Cooper, Louise - Time Master 01 - The Initiate

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Throughout history, the twin powers of Light and Darkness have appeared in
many guises. Day and Night, Good and Evil, Order and Chaos -- and, in many of
the ancient religions of our world, personified in the forms, sometimes human,
sometimes beyond humanity, of warring deities -- Osiris and Set, Ahura-Mazda
and Ahriman, Marduk and Tiamat, and many more. Each personification has its
followers, and each personification is unique -- but all draw their true
nature from the same universal source; the eternally conflicting forces of
manifest duality.
The Lords of these twin realms -- whatever the names under which they
are worshipped or reviled -- are masters of the forces of Nature; those powers
that mere humans have called "magic. " Manipulators of Time and Space, their
influence pervades every mortal world, and their eternal battle for supremacy
maintains an uneasy balance in the many dimensions which form the fabric of
our Universe. But there can be times in any one of those dimensions when the
balance tilts too far, and one power triumphs to reign at the expense of the
other. And without its opposite to counter it, neither force can perpetuate;
the relationship is symbiotic, and Order without Chaos, or Chaos without
Order, must finally result in entropy.
Somewhere, far beyond the Earth we know, is a world where the balance
has slipped out of true. The Lords of Order are victorious, and have banished
every manifestation of Chaos from the land... or almost every manifestation.
Perhaps, somewhere, a single spark still remains -- and if it can be found,
and nurtured, then a day must surely come when the Lords of Chaos will return
to challenge their ancient enemy once again...
Prologue
"There is little time left to me to write this account. Even as the ink dries
on my parchment I feel the fate that hangs over us drawing closer, and though
the insights of a Magus are beyond my skills I know I mistake neither its
cause nor its intent. Our time can be reckoned in mere hours; but as senior
historian to the Lords of the Star Peninsula, it is my duty to commit to
posterity all I can of the events that will bring about our final demise. This
duty I will not shirk, if the gods of Chaos can grant me sufficient respite.
"The power of this Castle, so long a focus for the forces that our Magi
have called through the gates of Chaos itself, is rapidly crumbling. Another
Moonrise will see the horde at our portal, baying for their masters' triumph,
and a sure instinct tells me that before the Sun breaks in the East we will
look on the accursed face of Aeoris, and die.
"We have served Chaos truly and loyally for generation upon generation;
now though even those seven great Lords cannot save us, for their sway has
been broken. Through the treachery of those whom we ruled the demon Aeoris and
his six brethren have returned to the world; the eternal enemy, Order, has
challenged Chaos and prevailed. Our gods are retreating and cannot save us. We
have called upon the greatest occult forces known to our race, and cannot aid
them. And though we might destroy one or ten or a hundred mortal armies,
against the full might of Order we are powerless.
"And so we prepare to leave this world for whatever fate awaits us in
the afterlife. Those who succeed us, those blind followers of Order, will
destroy or abuse the skill and wisdom that we have gleaned over the many
centuries of our rule. They will revel in the overthrow of our sorcery, praise
the annihilation of our knowledge. They will dwell within our stronghold and
deem themselves leaders, and they will think themselves our equals. We, who
owe our origins to something above and beyond their mortality, might almost
find it in our hearts to pity the ignorance and fear which will bring about
their own ruin as surely as it has brought about ours. But there can be no
pity for these human traitors who have turned their backs on the true ways, to
follow false gods. There will be bloodshed; there will be terror; there will
be death... but our sorcery alone cannot stand against the Lords of Order,
called from their long banishment to challenge the rule of Chaos. They will
prevail, and our day is done.
"Our gods go into exile; we go to destruction. But we have solace in the
certainty that the rigid and stagnant reign of Order cannot endure for ail
time. Let it take five generations or five thousand, the circle will come
about once more. Our gods are patient, but in time the challenge will be
issued. Chaos will return.
"This last document by my hand on the day of our fall; Savrinor,
Historian. "
"This manuscript is one of the few fragments to have survived the
Scourge carried out in the Castle of the Star Peninsula this five years past,
after the final fall and annihilation of the race known to us as the Old Ones.
