Their arrival was heralded by a startling blast of horns, drums and ululations, for Iabi’s triumphal return had been spotted by child-scouts perched upon tall trees. All the villagers, from the babes who still crawled to old men and women leaning on gnarly sticks, had come out to greet their eminent guests, so long and desperately awaited they had grown into deities, whose sight, in the flesh, almost defied belief – a thing evident in their brown faces which, despite the wild joy, couldn’t hide the stupefaction shining in their big, dark eyes. In fact, most of the children were subtly yet visibly backing away as the People of the Blinding Stone approached, while many toddlers cringed behind their parents, uncertain of whether to take part in the cheering or to whimper with fear.
The village itself seemed part of the land it sprawled across, the thatch-roofed huts that stood amongst the sparse vegetation like protrusions of the clay soil they were made of. In their centre, however, the people had laid out – with surprising speed, since the visitors’ journey hadn’t been a very long one – everything needed for a proper feast: an great wooden table made up of smaller ones, with five high-backed chairs facing and surrounded by stools fashioned from stumps, and laden with loaves of bread, heads of cheese, bowls of fruit and vegetables and jugs filled with milk, wine and a hot drink made with honey, cinnamon and clove, whose smell hovered invitingly about. Near the table the villagers had built two great fires, with on them a tall cauldron, steaming and bubbling with some deliciously-smelling stew and three spits with huge slabs of camel, boar and deer meat, their shiny skin blistering and sizzling as they slowly roasted.
And yet, for all the effort that had been put into welcoming the mythic travelers from another world, there was a nervousness in their hosts’ faces and posture which they were unable to disguise; some of them, after the songs and the music died away into an awkward silence, began to cast furtive looks at the sky, as if expecting the Sun to add his own precious light to the festivities; others couldn’t resist glancing at the roasting meat, which, judging by their collective thinness, was not a thing they frequently enjoyed. So, after some brief introductions, Raddia, Wixelor and – after some pressuring – Gallan stayed with the villagers, mostly to accept their cups of wine and entertain the little ones with their outlandish looks and mind-meddling abilities, while Yodren and Yonfi were led by Iabi and an old, bald, wizened man to the hut where the Stone was kept.
Yonfi, thrilled beyond measure but trying hard to appear more composed than the barefoot children that stared at him with blank astonishment, couldn’t wait to work his magic and receive the praise and veneration such a feat deserved, but his brother, as they neared the tiny, unremarkable hut at the far end of the village, was experiencing an inner storm of fascination and dread. For unless they were wrong, – and by now he was convinced they weren’t; just as Wixelor said, all that had happened to them seemed to be part of a carefully studied, exceedingly precise plan – in a few moments he would stand before the Rune of Life, an actual, tangible object which was supposed not only to rule a realm as vast and wondrous as Norien, but to have been the source of all life, containing the essence of a God so powerful, Its will had forged everything out of nothing.
So it was with a sudden sinking of the heart that, upon entering the dim hut, he beheld the fabled Blinding Stone – for as it lay on a bed of straw, it looked no different than the opaque glass spheres that Spirit Servants sometimes used for their invariably worthless predictions. Even Yonfi seemed a little crestfallen, turning around to look at him as if saying, This is it? This will save the world? But when Iabi handed him a piece of black cloth to tie around his eyes (which both he and the old man did next, because if the Stone was restored to its original brilliance it would blind them), Yodren urged himself to be confident, if for no other reason because to show a lack of faith now could worsen Yonfi’s already diminishing spirits and influence the effect of his powers – powers that shouldn’t be toyed with, powers to which he owed his very life. Thus he gave Yonfi an enthusiastic wink and nod, tied the cloth around his head and lowered it over his eyes.
But after a few moments whose sightlessness was made even more unbearable by the deafening din of the blood in his ears, Yodren heard his brother grunt in frustration and then shout, “Nothing! The stupid thing won’t shine! It won’t do a damn thing!”
Warily, the three men raised their headbands, and saw Yonfi pat the Stone, then slap it impatiently, and finally drive his clenched fist against it – none of which had the slightest effect on the whitish sphere. Then Iabi diffidently suggested that it might help if they carried the Stone outside, where it could potentially interact with the hidden sun, something they’d thought of doing before but were unable to because the Stone was too heavy to even pick up. When Yodren passed on this suggestion to his brother, the frown disappeared from his face and once more he smiled superiorly, placing his hands around the Stone and fluttering his fingers, eager to impress them with his prodigious strength. But when he grasped and pulled, expecting the load to be no heavier to him than that of an apple, the Stone didn’t budge, making him fall back hard on the floor of the hut.
