David Gemmell: Echoes of the Great Song

Talaban shrugged. 'They will or they won't.' 'Buy a big house, farm maybe, with all that gold,' said Touchstone. 'Big waste.'

Talaban found it hard to disagree. Driving gold rods into the ice was an expensive exercise, and so far it had achieved little. 'These nomads,' he said. 'Will they fight us?'

Now it was Touchstone's turn to shrug. 'Who knows? Them's tough boys. They'll fight if they see the gold.

They don't believe in Avatars no more. They know your magic is dying. They know the ice killed the empire.'

'Wounded it,' corrected Talaban. 'Nothing can kill the empire. We are too strong.' The words were spoken by rote and even Talaban had long since ceased to believe them. 'And you shouldn't verbalize such thoughts. I don't want to see you lying upon the crystals.'

'Straight talk?' asked Touchstone. Talaban nodded. The tribesman leaned forward. 'You Avatars are like elk surrounded by wolves. You still strong, but the wolves will tear you down. They know it. You know it.'

'Enough straight talk, my friend. And now I have work to do. Come back in an hour, and bring the Questor with you.'

Touchstone rose. 'I bring food first,' he said. 'And more coal.'

'My mother took less care of me than you do,' said Talaban.

'Keep you strong,' said Touchstone. 'You die and promise not be kept.'

'I always honour my promises,' said Talaban. 'And I have not forgotten.' Touchstone looked at him for a moment, the green eyes locked to Talaban's dark gaze. Then he left the cabin.

Talaban took up his pen and opened the log, carefully detailing the day's work. As dusk deepened he lit a lantern. The beautifully painted walls of the cabin had been soiled with carbon deposits from lantern flame and coal over the years. Idly he wondered whether the ship felt a sense of shame at the loss of her power and prestige. You are a romantic, he told himself.

With the log entry completed Talaban stripped off his clothes and moved through into the small sanctum beside his bedroom. He removed the three crystals from the velvet bag hanging by the window and placed them on the rug. Then he knelt facing the window and opened his arms wide. Taking a deep breath he drew on the power within. With his eyes closed he reached for the first crystal. It was pale and clear, like glittering ice.

Lifting it to his forehead he slowly chanted the Prayer of One. His trance deepened and he felt his body relaxing.

He became aware of knots of tension in his shoulders and neck. Gently he eased them. Completely relaxed now he laid the crystal down and reached for the second. This was a blue gem the size of his thumbnail. He held it to his chest, over his heart. The power of the blue seeped through his skin, entering the heart, invigorating the blood and flowing through his arteries and veins, filling them with strength. Lastly he took the green crystal, the largest of the three. This one he held against his belly as he chanted the Prayer of the Avatar Prime. This time the power flowed with more urgency, revitalizing his organs, healing and renewing them. The shock to his system was great, and pain flared from his kidneys and liver. But it passed and Talaban rose and placed the crystals once more into the black velvet bag.

The green was coming to the end of its energy, he knew. How long had it been since he renewed it? And what was stopping him? Pushing the thoughts aside he lit a second lantern and carried it to the full-length mirror in his bedroom. Leaning in close he examined himself. The skin of his face was tight and glowed with health.

His body was lean, the lines of muscle sharp and clear in the lantern light. Only the eyes were old, he thought, dark and sombre, brooding. Gazing into his own eyes discomfited him and he turned away from the mirror.

From the closet he took fresh leggings of black wool and a shirt of silver satin. Then he pulled on a dry pair of boots and returned to his desk. Touchstone had left a plate of salted meat and some fresh bread. He had also replenished the brazier, which was glowing red. Talaban opened the rear door of the cabin and stepped out onto the balcony beyond. Cold air whispered against him, but this time it was pleasant, following the heat from the cabin. The Vagar team had left the glacier, but he could still see the silver pyramids glistening in the moonlight.

And below the ice the energy of the golden rods silently sought the Great Line.

An elk surrounded by wolves. Touchstone's words drifted back to him.

The analogy was not quite correct. More like a dragon surrounded by lions. They feared his terrible fire and held back. He feared their fangs and their claws…

… and hoped they would not learn his fire was dying.

Questor Ro was a traditionalist. His head was shaved, his forked beard dyed blue, and every day he practised the Six Rituals of the Avatars for precisely two hours. His clothes were of dark blue, a shirt of expensive satin edged with silver thread, leggings of finest wool, and boots of blue-stained lizard skin. Around his waist he wore the silver-edged belt of First Questor, and he still carried the ceremonial sceptre, despite the fact that its energy had been spent some twenty years before. Though oceans had washed away the Avatar Empire and ice had entombed its power sources, Questor Ro believed in maintaining standards. It was one of the many reasons he disliked Talaban.

He considered the others as he waited outside the captain's cabin with the savage Touchstone. 'Him's busy,' said Touchstone. 'Call us soon.' Questor Ro did not reply. In the glory days no savage would have dared address an Avatar directly. They would have approached on their knees, then touched their heads to the ground. Every address would begin with the words Lord hear your servant. In this way discipline was maintained, and lower orders understood their place in the world. Indeed, in the opinion of Questor Ro, they were far happier for it.

Clearly defined borders of behaviour were the cornerstone of any civilization. Talaban seemed to understand none of this, and allowed savages to address him as an equal. He had even journeyed among the barbarians, living in their squalid tents. Questor Ro shuddered inwardly. There was almost no doubt in his mind that Talaban had Vagar blood. Added to which he was young, barely two centuries old. He had not lived long enough to understand fully the need for maintaining fear among the sub-races.

But then his mother had also been well known for her fey behaviour, refusing to have a child until her eightieth year, when she — despite her crystal-inspired youth — was close to becoming barren. It had been the cause of many rumours, and had brought considerable humiliation upon her 300-year-old husband. Most Avatar females lost the ability to carry children past the age of seventy, and few males past the age of two hundred could sire them. No, the consensus was that she had fallen pregnant during her travels. Few Avatar women made long journeys of any kind, and then only from necessity. She, on the other hand, had apparently travelled for pleasure, visiting the outer cities of the empire. Questor Ro could readily imagine what pleasures she had found among the vulgar races who peopled the cities. Soon after she returned she announced her pregnancy.

Her son's current behaviour only served to fuel Ro's suspicions. Talaban was too close to the Vagars who served him. He was even popular, which was a situation no Avatar should achieve. Vagars respected discipline, they reacted best to fear. Popularity, as far as Questor Ro was concerned, merely showed weakness in areas of leadership. It surprised Ro that the General could not understand these obvious flaws in Talaban's nature. Added to this there was the fact that Talaban had never married. And since he was fast approaching the age when his seed would no longer be strong it was an added insult to the Avatar race. Every citizen should sire Avatar children. What future for the Avatars without them?