Realm of Light (19 page)

He lengthened his
stride, refusing to listen. His ears were roaring, and he had to grit his teeth
to hold back a rebuke. It was his fault, not hers, that he had come this far.
He should never have held the sword, should never have admired it, should never
have buckled it to his belt. Pausing in mid-stride, he yanked the scabbard free
and flung it away.

Lea gasped. “You
are stupid! You—”

He turned on her,
rage swelling inside his chest. “I will not become a—”

Pain struck his
chest as though he’d been speared. With a hoarse cry, he doubled over and fell
to his knees. This attack was worse than any of the previous ones. He felt as
though his chest was being pried open. Desperately, he struggled to master the
agony. If he could just
sever
the pain, then he could regain his feet
and get far from here.

But
severance
failed him. He had lost his techniques, his knowledge, in the sea of pain.

He cried out
again, flailing with one powerful arm against an enemy that could not be
touched. This battle raged inside him. Gasping for the breath that did not seem
to come, he slewed around on his knees, falling off balance only to catch
himself with one hand, and looked at the pouch containing his emerald. The
leather was splitting along one seam. Through it he could see the stone
glowing.

Again, his anger
intensified. “Get away from me!” he shouted, fearing the emerald’s mysterious
power. “Get out of me!”

His heart was
bursting. The pain grew worse, until he knew nothing but it. He had been told
in the arena barracks that men did not pass out from pain alone. They might
lose consciousness from loss of blood or shock or fear, but pain went on
relentlessly.

Now, he prayed for
oblivion, for release, but his agony burned ever more fiercely. It was
unendurable, yet he could not escape it. He could not master it, could not
master himself. Worst of all, he could not
sever.
The calm void inside
him had been filled with fire that twisted and tortured him.

He was drowning in
pain, unable to breathe, his lungs jerking convulsively now. In a brief moment
of clarity, he found himself writhing on the snow, its crusty, frozen surface
scratching his cheek until it felt raw. Then another wave of pain, like a tide
of heat, swept over him, driving him back into madness.

Suddenly an
unknown voice spoke to him in words he did not understand. A cool barrier drove
back the heat. He found himself able to breathe again. Shuddering, drenched in
sweat, he lay there with his eyes closed while he dragged in breath after
breath. The pain receded, leaving inexpressible relief. Spent and exhausted, he
felt too weak to even lift his head.

“Arise,” said the
voice of Moah.

Caelan dragged his
forearm across his face and slowly opened his eyes. He found himself lying on
the ground with his fur-lined cloak a thin barrier between his body and the
ice. Gone was the sunshine. Gone were the brightly colored tents. Instead,
everything was gray, windswept, and desolate.

Struggling to his
feet, he frowned at how weak he felt. He could barely stand, and his muscles
felt drained as though he had been in combat for hours.

The only sound
beyond his own labored breathing was the empty whistle of wind over the expanse
of glacier.

Where had everyone
gone? Where was he?

Suddenly alarmed,
Caelan spun around and nearly lost his precarious balance. “Lea?” he said
uncertainly.

He was alone,
whisked by some means to the far end of the glacier and abandoned there. The
wind blowing into his face was frigid and raw. As far as he could see in any
direction, there was nothing but ice. No trees, no rocks, no tents. Just cloud,
mist, and bone-chilling cold.

He shivered,
rubbing his arms beneath his cloak, and drew up his hood. His dagger was gone,
and he could not find a recognizable landmark in any direction.

Fear traveled up
his spine, but he squelched it quickly. His anger was returning. Was this an
exile, a punishment? If so, he did not care. He would rather die out here of
exposure than grovel to anyone.

Absently he rubbed
his chest where the pain had been, and pivoted again. Wind off the glacier
usually blew southward. Grimly, Caelan put his back to the wind, then he set
out with long strides. In moments, his breath was rasping in his throat. The
high altitude began to sap his strength.

