Gazing through the large opening at the emerging stars outside, Brandor considered the wondrous idea hovering before him. Seated on the floor of one of Tarden’s many internal gardens, coming here to rest prior to tackling the Drola and Polon issue again, he had not expected the seed-thought to materialise into what it had. Turning the idea over, inspecting its possibilities, the concept was way beyond anything imagined before. Piecing the details together, an astonishing picture began to emerge. The more he examined the revelation, the greater was the sense of wonder. Composing himself, he had to be right about this.
“I expected this sooner or later,” Hallen said to Kifter, both observing a sleeping Bane on the half-empty balcony.
“He has been under enormous pressure of late,” the Fife said.
Now dark, only a few golden globes on the leafy walls illuminated the tender scene.
“We cannot leave him here,” the Hite said, sympathetic. “Shall we wake him, and tell him of Hanor’s arrival?”
“And have him turn Tarden upside down looking for our resting young friend,” Kifter said, disapproving. “Such good news can wait until tomorrow. He needs respite just like Hanor does.”
Lifting Bane, Hallen carried the young man from the balcony. The boy had serious decisions to make, just like the rest of them.
Making his way through the labyrinth of branched corridors, Brandor reached the central stairwell and proceeded up to the top level. Confident the revelation was genuine, the potential of what had been revealed was astonishing.
Bearing right at the top, heading for the Deba Chamber, the very heart of the city, it was where the Masters lived and worked. Fewer Tardanians moved on this level, mostly those attuned to the Finer Arts and others granted power to govern resided here. Passing the enormous trunk of a tree, its vast width reminded him of how much power was concentrated here. A Master would be inside directing energies towards the outer force field protecting Tarden, and it was those energies that he would need to make his plan work.
Expecting Drola to reject the idea, disbelieving how unreasonable the High-tard had become of late, his abhorrence of Polon of Tardoc had soared beyond reasonability. Maloree, his Yarmorian beloved had admitted how protective he was over her. Apologising for actuating the event whereby the two had challenged each other to win her hand, with hindsight, another way should have been found. Growing close to both when visiting from Yarmoria over twenty full seasons ago, she had seen the challenge as a way out of having to choose one over the other. Wanting to make her home here in The Freelands, the two friends had foolishly agreed to the contest. Pitting their wits against each other, it was during the final parts that Drola had won due to a technicality. The trial had been set, but Polon had misunderstood. Finishing the physical trials first, but he had not asked her to unite with him. Too busy celebrating, when Drola completed his round, he realised his friend had not yet asked for her hand. Polon had believed she meant to give the red milly flower to the winner in a ceremony announcing her commitment, so Drola had seized his chance. Taking the flower, he had asked for her hand and therefore sealed the victory.
The grief caused by the incident drove a wedge between the two, evolving into bitter enemies. Over the many seasons, Drola had become disturbed by the outcome. He had won, but not in a convincing way. Even today, it caused much debate about the fairness of it. Maloree had reasoned afterwards that the challenge had been set, and Polon had failed to complete it. Glimpsing for the first time her strength of character, she had stood by that decision. Loving them both, but if she had backed down, Drola would have insisted that he finished the challenge correctly and was the only true victor.
Juggling the details, it seemed reasonable, observing her regret enough times. Accusations of wrongdoing amongst some Tardanians here were harsh. Nevertheless, the fact the incident was still haunting the two leaders was the real problem.
“Brandor…!” a call came from behind, pulling him from his musings.
Halting, he turned. “Caldon!”
The Master of Tarden’s Forces drew near, anxious. “I have to see Hosan about the Masters’ position. I need to be sure where their loyalties lie.”
‘So much indecision,’ Brandor thought. “Any advancements on Drola?”
“Not yet.”
“Is there anything to suggest foul play?” Brandor asked, maintaining his own view that Maloree was doing her utmost to calm the situation rather than add fire to it.
“Not that I know of.”
“Your hands are tied until this mess is sorted out, Caldon.”
Some had called for Caldon to override Drola’s reluctance to send a force to cover the northern areas of Tardania, but strong loyalties prevented him from undermining his friend and High-tard. A fair Tardanian, one who looked at the evidence rather than listen to suspicious rumours, his word was his bond. The graven argument was that Drola was being manipulated or had an illness of the mind. Even so, delays here could be costly.
“Drola has nothing but Tarden’s interests at heart,” The Master of the Forces decreed. “I am convinced there is more he has not told us, but what can we do if he is unwilling to state it?”
“He may have Tarden’s interests at heart, but that does not mean his decisions are the best way forward.”
“I know.”
