In the Earth Abides the Flame (5 page)

He paid special attention to one area of lore. Various old and long-neglected scrolls contained words from prophets generally regarded as mentally unbalanced by later generations and, in the opinion of most, not fit for serious study. Yet Pyrinius chose to question the general opinion, and began the exhaustive work of restoring the scrolls, convinced something of the utmost importance lay hidden in their obscure phrasings. Though he died before he discovered what it might be, he passed his passion and curiosity on to his disciple, and Phemanderac still vividly remembered the day when finally he realised what, or who, the common factor in all the writings actually was. More than anything he wished the old man had lived to share his triumph, for he, Phemanderac the blacksmith's son, had uncovered the secret of the Right Hand of the Most High.

Phemanderac continued his story, completely failing to notice Mahnum stiffen, then lean forward with mounting excitement. The Right Hand, explained the Dhaurian philosopher, is revealed in the scrolls to be a person, the representative of the Most High in the world - some prophets referred to the actual embodiment of the Most High, though the manuscripts were obscure on this point - who would appear at the moment of greatest danger to Faltha. His appearance would herald the thwarting of Bhrudwo's power, ushering in a new age of enlightenment when once again the Most High would concern Himself with the affairs of the First Men. Phemanderac called a meeting of the philosophers, the most senior of the prophets, to share his knowledge, but suffered a rude shock.

'We are not concerned with Falthan affairs,' his sage elders told him. 'These manuscripts are of dubious origin, are they not? It may be they were written by Falthans and brought here in the days when we of the Vale still had ill-advised contact with the north. So what if the Right Hand appears? We need him not: we are of the Rehtal Clan, descendants of Sthane of the House of Saiwiz; we have access to the benefits of the Most High. Forget such studies, conceived as they were by an old man far advanced in his dotage, and return to the paths of wisdom.'

The young philosopher argued against the judgment of his elders, but could not convince them of the validity of his growing interest in the Right Hand. They forbade him to pursue it, yet he continued reading the scrolls. They had the scrolls destroyed, a shocking act which pained him still, though he had memorised their contents. He expressed the desire to journey to Faltha in order to verify his theories, but this they would not allow, fearing contamination by the ideas and customs of lesser men. So, obeying his inner prompting, he departed from his family and the land of Dhauria without leave nearly three years ago, and crossed the Deep Desert alone. Aware of the parallel between his rebellion and that of Kannwar two thousand years earlier, he hoped his cause was more just than that of the black-hearted Destroyer.

About the same time I set out for Bhrudwo, Mahnum thought.

Phemanderac searched Faltha for knowledge of the Right Hand, but found none. 'Only in the vaults of the Hall of Lore in Instruere might I have been able to find, perhaps, the evidence I sought, but the Council denied me access. 1 continued westwards, persuaded with ever-increasing urgency that time was short, pursuing the only clue as to the whereabouts of the Right Hand: a fragment of a riddle locating that which I seek "in lowly vale on Cape of Fire".'

This dragged another start from Mahnum, and one or two others of the Company, but he was too far gone in his story to notice.

He told them, 'Unwittingly 1 strayed into the lands of the Widuz, who captured me there and took me to the fastness of Adunlok. Strangely, I was ignored in my cell while those around me were given to Helig Holth. Then Leith arrived in my cell, and when he told me his own strange story, everything fell into place. Firanes is the Cape of Fire, rendered in the old tongue; Loulea is the lowly vale...'

'And the Right Hand?' Mahnum asked, as breathless as though from a long run. He could not forget the terror which accompanied his inquisition on Andratan, nor could he erase from his mind the threats and the beatings by the Bhrudwans. Everything had been about the Right Hand. His breath came quickly, paused as he was on the brink of revelation. Maybe his two-year ordeal was about to make sense.

Phemanderac turned and faced him. 'I was hoping you could tell me,' he said.

Outside twilight gave way to darkness, and the Great City settled into another uneasy night.

