Slow Turns The World (22 page)

“Torrin,” said Valhad, “do you remember what we saw at Iranthrir; the boy who was drowned?”

“Aye.  We could try.  Do you remember the way of it?”

Valhad tilted Graselle's head back pinched her nose and covered her mouth with his.

“What are you doing to her?” demanded His Lordship, angry and confused.  “Don't touch her!”  

He rushed forward but Torrin held him back.

“Lord, Lord, let him try.”

“To raise the dead?  Get your hands off me, Vasagi or I swear you'll be in the Cloisters.  Don’t practice your witchcraft on her.   I'll kill you both for this you savages.”  He turned to the other servants and shouted, “get him off me!”

The others who had gathered, reluctantly moved towards Torrin.  He pushed His Lordship back towards them and reached for his sword.  The blade unsheathed and filled the space between them.  All the while Valhad breathed into Graselle's lifeless mouth.  

“Stay back!” said Torrin

“Alasam, call the guard,” His Lordship ordered, and then added, “you are dead, Vasagi.”

The sound of coughing came.  His Lordship and the servants looked past Torrin with disbelief as Graselle rolled her head towards them, her eyes half open.  She mumbled something incoherent.

Torrin slid the sword back into its sheath and stood silent.  For a few moments all was still and then His Lordship barged past and took Graselle in his arms.  He looked at Valhad as if seeing him for the first time.

“How could you do what you have done?” he asked.

“Any man could do it,” said Valhad, “if he were taught the way.”

Amongst the mutterings of the gathered servants Torrin heard a word whispered; the word was ‘miracle’.

Graselle was nursed through her recovery in His Lordship's chamber.  He stayed with her through all the time of sleeping, sitting beside her bed, holding her hand in his as she slept.  When he seemed sure that she would live he summoned Torrin to meet with him alone.  He asked how they had learnt of the art that saved Graselle's life and Torrin told him what they had seen from the ship.  He seemed satisfied that no magic or heresy was involved but then said:

“Vasagi, you will not tell anyone of how you learnt this thing.”

“But, Lord, they think it was a miracle; that we of the Vasagi have healing powers.”

“Let them think so.  Let my enemies believe that my protector comes from a strange people who can breathe life into the dead.  Instruct your young friend that he is not to speak of it.”

“As you wish, Lord.”

“And Vasagi, you realise that if Graselle had died you would be dead also?”

“Aye.  But there was no time to think of such things, only of what must be done.”

“But do not ever again lay hands on me, or draw sword against me.”

The next time Torrin walked with Valhad through the city he sensed many eyes upon them; rumour and whisper seemed to be all around.  As they passed one doorway a man emerged and begged Valhad to come within.  There, laying in a fever, was a sickly girl-child close to death.   The father pulled back the sheet to reveal a leg ulcer that had made the whole limb swollen and discoloured.  Valhad sat amongst the family giving words of comfort and gently stroking the sweating brow; there was no more that could be done.  When they left a small crowd had gathered in the road outside and there many entreaties to attend the sick or crippled.

“I cannot attend you all,” said Valhad, “and there is no man blessed with the healers touch than can cure all ills.  Do not despair too much.  I cannot offer promises of heaven, or life everlasting as the priests do.  I will not say suffer now and be rewarded, but what I do know is that all things find balance; that all is reconciled in ways that we cannot understand, and nor should we try.”

As Valhad spoke the crowd began to grow.  Torrin watched uneasily as the patrolling solders on the spoke wall stopped and looked down upon them.  The eye of the watchers had come upon them.

The time of sleeping came and Torrin began his long vigil in the darkened house.  As he patrolled the lower floor he heard faint sounds coming from the kitchen and went to investigate.  Within he found Valhad working at the table by the light of a candle, busy with a mortar and pestle.  Laid before him was the imbas he had gathered from the forest tree, long since dried and now being ground to a fine powder.

“I know what you are going to say,” said Valhad, glancing up at Torrin, “but I cannot stand back while the sick suffer and die.”

“It will be you that suffers, and you that will die, if this is discovered,” said Torrin, shaking his head grimly.

“Not if they do not know what cures them.  I have not forgotten the pledge I made you, which I should not have made, which I beg you to release me from.”

