Echoes of the Great Song (30 page)

“No. I will not allow it. I will die first.”

Sofarita’s mind was filled with pealing laughter, a sound metallic and artificial.
“I do believe I said the same thing,”
Almeia told her.
“But I can help you, my dear.”

“Why would you do this?”

“Is the answer not obvious? What would be the advantage of having two crystal queens? Would you like my help?”

“You are evil,” said Sofarita. “This I know. And evil is not to be trusted.”

“Such silly words are for smaller minds, Sofarita. Is the sun evil? Or the sea? Each kills, each gives life. That does not make them evil. Everything I do is for self-preservation. All creatures of flesh and blood understand this. I kill to live
. As
do you. Each mouthful of meat you devour comes from a living creature who would not have chosen to die for you. Are you evil, Sofarita?”

“I do not have children buried alive to feed me, nor do I tear the hearts from prisoners taken in war.”

“Ah, we are talking merely of scale, then. One lamb is food, ten lambs is a feast, a thousand lambs is gluttony. What then creates evil, the deaths of a million lambs? And what is the difference between a man and a lamb? Everything dies. Most men die uselessly. Those whose lives feed mine at least serve a purpose. In return I give my people prosperity, freedom from want and disease. My trusted councillors also gain eternal lives. They might argue that everything I do is for the general good
.

“However, let us talk about what would be good for you. I can take away your powers, draw them into myself. It will not harm me. And you would become a farm girl again, soft of flesh.”

Sofarita’s spirit eyes looked deep into Almeia’s green crystal orbs. “How would you do this?” she asked.

“All you need to do is relax. You will be free to live your life as you choose.”

She lies
, came another voice.
She means for you to die!

Sofarita lay back in the chair, her mind sleepy, her limbs relaxed.

She is already doing it! Push her out, woman. Your life is at risk!

Sofarita blinked and tried to sit up. She felt weak and nauseous. The floating face before her was all eyes now, huge, and green and luminous. Anger flared within her, roaring up like a tidal wave. The image of Almeia flickered—and was gone.

Sofarita shivered.
You must beware
, said the voice.
She will attack again. You are her mortal enemy. She will not rest until you are slain
.

“Who are you?”

Another face flickered into her mind. A middle-aged man with leathery skin and deep-set dark eyes. He wore a beaded headband over his black and grey braided hair. Two eagle’s feathers were embedded in the band.

“I am the One-Eyed-Fox,”
he said,
“shaman to the Anajo, the First People. I tried to reach you when you flew over my village.”

“I remember. Did you hear all that she said to me?”

“Most of her words.”

“Was it true? Am I doomed to become like her, a block of crystal?”

When he spoke there was sadness in his voice.
“I am not strong enough to fight her, only to hide from her. Yet I sense the truth in those words. What she spoke of did indeed happen to her hundreds of years ago. I have walked the Gray Road and have seen this. Once she was gentle and caring, and used her power to heal. Now she demands thousands of sacrifices. Her need for blood and death is insatiable.”

“Then I shall destroy her before I die.”

“Someone must destroy her before we all die,”
he said.
“Where is Talaban?”

“I do not know the name. Is he an Avatar?”

“He is the captain of the black ship. He will know where the last battle must be fought.”

“And where is that?” asked Sofarita.

“I do not know yet. But Talaban will when the time comes. He and Touch-the-Moon will stand upon the mountain, like lanterns against the dark.”

His voice faded away—and Sofarita was alone.

Alone and dying! There had been so many small plans in her young life. To find love and to raise a family. To build a home in the mountains, near a waterfall, and to have a flower garden. Tiny dreams that had comforted her in the first year of widowhood. She had, after a fashion, loved her husband. Veris was a good man, but twenty years older than Sofarita. Her father had made the match because Veris owned land abutting his. The bridal price was two meadows. Sofarita had made no objection. She had known Veris all her life. He was a kind man, given to laughter. His lovemaking had been gentle and Sofarita knew she could be content with this man. On the last morning of his life, eleven weeks after the wedding, he had kissed her cheek and left for the fields. As he reached the doorway he paused, then turned back and hugged her.

“You have made me happy for the first time in my life,” he said.

