Echoes of the Great Song (3 page)

A crystal on the panel cracked. Another shattered.

And then the ship righted itself, and was sailing serenely behind the great wave.

The world he knew was gone—and he had survived.

As Touchstone entered the cabin Talaban opened his eyes. The tribesman gave a half-hearted salute then slumped down into a second padded chair alongside the desk. He was a short stocky man, round-shouldered and thick-necked. His greasy black hair hung in two braids, and, despite his two years as Talaban’s scout, he refused to apply for Vagar citizenship and still wore his black tribal vest decorated with fingers of bone. He glanced up at Talaban, his green eyes shining with mischievous humor. “Them’s running around like snow rabbits,” he said, “digging into the ice. You think they find what they look for this time?”

Talaban shrugged. “They will or they won’t.”

“Buy a big house, farm maybe, with all that gold,” said Touchstone. “Big waste.”

Talaban found it hard to disagree. Driving gold rods into the ice was an expensive exercise, and so far it had achieved little. “These nomads,” he said. “Will they fight us?”

Now it was Touchstone’s turn to shrug. “Who knows? Them’s tough boys. They’ll fight if they see the gold. They don’t believe in Avatars no more. They know your magic is dying. They know the ice killed the empire.”

“Wounded it,” corrected Talaban. “Nothing can kill the empire. We are too strong.” The words were spoken by rote and even Talaban had long since ceased to believe them. “And you shouldn’t verbalize such thoughts. I don’t want to see you lying upon the crystals.”

“Straight talk?” asked Touchstone. Talaban nodded. The tribesman leaned forward. “You Avatars are like elk surrounded by wolves. You still strong, but the wolves will tear you down. They know it. You know it.”

“Enough straight talk, my friend. And now I have work to do. Come back in an hour, and bring the Questor with you.”

Touchstone rose. “I bring food first,” he said. “And more coal.”

“My mother took less care of me than you do,” said Talaban.

“Keep you strong,” said Touchstone. “You die and promise not be kept.”

“I always honor my promises,” said Talaban. “And I have not forgotten.” Touchstone looked at him for a moment, the green eyes locked to Talaban’s dark gaze. Then he left the cabin.

Talaban took up his pen and opened the log, carefully detailing the day’s work. As dusk deepened he lit a lantern. The beautifully painted walls of the cabin had been soiled with carbon deposits from lantern flame and coal over the years. Idly he wondered whether the ship felt a sense of shame at the loss of her power and prestige. You are a romantic, he told himself.

With the log entry completed Talaban stripped off his
clothes and moved through into the small sanctum beside his bedroom. He removed the three crystals from the velvet bag hanging by the window and placed them on the rug. Then he knelt facing the window and opened his arms wide. Taking a deep breath he drew on the power within. With his eyes closed he reached for the first crystal. It was pale and clear, like glittering ice. Lifting it to his forehead he slowly chanted the Prayer of One. His trance deepened and he felt his body relaxing. He became aware of knots of tension in his shoulders and neck. Gently he eased them. Completely relaxed now he laid the crystal down and reached for the second. This was a blue gem the size of his thumbnail. He held it to his chest, over his heart. The power of the blue seeped through his skin, entering the heart, invigorating the blood and flowing through his arteries and veins, filling them with strength. Lastly he took the green crystal, the largest of the three. This one he held against his belly as he chanted the Prayer of the Avatar Prime. This time the power flowed with more urgency, revitalizing his organs, healing and renewing them. The shock to his system was great, and pain flared from his kidneys and liver. But it passed and Talaban rose and placed the crystals once more into the black velvet bag.

The green was coming to the end of its energy, he knew. How long had it been since he renewed it? And what was stopping him? Pushing the thoughts aside he lit a second lantern and carried it to the full-length mirror in his bedroom. Leaning in close he examined himself. The skin of his face was tight and glowed with health. His body was lean, the lines of muscle sharp and clear in the lantern light. Only the eyes were old, he thought, dark and somber, brooding. Gazing into his own eyes discomfited him and he turned away from the mirror.

From the closet he took fresh leggings of black wool
and a shirt of silver satin. Then he pulled on a dry pair of boots and returned to his desk. Touchstone had left a plate of salted meat and some fresh bread. He had also replenished the brazier, which was glowing red. Talaban opened the rear door of the cabin and stepped out onto the balcony beyond. Cold air whispered against him, but this time it was pleasant, following the heat from the cabin. The Vagar team had left the glacier, but he could still see the silver pyramids glistening in the moonlight. And below the ice the energy of the golden rods silently sought the Great Line.

