Echoes of the Great Song (4 page)

“You want big truth?” asked Touchstone. “Avatar anger Great God. He struck you down.”

Talaban shrugged. “I do not believe in gods. Unless I am one, of course,” he added with a smile. “But I was talking of Questor Ro. He is older than I. For three hundred and fifty years he lived among great wonders.
No disease. No death. That is why he cannot let them go. Perhaps it is why none of us can let them go.”

“No death, no life,” said Touchstone. “We need it.” Talaban knew what he meant. Man was part of the seasons, the youth of spring, the strength of summer, the aging wisdom of autumn, and the cold departure of winter. Hearts beating to the rhythm of nature.

“Easy to say when you are mortal,” said Talaban.

“You have blue hair like him, once?” asked Touchstone.

“Yes. It separates us from ordinary mortals.”

“You are not gods,” said Touchstone. “Gods need no golden rods. And why you sire no sons?”

Talaban said nothing. Stepping forward he leaned on the rail. Several more lanterns had been lit on the ice.

“What you do about the nomads?”

“I will talk to them,” said Talaban.

“Pah, talk! Them’s fierce men. They fight. They kill. No time for talk, I think.”

“I will speak in a language they understand.”

Touchstone bared his teeth in a wide grin. Talaban returned to the cabin. Touchstone followed him, pulling closed the door. “I’ll be with you when you talk,” he said. “But now I sleep.”

Alone once more Talaban moved to a long wooden chest by the wall. Inside, wrapped in black velvet, was an ornate weapon, golden in color, and shaped like a hunting bow. Gems of many colors adorned the grip. Talaban hefted the weapon and touched his thumb to a red gem just above the grip. Thin threads of light flickered, forming what appeared to be the strings of a harp. Talaban tuned his mind to the zhi-bow. The weapon was almost empty. No more than one bolt remained. He touched a white gem above the red and the strings of light disappeared. Setting the weapon down he considered the problem. He could take the bow to the
Serpent
’s
chest and recharge it, but there was little power left there, and if he drained it none of them would survive the voyage back to the city. The Avatar
Serpents
were never seaworthy vessels in their own right. Only the power of the chests kept them afloat.

Dismissing the idea, Talaban removed his clothes and moved to the bedroom. Lying on his bed he could see the stars flickering through the curved window.

He had been far to the north-west when the Great Bear’s paw had lashed the ocean, sending a tidal wave three miles high across the continent of the Avatars. But even 2,000 miles away, on the outer edges of the empire, the earthquakes had toppled buildings, and a terrible hurricane had swept across the land, ripping away homes, killing hundreds of thousands.

Many had thought it to be the end of the world. For much of the earth’s population it was exactly that.

The five settlements on the Luan River had escaped with only minor damage, and loss of life that ran into hundreds. Talaban had sailed the
Serpent
across to the west, seeking sign of other colonies. But he found nothing. With the
Serpent
running short of energy he had returned to the twin cities of Pagaru and Egaru.

A mere 500 Avatars had survived the fall of the world—and only this many because the former Questor Anu had brought 200 with him from Parapolis.

Thinking of Anu brought back memories of the Vagar mystic. Talaban drifted to sleep with the ragged man’s words echoing in his mind.

He will devour all the works of Man. Then he will sleep for 10,000 years, and the breath of his sleep will be death
.

Touchstone sat on the floor of his cabin, lifted a small brown pouch from around his neck, and held it cupped in both hands. This was his medicine bag, and contained
great magic. Through the soft hide of the pouch he could feel the curved fang of the first lion he had killed. It was entwined with a lock of Suryet’s dark hair. Beauty and savagery, forever together. There was a tiny sea shell, and a small amount of earth from the belly of the great mountain. The shell allowed him to commune with the spirits of the sea, the earth brought him the scent of home. Lastly there was the feather flight from his first arrow. This reminded him that he was a hunter and a provider for his tribe. All that Touchstone loved was epitomized by the contents of his medicine pouch. His land, and the sea that washed its shore, his woman, his tribe, and his mother, the earth.

