have a different life now,’ he said. ‘It’s bigger than it was. I have you to thank for that.’

  ‘Well, at least I have done some good.’

  Shan sighed. ‘I think you should lay Khaster to rest. He’s far too much of a worrier. He’s determined to see the worst in himself. He’s better off dead.’

  Taropat’s smile widened. ‘Sometimes, Khaster is a habit, that’s all. I can assure you I’m always fully aware of my own bizarre and unique magnificence.’

  ‘I want to learn from you,’ Shan said. ‘You brought me here. You saved me. If you push me away, it’s because of the past, of your own hurt.’

  ‘I’m not pushing you away. I’m trying to read. Stop fretting.’

  There was silence for a while, but Shan could not stand it. He felt full of words. ‘Gust is upset,’ he said. ‘He won’t come in.’

  Taropat glanced at him. ‘Gust will be fine. You should remember he is not human and sometimes our tumultuous emotions are like fire to him.’ He returned to his book. ‘There’s tea in the pot. Help yourself.’

  Shan drummed his fingers on the table. ‘I feel I should be doing something.’

  ‘A good student can apply himself to his studies,’ Taropat said. ‘He should not need wet-nursing all the way.’

  ‘Can I go into your work-room?’

  ‘Of course. You know what not to touch by now.’

  It was the first time Shan had been into the room alone. He took a mug of tea with him and closed the door behind him. The long, low chamber was dark and silent. Unseen presences seemed to cluster in the shadows. I am comfortable in here, Shan told himself sternly, peering nervously into the corners. I belong here. He walked the length of one of the work-tables, his fingers trailing over the array of artefacts and books that lay there. His hand came to rest on a glossy dark object: the scry-mede. It seemed peculiarly significant. Shan put down his mug and picked up the mede with both hands. Taropat had tried to teach him to use it, but on the occasions he had seen cloudy images in the glass, he thought he’d just imagined them, wished them to be there. Today, things were different. He carried the mede into the sparsely-furnished room curtained off to the side, where Taropat conducted his rituals. Perhaps Shan would be able to attend one of those rites now, learn the names of the gods that Taropat appealed to. Two lamps burned dimly on the altar. They were never allowed to die. Shan sat down in the middle of the circle painted on the wooden floor and placed the scry-mede before him. The air smelled exotically of old incense and Shan’s skin prickled, as if emanations from past conjurings still crackled in the folds of the curtains.

  ‘Great powers of the universe,’ he murmured. ‘Let me see. Let me see.’ He was leaning so close to the glass, his breath was clouding it. Yet he knew he should not wipe it with his hands. There was a terrible curiosity inside him. Khaster Leckery had fled the Magravandian camp in Cos, but what had happened afterwards? Shan felt there was more to know, information that Taropat could not bear to contemplate. Tayven had said that should he be killed a great power would be released. Had it? ‘I have to know,’ Shan whispered. ‘Show me.’ He stared without blinking at the mede, until his eyes watered. His head was tight and aching, as if held in a vice. He was concentrating too hard. It wasn’t working.

  Exasperated, Shan flung himself backwards and lay on the floor, arms outflung. I must acquire these skills, he thought. I want that power. He closed his eyes, conscious of a throbbing ache behind them. Perhaps Thremius would give him the knowledge that would unlock the doors in his mind. He could feel the ability ‘to know’,
hovering inside him, yet he couldn’t bring it out. Maybe he was too impatient. Yes, that was it. He sat up again, determined to try once more. For a moment, he saw his own face looking back at him from the polished surface, and then he realised it wasn’t his own face at all. It was the face of a man perhaps in his late twenties, squinting and peering, as if trying to look through a dirty window. He was very handsome, like a royal prince. Bayard? No, he didn’t look at all how Shan imagined Bayard. There was no smirking cruelty to the face. It seemed tired, confused, but not evil. Shan stared at it. Somewhere, was someone seeing him, perhaps in a mirror or a window? ‘Who are you?’ Shan said aloud, unsure whether sound could cross the void that separated them.

  The face did not alter for a few moments and then a strange expression crossed it; incredulity, shock and perhaps fear. Similarly, a shock coursed through Shan. He put the mede down hastily and it skidded across the floor, revealing only a dark surface once more. Shan’s flesh crawled. He felt sick and disorientated, filled with an instinctive horror. He hadn’t seen anything hideous, yet the image had affected him greatly. He knew who it had been as surely as if the man had spoken to him. Tayven Hirantel. A phantom, perhaps hungry and vengeful. Shan stared at the mede for some minutes, hardly daring to move. It was as if some other world might sense him and come pouring through the black glass. The atmosphere in the little room was charged and uncomfortable. He had to get out.