No one had ever
tried to cross the entire glacier and lived to tell how large it was. Caelan’s
own knowledge was confined to the southernmost tip of the ice, where it spilled
into the mountain passes. He might have to walk for days, and he did not think
that was possible. Already his toes were numb inside his boots. His cloak did
not seem to break the wind that drilled into his back. He lacked even a
tinderstrike to start a fire, not that there was any wood or peat up here to
fuel it. When darkness fell, he would have no shelter.

But he refused to
fear. It was his own death he faced, on his terms. When the time came, and his
legs could carry him no farther, he would lie on his back for a last glimpse of
the breathtaking aurora before he fell into eternal sleep.

With a start, he
jerked up his head and blinked hard, finding himself kneeling on the ice in a
shivering knot. He realized he must have passed out. Alarmed, he struggled back
to his feet and nearly fell in the process. His feet were entirely numb, and he
couldn’t feel them when he stood. When he touched his face, he couldn’t feel
his own fingers. Lassitude crept over his limbs, and he knew very soon he would
start to feel warm as he froze to death.

Staggering
forward, he stumbled and fell to his knees. The wind howled over him, whipping
his cloak about his shoulders. He tried to get up, but couldn’t. He sank down
onto the hard, frozen surface of the ice. How old it was, as ancient as time.

Caelan’s senses
swirled. He felt dizzy and lost.
Severance
was gone as though he had
never had it. Perhaps this was the ultimate end of reaching into the void.
Perhaps he was already completely
severed
and did not realize it. He
felt as though his own threads of life had been cut. Now he drifted here
between the physical and spirit worlds, part of neither. And he heard the
grumble of the ice below him, heard the ponderous shift and grind of its infinitely
slow progress. More than that, he heard its song—a low keening like the sound
from the rim of a crystal goblet when rubbed.

Sevaisin
pulled him to it. For a moment longer—perhaps the space of a heartbeat—Caelan
resisted. Then with a sigh, he stopped fighting and allowed himself to join
with the ice, to become one with the glacier.

There was a brief
jolt of incredible cold, as though he had been frozen solid in an instant, and
then light flashed through him. It was like physically exploding, except he felt
no pain. And he found himself in a roofless temple, a place of peace and calm
harmony. He stood on a slab of pale marble surrounded by twelve marble columns
reaching high above him. Another row of columns, too many to count, stretched
into the distance without end. There was no sky, no horizon. It was neither day
nor night. Yet he saw everything with complete clarity. The air was the perfect
temperature, neither hot nor cold. He heard the gentle sound of running water
in the distance. It was a soothing noise. Mentally he felt renewed, restored.
His naked body stood strong and whole. For once, perhaps the first time in his
life, he felt centered and complete, as though he had found balance.

The quiet sound of
footsteps made him turn around.

Robed in white and
wearing a soft, brimless cap of silver cloth, Moah approached him with the
peculiar gliding stride of the Choven. Although Caelan could feel no wind here,
Moah’s silk robes billowed around his squat frame in constant motion.

Seeing Moah, some
of Caelan’s peace faded. He sighed, but made no move to evade this meeting.

Moah stopped a
short distance from him and stood regarding him in silence.

Meeting Moah’s
liquid gaze directly, Caelan squared his shoulders and said, “Am I dead?”

Something
unreadable glimmered in Moah’s rough-textured face. “Do you believe you are in
death?”

“Didn’t I freeze
to death on the glacier?”

“Did you?”

Caelan frowned. He
had no patience for such puzzles. “Why else would I be here?”

“Where are you?”

“I don’t know,”
Caelan said, holding onto his temper with difficulty. Already he was finding it
difficult to keep his resolution. “This looks like a temple of some kind. Am I
at the edge of the spirit world?”

“No.”

It was the first
solid answer Moah had given him, but it wasn’t very informative.

Caelan’s frown
deepened. “Then where am I?”

“Where do you
think you are?”

“I don’t know.
I’ve already given you my best guess.”

Moah raised one
long, dark finger. It looked like a twig. “Guess is unnecessary. Think.”

Caelan didn’t
appreciate being treated like a schoolboy. “I’m in no mood for lessons,” he
said sharply. “Why have I been brought here? What do you want from me?”

“I want nothing,”
Moah replied, unruffled. “You are seeking to learn. Will you take learning from
us?”