Softly he sang the Song of Far-away, knowing the music of his spirit would touch the dirt within his pouch and would thus reach the mountains of his youth. There the trees would pick up the song, and whisper it through their leaves until it reached the tents of his people.

Then Suryet would hear it sighing on the wind. She would look up, her deep, dark eyes scanning the blue, seeking sign of him. And she would know he was alive and that one day he would find her again.

Eyes closed he sang the song with feeling, repeating it twice more, his mind reaching out to Suryet, hoping for a glimpse of her.

Instead he saw a pillar of fire, surging up through snow and ice. Then it was gone. The vision troubled him, for he could not decipher its message. Ice and fire. It meant little to the Anajo tribesman.

Looping his medicine bag over his neck he tucked it into his shirt, and stretched out upon the rug. Touchstone did not like beds. Soft pillows made his neck ache.

He lay upon the floor, arms folded across his chest, and pictured again the wild hills and the hunts, saw
once more the glorious day of his marriage, and recalled with ever-increasing fondness the first night with Suryet.

Two months later the Blue-hairs had landed in the Sacred Cove. Touchstone had been among the war band who fought them. They would have won, but for a black-haired warrior carrying two swords. His speed was terrifying, and he had stood his ground as others fled. As his comrades died around him Touchstone had hurled himself upon the warrior, seeking to bury his axe in the man’s skull. Someone had struck him upon the head, and he awoke to find himself locked in an iron cage deep in the bowels of this ship.

The journey had been long, and Touchstone had been taken to a city of stone where, day after day, Blue-hairs had come to him, struggling to teach him their language. Months had passed. And he had learned. He had learned their language, and much more. He had learned to hate them.

They asked him many questions about his people, and whether gods walked among them. He answered them with lies and half-truths, until the bright day when he had been allowed to walk in the gardens. He had surprised them then, sprinting away and leaping to grab the low branch of a tall tree. Swinging up he had scaled the trunk and leapt the wall. Landing heavily, he twisted his ankle. Yet still he had escaped into the twisting alleyways around the castle.

Weaponless and injured he had sought a path to the sea, intending to steal a boat. He made it to the dock, and stood staring at the ships moored there. There were no small boats, no canoes. His heart sank.

A figure moved out of the shadows and he found himself facing the same warrior who had killed his friends. Touchstone tensed, ready to attack.

“I understand you have learned much,” said the man.

“I make you dead,” said Touchstone.

“Perhaps. But not without a weapon, and certainly not with an injured leg. Sit down on the wharf and I shall heal it for you.”

There was nowhere to run, and with his swollen ankle Touchstone could not have escaped the man. He did as he was bid and sat down. The warrior knelt over him, then took a green crystal from his pouch, holding it to the injured limb. Instantly the pain began to subside. After several minutes the warrior rose. “Try standing on it,” he said. Warily Touchstone did so. All pain had vanished. “Come, let us eat and talk,” said the warrior, turning away from the tribesman and walking towards a dockside inn.

Touchstone had followed him. He still did not know why.

Inside the inn the warrior, Talaban, had ordered a meal of good red meat. Touchstone ate it.

“One day,” said Talaban, “I shall return to the west. If you desire it I shall take you with me.”

“Wife is there,” said Touchstone. “Must return.”

“There is a war coming, and no ships are making that journey now. But when they do you shall travel with them. This I promise.”

“How long?”

“A year. Perhaps two.”

“I steal small boat. Go myself.”

“With good winds it will take you three months.”

“It is so far?” Touchstone was appalled.

“Indeed it is. Added to which the western lands are immense. If a ship took you to the northern coast you could walk south for a year and still not reach your lands. That is if the ice did not kill you. Much of the world is covered by ice now.”

“I think I steal boat,” said Touchstone.

“May the Great God watch over you,” said Talaban. Rising from the table he paid for the meal and walked away.

Touchstone had found a small boat. There was no paddle, but he soon mastered the long oars and began to row himself out to sea. Better to die attempting to reach Suryet than to live as a prisoner of the Blue-hairs.