"Those of us who, by the grace of Aeoris, survived the War of Just
Retribution (as it has come to be known) and have since lived on to prosper
and flourish in the very seat of the tyrants' power, are aware of the great
responsibility laid upon us by the Gods whose hands have elevated us from the
realm of serfdom to the realm of rulership. The wrongs done to the people of
our land by the Lords of Chaos and the sorcerers who followed their evil
doctrines are manifold; there has been suffering and terror and oppression.
Now it is our holy duty, in the name of Light and Sanity under the bright
banner of Aeoris, to put our world to rights and to eradicate the name of
Chaos from all hearts and minds.
"To this end, the first Great Conclave of Three has taken place upon the
White Isle, in the very place where Aeoris himself adopted human incarnation
to answer our prayers for salvation. While he trod our earth in mortal guise,
the great God charged us to rule wisely, to uphold his laws, and he has placed
in our safekeeping a golden casket to be enshrined and guarded upon the Isle.
Should our land ever again face the dire peril of Chaos we are pledged to open
the casket, and in doing so call great Aeoris back to our land.
"I hope and pray with all my heart that such a day will never come.
Chaos is banished utterly from the world; we are charged with the task of
ensuring that it cannot return. Three we are, empowered to tend to our people
and bring the Light of Order back to this torn land; and I give humble thanks
each day for the honor done me in elevating me to that great triad.
"Far in the South in his new palace on the Summer Isle dwells our High
Margrave, to whom all honor and homage. Benetan Liss fought at the side of
Aeoris himself in our last great battle and proved himself a warrior and
conqueror worthy to become the First Ruler of all the land. He it is who shall
dispense the justice due his people, and I pray that his descendants will
flourish to continue the noble line. And our Lady Matriarch, Shammana Oskia
Mantrel, is mistress of the newly endowed Sisterhood of Aeoris, that body of
good and devout women who will forevermore keep the flame of Aeoris's love
burning in all our hearts. And I, Simbrian Lowwe Tarkran... as first High
Initiate of the Circle, charged by Aeoris himself to cleanse the taint of evil
sorcery from this Castle and from the world, I am aware from dawn to dusk of
the magnitude of my task. The Old Ones have left us a legacy of darkness and
mystery; much remains to be unravelled and only a fool would deny that their
black skills surpassed those of even our greatest Adepts. But we will prevail:
we draw strength from righteousness, and the wisdom of Order will sustain us
in our task. The Circle -- a small but growing body of magicians and
philosophers, of which I believe I am justly proud -- has pledged itself to
the pursuit of knowledge and justice in all matters of our religion and our
creed. While we stand as upholders of the divine laws laid down for us by
Aeoris, the minions of Chaos will never again gain a foothold in this land,
and the nightmare of the past will one day be forgotten in the purity and
peace of Order.
"The road ahead of us is long and arduous; our accomplishments as yet
are relatively few. But my dreams are full of hope. Dawn has finally broken;
mayhem and madness are no more a part of our lives and we have emerged from
the blackness of enslaved terror into the light. The hand which recorded and
railed against the death of Chaos is dead also; we live, and shall grow and
prosper. And for that I give my undying thanks.
"Written this Spring Quarter-Day in the fifth year of peace, the hand of
Simbrian Low we Tarkran, by consent of Aeoris First High Initiate of the
Circle. "
But Chaos will return....
Chapter 1
With the dawning of the Spring Quarter-Day, the wet weather which had
plagued Wishet Province since midwinter abated. Self-appointed sages, who
claimed to have predicted the change, pronounced it a good omen, and the more
pious inhabitants of the province gave thanks to Aeoris, greatest of the Seven
Gods, in the privacy of their homes.
Today, following a centuries-old tradition, every town and village in
the land would be celebrating the arrival of Spring and one small Wishet
district, some seven miles inland from the province capital, Port Summer, had
prepared well in advance for the lengthy ceremonies. As always a mass
procession, headed by the Provincial Margrave with a train of local elders and
dignitaries, would parade through the town to the river where a ritual
dressing and revering of wooden statues of the Seven Gods would take place.