The fear that
Caelan had known earlier among the tents came back. “No,” he said. “Why should
I?”

“You fear me.”

Caelan’s mouth was
dry, but he answered with the truth. “Yes. I fear you.”

“Why?”

“Because—” Caelan
stopped, his thoughts and emotions a chaotic tangle in his mind.

“Because you were
taught to be afraid?” Moah suggested quietly.

“You are not part
of our world,” Caelan said, defiant and angry. “You have powers from—from the
gods that men may not have. You follow the ancient ways, ways that are
forbidden. How do I know what you will do to me? You can probably turn me into
smoke at will.”

“Not smoke,” Moah
said. “Ice.”

Caelan swallowed
hard and held his tongue. He’d said too much already.

“On the glacier,”
Moah said, “you were dying. Did you feel fear?”

“Some,” Caelan
admitted reluctantly.

“But you accepted
death.”

It seemed to be a
question. Not understanding where the Choven was going, Caelan nodded his head
with impatience.

“Yes.”

“Why did you
accept it?”

Caelan shrugged.
“I had no choice. I had done my best to save myself. But it was inevitable. I
had to accept it.”

“So when no other
choice is possible, you will accept what is before you?”

“Maybe.”

Moah laughed.
“Such stubborn caution.”

“I am not Choven,”
Caelan insisted, goaded by the Choven’s amusement. “I am human, son of Beva
E’non—”

“A man you do not
love, a man you do not respect,” Moah interrupted.

“That’s between me
and him,” Caelan snapped. “No one else. He’s still my father.”

“And you would
defend him?” Moah asked. “How curious. You have resented and criticized him as
long as you can remember, yet—”

“You don’t
understand,” Caelan broke in. “That’s just part of it. If he had only accepted
me
^:
—”

“And who are you,
Caelan E’non?”

Caelan stopped,
feeling confused again.

Moah took a step
closer, his gaze penetrating. “Who are you?”

“But I don’t look
like you!” Caelan burst out, feeling cornered. “My skin, my hair and eyes, my
stature. I’m not Choven. I’m human. Why do you insist otherwise?”

“I have said
nothing,” Moah said in a reasonable voice.

Caelan glared at
him. “Lea told me.”

“Ah, your sister
is light incarnate. She is radiance itself.”

Caelan refused to
be distracted by this compliment. “Yes, but she’s wrong.”

“Is she?”

“Yes!”

Moah turned away
as though he were going to leave, then paused. “I will relate a tale,” he
announced, and began before Caelan could protest. “In the long days you call
summer, a man of Trau climbed the mountains in search of us. We would not be
found, but this man persisted. He wandered the mountains and even ventured onto
the glacier. His will was iron in his body; he would not give up.

“At last, after a
span of many days, the seeker sat on a rock and fasted. Rains fell on him.
Winds blew at him. He fasted, sustained by his limited skills of
severance
and his will.

“We were in the
time of feasting and did not wish death to cast poor omens across our shadows.
We brought the seeker to us and restored his health. He told us he was a
student of healing, but a poor one. He could not master the skills of his
training, and he feared he would fail. With all his heart he wished to bring
succor to the sick and needy.

“The Choven had
pity on this seeker, and the ability to heal was given to him.”

Caelan gasped, his
mind reeling. All this time he’d thought his father had been born with his
gift. The masters at Rieschelhold had all praised Beva’s abilities while he was
in training. Why had they lied?

“The seeker went
down the mountain and treated his gift well,” Moah said. “He used his new
powers only to heal, never forgetting his bargain with us.”

“What bargain?”
Caelan asked.

“That is in the
past—”

“What bargain?”
Caelan insisted, yearning to know. “What promise?”

Moah regarded him
a moment, then answered. “If we would make it possible for him to heal the
sick, then he would live his life as a peaceful man, committed only to the
practice of his arts and training.”

Caelan frowned,
finding it suddenly hard to breathe. Understanding filled him, but it did not
lessen the resentment in his heart.

“Weren’t we worth
his commitment, too?” Caelan asked. “Why did he bother to sire us if he didn’t
want us?”