“You are closer to him than most, what has happened to him?”
“This has chewed away at him for a long time” Caldon said, deciding Brandor had a right to know. “I have seen a gradual change in him where Maloree is concerned. You know how well he deals with everyday issues, so in touch with the hopes and dreams of our people. Look at the new Ring of Power protecting Tarden, was that not his idea? His heart and love is with his people but… mention the subject of Polon, the walls come up and he becomes defensive.”
“I have spoken to Polon, and he is prepared to unite with Tarden to cover the northern borders, but appreciates the betrayal long ago is still eating away at Drola. He is saddened but disowns it. Justice is the word he uses, not bitterly, he just accepts that unseen laws do influence life.” Staring at the stocky Tardanian, thoughtful, Brandor continued. “A decision will have to be made soon Caldon, the numbers released to cover the northern sectors are far from adequate.”
“It is like sending those who have gone to their deaths,” he agreed.
“The Fire of the Forest has its benefits, but the people of Tarden cannot stay holed up here whilst the rest of The Freelands burn. The Dark One’s attentions will turn here eventually with all his might once the rest is taken. It is easier for him to pick each race off one at a time; you know the tactics of warfare Caldon.”
“I do, Brandor, and a decision will be made soon.”
Mulling over its implications whilst heading for the Deba Chamber, Brandor growled, nothing was ever straightforward with the Tardanians. Strong willed and defiant of any outside intrusion, just to be involved meant he was in an honoured position. Careful not to overstep the mark, he could only hope Caldon would be strong enough to do the right thing.
Cutting through an internal garden with its deep reds and purples, such places were just as important to the Masters here as any Reading Chamber or Meeting Room. Due to the intensity of their work, respite was an integral part of the process. Aligned to the vibrations of the city, some amalgamating when carrying out their duties, those absorbed minds needed to recuperate when released from their work. Common to see individuals meandering along, rewinding their expanded minds so they could manage normal lives here at Tarden, grounding themselves was often a lengthy process. Their service to the city was now even more demanding with the creation of the Fire of the Forest.
Passing a room with a handful of young apprentices inside, Woole, one of the younger Masters, was busy teaching. A quick acknowledgement when the Dai-laman passed, Woole was one who might be persuaded. It was the older Masters he would have trouble convincing, some of whom were set in their ways, not too dissimilar to his own colleagues at the Sleep. Trusting this new directive would blow away the dust and cause a stir like never before, if he failed here there was no point going to Tardoc.
Arriving at the vast Deba Chamber, the very pinnacle of the One Tree of Tarden, its enormous girth filled his vision. Massive limbs above formed the rooftop of this living city. Since the Nyshifters’ attack on the Sleep, he had learnt not to take things for granted, and this was one sight that never failed to move him.
As expected, the entrance was sealed, with nobody in the vicinity. The adjoining Discussion Chamber was empty too. Opting to enter the Deba Chamber instead of waiting for a significant number to gather outside, anticipation energised him, the power radiating from this place enthralling. Thrumming like the heartbeat of a living creature, for that was what the city was, he had to bring his inner world to a peaceful state before he could enter. They would not answer his call if he was not in tune with its vibration. Closing his eyes and emptying his mind, the peace increased as feelings of connectedness proved his readiness. Placing a hand on the wall of the tree, the energies in his heart started beating in line. Conscious of fifteen Masters within, the oneness felt invigorating.
Juddering before splitting, the tree wall opened, a deep red and gold slither of light jetting outwards. Casting the surrounding area in a warm glow, Brandor stepped inside, the immense vibrating powers universal. Penetrating every fibre of his being, he was blessed to be included in such a remarkable sharing experience. Strong desires to serve was why he had been granted entry two full seasons ago. The Entity ensouling Tarden had impressed upon the Masters its desires to include Brandor, and he had been allowed in ever since.
Sitting on the floor in a large circle, fifteen focused Masters were committed to their tasks. Eyes closed, no sound apart from the Tree’s vibrating life force resonated. No audible words were ever spoken here, it was a place of pure mind. Nothing could be hidden either, no deceit or undesirable motives could be veiled, the Entity’s overriding presence ensuring unity, even when points of view differed.
Joining them, Brandor sank into a trancelike state, merging mentally with the rest. Aware of each other and the direction to which each person served, it was a completeness Brandor yearned for throughout The Freelands. Immersed, to think there was evil in the world seemed unimaginable here. Tapping into vital points of energy rising from the ground, the Entity shared those forces with the city and its Masters. Receiving in return from the Masters and Brandor certain human forces that enhanced its own experience and understanding, to be part of it was a true blessing.