The Quarter-Day Rites were an occasion for the entire populace to attend, from
the highest to the lowest -- even the household of Estenya, an impoverished
woman who lived with her illegitimate son in the poorest part of the town and
depended on the grudging charity of more fortunate members of her clan.
Today, Estenya was more acutely aware than usual of her lowly status as
she looked at her reflection in the fly-specked mirror. Her dress -- the best
she possessed -- was old, and hadn't been new when it came to her; washing had
shrunk the fabric so that the hem was barely below her calves. And the
embroidered shawl that she wore in an attempt to brighten the dress's drabness
was thin and would do little to keep out the bite of the Easterly wind. But
today, appearances mattered more than comfort; she would simply have to put up
with the cold, if she didn't want to disgrace her relatives... not, she
reflected bitterly, that they were likely to do more than curtly acknowledge
her during the festivities. She was the blot on their immaculate record, the
pretty and promising girl who had inexplicably fallen from grace and had been
paying the price ever since....
Estenya worked her face into an expression that she hoped would disguise
the lines which, at thirty, were now beginning to mar her skin, and silently
railed against the events that, twelve years ago, had set her on this road.
Then, exhausted by the birth, overemotional, she had pleaded to keep her son
against family pressure to pass him off as a servant's child, and she had won
-- at the price of her own prospects. The boy had no father from whom to take
a clan name, as was traditional for male children, and her family had flatly
refused to bend the rules and grant the baby the privilege of their own name.
So from birth he was clanless -- and Estenya became, in effect, outcast. She
had submitted willingly enough to the strictures at first, but as time went by
and the first bloom of her youth faded while the boy, growing, seemed to
become less and less a part of herself, she began to bitterly regret the
decision she had made.
But even if she could have been freed from the burden of the boy, she
doubted that any man would think her worth marrying now. There were too many
younger, fairer women; women without a shameful past to hamper their chances.
If only, she thought to herself, if only I hadn't been such a fool!
A faint sound suddenly impinged on her and she turned, then started with
shock.
The boy had opened the door and come into her bedroom so silently that
she hadn't had the least inkling of his presence. For all she knew, he might
have been standing there watching her in that inscrutable, unnerving way for
ten minutes or more, and as always his look suggested that he knew precisely
what she was thinking.
Angrily, she snapped at him. "How many times have I told you never to
enter my room in that way? Do you want to make me die of fright?"
"I'm sorry." The brilliance of the boy's strange, green eyes was masked
momentarily as he lowered his gaze. Looking at him, Estenya wondered how she
could have given birth to such a boy. The established clans of Wishet shared
certain similarities of build and coloring, typified by the stockiness and
sallow skin that Estenya had inherited from both father and mother. But the
boy... already he outstripped her in height, and his was a rangy, harsh-boned
frame. His hair -- jet-black -- curled in wild tangles to his shoulders, and
the green eyes against his pale, thin face gave him a disturbingly feline
look. Perhaps he drew his genetic heritage solely from his father -- and
always on the heels of that thought came its unpleasant corollary: if she had
known who his father was! There lay the unhappy root of this whole unhappy
affair; the fact that the identity of the stranger whose ardent advances at a
long ago Quarter-Day celebration she had been unable to resist was, and still
remained, a mystery. One mistake had caused her so much misery... and she
couldn't even remember his face.
Now she looked critically at her son. She didn't mean to be irritable
and impatient with him, she told herself; he could hardly be held to blame for
her circumstances. But nonetheless the resentment was there, and surely anyone
with any heart could understand it.
"You haven't combed your hair," she accused. "You know how important it
is to look your best today. If you disgrace me..." She let the threat hang in
the air unspoken.
"Yes, Mother." A flicker of near rebellion in the odd green eyes, but it
was gone almost before she could register it. As he turned to leave the room
she called after him, "And you are not to associate with Coran. Don't forget!"
Privately, Estenya hated having to impose that restriction. Coran, her
cousin's son, was of an age with her own boy and the only good friend he had.
But Coran's parents disapproved of more contact than was necessary with a
bastard child, whatever the blood relationship, and she dared not cross them.
