The Initiate Read online

  And then, as the last vestiges of sleep faded, he remembered.

  Themila Gan Lin smiled as the boy met her gaze. He was a strange child to be sure; an intriguing conundrum. Through the past seven days he had muttered in his delirium about three topics; a Warp, brigands and someone called Coran. Now though, his shoulder was mending and the fever gone. Perhaps at last the mystery would be unravelled.

  "Well, now." She settled herself more comfortably on the bed and took Tarod's hand. "I am Themila Gan Lin, and I am here to look after you. We know your forename is Tarod, but what of your clan name?"

  A peculiar, hard look crept into the boy's eyes and he said, "I have no clan."

  "No clan? But surely your mother -- "

  His mother? She believed him dead, lost to the Warp, and that was safer. Besides, she would be better off without him...

  "I have no mother," he said.

  There was more to this, Themila realized, than perhaps anyone would ever know. Recalling the talk she had had with Jehrek a few days previously, when they had discussed the bizarre circumstances of the boy's discovery, she decided against pressing the point. She was about to ask the child if he was hungry when a thin hand took her arm with surprising strength.

  "Is this the Castle?"

  "The Castle of the Star Peninsula? Yes, indeed it is."

  Some inner fire lit up the green eyes. "I saw a man -- he was an Initiate..."

  Themila thought she was beginning to understand. And if Jehrek's suspicions were right, it fitted the small picture she had already begun to form of the boy.

  Gently, she said, "This is the home of the Circle, Tarod. Many of our number are Adepts -- look." And with her free hand she pointed to her own shoulder.

  Tarod drew a sharp breath as he saw the now familiar insignia on Themila Gan Lin's light, woven shawl. So it hadn't been part of the delirium... He remembered the hints and rumors he had gleaned about the Castle and what went on here; sorcery and dark practices, secret knowledge and power. In his homeland people feared the Castle, but Tarod was not afraid. Impossible though it seemed, the wild dream he had had of fleeing from his old life and finding the stronghold of the Initiates had come true. He wasn't dead, his soul doomed to ride the Warp forever -- instead, the storm had brought him here, as if, somehow, it had been predestined. And this woman, herself an Initiate -- he trusted her, knew that if he should reach out to her she would not spurn him as others had done. He was home.

  Suddenly, tentatively, he let his hand slide down to touch her fingers. "Can I stay here?"

  Themila squeezed his hand. "Child, you may stay as long as you please!" And she thought, suddenly disturbed: oh, yes; you must stay... whether you wish it or no....

  That evening, Tarod had another, unexpected visitor. Keridil Toln, son of the High Initiate, had used all his charm to persuade Themila to allow him to take food to the stranger, and she, aware that the boys could benefit from each other's friendship, agreed. Tarod was unused to having a companion of his own age without incurring disapproval, and was disconcerted at first by the other boy's arrival, but Keridil's open enthusiasm soon began to break down the first barriers.

  "I've been waiting days for a chance to see you," Keridil told him, then added without a shred of tact, "Everyone in the Castle's talking about you."

  Tarod felt unease constrict him. "Why?" he demanded.

  Keridil took a slice of meat from Tarod's plate without asking and began to wolf it. "For one thing, it's rare for someone to enter our community from outside. But mainly it's because of what you did."

  "You mean... the brigands?" Even now the memory was hazy, and Tarod was suddenly cautious. "What did they tell you?"

  Keridil shook his head. "They didn't tell me anything. In spite of the fact that I'm supposed to be important, because I'm supposed to be groomed to succeed Father as High Initiate one day, I'm also supposed to be too young to understand a lot of things." He hesitated, then grinned. "But I understand a lot more than they think I do, and I have my own ways of finding out. You killed a brigand when Taunan and the Lady were attacked. But you didn't use a sword or a knife or anything. You killed him with sorcery!''

  Sorcery? The word sent a shiver through Tarod. So that feeling, the force that had taken over his mind and body -- that had been sorcery? But he knew nothing of magic...