In a waking trance, Brandor’s subtle thoughts extended out, sharing with the others his intentions. Sharing his vision, deep feelings of impression, the very language of the Tree, told them of what he hoped. Waves of his desires were felt by all. Expressing the need for their unified powers to reach right across The Freelands like a mighty wall, his vision was to extend Tarden’s powers to the Masters of Tardoc, and from there, to Manter. Mandurin, Grovan and Rovot were also to be linked to the yet to be built Wall of Power. Creating an invisible barrier similar to Tarden’s Fire of the Forest, the details were as Brandor had received them. Merging minds meant no lower emotions were involved, no anger or negativity to hinder the process. Staying calm enabled the facts of its potential to be known.
Great Tardanian minds sitting alongside absorbed the whole vision, Brandor waiting as they considered the disclosure. Slow at first, within the settled conditions a steady flow of thoughts began filling the centre ground. Points of view questioning different aspects of the vision highlighted what an extraordinary idea it was. Recognising the amazing potential, only a few reasoned away its possibilities by the sheer scale of what he was proposing. Thoughts passed back and forth, all within the boundaries of peace, seeking a final decision on the matter.
Whilst they mentally discussed the issue, like a great guide and teacher from another world, the Entity tuned into the exchange. Observing the situation from a different conscious viewpoint, unable to see it in the same framework as the sixteen individuals sitting within its body, when the discussion had run its course, its presence filled the space between them, preparing to share Its own interpretation.
Within that concentrated circle, subtle sensations started beating rapidly and with purpose. Delicate and graceful, at first it was difficult to discern what the meaning was. Reacting to its tempo, the sensations felt wonderful. Pouring down with an unseen power, the sense of oneness spoke louder than any word ever could. Flowing, minute tingles of goodness stirred everyone’s hearts, each person realising what it was. Uncomplicated, the unconditional love chimed of the Sacred. Such fullness could only be experienced under certain conditions, and each member knew what those conditions were.
Agreement swept the group, each understanding the Entity’s meaning. The abundance of joy resulted from just one thing, a willingness to serve unconditionally, and that meant to serve everyone. No one should be left out from the embrace of their service. The worried few who had concerns about overextending their resources across The Freelands agreed also. Some wiped a tear, whilst others were just thankful the Sacred were part of this conflict. Pleased, it was the conclusion Brandor had hoped for.
Standing steadfast on a mountaintop, the stormy wind thrashed against Brandor through the twilight. Heightened, his extraordinary perception scanned the entire scope of The Freelands. To the south, the great city of Manter flickered in the distance. Grovan was to the east, and to the west, Tardoc with its mighty towers, stood proud and defiant. Beneath him, Mandurin waited in shadow.
From the vastness above, a jet of white light shot down with incredible intensity, blasting through the city of Mandurin into the ground beneath. Pulsing with an otherworldly power, the column of white light hummed but did not move. Another beam followed, this time near Tardoc. Two others hit the ground with equal ferocity, one for Grovan and the other Manter. The forces were incredible. A fifth and final jet exploded at the centre of all four. Five columns of the brightest force stood proud upon the planes of The Freelands.
Unexpected, the outer four started moving around the central column. Increasing in speed, in a few heartbeats they were encircling so fast that only a wall of light remained. Perceiving the unbelievable forces, the ring began condensing, moving closer to the central column as if pulled by an invisible chord. The brilliance of its form intensified, the outer four bearing allegiance to that central power. Energies that gave life to The Freelands were converging. Symbolising the ending of an era, and a new Age dawning, the powers involved amplified. Drawing closing, at the moment of unity, the whole heavens lit up with amazing magnificence. Dazzling lights merged, the four rotating columns fusing, leaving just one beam of power at the centre of The Freelands.
From his lofted vantage point, the heat burnt Brandor’s face. Heightened senses waited for an event to happen that was beyond his understanding. The Pillar of Light was a living force, an Entity of some unimaginable kind, too vast to comprehend. Invisible eyes from within the Pillar looked at him. Catching his breath, he was looking at something Sacred. Tempted to fall on his knees, a strong impression warned against it. Instead, a pulse of unconditional love swept across the planes, filling his whole body. Immersed in the sweetest peace, revealing the splendour of the vast Entity in front, he felt humbled, and not worthy to be in its presence.
Peering down and to the side, to his horror, the darkest of Shadows was creeping around the base of the great mountain he was standing on. Snatching away the peace, it kept moving, crawling along the ground towards the Pillar of Light. Contemptible, the Darkness was evil and full of hate. The Shadow wanted to engulf the Light, to consume it and be Master of all. Hideous, its distorted desires numbed his senses, crying out at its intentions.
