Lord of Light (18 page)

He moved along this trail, carefully. To his left was the wall. To his right there was nothing.

After what seemed an age and a half, he sighted a tiny flicker of light far below him, hanging in midair.

The curvature of the wall, however, gradually bent his way so that this light no longer hung in the distance, but lay below and slightly to his right.

Another twisting of the trail set it directly ahead of him.

When he passed the niche in the wall wherein the flame was cached, he heard a voice within his mind cry out:

"Free me, master, and I will lay the world at thy feet!"

But he hurried by, not even glancing at the almost-face within the opening.

Floating upon the ocean of black that lay beneath his feet, there were more lights now visible.

The well continued to widen. It was filled with brightening glimmers, like flame, but not flame; filled with shapes, faces, half-remembered images. From each there rose up a cry as he passed: "Free me! Free me!"

But he did not halt.

He came to the bottom of the well and moved across it, passing among broken stones and over fissures in the rocky floor. At last he reached the opposite wall, wherein a great orange fire danced.

It became cherry-red as he approached, and when he stood before it, it was the blue of a sapphire's heart.

It stood to twice his height, pulsing and twisting. From it, little flamelets licked out toward him, but they drew back as if they fell against an invisible barrier.

During his descent he had passed so many flames that he had lost count of their number. He knew, too, that more lay hidden within the caverns that open into the well bottom.

Each flame he had passed on the way down had addressed him, using its own species of communication, so that the words had sounded drumlike within his head: threatening words, and pleading, promising words. But no message came to him from this great blue blaze, larger than any of the others. No forms turned or twisted, tantalizing, within its bright heart. Flame it was, and flame it remained.

He kindled a fresh torch and wedged it between two rocks.

"So, Hated One, you have returned!"

The words fell upon him like whiplashes. Steadying himself, he faced the blue flame then and replied:

"You are called Taraka?"

"He who bound me here should know what I am called," came the words. "Think not, oh Siddhartha, that because you wear a different body you go now unrecognized. I look upon the flows of energy which are your real being—not the flesh that masks them."

"I see," replied the other.

"Do you come to mock me in my prison?"

"Did I mock you in the days of the Binding?"

"No, you did not."

"I did that which had to be done, to preserve my own species. Men were weak and few in number. Your kind fell upon them and would have destroyed them."

"You stole our world, Siddhartha. You chained us here. What new indignity would you lay upon us?"

"Perhaps there is a way in which some reparation may be made."

"What is it that you want?"

"Allies."

"You want us to take your part in a struggle?"

"That is correct."

"And when it is over, you will seek to bind us again."

"Not if we can work out some sort of agreement beforehand."

"Speak to me your terms," said the flame.

"In the old days your people walked, visible and invisible, in the streets of the Celestial City."

"That is true."

"It is better fortified now."

"In what ways?"

"Vishnu the Preserver and Yama-Dharma, Lord of Death, have covered the whole of Heaven, rather than just the City—as it was in days of old—with what is said to be an impenetrable dome."

"There is no such thing as an impenetrable dome."

"I say only what I have heard."

"There are many ways into a city. Lord Siddhartha."

"You will find them all for me?"

"That is to be the price of my freedom?"

"Of your own freedom—yes."

"What of the others of my kind?"

"If they, too, are to be freed, you must all agree to help me lay siege to that City and take it."

"Free us, and Heaven shall fall!"

"You speak for the others?"

"I am Taraka. I speak for all."

"What assurance do you give, Taraka, that this bargain will be kept?"

"My word? I shall be happy to swear by anything you care to name — "

"A facility with oaths is not the most reassuring quality in a bargainer. And your strength is also your weakness in any bargaining at all. You are so strong as to be unable to grant to another the power to control you. You have no gods to swear by. The only thing you will honor is a gambling debt, and there are no grounds for gaming here."

"
You
possess the power to control us."

"Individually, perhaps. But not collectively."

"It is a difficult problem," said Taraka. "I should give anything I have to be free—but then, all that I have is power — pure power, in essence uncommittable. A greater force might subdue it, but that is not the answer. I do not really know how to give you satisfactory assurance that my promise will be kept. If I were you,
I
certainly would not trust me."

"It is something of a dilemma. So I will free you now—you alone—to visit the Pole and scout out the defenses of Heaven. In your absence, I will consider the problem further. Do you likewise, and perhaps upon your return an equitable arrangement can be made."

"Accepted! Release me from this doom!"

"Know then my power, Taraka," he said. "As I bind, so can I loose—thus!"

The flame boiled forward out of the wall.

It rolled into a ball of fire and spun about the well like a comet; it burned like a small sun, lighting up the darkness; it changed colors as it fled about, so that the rocks shone both ghastly and pleasing.

Then it hovered above the head of the one called Siddhartha, sending down its throbbing words upon him:

"You cannot know my pleasure to feel again my strength set free. I've a mind to try your power once more."

The man beneath him shrugged.

The ball of flame coalesced. Shrinking, it grew brighter, and it slowly settled to the floor.

It lay there quivering, like a petal fallen from some titanic bloom; then it drifted slowly across the floor of Hellwell and re-entered the niche.

"Are you satisfied?" asked Siddhartha.

"Yes," came the reply, after a time. "Your power is undimmed. Binder. Free me once more."

"I grow tired of this sport, Taraka. Perhaps I'd best leave you as you are and seek assistance elsewhere."

"No! I gave you my promise! What more would you have?"

"I would have an absence of contention between us. Either you will serve me now in this matter, or you will not. That is all. Choose, and abide by your choice—and your word."

"Very well. Free me, and I will visit Heaven upon its mountain of ice, and report back to you of its weaknesses."

"Then go!"