  "They say you didn't know what you were doing," Keridil went on, clearly impressed. "And that's why you're to stay here. Father has been making all kinds of enquiries about your clan, but -- "

  "No -- " Tarod's sudden vehemence startled the fair-haired boy into a momentary silence. Then he said: "Why not?"

  For a moment they stared at each other, then Tarod decided to risk telling Keridil the truth. Slowly, quietly, he replied, "Because I was... condemned. For killing someone else. Just the same way as -- they said -- I killed the brigand."

  "Aeoris!" Keridil was adult enough to be shocked rather than impressed. "Who? I mean -- was it an accident?"

  No one in Wishet had once troubled to ask that question, Tarod thought with a sudden constriction in his throat. And he realized that, with Keridil, he was able to talk about Coran without the nightmare of fear and revulsion. As though, in crossing the invisible barrier between the Castle and the outside world, he had put the past behind him....

  Keridil listened gravely to the story, then whistled through his teeth.

  "Gods! Little wonder the Circle want you!"

  Suspicion again rose in Tarod. "Want me... ?"

  "Yes!" Keridil stared at him, then realization dawned. "Hasn't anyone bothered to explain? You're to be trained as an Initiate."

  Tarod felt as if the ground were falling away beneath him. "I am -- ?" He tried to express what he felt, but words were beyond him.

  Keridil's eyes narrowed abruptly. "You don't understand, do you? Firstly, you've faced a Warp and you've survived. That's an incredible omen! And secondly -- look, don't you realize that there's probably not a single man or woman within these walls who could do what you did just by snapping their fingers?"

  Tarod was nonplussed, and alarmed. "But the Initiates -- their power -- ''

  "Oh, it exists, yes, and there are people who can wield it. I could tell you some of the things I've seen, and I'm only allowed to witness Lower Rites. But what you did -- maybe the Old Ones could have drawn on power as easily as that, but they're all long dead and gone!"

  "The Old Ones?" Tarod felt a peculiar stirring in some dark, unreachable corner of his mind, but it was gone before he could grasp it.

  Keridil made an expressively helpless gesture. "We call them the Old Ones because we know of no better name. They were the race who lived here before us, who built this Castle. You must know your catechisms, about how Aeoris" -- here Keridil made a quick, reflexive sign in front of his own face -- "brought the gods to our world, to destroy the followers of Chaos?"

  "Oh... yes."

  "Well, from the few writings the Old Ones left -- those historians like Themila have been able to decipher, anyway -- it would seem that, to them, our skills would be little better than the gurglings of a babe in arms!"

  Tarod said nothing, but his private thoughts were moving rapidly down an unexpected path. So the Initiates of the Circle, these half-legendary folk of whom outsiders spoke in trepidation, had no claim to invincibility... he felt oddly disappointed. And yet... they said he had power. Greater power, possibly -- unless Keridil exaggerated -- than even their highest Adepts. It was a chilling concept, and suddenly he ached to know more.

  But before he could form a question, Keridil saw something he had not noticed before, and pounced.

  "What's that?" He had grabbed Tarod's left hand and his fingers closed over a ring on the index finger. "I've never seen a gem like it -- is it yours?"

  Tarod snatched his hand away and stared jealously at the ring. It was a single, utterly clear stone, set in a heavy and ornate silver base. Since they had taken away his ruined clothes and furnished him with new ones, this wa
s the sole artifact that linked him with the past.

  "Yes, it's mine." He offered no further comment.

  "Wherever did you get it?"

  "My -- " and Tarod hesitated. He was about to say it was a gift from his mother, but, in truth, it was something beyond that. Granted she had given it to him, on his seventh birthday, but he remembered her saying that it was his legacy -- his one legacy -- from the father whose identity neither she nor he had ever known. Since then it had never once left his finger and, strangely, as he grew the ring itself seemed to grow also, so that it always fitted him perfectly.

  "If you ever want to swop it," Keridil said enviously, "I have a sapphire that -- "

  "No." The refusal was instant and ferocious, and the fair boy blanched. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean..." his voice trailed off.