'I'm not sure what to make of all this,' Kurr said. 'If I understand you right, you say there exists right now in Faltha - from Loulea, no less - someone who presumably possesses magical powers, someone whom the Most High will use to subdue the Bhrudwans. I have to be honest with you; there was no such person there when I left, nor has there ever been. If such a one lived in Loulea, we would have brought him on our quest. Surely the Most High would have organised it so that he came with us?

'Or are you saying he is one of us? Take your pick: a Trader and his wife, by far the two most likely candidates, though by his own admission Mahnum does not know who this "Right Hand" is. A young woman, a crippled youth and his younger brother, none of whom possess the qualities you imply. Our Haufuth - village headman - though a worthy man, is the least likely of all, and abandoned the quest on the borders of Firanes. Such we are. Not a hero amongst us.' The old farmer leaned forward, his whole demeanour a challenge to the young Dhaurian.

Phemanderac held his ground. 'Yet you defeated the Bhrudwan warriors and escaped from the Widuz, feats which the stoutest warrior might fail to accomplish.' The philosopher raised his voice. 'Ask yourselves: are those victories attributable to your own strength.? Or is there another Hand positioning and protecting you? This Right Hand need not be strong in himself.

A hand is, after all, merely the focus and outworking of the strength of the arm. It may be that the Right Hand is among us, and we - indeed, even he - do not recognise it.'

'It is far more likely our victories are due, at least in part, to the courage of our members, the sacrifices of Wira and Parlevaag, and a leadership determined to do what is right.' Though Hal's voice remained soft, the words hung like a challenge in the room.

Phemanderac turned to him. 'You do not believe my tale of the Right Hand?'

Hal smiled. 'I believe that were all of us to simply do what we know to be right, there would be no need for the Right Hand. I listen to what I can hear of the Most High, and try to obey his words. If that is power, then so be it, but it is not a sword with which to strike at the Bhrudwan army. Rather, it is an ointment to apply to the wounds of life.'

'Yet there is a power about you and your family. I can sense it.'

'It is easy to mistake integrity for power,' said Hal. 'However, whatever you discern cannot run in our family, for I am adopted.'

'Are you saying that the Right Hand is from Mahnum's family?' Kurr asked.

'I can do little more than guess at the moment,' answered Phemanderac. 'But I am certain he -

or she - is one of the Company.'

'A tale of coincidence misinterpreted by a hopeful scholar, if you ask me.' Farr stood up, a mixture of puzzlement and disbelief on his face. 'Like Hal says, we've come this far through hard work, courage and determination, not because of some hidden magician. We're here because of the sacrifices of good people, because Wira and Parlevaag gave their lives for us.

The Council of Faltha will believe us because of the Bhrudwan captive and the testimony of this Trader. I say this man's words are irrelevant. He would do better to play his music in the marketplace, or go back to his homeland where they obviously appreciate this kind of talk.'

'What's got under your skin?' Kurr turned to the Vinkullen man.

'Strong arms are always taken for granted, while the good talkers gather all the praise.'

Kurr frowned. 'Surely the time for strength is over? What we need now is someone with a clever turn of phrase.'

'And what does the fighter do? Sit back while Mister Golden Tongue plays his harp for the Council?'

Kurr's frown deepened. This was like the bad old days before they met the Fodhram. He had neither realised just how much Withwestwa Wood had changed Farr, nor that the change might not be permanent.

Before he got another chance to speak, Phemanderac stood and walked over to the wooden stool upon which Farr sat. The Vinkullen man rose to meet him. There they stood, facing each other like jilted lovers or warriors about to duel, the willowy philosopher half a head taller even than his snowy-haired antagonist.

'Actually, I agree with you,' Phemanderac said. The whole room let out a relieved breath. 'No amount of talking could have brought the Company safely to Instruere. I just happen to believe that -well - you were guided by an unseen power. You were meant to join the Company; your part is not yet over. We may yet have to fight.'

'Oh,' Farr replied, a little too sweetly. 'So the Most High is in charge, is he? And he planned it so I could join the Company?'

Phemanderac nodded enthusiastically, not seeing the trap.

'I joined the Company as a direct result of my father being murdered by the Bhrudwan bandits,' the mountain man breathed, his voice dangerously quiet. Then his patience snapped.