An elk surrounded by wolves. Touchstone’s words drifted back to him.

The analogy was not quite correct. More like a dragon surrounded by lions. They feared his terrible fire and held back. He feared their fangs and their claws …

 … and hoped they would not learn his fire was dying.

Questor Ro was a traditionalist. His head was shaved, his forked beard dyed blue, and every day he practiced the Six Rituals of the Avatars for precisely two hours. His clothes were of dark blue, a shirt of expensive satin edged with silver thread, leggings of finest wool, and boots of blue-stained lizard skin. Around his waist he wore the silver-edged belt of First Questor, and he still carried the ceremonial scepter, despite the fact that its energy had been spent some twenty years before. Though oceans had washed away the Avatar Empire and ice had entombed its power sources, Questor Ro believed in maintaining standards. It was one of the many reasons he disliked Talaban.

He considered the others as he waited outside the captain’s cabin with the savage Touchstone.

“Him’s busy,” said Touchstone. “Call us soon.”

Questor Ro did not reply. In the glory days no savage would have dared address an Avatar directly. They would have approached on their knees, then touched their heads to the ground. Every address would begin with the words
Lord hear your servant
. In this way discipline was maintained, and lower orders understood their place in the world. Indeed, in the opinion of Questor Ro, they were far happier for it. Clearly defined borders of behavior were the cornerstone of any
civilization. Talaban seemed to understand none of this, and allowed savages to address him as an equal. He had even journeyed among the barbarians, living in their squalid tents. Questor Ro shuddered inwardly. There was almost no doubt in his mind that Talaban had Vagar blood. Added to which he was young, barely two centuries old. He had not lived long enough to understand fully the need for maintaining fear among the sub-races.

But then his mother had also been well known for her fey behavior, refusing to have a child until her eightieth year, when she—despite her crystal-inspired youth—was close to becoming barren. It had been the cause of many rumors, and had brought considerable humiliation upon her 300-year-old husband. Most Avatar females lost the ability to carry children past the age of seventy, and few males past the age of two hundred could sire them. No, the consensus was that she had fallen pregnant during her travels. Few Avatar women made long journeys of any kind, and then only from necessity. She, on the other hand, had apparently travelled for pleasure, visiting the outer cities of the empire. Questor Ro could readily imagine what pleasures she had found among the vulgar races who peopled the cities. Soon after she returned she announced her pregnancy.

Her son’s current behavior only served to fuel Ro’s suspicions. Talaban was too close to the Vagars who served him. He was even popular, which was a situation no Avatar should achieve. Vagars respected discipline, they reacted best to fear. Popularity, as far as Questor Ro was concerned, merely showed weakness in areas of leadership. It surprised Ro that the General could not understand these obvious flaws in Talaban’s nature. Added to this there was the fact that Talaban had never married. And since he was fast approaching the age
when his seed would no longer be strong it was an added insult to the Avatar race. Every citizen should sire Avatar children. What future for the Avatars without them?

“Him’s ready now,” said Touchstone. Questor Ro had heard nothing, but the savage opened the door. He stood back as Questor Ro entered—which was at least something!

Ro stepped inside. Talaban was sitting at his desk, but he rose as the Questor entered. He moved round the desk to greet his guest. Like most of the warrior caste Talaban’s movements were graceful, always in balance. The soldier towered over the short stocky mage. The two men opened hands in the Avatar greeting. Questor Ro bowed, halting the movement a few inches short of the required angle. Not enough to be insulting, but sufficient to show Talaban he was displeased. If the warrior noticed the discourtesy he did not show it, but returned the bow smoothly, offering the perfect angle.

“How is your work progressing?” asked Talaban. Questor Ro cast a glance at Touchstone, who had sat down on the floor by the door.

“It is not seemly to discuss such matters before inferiors,” said Questor Ro. His slender hand tugged at the twin forks of his blue beard, signalling his rising irritation.

Talaban said nothing, but Touchstone rose and silently left the room. “Be seated, Questor,” said Talaban, returning to his chair.

Ro glanced at a guttering lantern, then transferred his gaze to the cold crystal globes set into the wall. “I once journeyed to the western lands in one of these vessels,” he said, sadly. “They were impressive then. No storm could touch them.”