This time, the flame emerged more slowly. It swayed before him, took on a roughly human outline.

"What is your power, Siddhartha? How do you do what you do?" it asked him.

"Call it electrodirection," said the other, "mind over energy. It is as good a term as any. But whatever you call it, do not seek to cross it again. I can kill you with it, though no weapon formed of matter may be laid upon you. Go now!"

Taraka vanished, like a firebrand plunged into a river, and Siddhartha stood among stones, his torch lighting the darkness about him.

He rested, and a babble of voices filled his mind—promising, tempting, pleading. Visions of wealth and of splendor flowed before his eyes. Wondrous harems were paraded before him, and banquets were laid at his feet. Essences of musk and champac, and the bluish haze of burning incenses drifted, soothing his soul, about him. He walked among flowers, followed by bright-eyed girls who bore his wine cups, smiling; a silver voice sang to him, and creatures not human danced upon the surface of a nearby lake. "Free us, free us," they chanted. But he smiled and watched and did nothing. Gradually, the prayers and the pleas and the promises turned to a chorus of curses and threats. Armored skeletons advanced upon him, babies impaled upon their blazing swords. There were pits all about him, from which fires leapt up, smelling of brimstone. A serpent dangled from a branch before his face, spitting venom. A rain of spiders and toads descended upon him.

"Free us—or infinite will be thy agony!" cried the voices.

"If you persist," he stated, "Siddhartha shall grow angry, and you will lose the one chance at freedom which you really do possess."

Then all was still about him, and he emptied his mind, drowsing.

He had two meals, there in the cavern, and then he slept again.

Later, Taraka returned in the form of a great-taloned bird and reported to him:

"Those of my kind may enter through the air vents," he said, "but men may not. There are also many elevator shafts within the mountain. Many men might ride up the larger ones with ease. Of course, these are guarded. But if the guards were slain and the alarms disconnected, this thing might be accomplished. Also, there are times when the dome itself is opened in various places, to permit flying craft to enter and to depart."

"Very well," said Siddhartha. "I've a kingdom, some weeks' journey hence, where I rule. A regent has been seated in my place for many years, but if I return there I can raise me an army. A new religion moves now across the land. Men may now think less of the gods than once they did."

"You wish to sack Heaven?"

"Yes, I wish to lay open its treasures to the world."

"This is to my liking. It will not be easily won, but with an army of men and an army of my kind we should be able to do it. Let us free my people now, that we may begin."

"I believe I will simply have to trust you," said Siddhartha. "So yes, let us begin," and he moved across the floor of Hellwell toward the first deep tunnel beading downward.

That day he freed sixty-five of them, filling the caverns with their color and their movement and their light. The air sounded with mighty cries of joy and the noise of their passage as they swept about Hellwell, changing shape constantly and exulting in their freedom.

Without warning, then, one took upon itself the form of a flying serpent and swept down toward him, talons outstretched and slashing.

For a moment, his full attention lay upon it.

It uttered a brief, broken cry, and then it came apart, falling in a shower of blue-white sparks.

Then these faded, and it was utterly vanished.

There was silence in the caverns, and the lights pulsed and dipped about the walls.

Siddhartha directed his attention toward the largest point of light, Taraka.

"Did that one attack me in order to test my strength?" he inquired. "To see whether I can also kill, in the manner I told you I could?"

Taraka approached, hovered before him. "It was not by my bidding that he attacked," he stated. "I feel that he was half crazed from his confinement."

Siddhartha shrugged. "For a time now, disport yourselves as you would," he said. "I would have rest from this task," and he departed the smaller cavern.

He returned to the bottom of the well, where he lay down upon his blanket and dozed.

There came a dream.

He was running.

His shadow lay before him, and, as he ran upon it, it grew.

It grew until it was no longer his shadow but a grotesque outline. Suddenly he knew that his shadow had been overrun by that of his pursuer: overrun, overwhelmed, submerged and surmounted.

Then he knew a moment of terrible panic, there upon the blind plain over which he fled.

He knew that it was now his own shadow.

The doom which had pursued him no longer lay at his back.

He knew that he was his own doom.

Knowing that he had finally caught up with himself, he laughed aloud, wanting really to scream.

When he awoke again, he was walking.

He was walking up the twisted wall-trail of Hellwell.

As he walked, he passed the imprisoned flames.

Again, each cried out to him as he went by:

"Free us, masters!"

And slowly, about the edges of the ice that was his mind, there was a thawing.

Masters.

Plural. Not singular.

Masters, they had said.

He knew then that he did not walk alone.

None of the dancing, flickering shapes moved through the darkness about him, below him.

The ones who had been imprisoned were still imprisoned. The ones he had freed were gone.

Now he climbed the high wall of Hellwell, no torch lighting his way. But still, he saw.

He saw every feature of the rocky trail, as though by moonlight.

He knew that his eyes were incapable of this feat.

And he had been addressed in the plural.

And his body was moving, but was not under the direction of his will.

He made an effort to halt, to stand still.

He continued to advance up the trail, and it was then that his lips moved, forming the words:

"You have awakened, I see. Good morning."

A question formed itself in his mind, to be answered immediately through his own mouth:

"Yes, and how does it feel to be bound yourself, Binder—in your own body?"

Siddhartha formed another thought:

"I did not think any of your kind capable of taking control of me against my will—even as I slept."

"To give you an honest answer," said the other, "neither did I. But then, I had at my disposal the combined powers of many of my kind. It seemed to be worth the attempt."

"And of the others? Where are they?"

"Gone. To wander the world until I summon them."

"And what of these others who remain bound? Had you waited, I would have freed them also."

"What care I of these others? I am free now, and in a body again! What else matters?"

"I take it, then, that your promised assistance means nothing?"