The boy didn't answer her though she knew he had heard, and a minute later his
footsteps clattered down the uncarpeted stairs of the shabby and cramped
house.
Estenya sighed. She didn't know whether he would heed her warning; he
had always been secretive, but lately his mind had become a closed book to
her. All she could do was hope, and try to get through the day as best she
could.
A large crowd was already gathering in and around the streets of the
town as the boy made his way towards the main square. He was glad to be free
from the stifling confines of his home, where he never seemed able to do
anything right, but at the same time he felt no enthusiasm for the day ahead.
Despite the supposed festivity of the occasion, a Quarter-Day tended to be a
solemn and dull affair. People were so preoccupied with their status and
dignity that it seemed that the true nature of the celebrations was lost. And
today, with the Sun tracing a low arc in the sky and the last of the heavy-
bellied clouds still hanging far away inland, the Rite promised to be gloomier
than ever. The procession itself was just forming up as he reached the square,
and the ritual drums had begun their funereally slow and grave beat. The long
crocodile of Province Councillors, religiouses and elders, with the portly
figure of the Provincial Margrave at their head, was bathed in a dull red
radiance that was the best the heavens could provide at this time of year, and
even in this prosperous sector of the town everything looked mean and small.
Even the seven garlanded statues of the gods, swaying on their litters above
the heads of the procession, seemed grotesque and tawdry, showing the wear and
tear of age through the touched-up glory. The boy moved slowly among the
crowd, aware of his mother's earlier admonition not to make himself
conspicuous, and took up a stance at the entrance to a narrow alley that led
into a maze of back streets. Restless and uninterested in the proceedings, he
was relieved when, as he had half hoped, a voice hailed him.
"Cousin!"
The boy's face broke into a smile. "Coran -- " Instantly Estenya's
warning was forgotten as he shouldered his way through the press of people to
join the auburn-haired boy. The contrast between Coran's fine clothes and the
handed-down shirt, jerkin and trousers of his cousin was something that the
boy tried -- usually with success -- not to notice. The differences had never
been a barrier to friendship, and now Coran stood on tiptoe to whisper in his
taller cousin's ear.
"Dull as ever, isn't it? I tried to find some excuse for staying away,
but Father wouldn't hear of it."
The green eyes narrowed, and he smiled a wolfish smile. "We've attended,
as we were bidden. Isn't that enough?"
Coran looked round hastily to see if anyone had overheard this
invitation to rank disobedience. "We'll both be for a whipping if anyone finds
out," he said uneasily.
The other boy shrugged. "A whipping's soon over," he pointed out. He had
suffered enough such punishments for them to mean little to him now. "And if
we go to the river, no one will ever know we didn't follow the procession all
the way."
"Well..." Coran hesitated, less inclined to flout authority, but the
temptation was too great to resist. Together they slipped into the alley,
weaving their way through the narrow lanes until they reached the river jetty
at the eastern end of the town. Here the main Rite would take place; the
statues would be ceremonially washed in the sluggish current to symbolize the
rebirth of life within the land, and interminable speeches would be made
before the celebrations ended with music and stiff, formal dancing.
Now though, the jetty was deserted. Several small cargo boats, newly
come upriver from Port Summer, bobbed on the ebbing tide, and the black-haired
boy squatted near the water's edge gazing speculatively at the craft. He had
often dreamed of escaping from his present life, secretly boarding such a boat
and sailing away to another part of the world where no stigma would attach to
his existence. No one would miss him, for no one cared about him. He was an
embarrassment, unwanted even by his mother; so much so that he had no clan
name and the forename Estenya had given him was rarely used. In the solitude
of his room he had invented another name for himself, but no one knew of it,
for he never spoke it aloud lest it should be discovered and taken away. And
yet the boy felt in his bones that he was, somehow, special. It was the one
lifeline that had kept up his lonely spirits as he grew towards adolescence,
and lately it had begun to goad him more and more towards a half-formed idea
of running away.