“Times change, Questor. Now how is your work progressing?”

“I expect better results by tomorrow,” said Ro. “Our probes need adjustments—minor adjustments,” he added swiftly, seeing the concern on Talaban’s face. “We are not entirely aligned.”

“Nomads will be in this area tomorrow,” said Talaban. “We do not have much time.”

“Surely that is why we brought soldiers,” said Ro.

“Indeed it is, Questor. We have no
Avatar
soldiers. If the nomads come in strength we will be outnumbered ten to one. My Vagars are armed with conventional weapons only. They will not withstand a heavy assault.”

“Of course they won’t,” snapped Ro. “I said at the start that we needed Avatars. On an expedition as important as this it is hard to credit that it could have been refused. Surely the empire would not have been weakened by allowing us true men and zhi-bows?”

“This was not intended to be a war party, Questor. The General was specific about that. Any complaints you have should be taken up with him upon our return. However, since we are speaking frankly, you should be aware there are fewer than fifty zhi-bows still in operation.”

“Fifty? That is a disgrace,” stormed Ro. “Why only last year the General assured the Assembly there were over three hundred such weapons.”

Talaban leaned back in his chair. “Questor Ro, I am aware of your great skills, and I know you spend much of your time in research. But surely the eastern revolt did not entirely escape your attention. Six thousand tribesmen? The zhi-bows swung the battle, but most were exhausted. We did not have the power to feed them. Hence this expedition.”

Questor Ro absorbed the information. “It did not escape my attention, as you put it, captain. Few events escape my attention. However it seems a criminal waste
of resources to allow our main defensive weapon to be exhausted by one petty revolt.”

“With respect, you are not a soldier, sir. Without the bows we would have been overrun in the east. That would have encouraged the other tribes to join in the revolt. The cities would have fallen.” Questor Ro was about to argue, but Talaban raised his hand. “Enough of this, sir, for it is now history. Our task is to replenish the energies of the chests. Can it be done?”

“I need two days, captain. I believe Communion is near.”

Talaban fell silent. “Do not tell me what you believe,” he said, at last. “Tell me what you
know.”

The man is insufferable, thought Ro. He took a deep breath, calming himself. “Some of the rods have picked up faint emanations. I believe … I know … that with adjustment I can hone them to the pyramid. Once I have done so we will draw on the power and feed the chests.”

Talaban’s dark eyes fixed to Ro’s gaze. “Be sure, sir, for I will have to risk the lives of my men and the security of this vessel. Be very sure.”

“Only these facts in life are sure, captain: the sun rises and sets and lesser beings die. Give me two days and we will power the six chests.”

Talaban looked long and hard at the smaller man. He did not like him, and had no reason to trust him. And yet … The power of one full chest would recharge every zhi-bow in the city and keep them charged for up to five years. The dragon would breathe fire again.

“You will have your two days,” he said. “But get your men back to the ice tonight. They can work under lanterns.”

Talaban stood on the balcony deck behind his cabin and watched the Vagar team scurrying about on the ice.
The bald blue-bearded figure of Questor Ro moved among them. “Make me smile, him,” said Touchstone. Talaban considered the comment.

“He’s a man from a lost time,” he said, at last. “I both admire and pity him.”

“He faces the wrong way,” said Touchstone. Talaban smiled.

“For him the past is golden, the future barren. What else can he do but strive to recreate what is gone?”

“He could live. Now. Read the stars. Sire small sons.”

“How old are you, Touchstone?”

“I took breath when the red wolf ate the moon. Twenty-four summers back.”

“Questor Ro was more than four hundred summers old by then. And he had lived all those centuries in Parapolis, the greatest city ever built. He was part of an empire three thousand years old. Ships like these sailed the oceans without need of wind. No grotesque masts, no bulging sacks of filthy coal. And then, one day, the sun rose in the west, and the seas rushed up to greet it. Parapolis was engulfed, the people swept away. Those that survived, like Questor Ro and myself, journeyed back to Parapolis. But the stars had changed, the earth had tilted, and it was bitter cold. All the trees had died—frozen in a single night. In one day the invincible cities of the Avatar had perished. And every day since the land is buried further beneath the ice. One mathematician calculated that 90,000 tons of fresh ice a day gathers over the old empire.”