“I will not release you,” said Torrin, “to end your short life in the Cloisters.  I am held in oath too, to Perrith, your father, that I should bring you safely home.”

Valhad sighed sadly. “Then let me change my oath.  Let me pledge not to speak of how this healing is done until I am ready to leave this place.  Let the precious knowledge remain here when we have gone.”

“Very well,” said Torrin, “I shall take that as your pledge; not to speak of the imbas until the time to leave comes.”

Valhad nodded and continued grinding the powder.

“When waking comes will you go to the city?” asked Torrin.

“You know that I shall.”

“And you know that I will come with you.”

So they walked together to the city, returning to the house where the sick child lay.  Valhad pulled back the sheet and looked at the oozing wound, bathed it with clean water and then dipped his hand into a pocket where the powdered imbas lay.   He gently stroked the wound, massaging it with a dust that was so fine as to be invisible and gave her water from a flask in which much powder had been dissolved.  

“Is that some potion?” asked the father cautiously.

“No,” said Valhad, “it is just water that I have…. blessed.”

Torrin grimaced slightly, wishing Valhad had chosen some other word. They left and went to other houses where the sick lay, and each time Valhad repeated what he had done, administering the imbas by touch or drink.  Then he would sit and talk with those around, telling them of God and man; of the quietest voice within every heart that was left by the Maker.  The words flowed from him, his own quietest voice talking through him, but quiet no more.  Now it was firm, strong and filled with absolute conviction.  All that listened drew silent, became captivated and were like blind men whose eyes blink open for a moment and show them the world revealed.  Finally, they left and returned to the citadel, leaving a buzz of rumour in their wake.

When they returned to the villa Marasil came to Torrin’s room.   They lay together and he told her what had happened in the city, but without mention of the imbas.

“I cannot be with him at all times,” he said, “I have begged him be more cautious, to conceal himself and not to heal or preach where the priests can see.  So far he has not revealed his name, nor that of our master.  But we know how he is.  When he speaks to them another voice seems to come through him and he forgets all danger.”

“Then how can we protect him?” she asked.

“Would you go with him always when I cannot?  Lead him by the paths and alleys that you know and do not let him linger too long in any place.  I do not like to ask this, for it puts you at risk, but I know no other that can do it.”

“Protector,” she said, “don’t you know that I would do this anyway?  And father too, for we both love him; each in our way.”

Not all the sick were cured but most with infections to wound or blood recovered.  Some, with other afflictions, simply got better, as they were destined to, but still they thanked the healer for his touch.  Now, when Valhad revealed himself in the city, many people clustered around him, begging him to tend their sick or share his wisdom with them.  Marasil and Alasam led him through shadow-filled, winding alleys to a sick bed, or a secret gathering in some gloomy cellar, where those assembled listened, captivated by his teachings.  There were many whispers in the city of a new healer and teacher.  The word passed from mouth to ear, from city to citadel, the eyes behind the spy holes became more vigilant.  

Then Torrin was summoned to His Lordship.

“Vasagi, we have a journey to make.”

“Lord?”

“There are issues that cardinal Saloxe is not delegated to deal with.  If His Supreme Holiness will not come here, then we must go to him.”

“To where, Lord?”

“His Holiness has a palace at Matrodar.  That is where he resides, though it is normally used at this time.  It is in darkness.”

“Why does His Holiness live in the darkness?”

“I cannot say what keeps him there, Vasagi.  He is an old man, and his ways have become strange.  We will leave at the next time of waking.  We will need to take another servant too.  The journey is long and I would prefer both Alasam and Marasil to remain here with Graselle.”

“Lord, may I ask that Valhad accompanies us, he is hard working and willing.”

“Yes, very well.  Now summon Alasam, there are many preparations to be made.”

Torrin left the room with a sense of relief.  It would be no bad thing to remove Valhad from the city for a while, to take him far from his admirers, and the growing clouds of trouble that Torrin sensed.

Many carriages and carts prepared to set forth together to the Emperor.  There were provisions that were required by his court, and many emissaries of the church with business to report.   Accompanied by a column of priest-soldiers they waited on the road before the tower as His Lordship’s coach drew alongside.  Another coach in the column had a familiar insignia; as they passed, Cardinal Saloxe leant from the window and a few words were exchanged.