He would have given much to see the world. He often walked the seven
miles to Port Summer on errands, and had been told that from the Port's high
cliffs, if he strained his eyes hard enough, he might just see the Summer
Isle, home of the High Margrave himself, ruler of all the land, lying in the
hazy distance offshore. He had tried, but he had never glimpsed it. Nor had he
ever seen what was said to be the most breathtaking sight in all the world --
the White Isle, far to the south, where legend had it Aeoris himself, highest
of the gods, had taken human incarnation to save his worshippers from the
forces of Chaos.
The boy had an insatiable appetite for the mythology of his land; an
appetite frustrated by the fact that no one ever had the time or the patience
to tell him what he wanted to know. Oh, he had been taught to worship his
deities, learned his catechisms, said his prayers each night. But there was so
much more he wanted to know, needed to know. Sometimes the Quarter-Day
festivities were attended by Sisters of Aeoris, the religious women who were
responsible for maintaining all the traditions of worship, but he had never
spoken to one of them, and anyway they could not fulfill his hunger for
knowledge. What he truly longed for was to meet an Initiate.
The very word Initiate sent a shiver of excitement through the boy.
Those men and women were, he knew, the very embodiment of power in the world;
mysterious, unreachable, occult. They lived in an impenetrable stronghold on
the Star Peninsula, far to the north at the very edge of the world, and any
man who defied their word brought upon himself the full wrath of the gods. The
Initiates were philosophers and sorcerers, but fact was clouded by rumor and
hearsay -- stories, he had been told, not fit for a child's ears. But whatever
the truth, the Initiates commanded respect and fear. Respect because they
served the Seven; fear because of the manner in which they served them. It was
said that the Initiates communed with Aeoris himself, and from him took powers
that no ordinary mortal could comprehend, let alone wield. A cauldron of
speculation and half-truth and fable... but the little he had learned made the
boy hunger for more. Fancifully, he imagined running away and away, over
plains and through forests and across mountains, until he found the Initiates
in their stronghold....
It was that thought that first put the idea into his head. He and Coran
had been idly skimming stones into the river current while in the distance the
clamor of the procession drew slowly nearer. The spearhead would not arrive
for some while; there was time enough to give rein to the idea that had
suddenly fired his imagination.
When he suggested the game to Coran, his cousin was appalled.
"Pretend that we're Initiates?" Coran's voice was a whisper. "We can't!
It's -- it's heresy!"
Even to speak of Initiates without due reverence invited ill luck, but
the black-haired boy had no such fears. The knowledge that he was breaking
taboos excited something deep within him, added spice to a feeling already
half-formed and half-recognized. He knew nothing of what powers Initiates
possessed, but he had a free and ferocious imagination. Coran was less
adventurous, but malleable to his cousin's stronger will, and at last --
though in trepidation -- he agreed.
"We'll be rival sorcerers," the black-haired boy said. "And we'll
battle, using our powers against each other!"
Coran licked his lips and hesitantly nodded. But even his timid spirit
entered into the game as imagination began to take over.
And then, it happened.
The boys were so intent on their play that they were unaware of the
vanguard of the procession as it rounded a corner and came into full view of
the jetty. Leading the long human chain came the Margrave; behind him the
statue of Aeoris towered -- and the god and his bearers saw everything.
Coran, by now as caught up in their fantasy world as his cousin, had
called down a thousand curses on the head of his rival. Not to be outdone, his
rival raised a hand, pointed with a dramatic gesture; as he did so, a stray
shaft of watery sunlight glinted with shocking brilliance on the colorless
stone of a ring on the boy's left hand. An ornate ring, a strange possession
for a child to own... for an instant, as the sun struck it, the stone seemed
to come to ferocious, blazing life --
And, with no warning, a bolt of blood-red fire smashed from the pointing
finger with a crack that momentarily deafened him. For an instant only Coran's
face was frozen in a mask of astonishment and disbelief... then his charred,
broken body keeled sideways and fell with a sickening thud to the flagstones.
