Roger Taylor - Caddoran

‘Enough of this nonsense,’ Vashnar shouted. ‘You’re some creation of Thyrn’s like the rest of this place, and I’ll have none of you. Go! Now! Tell your creator to come here and face me in person.’ He turned round and bellowed, ‘Thyrn!’ several times.

His words seemed to take form in the grey air, and the restrained shadows of the broken realities filling the hall became frenzied. But still they were no longer a part of him and he ignored them. Turning back to the figure challengingly he saw that the aura surrounding it was responding similarly, growing in both size and turbulence, while the figure itself was wavering and faltering. At any moment he felt that the robe would crumple, untenanted, to the floor.

Then he sensed a change. A conflict was underway, though he could neither see anything nor hazard what form it might be taking. But conflict it was. A powerful will was making itself felt – fighting for domination. The scrutiny he had felt reaching out from the dark hood was gone and was being directed elsewhere, and he had become again a mere eavesdropper to the distant and garbled voices that were now rising and falling around him.

Abruptly it was over. Both the noise and the wavering distortion about the figure came to some violent, self-consuming climax which made him turn his head away as if to avoid an impact. Then all was silent.

When he looked again at the figure, he saw that it was now clearly present, as solid in this place as he was. It looked around for some time, then long hands emerged to test the hidden face and be examined in their turn. Finally the figure turned towards Vashnar. He clenched his fists, expecting the hood to be withdrawn to reveal Thyrn. But the hood merely nodded slowly, as if satisfying itself about something.

‘You are indeed one of us, Vashnar,’ said the figure. ‘It shines through you.’ The voice was full, resonant, and commanding.

Vashnar did not speak.

‘You are lost in this place, are you not? Its strangeness, its ambivalence, unsettles you. Indeed, its very existence defies any logic you have ever known.’ Vashnar sensed a smile in the shade of the hood. ‘Yet this place, and all the others about you…’ An arm swept over the turbulent greyness beyond the platform. ‘… are there always for those who would seek, who would find the Way.’ The head inclined in the direction of Vashnar’s ring. ‘Or have both the will and the key.’

Still Vashnar did not speak, though it was not for want of something to say. The figure’s words and his manner of speaking them told him that he was dealing not only with someone used to authority and the wielding of power, but someone who knew about him. Silence was thus his best tactic. He must let this new arrival reveal himself with his own words before deciding how to handle him.

‘Still, I would not reproach you for that. I see it myself now only in the light of my own… unusual… experience. My view from a special vantage, as it were. The one I once was would not have come to this conclusion in an eternity of contemplation.’ Then there was a grating note of barely restrained anger in the voice. ‘But, it seems, he is long gone now. And his followers. And…’ He looked around. ‘… the world we knew.’

Vashnar risked his question again. ‘Who are you?’

The figure lowered its head, as if in thought. ‘Not a question I can answer,’ he said after a long pause. ‘Not yet, at least. There is a name I find lingering about me – a name for who I was, before I became… what I became. But that is without meaning now – a burr tangled in the great weave of time and the remaking we set in train.’ A low, self-deprecating laugh emerged from the hood. ‘I suppose it could be said that I am one who has been… born again.’ The laugh rolled on, as at some ironic private joke, before dwindling into an introspective chuckle. ‘Yes, born again – most apt. Now I am remade in my old image, by forces that I do not fully comprehend any more than a newborn child comprehends how he comes to be. Still, it is of no consequence. Whatever conjunction has brought this about, whatever coming together of strange and disparate events – including the spirit and will of Vashnar and the mysterious key he carries – we are here, and the work is to continue.’

‘Work?’

‘Your work – our work – the bringing of order out of the meandering chaos that is humanity’s way. That is your work, is it not?’ The figure inclined its head. Vashnar felt a coldness passing through him. The figure let out a long breath of realization, before continuing. ‘Though I see your horizons are limited.’ The voice became scornful. ‘Morlider to the east, Nesdiryn, silent and frightening, to the west. Your gaze is at the ground. You grovel in the dust when stars and suns shine bright around you.’ The scorn became a hissing declamation. ‘You have not the measure of either your worth or your ability, Vashnar, or even the extent of the ambitions that you harbour within yourself. But with my touch, you will.’

The coldness returned and Vashnar suddenly felt as though a shrouding veil had been torn away, exposing not only all his present plans and future dreams, but a far greater vision, one which saw the borders of Arvenstaat expanding relentlessly under his leadership – expanding until there would be no place where his writ did not run and his name not bring awe.

Part of him exulted in the revelation, but another part of him tried to turn away from it in fear. Two long strides brought the figure before him and two powerful hands held his face. The suddenness of the movement made Vashnar gasp despite himself. Staring into the depths of the hood he saw only a hint of light reflected in the distant eyes. Warm breath touched his face. He could not move.

‘No!’ said the figure, its grip tightening. ‘Neither defy me, nor deny yourself. Look into the heart of your ambitions and see them for what they are, unbounded by mountains and shore and the petty limitations of your old ways. Know that with the power I command through you, nothing can prevail against your will.’ The voice became passionate and driving. ‘Vashnar, Vashnar. You know the truth of this. Much of me is you. You are a necessary part of my coming to be again. You and the power of the faith of my erstwhile followers. Now this is yours. There is nothing you cannot achieve. Whole nations will bow before your armies, make obeisance to your flag. Strike! Strike now! Begin! For aeons I have been scattered, without form. Such an event as we find here – such a coming together – does not happen once in ten thousand generations. And you are at its heart. Cling to your old ways and all will slip from you and turn to dust. Your life will snivel to its dismal end in bitterness and whining self-reproach.’

The figure released him and stepped back. Vashnar clutched at the handrail for support, his mind reeling with the force of the emotions that had been unleashed within him. But some caution still lingered. He had dealt with enough convincing charlatans in his time to be deeply sceptical about wild and freely given promises.

‘If you have such sight – such power – how is it that you are here, defeated?’ he said.

There was a long silence, then the figure said, ‘Now that it is about me again, I see that time is not with us – or with you.’ There was a hint of anxiety in the voice. ‘There is another – a powerful opponent – one who lies beyond my touching. He is aware of us. He must be…’

‘Answer my question.’

There was another long silence. Vashnar sensed the voices returning and the figure swayed slightly. ‘I cannot. How I came to be thus…’ It made an airy gesture and the voices rose and fell with it. ‘… I do not know. But our enemies are so, too. That I know. They too, were defeated. All that was, then, was changed… transmuted.’ Its voice became strident. ‘We had armies beyond your imagining. And engines of war beyond your imagining. Engines that would unravel the very being – the very essence – of our enemies. No living thing could stand against us. Victory was in our grasp.’ The voice faltered and became bewildered and uncertain. ‘I see another conjunction – but one that should not have been. Our enemies must have…’ The figure raised an arm across its hood as if to protect its eyes. ‘I see a brightness moving across the land, across the oceans – moving through all that lived, moving scarcely at the pace of a walking man – but relentlessly growing, sustaining itself. And all fleeing its touch – believer and heretic alike.’