“Lord Vagis,” said Saloxe, “you will be pleased to know that I have decided to join you, and pay my respects to His Supreme Holiness.”

“A most unexpected pleasure,” His Lordship called back, masterfully concealing his true sentiments.  They slotted into the column and left the city, following a long straight road with the sun behind them.  At first they passed many small villages clustered around the temple domes where frightened people fed them when they rested.  Torrin and Valhad travelled on the roof of the coach; one sat beside the driver, the other often sprawled across the rocking canopy.  A gimballed hourglass divided their time into travelling, resting and sleeping.  The cycles passed, the villages became fewer and the sun kissed the horizon.  Cloud swept across the purple sky, merging to make a gray roof above them and then the rain began.  The road wound in snaking curves from the plains and rose into the low weeping clouds.  They toiled on in drizzling fog, past solitary wizened trees.  The villages were empty now, awaiting the turning of the world and the dawn of the warming sun.   They made their beds within the shuttered dwellings, and with no more tributes to enjoy from the wayside villagers, ate from the provisions that were carried with them.

The road descended out of the fog but the rain continued and grew colder.  In this zone beyond the sun the overwhelming clouds made the world murky and dim.  They journeyed on until before them, filling a wide valley from side to side, was a lake extending distantly.  Strangely, the road vanished into the water and about them were houses half submerged while further out a temple dome made an island.  Barges awaited them, but moored so far into the lake that a man needed first to swim out to the nearest one.  A soldier, keen to impress, volunteered and plunged into the chill waters.   Torrin turned to His Lordship who had stepped down from the coach to watch.

“Why are the boats moored so far from the shore?” he asked.

“The waters rise, Vasagi, the lake grows.   The river flows into dark and coldness and then freezes.  There is a dam of ice that holds the water back.  When the world turns, when dawn comes, the ice will melt, the lake will drain and people will live again where the water now is deep.”

They loaded the barges, leaving the carriages and carts to return to sunlit lands.  The soldiers rowed and they set off, the rain still falling upon them.  There was no break in their journey now as one shift of rowers replaced another and the dim valley sides slipped past.  It was now darker than ever it was when they had journeyed east in the ship.  The wind was turning and blowing more from the south; it had a dry and icy jaggedness.   The valley sides were lost in gloom but then became visible once more in ghostly form as if glowing faintly from within.  Torrin wondered what made this strange effect and then he found that the rain was falling in soft white flakes.   He had seen snow fall on the far southern plains, but there the ground was warm and it vanished as it landed; here it was piled high upon the hilltops.  There was a new sound too as the barge cut through the water; a cracking and creaking of ice splitting.  Torches were lit and the flotilla became a procession of bobbing jewels.  The snow fell harder, and a bitter wind whined around them.  It became altogether dark, and then in the distance, lights flickered.

There was a floating berth and walkway that led to broad steps lined either side with many lanterns.  The snow had been cleared away and banked high, but more had fallen since to crunch beneath their feet.  A priest, cloaked and hooded against the biting gusts and driving snow, greeted them.  He led them up a long flight of winding steps between lanterns that rocked and quivered in the wind until a wall loomed above them and was lost in darkness all around.  Doors creaked open and they entered a high domed chamber, their footsteps echoing on the tiled floor as the wind howled distantly.  A hearth taller than a man was set against one wall and a fire of coals burned, filling the chamber with flickering light and monstrous shadows.  They gathered before it, stamping on numb feet and warming their chilled hands.  The cloaked priest addressed them.

“You will be shown to your chambers.  At the first bell after waking His Supreme Holiness will take worship and then council.”

His Lordship was conducted to a small room, little more than a cell, but with a bed and a blazing coal fire.  For Torrin there was no bed of any kind.  Only a stool against his master's door that allowed brief uncomfortable periods of rest before cold forced him to tramp up and down the corridor.  Eventually the waking bell tolled and sounds of activity filled the palace.  His Lordship emerged in full regalia and they made their way toward the throne chamber. Torrin could only guess the scale of the palace as each high arched passage they followed converged with another and grew larger still.  An uncountable number of lanterns lined the walls while candles clustered in multitudes on chandeliers that were all of one design; the triangle within the circle.