They were the last words he ever spoke to her.

A month after he died she developed a chill, which deepened into a painful hacking cough. The weight dropped from her and her strength was failing. She was, at that time, almost resigned to death.

Not so now.

The Avatar’s magic stone had rekindled all her hopes and dreams, and it felt so cruel to have them dashed in this terrible way. Village life was generally too pragmatic for the subtleties of irony. But she understood it
now. Possessed of remarkable powers, and an ability to heal any wound or disease, she could not save her own life. Viruk, it seemed, had not saved her at all, merely set her on another road to extinction.

She had told the shaman she would help destroy Almeia before death could snatch her soul. But the words had been spoken in sudden anger and now she felt the weight of despair descend upon her.

I have done nothing with my life, she thought. Nothing worthwhile.

Then do it now, she told herself. Help to defeat the Almecs.

Talaban!

Who was he? The thought cut through her despair.

Closing her eyes she let her spirit soar over the city. Fires were still burning down by the docks and across the estuary in Pagaru. Sofarita flew on to the harbor and saw the black ship nestling against the wharf. Dropping down she sank beneath the decks, searching for the captain’s quarters. She entered many cabins, but they all seemed small and cramped. At last she moved toward the stern and entered a larger room. A man was seated at a desk. Like all Avatars he looked young, his face square-cut and handsome, his hair almost black, but dyed blue at the shorn temples. There was a hardness to his features, but no sign of cruelty. He was talking to a Vagar—no, she realized, not a Vagar. The man was a tribesman of some kind. His dark hair was braided and he wore a black vest adorned with white bone.

She opened the ears of her spirit. The tribesman was speaking.

“Bad visions I have. Suryet needs me. The People suffer.”

“I want to help you, Touchstone. You know I speak the truth. But my people are also suffering, and until the
Questor General gives us permission I cannot sail the
Serpent
to the west.”

“This I know,” said the tribesman sadly. He was about to speak again when suddenly he turned and looked straight at Sofarita. “Who you be?” he asked her.

At first she was too shocked to reply. Talaban cut in. “Who are you talking to?”

“Beautiful woman. Spirit.”

“I am Sofarita,”
she said.
“And you are Touch-the-Moon.”

“That is name I won. Not to be spoken by strangers. You may call me Touchstone.”

“Then I shall. How is it that you can see me?”

“I see many things. Are you dead?”

“Not yet.”
She glanced at Talaban, who was sitting quietly, watching the tribesman intently.
“He will think you have lost your senses.”

“You wait for me,” he said. “Not easy speak in this tongue.”

As she watched him he closed his eyes. A glow began around his head and chest, flickering from red to purple. Then he rose from his body.
“Now we can speak freely, you and I, in the language of spirit,”
he said.
“Where are you from, Beautiful One?”

“I live in the city,”
she told him.
“The One-Eyed-Fox spoke to me. He told me to find Talaban, and that he alone will know where the last battle is to be fought.”

“He doesn’t know yet.”
He gazed back at the silent captain.
“He is a good man, that one. The best of them.”

“There is a sadness about him.”

“He lost his love, and the flames of his heart burn low. Are you wed?”

“No.”

“You could blow upon the flames.”

“You seek to match me to a man I have not met. You are very forward, Touchstone.”

He smiled.
“You tell me where to find you and I shall bring him to you—even if I have to club him over the head and carry him.”

“I am at the house of Questor Ro. Bring him tomorrow. At dusk.”

She watched as the tribesman’s spirit settled back into his body. His eyes opened.

“And where is the beautiful woman now?” asked Talaban, with a smile.

“She wait. We see her tomorrow. You like her, maybe.”

The smile suddenly left Talaban’s face. “She is the woman the Council sentenced to death. The Vagar with magical powers.”

“Maybe,” agreed Touchstone.

“Is she still here?”

Touchstone turned and gazed at Sofarita. “No, captain. She gone now.”

“What did you make of her? And I’m not interested in beauty. Is she a danger to my people?”

“How I know this?” responded Touchstone. “But she speak with One-Eyed-Fox. He say she fight Almecs. You think it right to kill her?”