Yodren rushed over and kneeled next to the boy, whose face had turned into an unmoving mask of amazement and wrath. “Maybe you’ve strained yourself too hard,” he said, but Yonfi pushed his caressing hand away, stood up and planted his feet before the Stone, breathing heavily through the nose, while his brother looked at his back with alarm, desperate to help but afraid to intervene. His skittish mind tried to recall all the Royen lore he had read during his Divinating days; had there been anything about the hero’s powers waning? Could it be caused by the environment of Erat Rin, by the Rune of Death resisting all efforts to revive its counterpart? But Yonfi had been all-powerful before and during their journey across the sea – he had even defeated the storm! Except if... Except if there were bigger forces in existence than those of Royen the Eternal.
However, when he swiveled his heads towards Yonfi’s roars of effort, he saw to his overjoyment that his brother had managed to lift the Stone and was holding it in his hands, even though he’d been forced to double over, his fingers hanging only an inch or two above the floor. Grunting and panting, Yonfi staggered for a few steps, and then the Stone slipped from his grip, falling down with a loud thud; so impossibly heavy was it, that this tiny drop made a deep hole in the bare mud. Once more Yodren’s impulse was to make sure Yonfi was all right, tell him to pace himself and that he was doing a superb job – he had just lifted the bloody Rune of Life! – but his brother, still mad at the Stone for its unwillingness to obey him, and having rolled it out of the hole, was now kicking it forward like a rag ball, cursing under his breath at the slowness of its progress.
But before long he’d kicked it outside the hut, where, to their surprise, a crowd had formed. Raddia had hurried over first, sensing Yonfi’s sullen mood like an icy draft of air, to be followed by Gallan and Wixelor and at least half the villagers, who, for all their scrawniness, seemed fully ready to forgo an unprecedented feast if it meant being there at the blessed moment when the Blinding Stone would at last illuminate the dreary gloom, and bring back the sun for good. Many were already holding their hands before their faces, taking fearful peeks between their fingers, but their overall anticipation, like a hum that, although silent, still made the air vibrate, was no help whatsoever to Yonfi, who seemed all the more angered by the fact that, no matter how urgently he kicked and rubbed and punched the accursed stone, it failed to give off the tiniest gleam, and, what was worse, was making him look like an incompetent fool in front of all these people.
Finally Raddia was unable to stand still, and tearing off her gloves she went and stood behind Yonfi’s shoulder, whispered something in his ear, and when he responded with a shrug, she squatted near him and touched the Stone with her bare hands.
It all happened so suddenly, it looked as if Raddia had received one of Yonfi’s unnaturally strong blows – for one moment she was kneeling close to him and
the next she was flying backwards before she could so much as scream. Then she landed hard on the ground, and Gallan rushed to help her up, casting murderous glances at Yonfi and mind-muttering terrible oaths that shocked Raddia as to how he’d come to know them.
It wasn’t him, she said, her hands still numb and her heart throbbing. It’s the Stone! Its Substance must be so great it can’t be tampered with any more than – than a mountain’s!
Gallan was still glaring at the boy however, who looked more and more furious, dejected and embarrassed by his so very public failure. Because, feeling neither sunlight nor warmth from anywhere, one by one the villagers had begun to lower their hands and exchange looks of puzzlement and profound disappointment, while others let out quiet sighs or whispered about trifles that had nothing to do with the Stone. And yet, despite the shameful dissipation of his active powers, Yonfi’s heightened senses could pick up every critical muscle twitch, every mouthed word of disapproval and every breath that betrayed a loss of faith in him, and it was as if with each of these letdowns he became the small insignificant child he’d thought belonged in the past, before Royen came along – and then to this feeling of infantile anger and powerlessness was added the mortification of a squirt of urine in his pants, as though his body had already reverted to that age.
And so, dry-eyed and stone-faced, he got to his feet, gave the hateful Stone a last kick and walked quickly away, indifferent to the placating words of Raddia, who did all she could not to run after him; Raddia, whose belief refused to be shaken, and secretly hoped his storming off might bring about a similar disturbance in the weather: a sudden gale or a shower of rain – anything to convince the Dwanars of Royen’s true nature.
But even after Yonfi had disappeared into the village, nothing happened.
The Runes of Norien Page 62