'Did the Most High plan that too? Did he watch as my father writhed on the ground, as he begged for mercy, while they cut him and cut him and cut him just for the fun of it? Was he shouting encouragement?' His river was in flood, and the despair in his voice struck at the souls of those in the basement. 'Was my brother part of his special plan? When he died trying to save the Company, was this because he loved us, or was it because the Most High organised his death? I have no need for such a god! I will not worship Him! Give me a sharp enough sword and I will kill Him!'

Phemanderac lowered his eyes. 'My friend, if you would only listen—'

'No, you listen! I've heard you mystics talk about the Most High as though he lived in the next house, but it's just talk! When some-thing needs to be done you go quiet and leave it to someone like me, or Stella, or Mahnum, or Kurr. Ordinary people! Give me deeds, not words!

Be quiet and get on with it - like Hal here. He doesn't Mather on about the Right Hand, he just gets on and does it.'

At the mention of his name, Hal dragged himself to his feet and shuffled over to the two men.

'There is a time for talk, Farr,' he said quietly, 'but that talk will be before the Council, and it will be about our deeds: about Mahnum and Andratan, about the Company and the Bhrudwans, about Leith and the Widuz, about Phemanderac and his journey to Faltha. There is no need to rehearse it here.'

He clucked about them like a hen fussing over frightened chicks. 'Don't be in a hurry to blame the Most High for what happened. It is futile to debate what is in his mind. If he exists, and if he is interested, he will have something to say before this mission is completed.'

'Are all our discussions going to end up like this?' Leith asked his brother late that night. For the first time in months he and Hal found themselves alone together, and while they shared sleeping quarters there were things he intended to ask, suspicions he needed to voice. 'You know, as debates about faith?'

Hal shrugged. 'In one sense, all the discussions we ever have are about our beliefs,' he said.

'We either carefully avoid it, thereby giving it shape by the space we leave; or we find that it creeps in whatever the subject.'

'But no one really believes in the Most High, do they? That was for the old days, when people didn't know as much as we do now.' This wasn't Leith's own argument: he once heard someone say it, but couldn't remember who. There was something akin to hope in his question, and also a shade of regret.

'Have people really changed? I think we are the same as we ever were in every important respect. We still need friendship and wish to give it; we continue to search for answers but struggle to find them; we still settle for much less than we could achieve; we persist in allowing petty selfishness to dominate and crush our lives. Some people even in these days think the Most High helps them meet their needs.'

Leith lifted his eyes to gaze into those of his brother. 'I saw you that night at Bandits' Cave,'

he said, then held his breath.

'I know,' said Hal, and waited.

'But what - what did you do to the Hermit? I saw the black wings, I heard you rebuke him; then the next thing he was ill and the Haufuth had to stay behind, just like you said.' Leith looked his brother in the eye. 'Who are you?'

'I am who I've always been: Hal, your brother. I don't possess any dark powers, if that's what concerns you. What happened to the Hermit was not evil, not really. He was wounded, yes, but the wounds allowed his inner pain to be operated upon. Remember that lamb we kept last year? His leg had been broken, but had not healed properly. If we had left him alone, he would not have lived another year. Instead I broke his leg again - remember? You became upset and called me all manner of hurtful names. But now he is alive and well, and no longer remembers his pain. Do you see? What the lamb considered cruel was simply kindness beyond his understanding. In the same way, the Hermit now has a chance to become healthier than he has ever been.'

Something in the glibness of the explanation, something in the certainty of the answer, annoyed Leith, and the old resentment began to build within him. 'I thought you were angry with the Hermit,' he said. 'None of us could understand you. He did nothing wrong.'

'Not angry with him; afraid for him. I still am. He has not learned to harness his gifts. Like a wild horse he longs for the highest pastures, but does not have the discipline to get there. Not until he is broken to the bit and to the bridle will he ever make the journey.'

Something began to form in Leith's mind. 'Wait. If we are all lambs - including you - what gave you the right to break the Hermit's leg? How could you understand what none of the rest of us could? And when he is broken to the bit and bridle, who will ride him to the high pastures?'