Conscious again of the sacred Entity in front, in awe of its magnitude, it did not react to the new threat. Creeping nearer, the Shadow started spreading across The Freelands, shutting out that illuminating Light. Shocked at the unfolding drama, the Entity within the Light refused to defend itself. About to be smothered by the Darkness if nothing was done, its loving attention remained fixed on Brandor, and still it waited.
“Do something,” he cried, imploring the Being to shine forth its power and dissipate the wretched Darkness. Stalling, insights cut deep. The Light was waiting, not for its own defence, but for him to help dispel that Darkness. Sickness whirled at the revelation. Dismayed, it was prepared to be covered if he was not willing to help, but how? The Universe had waited for this moment since life began on this planet, and now, he was just watching the Darkness steal away that glory.
To his right, across the planes amidst the vast regions of Tardania, a tiny Light caught his attention. So small and faint he could barely see it, what was the Light for? A shadow to the north was spinning as if trapped. Sensing the two were linked, “Please, what does this mean?” Time was running out. The only thing making ground was the Darkness. This cannot be the end surely?
Snapping awake, the vision imprinted on Brandor’s beleaguered mind, the pain of it was there, so too the hopelessness. Previously yearning for guidance, but not like this. “Help me understand!”
From the depths of his inner world, his plea was heard. Subtle impressions roused, similar to when inside the Deba Chamber. Vague at first, but the insights grew, hinting at what the dream meant. A narrow pathway emerged amongst the marauding perils of what he should do next. Relieved, but the burdens of responsibility were heavy. If he were to fail, that Shadow would succeed, and life in The Freelands would change forever.
Mid-morning on this bright turn of the day, Bane sat chewing a mouthful of quaner on the balcony, wondering what Hanor was doing. Informed by Hallen earlier about his best friend’s arrival the previous evening, at first, he had wanted to find him. But after taking stock of rampant emotions, doubts about how Hanor would react had halted that urge. Sitting here now was as frustrating as it was unnerving, thoughts of what would be said about Nole knotting his stomach. Not yet coming to terms with it himself, he gazed out across the trees, a few teardrops trickling in silent tribute to his lost friend. Things were going to be different now. Promising to avenge his death by committing to fight for The Freeland’s survival, doubts surfaced whether he could keep such a promise. Mood swings came and went like the wind, adding uncertainty.
Waking up the previous evening in bed fully clothed, he had not slept well after that. Lack of sleep was catching up on him. Not in the right mind to listen to Kifter, Hallen and Tarmon, who sat nearby talking about the Nyshifter’s appearance at Ags Ole, the Fife’s relief at Hanor’s arrival was noticeable by the periodic bouts of laughter. Trying to sympathise with him, but Bane could not help but question why they had crossed that bridge in the first place. Nole’s map had shown other crossings along the Rapone River, if only they had chosen one of them. Dismissing the idea, he knew where the notion would lead him, doing enough blaming of late to discover its destructiveness. If Kifter was to get his comeuppance, then Hanor was the one to do it. Not looking forward to meeting Brandor again, it was difficult not to blame him either. Supposing they would want to send him back to Manson, but he had come too far to turn back now.
Catching movement to their left, Brandor stood at the entrance of the Eating Hall with a shadowy figure just behind. Eating a slither of meat, the Dai-laman looked pleased with himself.
“I have cleared up your mess,” Brandor joked, stepping forward, leaving a lone individual standing in the doorway.
Shy and uncomfortable, expecting to see a distraught figure full of pain, but Hanor appeared more lost than he was hurt. Awaiting the fury, Kifter, Hallen and Bane were most surprised to see a timid looking friend rather than a vengeful one.
Aching for this moment for so long, Hanor felt vulnerable now that he was here. Any hopes for a flood of remembrance were short-lived, the lack of movement undermining the whole reunion. Three of the four faces looked familiar, but it was not enough. Disappointed, nothing chimed to free Hanor from the mental captivity. Concealing the dismay, this was supposed to be a time of celebration not gloom.
“Hanor,” Brandor said, motioning for him to come forward. Frustrated that no clear recognition from Hanor was obvious, it was disquieting to say the least. Convinced the turmoil would eventually surface, but for the moment, it probably suited the situation. Plans he had for their group could trigger those memories, but time would only tell. “Hanor, these are your friends. Kifter, Hallen and Bane.”
Uncertain expressions flickered across surprised faces, unsure what to make of it. Motionless, Brandor’s words rebounded around the group, implying Hanor could not remember them.