Eighteen days later, dehydrated and delirious, he had been hauled aboard a black ship. When he awoke the tall warrior was sitting at his bedside.

“A valiant attempt, my friend,” he said. “Now I think you had best accept my offer.”

Touchstone had done so. But it had now been two years since his capture. Two long, lonely years.

“I will come home, Suryet,” he whispered. “Wait for me.”

But as he was falling asleep he saw again the vision of the pillar of fire. Unlike most of his visions this was impossible to read, for surely ice and fire could not exist in the same place. Pushing it from his mind, the tribesman slept.

Questor Ro returned to the
Serpent
just before dawn. He was exhausted, though not entirely discouraged. Six times they had linked to the emanations, only for the power to drift away after a few heartbeats. It was not failure that exasperated him. Rather it was the tantalizing closeness to success. His cabin, as befitted a Questor, was large and fitted with wide windows, and a second door which led to a small, but private roofed deck on the port side of the ship. When the
Serpent
had been fully powered the cabin would have been considered luxurious, with its wide couches, deep chairs and thick carpets. Now, however, the tall windows allowed
heat from the brazier to escape and the cabin was always cold. Questor Ro believed Talaban had this in mind when he had offered him these quarters back in the summer warmth of the port city of Egaru, the second city. Questor Ro would have been infinitely warmer in the smaller cabin, below decks, occupied by his Vagar assistant, Onquer:

Suppressing his irritation he added coal to the brazier. Then he practiced the first of the Six Rituals, seeking to ease away the bone-numbing weariness that exhaustion and intense cold had brought to his system. Sitting cross-legged upon the floor, head bowed, index fingers held to his temples, the little man chanted the Prayer of One. Concentration was difficult, and random thoughts and fears intruded on the prayer. Even so, the ritual brought him inner warmth. This was pleasant, but did nothing to alleviate the weariness. It hung on him with the weight of failure.

How his enemies would love to see him return in shame. Caprishan would, of course, feign sympathy, while hiding his gap-toothed smile behind his fat hand. Niclin would be more openly hostile. He would be the one to point out the incredible waste of resources, highlighting the fact that he had predicted such an outcome, and had only sponsored it because of the once-infallible reputation of Questor Ro. The others would fall in behind them and Ro’s power on the Council would diminish rapidly.

It will not happen, he told himself. I will not allow it. The seeds of doubt sprouted even as he made this promise. He had been right to believe that his newly designed pyramids could link to the Great Line. They had done so. And with ease. But they could not hold to it.

Think, he ordered himself. The line could not be moving. The emanations were radiating from the White Pyramid some sixty miles away, beneath a mountain of
ice. It was a solid object, existing in one place. Therefore the lines of power should be straight and constant, and, once found, form Communion. Yet it was as if the source of power was constantly shifting and moving like a frightened deer.

You are missing something, he told himself.

Questor Ro pushed himself to his feet. From a small casket on his desk he took his crystals of white, blue and green, and a glove of white lace. Lifting the glove to his lips he kissed it, and thus began the second of the Six Rituals. He would rather have saved the energy of the crystals, but weariness was fogging his mind. Slowly he drew on their power, feeling the birth of new strength.

Then, holding the glove to his face he relaxed into a trance, his mind flowing back through the valleys of time. He pictured the park, and the grove of flowering trees by the fountain pond. He saw himself sitting there, Tanya beside him, the children playing nearby. The sun was high and bright, the park bathed in the gentle warmth of early autumn. He always summoned the same image. It occurred to him then that there are times when true beauty whispers past the conscious mind, invisible as a breeze. The day in the park had been pleasant. No more than that. He had smiled as his three children played. He had kissed Tanya’s hand. But his mind had been working on a mathematical problem, and he was anxious to return to his office and continue with it. If only there had been a moment of prescience. If only he could have guessed that for seventy years—lonely, isolated years—he would summon that ancient image like a man bringing forth his greatest treasure.