The black-haired boy reeled back as violently as though struck by a
monstrous, invisible hand, and though he tried to scream, not the smallest
sound came from his throat. For a moment as the procession ground to a chaotic
halt there was utter silence -- then pandemonium broke out. Rough hands took
hold of him, spinning him around, punching and slapping and kicking him in a
rising tide of horror and outrage. Women shrieked, men shouted, and at last
the cacophony resolved into words that beat like waves in his ears, cursing
him, damning him, naming him blasphemer and desecrator, unfit to live. In a
matter of moments the veneer of civilization fell away to reveal the ugly face
of naked fear in full, primitive flood, and amid the mayhem the boy cowered,
hands over his head, too shocked and numbed to understand what was happening
to him, what he had done. As if in a waking nightmare he felt his hands being
bound, the cords cutting deep, and he was manhandled into the middle of a
circle of hostile, shouting faces. Stone him! they said; hang him! they cried,
and he could only stare back, uncomprehending.
The Provincial Margrave, white-faced and shaking, moved unsteadily
forward. Somewhere behind him a woman was screaming hysterically; Coran's
mother, who refused to be dragged away from her son's corpse. As the Margrave
approached the boy, seemingly afraid to come too close, the town elders set up
a fresh clamor. Heresy and blasphemy -- a demonic power at work -- possession
-- the bastard son of the woman Estenya; unfit to live... And the Margrave,
spurred on by his councillors, pointed accusingly at the black-haired child
who had brought such horror to the celebrations.
"He must die," he said in a voice that quavered. "Now -- before he can
do even worse!"
As if in anticipation, a stone flung by someone in the crowd missed the
boy's head by a hairsbreadth. Some semblance of reason was beginning to return
to him after the initial shock, and he thought he was going to be sick as an
image of Coran's face, before he fell, flashed into his mind. What had he
done? How had it happened? He wasn't a sorcerer!
"Stone him!" a voice yelled, and the cry was taken up again.
He tried to protest, tell them he hadn't meant to harm Coran, they'd
been playing a game, he had no power to kill anyone. But the words would mean
nothing to the mob. They had seen what they had seen, and in their fear were
determined to stamp it out without mercy. And without understanding what had
happened to him, he was going to die....
Though always a solitary child, he nonetheless felt more alone than he
ever had in his life. Even Estenya couldn't help him now; he had seen men
carrying away a woman who had fainted, and had recognized the color of his
mother's shawl. There was no hope of reprieve. For a moment his gaze locked
with the dead, wooden stare of the statue of Aeoris, then he shut his eyes
tightly, praying in silent hopelessness that the god, who alone must know the
nature of the appalling power that had struck his cousin down from nowhere,
would come to his aid.
The men holding him had moved back, and the boy saw the stones that even
now were being gathered from the detritus around the jetty. Every muscle in
his body tensed -- then suddenly a lone voice among the mob called out in
horror.
"Aeoris preserve us!"
A hand was pointing northwards, far beyond the town, and as one the
crowd all looked. In the distance, the sky was changing. Slow bands of faint
color were marching across the empty bowl of the heavens, and, fascinated, the
boy had counted green, scarlet, orange, grey and an eerie blue-black before
common sense returned and he realized what he was witnessing.
"A Warp..." There was naked fear in the Margrave's voice.
The boy felt a faint tingling from the earth, transmitted through the
cold stone of the jetty. He sensed an electric tension in the air, and his
nerves began to crawl with something that terrified him far more than his
impending fate; something that evoked the worst nightmares any human being
could experience. A Warp -- and the town was directly in its path!
Warp storms -- the eerie, horrifying forces which racked the land at
unpredictable intervals -- were the deadliest phenomenon known to man. Some
said that Warps were a manifestation of Time itself; that the powers unleashed
could shift and change the very fabric of the world. When a Warp struck the
wise shuttered themselves in their homes and covered their heads until the
rage was past and the elemental forces exhausted, and no one knew for certain
the consequences of being caught in such a storm, for no one had ever returned
to tell the tale. The boy recalled a neighbor who had braved the full fury of
a Warp, and vanished. They had searched for some trace of him for a full seven
days, but had found nothing. He had simply ceased to exist....
The weird aurora marching towards them out of the north was coming
rapidly; now it had all but eclipsed the sun, and some refraction was
distorting the solar orb so that it looked like a squeezed, overripe fruit,
sickly and aged. Strange colors swept across the buildings and the faces of
the throng; people looked bizarrely unhuman and two-dimensional, and to the
boy's fevered imagination it seemed that the statue of Aeoris had come to a
terrible semblance of life.
