TWENTY-FOUR
RYDER WAITED WHILE the wenlords released the latches upon the great doors of the Hall of Swords. Darkness had fallen, and the land remained shrouded in mist. Not even the Quietus had dispelled the expectation. Still, he had found a kind of numbness. What good did it do to worry? What should he fear? The mysterious powers that had lured him here to this shore of time would surely have known of this moment. Would they not be guiding his steps as the ancient one had foretold?
The massive doors slid open with a hollow groan. Footsteps echoed on the cobbled floor as the small group followed Ryder to the foot of the stairs. He paused there, turning to address the three who would set him on his way. Khan had chosen not to join them. There remained only the giant Halfinger, and to either side, the dark visages of the lords of the Fifth Wen. Valiant and trusted friends, yet further they could not accompany him.
“No matter what, you must not climb the Tower,” Ryder warned. “There are forces at work here greater even than an Adept.”
“Worry not,” Halfinger replied grimly. “The memory of Niobe’s visage is forewarning enough.”
“Trust in yourself, Ryder Talisman,” Roland advised, adding a wan smile. “Believe in your destiny and all else shall follow as it will.”
“Aye,” agreed Shaka. “We will wait here for you. Even though we cannot follow, neither shall we leave.”
Ryder nodded in silent thanks. There was nothing more to say.
He turned and mounted the steps. They wound ever upward, circling the Tower over a score of times before he came to a narrow platform fronted by a simple wooden door. He lifted the latch and entered, holding his breath in anticipation.
The room was circular as he had expected, and it encompassed the top of the spire. There were ten windows, if one could call them such. They were more like widened slits built into the stone walls, all of them bare. Thin tendrils of mist floated through and around, played like nimble fingers by the night breeze.
Ten seats sat in two semi-circles facing eastward. In the center was an eleventh and twelfth. Their purpose was obvious: places for the Ten and one each for the Pat’Riark and Niobe. The low altar they faced drew Ryder’s immediate attention. And what lay upon it.
Not upon it, exactly. The tiny flame floated above the altar, each of its changeling colors holding for a time before dissolving into the next. It was the only light in the chamber, small and intense, yet not bright enough to dispel the shadows beneath the windows. He watched mesmerized for several breathless moments, trying to discern some pattern to their dance. He could find none.
He was less than a stride away now, in front of the central seats. Close enough to touch it if he wished. It was the purpose of his coming here, was it not? And yet, he hesitated. Chiseled deep into the stone face were bold letters in the Common tongue. He read them and felt a chill pass over him.
TOUCH NOT THE FLAMEN UNLESS YOU BE ITS MASTER
The warning Niobe had failed to understand. And what made him so sure he was any different? He was neither Adept nor Magi, only a stranger suddenly thrust into an even stranger world.
‘Believe in your destiny and all else shall follow as it will.’
With the words of Roland echoing in his mind, he reached out, willing his shields into quiescence. His fingers shook as he touched the tiny flame, felt them pass through…
And there was nothing.
He drew back, puzzled and disappointed. Whatever mystical and profound transformation he had expected had not materialized. And yet the flame appeared suddenly larger and brighter. Or was it his imagination?
He remembered Niobe’s words in the garden when she had drawn him away alone a short time before his leaving. The description of her experience had been as awful as the pain of its telling.
‘Agony…one greater than any I have ever felt. And a feeling of wonder at the same time. Heat, as if a thousand suns had entered my body, melting me yet chilling me, lifting me in glory yet thrusting me down in a never-ending spiral. And throughout the agony was the knowing I had acted wrongly. I was not the One…’
Even as the thought passed, a bright flash illuminated the entire chamber. He felt a sensation of movement, a whisper as something passed swiftly over his shoulder. Laughter bubbled up in his brain. Startled, he realized the flame was no longer above the altar. He turned, drawing his sword. Why, he could not say, but he suddenly felt threatened.
There it hovered, larger and brighter to be sure. Yet it was more than a flame now, unearthly in its flickering color: a blue so pale it was almost white. A voice exploded in his mind, one he instantly recognized.
‘Greetings, Herald!’
***
He was almost a man. Sunbear: a warrior born of a long line of warriors. Yet he was not only of his mother’s people. He was also of his father’s white race. He was both Talisman and Sunbear. He turned his head and saw the long trail stretching behind him far into the distance. The trail they had followed for many turns, leading north from the Sacred Hills of the Paha Sapa. He recognized the land of the redcoat soldiers. The land of the English Queen.