  Shan got to his feet and ran through the curtains, fighting with the heavy fabric. Beyond, the work-room was too dark and watchful, yet he balked at explaining himself should he hurtle out of it into the living area. Taropat would ask him what was wrong. He couldn’t bear to tell him. Shan sat down on a stool and picked up his mug of tea, which he found was cold. His heart was racing. The face in the mede had been Tayven’s, he was sure of it. He knew Tayven was dead, but the more he thought about it, the more convinced he became that the image had been of a living person. He sensed it. But he had no real experience. How could he be sure? He might just be wishing Tayven were alive, because the alternative was more frightening. Shan put down the mug. He was shivering uncontrollably. He was sure he had seen something he hadn’t been meant to see. How could he tell Taropat about this? It would seem like a crass attempt to prove himself, to show off. Taropat would be angry, scornful, perhaps hurt.

  ‘Control yourself,’ Shan said aloud. His hands were clasped tightly before him. He closed his eyes, attempted to regulate his breathing. You must forget this. Do something else. Forget it until you see Nip again.

  After some minutes, he was able to open one of Taropat’s books on herbalism. Nip had said to him that knowledge of the properties of plants was essential for a magus. He had learned a couple of dozen, now he would learn some more. He would draw them, repeat their names and attributes until the darkness in his mind was expelled. With shaking hands, he took his note-book and turned to a clean page. He would ignore the curtains to the ritual room that moved faintly in a breeze he could not feel.

  Some hours later, Taropat opened the door and told Shan that dinner was nearly ready. He sauntered into the room and looked over Shan’s shoulder. ‘Neat work,’ he said. ‘You’re getting better at this.’

  Shan knew his work was precise, as he had applied his whole concentration to it, not because of diligence, but because of fear. He swallowed with difficulty, hoping Taropat wouldn’t sense his unease. The truth was his jaw was rigid with tension, and he was relieved beyond measure to have an excuse to leave the work-room, but Taropat must not become aware of this. Shan made an effort to smile. ‘I enjoy it,’ he said.

  Taropat nodded. ‘Good. Later, I’ll see how much you’ve learned.’

  After dinner, Taropat opened a bottle of wine and tested Shan on his knowledge. A glass or two later, Shan was tempted to confess what had happened in the work-room, but managed to restrain himself. He said nothing until the night before he was due to return to Master Thremius.

  All week, he’d concentrated on the herbs. Their study required no psychic work. He was afraid of opening himself up in that way, sure that some image would come to him that he’d rather not see.

  He and Taropat were sitting in silence after dinner, Taropat by the hearth with his nose in a book as usual, and Shan at the table, writing in his notebook. He felt a strange shiver down his spine and looked up to find that Taropat was staring right at him. ‘What is it?’ Shan asked.

  Taropat pursed his lips. ‘I’m not sure. Perhaps you can tell me.’

  Shan frowned, although his mouth had gone dry. ‘I don’t know.’

  Taropat closed his book slowly and smoothed its leather binding. ‘Well, I have been busy in the garden all week, but today went into the work-room.’

  Shan couldn’t fill the pause. He shrugged.

  ‘The energy in the ritual room is soured and I found the scry-mede in there. Can you explain this?’

  Shan blinked at the page before him. He knew his face and neck were crimson. ‘Oh, I tried to look into it the other day, but nothing happened.’

  ‘Why didn’t you replace it? It was on the floor.’

  Shan shrugged again. ‘I forgot. I’m sorry.’

  There was a silence, then Taropat said, ‘You don’t have to tell me what happened to you, Shan, but you must be careful. If you want to act alone, you must accept responsibility for the consequences, and realise I cannot help you with them. The scry-mede is not a toy. It is a mirror of the universe, but it is also a portal. If you don’t know what you’re doing, you can let something through, even invite it in.’

  Again, a silence. Shan put down his pen, still staring at the page, then said hurriedly, ‘I looked into it, expecting nothing, then I saw a face looking back at me that was not my own. That was all. But there was a feeling that came with it. It was dark. I should have told you, I know, but I thought you’d be angry.’

  Taropat sighed. ‘Did you close down the room psychically after you’d had this experience? Did you seal it?’