  Tarod didn't answer him. He was gazing out of the window, green eyes narrowed as if behind the mask of his face he was lost in thought. There was something unreal about the courtyard with its playing fountain, something dreamlike; and for a moment he caught himself wondering if he might at any moment wake and find himself back in Wishet, facing a death sentence. But he dismissed the idea. However strange his surroundings, the tireless, talkative Keridil was real enough. And despite his innate mistrust of people, he felt an affinity with the other boy.

  "No," he said, "I'm sorry, Keridil. I didn't mean to take offense."

  Keridil breathed out. "Then I'm glad, because I wouldn't want to lose your friendship when I've only just found it. I haven't had a friend of my own age before. All the other boys seem to think I'm above them or something, because of who my father is."

  It hadn't occurred to Tarod that Keridil, brought up in such a close community, might be lonely, and he was oddly gratified -- this made them two of a kind.

  "But we will be friends, won't we?" Keridil went on. His fresh, open face was suddenly serious. "I'd like to think we will, because -- well, I'm no seer, but I'll prophesy this: one day, I'm destined to be High Initiate of this community, unless I fail the test, which I believe I shan't do. But whatever my achievements, whatever my power, I believe that I shall never be your equal."

  For a fleeting instant something in his voice seemed to transcend youth and immaturity, a pre-echo of an unimaginable future, a truth Tarod couldn't understand, yet which he felt acutely in the marrow of his bones. But before he could speak, the door of the chamber opened to reveal Themila.

  "Keridil, did I not tell you you mustn't tire Tarod with your chatter?" she said sternly.

  Keridil stood up. "I haven't tired him, Themila," he replied with dignity. "We were merely becoming acquainted."

  Themila laughed. "Get along with you! It's a wonder the lad's brains aren't addled from your prating! You should be asleep, both of you! There'll be time enough for talking yourself hoarse tomorrow."

  Keridil raised his eyebrows at Tarod, shrugged a wry apology and paused at the door to kiss Themila soundly on the cheek. When his loud footsteps had diminished away down the passage Themila crossed to where a torch flickered in an iron bracket on the wall.

  "You're not afraid of the dark, Tarod?" Her tone was kindly.

  Tarod shook his head. "Thank you. I like the night."

  "Then I'll wish you good rest. Sleep is the best healer for you now." She took the torch, her shadow twisting and looming grotesquely as the angle of the light changed, then after a hesitation added, "Take heart, child. There's nothing for you to fear here."

  She might have imagined it, Themila thought later, but there seemed something faintly disturbing about Tarod's answering smile in the gloom. For a moment the green eyes glowed like lamps.

  "I am not afraid," said Tarod softly.

  Chapter

  "And so it was that Aeoris, greatest of the Seven Lords of the White Isle, gave a casket into the safe-keeping of those whom he had saved from the demons of Chaos. And Aeoris decreed that the casket should be a symbol of his protection, and that, should Chaos ever return to the world, the casket might be opened by one appointed as the gods' representative upon the land, to bring back the full might of the Lords of Order, once again to save their people."

  As Jehrek Banamen Join's well-modulated voice spoke the final words of the ancient, formalized myth, the crowd that thronged the Castle courtyard breathed out in a single, soft hush of sound. Stiff in their ceremonial robes, the patterns of gold and silver thread reflecting in the scarlet-tinged sunlight, the Council of Adepts moved slowly down the steps and through the aisle that was formed as the crowd parted to allow them passage. Jehrek led the procession, still an imposing figure despite the fact that he was beginning to stoop with age and his hands were a little arthritic; behind him the visiting dignitaries took pride of place -- the Margrave of West High Land Province, several Seniors of the Sisterhood of Aeoris -- and following them the Council members in order of rank, including Themila Gan Lin and beside her the tall, muscular figure of the High Initiate's only son and heir apparent to his position. At the far end of the aisle near the Castle gateway seven wooden statues had been positioned, twice life size, their painted faces staring impassively out over the gathering. Jehrek stopped before the first and largest, gazed up for a moment at the carved, ascetic features, then knelt, with difficulty, and touched his forehead to the statue's feet.

  The dignitaries followed his example and the orderly crowd began to close in, waiting to take their turns behind the Council.

