Roger Taylor: Arash-Felloren

‘Do it,’ he said. ‘Tell the Ailad I left you no choice.’ For an instant, the Captain felt himself pinioned. Something was binding his every muscle. He knew the touch. This man could use the Power. But only the Kyrosdyn could use the Power. Who was…?

Almost immediately he was free, but the shock of the revelation made him stagger. Atlon’s hand sustained him.

‘Take me to the Ailad now,’ he said.

Struggling just to contain his shock, the Captain nodded and motioned Atlon to follow him.

Atlon felt no triumph at what he had done. Indeed, he was trying to feel nothing at all. He knew that he must concentrate absolutely on things as they happened, seeing them for what they were and not allowing his responses to be clouded by what should have been, what might have been, what might yet be, and all other imponderables. Though he had used the Power only slightly and very briefly, it had been a frightening risk and he was well aware that he was forcing events.

The long corridors of the Vaskyros both heartened and repelled him. Pictures, statues, elaborate carvings were everywhere, brilliant crystal designs swept over ceilings, walls and floors. All of them demonstrated workmanship of a high order and, even to Atlon’s eyes, they gave a clear measure of the Kyrosdyn’s great wealth and power in Arash-Felloren. But the ornate and complex symmetries also disturbed him in ways which he could not clearly define. The whole seemed to be the work of a cold and deeply obsessive intellect – at once inhuman and all too human. Abruptly, the images around him became one with his memory of the outside appearance of the Vaskyros. The entire building had a purpose beyond that of a mere dwelling place or citadel for the Kyrosdyn. Just as crystals could draw in and transmute the Power, so too, this edifice had some similar function. The realization shook him profoundly, and though no logic or reason guided him, he knew that the Vaskyros was intended to be the focal point, the key, the bridge to the Ways that would return Him to this world! Knowingly or unknowingly, the Kyrosdyn were working to draw together the scattered shards of His being, spread now across a myriad other worlds.

I must survive this! The inner cry rose out of the turmoil which followed this revelation. No matter what the cost, others must know what was happening here. At the very least he had to get back to Dvolci and tell him what the Kyrosdyn were doing so that the message could be carried home.

For a moment, he was on the battlefield again, shoulder to shoulder with his Brothers, facing the power of His lieutenants. Deflecting it, returning it, to protect the hastily gathered army from certain annihilation, thus leaving the conflict to sword against sword, resolve against resolve, courage against courage.

Scarcely a day passed but what he remembered some part of that scene.

It must never happen again.

He had walked barely two paces in the course of this learning, but he walked in another world now. One of clear needs and desperate urgencies.

Yet he knew too, that albeit strong and vigorous, the Kyrosdyn’s intent was only a continuation of the ancient purpose of this building. The events of the present were different. Pinnatte, the Serwulf – the reasons why he was here – did not belong in this scheme. They were an unexpected and unknowable threat – a great boulder loosed finally by the least of breezes and crashing down through forests and villages, threatening all alike.

Against them, both he and the Kyrosdyn had common cause!

‘This is the Audience Hall, sir. Would you wait here, please. I must announce you properly.’

The Captain’s now-deferential voice cut across Atlon’s shock at his conclusion. He gathered himself together sufficiently to manage a nod.

As the Captain leaned forward to open the double doors of the Audience Hall, they opened in front of him, leaving him gaping awkwardly into the face of Imorren.

‘Catch as many as you can, then get the rest of that vermin away from here,’ she said, walking past him. The tone of her voice and a slight gesture were sufficient to send the Captain running down the corridor, all concerns about Atlon dismissed.

Atlon stared into Imorren’s face. She was very beautiful. He had not expected that. He flushed slightly.

Imorren noted the signal, but she sensed his knowledge of the Power also and the shock overrode her judgement. ‘Who are you?’ she demanded, coldly. Atlon held her gaze and she cursed herself inwardly as she saw the magic slipping from his face. A different tone, a hint in the eyes and this man, whoever he was, would have been hers so easily. Now it must be handled another way.

‘My name is Atlon.’

‘I mean, who are you? What are you? Where are you from?’

‘From the same land as you, by the sound of it.’

Imorren did not respond, though her eyes narrowed. ‘Did you think to hide your paltry skill from me? In this, of all places?’

Atlon’s fear threatened to overwhelm him. This woman was so dangerous. But his resolve sustained him. He must survive. And while he might perish facing this woman, he certainly would if he tried to fly from her.

He reached two conclusions. He must try no deceit against her, she would smell it and it would weaken him. And he must keep her unsettled, emotional. In calmness she would gather resources beyond him for sure. He sneered. ‘Do you think to frighten me with yours?’

Imorren’s eyes widened. She lifted her hand. Atlon copied the gesture. ‘It’s possible you might destroy me with the bloated perversion you’ve made of your gift, but you know nothing of me. Take care. The consequences may not be what you expect.’

Unused for many years to anything other than abject obedience, Imorren’s control evaporated. Her eyes blazed and her mouth drew back into a snarl. Atlon felt the hairs on his neck rising, but he braced himself and continued to hold her gaze.

‘Who are you!’ she hissed.

‘Someone looking to undo the harm that you and your minions have let loose. Tell me about Pinnatte before this entire city and perhaps the whole land is engulfed by what you’ve made of him. Perhaps together we can stop him, and deal with that damned Serwulf you’ve released.’

His voice was shriller than he had intended, but the content of his words was sufficient to steady Imorren.

‘Pinnatte?’ she echoed.

‘The man you experimented on. The man you’ve made into something that cannot be. What in the name of sanity were you thinking of?’

‘The Anointed,’ Imorren whispered softly.

‘The abomination.’ Atlon’s voice was full of a terrible menace now. It jolted Imorren.

‘It shouldn’t have happened,’ she said, abruptly defensive. ‘Nothing indicated such an outcome.’

‘Nothing indicated!’ Atlon burst out. ‘You’ve mastered the mathematics of infinities, have you? You can peer into the heart of such wild extremes – such instabilities – and predict? You must have known the risks you ran.’

‘They were not this,’ Imorren protested, still defensive. ‘They were calculated, tested, known. The crystals, the formulations, the pulse meridians, the energy, the manner of the Anointing. All were…’

Her voice faded. For a moment, Atlon felt the awful doubts of a fellow student. Someone who had done everything thoroughly and conscientiously and yet found herself facing an outcome that could not be, but which perhaps might have been anticipated had the obsession been less and the vision broader. But how? He could feel her mind rolling endlessly backwards and forwards over everything that had been done and still finding nothing wanting. Despite himself he wanted to reach out and comfort her – tell her that incalculable chance had taken its toll – that it was Pinnatte’s injury and Ellyn’s simple drawing ointments that had marred her work. He crushed the impulse. The truth would ease Imorren’s burden, enable her to still her confusion, help make her whole and balanced again – and unbelievably dangerous.