In front of him was the old man. Not so old then, with still a trace of youthful hardness and vigor in his body. The father of his mother: Elkhorn, the mystic…Elkhorn, the maker of medicine and magic. And this long and difficult journey was a vision quest: his first. He remembered the question that had burned in his mind. Why had they come so far from the Sacred Hills of their lands?
The mountain loomed in front of them. Close now. Even closer as the shadows lengthened. At last, they moved up the slope. In darkness they crept upward. The old man moved unerringly, with certain knowledge of the trail even in the pitch of night. The mouth of the cave suddenly appeared like the gaping maw of a giant carnivore. They moved into it. The memories flowed swift and smooth. Without pause. Without doubt.
The old man flung out his arm and uttered a command. Flame sprouted from the gathered kindling, an unearthly fire low in brilliance and heat, but somehow it warmed the cave and dispelled the shadows.
The cavern suddenly filled with a low and eerie chanting as the old man danced with a steady, shuffling gait. The Sacred Medicine Wheel. East to the rising sun. North to the cold. South to the warm light. West to the sunset. Father Sun. Mother Earth. Then silence as the old man turned to him.
‘The time has come for you to meet them. In the endless dream of the Great Spirit, they exist as we do. Though they are now on a higher plane, they were once a part of us. They are aware as we are not. From the earliest memory, they have sought the best of us, those ablest to understand. Their goal is to enlighten, to make us aware of the Great Balance, which is but another way of naming this plane of reality. The Master of Forces and the Other—the Lightless One. Darkness and Light. Good and Evil…the endless opposition that sustains the duality of existence.
‘You are a special creature, born to a special destiny. What I have taught you up to now has awakened but a minute portion of your power, for you are far greater than I. It is time for you to see it, to unlock it within your body and mind. Only they can do this. The Y’Lys-yn…the Lords of the Flame. Yet remember this and you will prevail: once you were a man of flesh and blood.’
The old man flung out his arm again, and the flame spurted from the small logs. It snapped upward like a thin spear then settled to a pyramid hovering above the wood, no longer a part of it yet glowing brighter and many-hued. A voice spoke to Ryder. It was not a voice with a tongue, but a voice of the mind. He understood the language, for it was his.
‘Greetings, Herald!’
Ryder was aware once more of standing in the small chamber high in the Tower of Light. His sword glowed with the Flame of High Power. Its aura covered him, astonishing in its purity, rising higher than the ceiling, disappearing through it yet leaving it unscathed. And there was now a flicker of awareness within, a partial revelation of who he was and what he must do.
‘Greetings, Flame Lord.’
‘The time is at hand. Greed and lust now beset the Other. These will draw him into this plane ever more swiftly and surely. It is an impetus even his will cannot stop, though he may now sense the spark of your presence. We have restored power of a kind unto you. There is yet more. As we promised, when the time is right you will discover your true nature. And with it, your true power. Until then, let your senses guide you, for we cannot yet return. There is danger still from his minions. Beware of them, for he too conveys upon them power of a sinister kind.’
‘I understand.’
‘Hold fast to your purpose, Herald, and await the hour of our coming!’
The release was instantaneous. Once more, Ryder beheld a tiny flame. It flickered with a strange light, to be sure, yet with no more power than a normal fire. He began his descent with a sense of grim humor. All that fear and worrying, and for what? There is only this anticlimax.
He reached the ground level. Seeing him, the wenlords backed away. There was awe and even fear on their faces. Ryder realized the Flame still glowed from his sword.
“Are you yet a man?” Halfinger asked, fingering his sword hilt. “We saw a strange light glowing from the Tower. We could not identify it. Though it resembled the sword Flame, it was different somehow.”
Ryder smiled, dimming his power and sheathing his sword. “I am still a man, my friends. Though I am more. As yet, I remain less than complete, still unknowing of my true self. Yet for now, you have another Adept within your ranks.”
“Nothing else happened?” Shaka asked, still uneasy. Ryder’s emerald eyes glowed even more eerily than they had before, and the aura of power was a naked burning.
“I am not blinded if that is what you mean,” Ryder replied stiffly.
They were silent, watching him as though he might change into something else before their very eyes. Gradually, the tenseness left their bodies and they drifted closer.
“Now that you have become an Adept, will you continue to wear the robe of the Magi?” Roland asked.
Ryder deliberated. “Perhaps I shall add a black stripe or two…like the Pat’Riark.”
They regarded him round-eyed with disbelief.
Halfinger suddenly burst out with a huge, gut-shaking laugh, which at once made them relax.
They drew their Swords, summoning the Flame with a great shout, acknowledging him with the traditional salute accorded to one who has finally entered the hallowed ranks of the Shiul Mha D’In.