From the sky a harsh singing note now emanated, drowning the frightened
shouts of the townspeople, as if something unhuman rode high and fast above
the wind and cried out in torment. The boy remembered tales of damned souls
lost to the Warps and doomed to fly with them forever, and for a wild moment
he thought: better that than an agonizing death at the hands of his human
judges!
But the death promised him wasn't to be, yet. Already people were
scattering, running for shelter as the weird, ululating sound in the sky drew
inexorably closer. Someone snatched at his bound arm, almost pulling him off
balance, and he found himself being towed along in the midst of a group of
Councillors who were making towards the House of Justice a short distance
away. This building, which combined court of law with counting house and a
bargaining center for out-province traders, was the most secure structure in
the town with its massive doors and shuttered windows, and as the boy was
hustled up the steps and under the great portal, he saw that half the
townspeople had chosen it for their haven.
"Bolt the doors -- hurry! It's nearly upon us!" The Margrave had lost
his dignity and was on the verge of panic. Still more people were pouring in,
and in the huge reception hall some had already fallen to their knees and were
earnestly praying to Aeoris for their souls. The boy, now trembling violently
from shock, wondered why they should pray, when surely Aeoris himself must
have sent the Warp in the first place.
Aeoris himself... and the Warp had come mere moments after he had sent
his last, desperate plea silently heavenwards...
It wasn't possible, he told himself. He was a murderer -- the gods would
have no reason to save him --
But the Warp had come from nowhere, with no warning...
Deep down, he knew that his sanity must have deserted him. But it was a
chance, the only chance he would have before punishment was meted out and he
died the ugly death he had been promised. Better that... If he worked his
hands surreptitiously behind his back he thought he could free them; whoever
had tied the cords had failed to fix the knot properly, and it was coming
loose.... The last stragglers were entering the House of Justice now, and in
the confusion no one was paying him any attention. One more effort... and his
left hand came free. The doors were closing, he had only moments --
With a speed and agility that took his captors by surprise, the boy
dived for the doors. He heard someone shouting at him, a hand reached to stop
him but he evaded it and half stumbled, half fell out onto the steps. His
headlong rush carried him down -- and as he emerged, the Warp came screaming
overhead.
The outlines of houses, boats, the jetty, twisted into an impossible
chaos of howling color and noise. The ground was falling away beneath his
feet, the sky crashing down to meet him, spitting tongues of black brilliance.
Then, with a deafening crack, the world exploded into the image of a seven-
rayed star that seared into his mind, before --
Nothing.
Chapter 2
Tarod...
He' heard the word in his head, and clung to it. It was his secret name,
and while he held it he knew that he still existed.
Tarod...
He was lying face downward on a surface that felt harsh. Something -- a
stone, he thought -- pressed cruelly against his right cheek, and when he
breathed in his mouth and nostrils clogged with dust. He tried to move and a
searing pain shot through his right shoulder, so that he had to bite savagely
into his tongue to stop himself from crying out.
Slowly consciousness returned, and with it some semblance of memory.
Faintly, he recalled the last moment before the Warp had struck; the image
that had smashed into his brain before the full fury of the storm swept over
him. Was he dead? Had the Warp taken him to some unimaginable after-life? He
tried to remember what had happened, but his mind was cloudy and he couldn't
rally his thoughts. And besides, he felt alive; painfully alive....
Again he attempted to move, and this time succeeded in fighting off the
pain enough to raise himself on his undamaged arm, though it took a tremendous
effort of will. Something clogged in his eyes, making it impossible to open
them, and only after he had rubbed and rubbed at them could he finally part
the lids.
He was surrounded by a darkness so intense that it was almost
suffocating. And yet his senses told him that he was in the open, for he had
the sensation of space, and it was cold. An insidious breeze licked at his
black hair, lifting it from his face, chilling a dampness on his cheeks.
He blinked the dampness away -- it might be water, blood, sweat; he
didn't know, and was beyond caring -- and began to grope cautiously with his
hands to gain some idea of where he was.