“No I do not. But it puts me in a difficult position. I am a servant of the Council, and it would be my duty to report a meeting with anyone declared as an enemy of the Avatar.”

“Talk first. Report later,” said Touchstone.

Talaban sighed. “Do you trust her?”

“Good woman,” said Touchstone.

“Then I shall trust you. We will speak with her.”

“Wear pretty clothes,” advised Touchstone. Talaban laughed, the sound rich and almost musical. Sofarita was amazed at the change the laughter wrought in him.
Gone was the hardness, replaced by a boyish warmth which radiated harmony.

And yet somehow it filled her with the knowledge of her own impending doom. Rising through the decks she flew back to her body.

As was usual following
flight
she awoke refreshed, her body rested. She stretched and rose from the chair. A shadow crossed the doorway opposite and she thought Questor Ro must be awake. Then a second shadow flitted across the opening. Sofarita felt a charge in the air, a prickling sensation that made her fearful. Moving swiftly and silently across the room she stepped out into the darkened hallway just in time to see a figure move from the top of the stairs and into the corridor beyond. Reaching out she felt the emotions of the man above. He was thinking of knives, and blood and death. The death of a hated Avatar.

Questor Ro!

Sofarita ran up the stairs. The door to Questor Ro’s room was open. She moved inside. Two men were there. Both wore black scarves about their faces and both carried knives. One was approaching the bed in which the little man was asleep. The knife came up—and slashed down. Sofarita made a sudden gesture with her right hand. The blade stopped inches short of the sleeping man—to the obvious astonishment of the attacker. The second man saw her and swung towards her. His knife dropped from his fingers, clattering on the stone-tiled floor. Questor Ro awoke with a start. The first knifeman tried to stab him again. This time the knife flew from his fingers to the ceiling, where it lay flat, as if upon the floor.

“What is happening?” shouted Ro. “How dare you …?”

“All is well, Questor,” said Sofarita. “These men are
Pajists. But they will not harm you.” Ro glanced up at the knife hovering on the ceiling.

“They came to kill me,” he said. “I shall summon the Watch.”

“No,” said Sofarita. “They will return to the man who sent them. He will convey a message to the leader of the Pajists. I shall visit with that leader tomorrow at noon. You,” she said, pointing to the man by the bed, “hold out your hand.” Slowly he did so. The knife floated slowly down from the ceiling, settling gently into his palm. “Leave now, and deliver my message. Say also that there are to be no more attacks.”

The second man scooped up his knife and both assassins edged around Sofarita and out of the room. She heard them run down the stairs.

“You know the leader of the Pajists?” asked Ro.

“I do now,” she said.

“Why did you let them go? We could have arrested them all.”

“To what purpose, Questor? This is not a time for revenge, but for reconciliation. The Pajists have contacts among the tribes. Most notably with the Erek-jhip-zhonad. You will need all their support to prevent the Almecs from domination.”

Ro shivered. “Suddenly I am no longer tired,” he said. “I thank the Source you were here.”

The house was an old one, built a century ago for an Avatar family. It was three-storeyed, and dressed with blue-veined white marble. Landscaped gardens flowed around the old house and a stream had been diverted to ripple over terraces adorned with blocks of white stone and multi-colored pebbles. Flowering trees grew everywhere and the air was heavy with the scent of jasmine.

Mejana sat on a wooden bench, her large frame wrapped in a pale blue shawl over an elegant, though
voluminous, white gown. Gold bands glittered on her wrists, gold rings shone on every finger, and she wore a gold torque upon her neck. Beside her sat Boru, the agent of Ammon.

“You cannot stay here, Mejana. She will bring Avatar soldiers.”

“Where would I go?” replied the middle-aged woman. “And, besides, had she wished me to be captured she would have held my men captive. No. I will see her.”

“I cannot be here when she comes,” said Boru, glancing up at the sky. The sun was nearing noon. The burly man rose and leaned in to kiss the fat woman’s cheek. As he did so he produced a dagger from behind his back and plunged it into her chest. She gasped and fell back. “I am sorry, lady,” he told her. “But I cannot risk your capture.” Dragging his knife clear and wiping it clean on the dying woman’s shawl, he strode from the garden.