  Near the back of the gathering -- further back, in fact, than his rank would have allowed -- one man watched the proceedings with an expression as enigmatic as those of the statues. Soon enough he too would have to make the ritual obeisance to the effigies, but he preferred to postpone the moment for as long as possible. Not that he felt less reverence for the Seven Gods than did any of his peers, far from it; but he couldn't help the small, rankling conviction that these formal occasions, the pomp, the endless ceremonial, served more to satisfy the conceits of the visitors than to further any deeper purpose. Besides, at this moment he badly needed time to think.

  Any one-time acquaintance who hadn't seen Tarod during his ten years at the Castle of the Star Peninsula would almost certainly have failed to recognize him. Taller even than Keridil, who outstripped most men, his was a powerful, long-boned but almost gaunt frame. His face had long since lost its boyish traces to become a sculpture of high cheekbones and fine jawline with a narrow, aquiline nose, setting off the oddly feline green eyes; and his black hair -- which, carelessly, he never took the trouble to clip -- was by now an unchecked tangle. It was as if, remembering his old childhood belief that he was different, he had chosen to emphasize rather than mask the differences, and stand deliberately apart from the norm.

  And the changes went far deeper than mere outward appearance. The half-terrified, half-defiant child who had been brought like some unfledged waif to the Castle more than a decade ago was nothing more than a pale ghost. The clan which had grudgingly succoured him for the first thirteen years of his life believed him long dead and gone -- the High Initiate's enquiries into his past had produced no one ready to claim him -- and so he had sloughed off his old identity and taken up a new life without a moment's regret. Now, there was knowledge and understanding far beyond his years in the green gaze; a confidence that the old existence in Wishet could never have imparted. He had progressed rapidly, learned much that was hidden from all but a chosen few; found friendships that transcended any claims of blood kin. Even those who disliked or envied him -- and there were a small number -- couldn't deny that he had more than fulfilled the promise which both Jehrek and Taunan had seen in him so long ago.

  He sighed, seeing that his own section of the crowd was moving towards the statues. There were too many unwanted influences here to allow for coherent thought, and reluctantly he gave himself up to the demands of the ceremony. The stiff collar of his formal cloak -- the green of a seventh-rank sorcerer -- itched abominably; irritated, he cast it back, revealing the close-fitting black shirt and trousers
that he tended to favor over any other color, and noticed a man near to him -- a visitor -- draw hastily away at the sight of the wicked-looking knife in its sheath at Tarod's right hip. He smiled thinly. Tales about the Initiates which circulated in the outside world still tended to be laced with speculation and rhetoric, and although he shouldn't have been amused by the man's obvious discomfort, the temptation was hard to resist.

  The crowd shuffled forward; Tarod found himself before the statue of Aeoris. And in the moment that he dropped to one knee, a sharp sensation of déjà vu snatched at him.

  The dream -- it was something to do with the dream --

  Sweat broke out on his forehead; people behind him were waiting... Hastily, and hoping no one had noticed the momentary loss of composure, Tarod bent his head briefly to the carved feet of Aeoris before rising and making his way quickly towards the main door.

  Themila Gan Lin adjusted her Councillor's circlet and slid between two of the long tables to reach the bench where Tarod sat alone. The banquet was over, the speeches completed, and now the Circle and their guests were relaxing in the enormous dining hall while wine circulated freely. It was late, but outside the sun still hung sullenly on the horizon and all the hall's windows glowed with the gory light of a northern summer evening.

  "So this is where you've been hiding yourself," Themila said in mock accusation as she sat gratefully down.

  Tarod's smile was warm. "Not hiding, Themila. Simply -- not joining in."

  "Don't try and blind me with semantics." She held out her wine-cup for him to fill. "You have the distinction, I'd remind you, of being the worst philosophy student it has ever been my displeasure to try to teach!"

  Tarod laughed immoderately, and Themila wondered how much wine he had drunk. It wasn't like him to be in his cups, and the departure puzzled her. Over the years he had become, in a sense, the son she had never borne, and she was correspondingly alert to his moods. This mood didn't fit any of the known patterns.