His fingers found rock; a slope of rough scree littered with stones and
vicious pieces of shale. Doubly afraid now, the boy tried his voice. It came
dry and cracking from his throat and he was unable to form words, yet it was
at least a sound, physical and real. But he was unprepared for the answer of a
myriad soft echoes that came whispering back to him, seeming to emerge from
solid rock that stretched immensely in every direction. Solid rock... with a
shock he realized that he must be among high hills, perhaps even mountains.
But there were no mountains in Wishet province; the nearest range lay far, far
to the north and west, an unimaginable distance! He shivered violently. If he
was still in the world, then it was no part of the world he had ever known...
Mustering courage, he called out again, and again the rocks answered,
mocking him. And among their voices he heard one that was not his own, and it
whispered the name that had sounded in his mind as he regained consciousness.
Tarod...
Suddenly the boy was overwhelmed by terror and a frantic, almost
physical need for comfort. He wanted to cry out for someone to come to his
aid, but even as the need surged another memory hit home. Coran -- Coran was
dead, and he had killed him! No one would help him now -- for he had already
been condemned.
Suddenly the shock of what he had done, however unwittingly, overtook
him, and he shut his eyes again in a desperate and futile attempt to blot it
out. Helpless, he began to retch violently, and when the spasm passed his head
was spinning. Tears started at the back of his eyes, forcing their way between
his dark lashes and flowing unchecked down his cheeks. He didn't understand
what had happened to him, and no amount of bravado could combat the fear and
grief he felt. Somewhere deep down a small voice was trying to comfort him,
reminding him that at least he had survived this ordeal -- but now, as the
tears began to flow more copiously, he felt that for all the hope he had he
might as well have died alongside Coran.
Later he believed he must have lost consciousness again, for when he woke
there was light. Little enough, true, but a faint, bloody crimson glow was
tingeing the air around him; and for the first time he was able to make out
his surroundings.
There were mountains -- vast, towering crags of granite that humped into
a frightening distance overhead and seemed to topple towards him, making him
reel with vertigo. Though from this vantage point he couldn't see the sun, the
sky above the peaks had paled to an unhealthy hue like old, worn brass, and
the crags were stained with its gory reflection. Dawn... so he had been lying
here all night. And "here" was a narrow gulley half-filled with the detritus
of innumerable landslips; loose shale, a massive boulder with one jagged edge
showing where it had broken away from the rock face. When he turned painfully
to look about him he saw that the gulley ended just beyond his feet, falling
away in a shallow but sharp drop to what appeared to be a track of some sort
at its base. A pass... ? He shook his head, trying to clear his mind. His
shoulder and arm felt as though they were on fire, and he knew that at least
one bone was broken, maybe more. Trying to combat the pain, he scrabbled for a
foothold on the shale and after a protracted effort succeeded in hauling
himself to his feet, using the sharp-edged boulder for support. The movement
brought on a concussive spinning and thundering in his head; his stomach
reacted and another spasm of retching bent him double, so that for a while he
forgot everything but the sheer misery of his predicament. In the wake of the
spasm he began to shiver afresh, aware that his body's defenses were
dangerously weak. He was by this time on his knees again, unable to stand
upright -- if he was to survive, he must find help. But the concept seemed
meaningless -- his control was deteriorating and he couldn't think clearly
enough to decide what he should do.
The boy turned about until he was facing, as nearly as he could judge,
the direction of the rising sun. Then, by slow and painful degrees, he began
to half stagger and half crawl along the ridge that ran beside the twisting
mountain track.
By the time the brief day ended, he knew he was going to die. For endless
hours he had crawled like a wounded animal, parallel to the track along a
摘要：

Throughouthistory,thetwinpowersofLightandDarknesshaveappearedinmanyguises.DayandNight,GoodandEvil,OrderandChaos--and,inmanyoftheancientreligionsofourworld,personifiedintheforms,sometimeshuman,sometimesbeyondhumanity,ofwarringdeities--OsirisandSet,Ahura-MazdaandAhriman,MardukandTiamat,andmanymore.Eac...

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