  Shan shook his head.

  ‘Then you must go and do it.’

  Shan looked up in alarm. ‘Now? Why? It’s too late, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, probably, but you should still do it. It will be a good lesson.’

  Shan hesitated and then said, ‘Is there something in there? Do you know? Have you sensed it?’

  ‘I sensed a discharge of negative energy. I could have dispelled it myself, but feel you should be responsible for doing this.’ His voice was mild, but Shan could hear the imperative beneath the tone. Taropat got to his feet. ‘Come along, you’ve seen me do it many times when I’ve used the mede in there. You know what to do.’

  Awkwardly, Shan followed Taropat to the ritual room. He had not set foot in the place since the incident with the mede had occurred. The atmosphere had not improved. He could feel something seething in the shadows. Beneath Taropat’s gaze, he performed a minor banishing ritual then drew the sealing symbols in the air. At once, he felt lighter, less threatened. Taropat was right. He should have done this before. Why had he been so afraid? He had knowledge and that gave him power. He knew how to protect himself, yet fear had made him stupid.

  Taropat patted his shoulder. ‘There. Everything is as it should be. Well done.’

  Shan was giddy with relief. ‘It will never happen again, I promise,’ he said.

  Taropat frowned. ‘Nonsense. You have achieved communion with the mede. That is an important step. You must continue, but do things properly from now on.’

  Shan’s shoulders slumped. ‘I didn’t like what I saw. I don’t want to do it again.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Taropat said. ‘There should be no room for fear in your head, boy. If you can’t conquer that, you might as well give up and resign yourself to tending my garden.’ He smiled. ‘Anyway, what was so bad about it? Will you tell me now?’

  Shan looked away. ‘I felt I wasn’t supposed to see it. It was like stumbling across a group of bandits by mista
ke and realising they’d seen me spying on them. I thinkc I think the face was Magravandian.’

  Taropat sucked his upper lip. ‘Hmm, that makes sense. The magi of the emperor are always snooping around. You will have intrigued them, no doubt.’

  Shan laughed shakily. He knew it hadn’t been a Magravandian magus.

  Taropat took Shan’s arm and steered him out of the room. ‘Come along. A flute of good port should restore your spirits. Despite what you might think, and what you assume I think, you have done well.’

  In the warm kitchen, which was lit only by the light of the open stove, Taropat told stories about things he’d seen himself in the scry-mede. Shan drank the fiery port, feeling it numb his body and mind. He laughed and grimaced at the right moments, yet the tales that normally intrigued him barely entered his consciousness. All the time, he was thinking about how he wanted to be honest with Taropat. He sensed the man knew only too well that he was holding something back. Fear of the consequences held his tongue. He told himself he didn’t want to hurt Taropat’s feelings in any way, but another, more honest part of his mind, knew only too well he was afraid of setting events in motion, which could not be contained, which would change everything. If Taropat thought there was a possibility Tayven still lived, he might want to do something about it there and then, and make Shan take part. I want to make a difference, Shan thought, but not yet. I’m not ready.

  He felt as if massing forces pressed against the membrane of reality, and it would take all his strength to keep them from breaking through.

  Chapter Ten: The Rebels of Cos

  Tayven Hirantel had thought at first that the flash he saw through the trees was the shine of sunlight on water. He had been drawn to investigate. But the trees did not grow thinner, and neither did a pool reveal itself. What he found instead was a shard of glass lodged in the trunk of an ancient oak. The damaged bark had grown around it so that the glass had become a living mirror. Was this the object that had called to him secretly for so long? He’d dreamed of it, certainly, and that morning, the air had shimmered before his eyes, filled with a strange immanence. Tayven had been compelled to wander deep into the forest alone. As he’d walked, images of the past had returned to him, images of his childhood, the time of innocence. Normally, he refused to look back in time, because his mind could not go further than what had happened to him in the Magranvandian battle camp. But these memories were bearable. They had made him both melancholy and uplifted. He had no doubt that something was afoot. There was something to learn. And now, perhaps, he had found it. He thought that the shard of glass must have been placed in the tree by a sorcerer long ago, as part of some unfathomable ritual. Few people travelled through these primordial woods and, as far as Tayven could gather, no-one naturally lived there. These were the cloud forests of the far wilderness of Cos, inaccessible and remote. Only rebels haunted the wild terrain, and over the years, they had become used to the rarefied air. Many of them had given birth to mystics.