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The cruelty of men is the plague that scourges this world, and none are more cruel, nor more blindly stupid, than the freemen of Vayal. In their ignorance, they believe every tale told to them by upstart priests who are no less ignorant, no less stupid, than themselves. Superstition has suffocated this land since the time of blood and fire, when the Old Kingdom was toppled. What price the quest for Vayal’s glory?
He runs like a deer, sweet Faunos, and does not even realize how the Power throbs through him even now. The curse of his forefathers is mending his bones, healing his wounds, while he flees for his liberty, if not his life.
So -- run, Faunos Phinneas Aeson, the last and fairest student of my old master’s pedigree. The fools will betray thee, they will hunt thee, but when has thou ever trusted men? Ever hast thou shunned them, and so cannot be played false by them.
Like a gazelle in the highlands, he is soon lost among the olive groves and vines which ramble away up the hillside, and he knows the shortest trails. There is a pounding in his heart and head, but the Power still pulses through his veins, nothing will stop him while there is a slightest chance of men seeing where he fled.
In his heart is the spark of dream, and it calls him a coward for his flight. But what should he have done? Would he stand before them while the mob gathered, and fight? The scene would have come swiftly to blood, and the law of Vayal would have called it murder.
Iridan, Oracle, whispered into the ear of sweet Faunos -- Run, boy! Be like the wind, without a backward glance!
Across the hill now, he splashes through a stream and stops there for a moment to drink. Sheep and goats peer foolishly at him, knowing nothing of the terrible business of men. In moments Faunos is moving again, scheming and planning for how he will move Galen, and where they will go.
He thinks to build a litter that can be dragged, and he will take the old man down to the water gypsies. He reasons that by now Keffek, the mercenary old camp master -- who would sell the services of his mother and siblings for a bit of silver -- will have vanished with the tide, and a different camp will be pitched below the dunes. And he is right. The water gypsies move constantly, which is very much to Faunos’s purpose.
Sharp as the wolf, his ears are cocked, listening out behind, but he hears nothing. He wonders if the physician and the carter were frightened enough to send for the soldiers … the ride to Vayal is a three-hour ordeal down the highroad, changing horses a dozen times at the taverns, exhausting one beast after another in the pursuit of speed.
With every step he prays to Helios and Gaya, to Selena and Hados, for a boon. He has fled like a coward, could the villagers not leave it there? Yet he knows they cannot. Their dread and superstition are fathoms deep -- they fear for their children, their crops, their animals, as they have been taught.
How many times have they heard this half-truth -- that the witchboys of the line of Diomedas can blind their eyes, turn their flesh to stone, alter the unborn of humans and beasts into the abomination, wither their crops in the field, fetch in the storm that destroys every house and inundates the land with salt water, rendering it barren for years.
And alas, a sparklet of truth lies buried deep within the dread of superstition. Each seventh son of line of Diomedas is born with the Power; but no scion of that great house was ever left to fumble through the learning alone, and wreak harm.
There is a truth which not even the great teachers, like Galen … like Iridan, may the gods one day take mercy upon him … can deny. The Power is blind and senseless. Like the wind of Hurucan and the wrath of Volcos, it would sweep away the sinner and the righteous at one time, if it were alllowed to.
But the senses and wits are provided by the living vessel in whom the Power is born, in any generation. Compassion and decency are the qualities of the host, and for twenty years a single mentor devotes his or her life to the tutorship of the youth
In all the centuries, never has there been a time when the Power was perverted, distorted, darkened by vile passions. Never has there been a witchboy whose heart was mean or cruel. Knowest thou not the one great truth? The Power itself fetches ancient magic into the seventh son of the seventh son, and it might be Diomedas himself, reborn.
Faunos knows all this, but does not yet feel it. Knowledge is like a verse he has read, an image he has seen -- dancing in memory, but not yet known to the heart. Many lessons must he learn, yet, before Galen would have called the tutorship complete; and those lessons will not be easy.
Behind him, headed east on the physician’s best horse, the carter lies flat over the withers of the sweated, straining animal. At this pace, he will be in Vayal while the fires of sunset still blaze in the west, over Zeheft. The carter knows where he is going, for he is an old soldier. He marched and fought for Vayal, quit the legion with twenty years’ service complete, and the gratuity to plunge into his trade. He is headed, straight as an arrow, for the chambers of Baobo, his old captain.
As the afternoon ages and the whole island begins to compose itself for evening, Iridan’s shade follows the priest, Druyus, who shadows the steps of Soranchele. Filled with anger, simmering with resentment for his great father, Soran has played better than he has in years.
His victory on the ball court is the talk of Vayal, and Druyus’s hot, dark eyes are fixed on the lithe, naked body for which he has lusted so long. In Soran’s mind, one thought foments: Baobo’s hunters will find Faunos very soon, perhaps tonight. His pulse quickens at the notion that he might have Faunos in his arms once more before the stars of midnight have finished their wheel about the pole.
Neither Soran nor Druyus, Baobo nor Faunos himself, yet knows that a man is racing toward Vayal, leaving a string of lamed horses and angry stablemen behind him.
Soon, Soran. Only wait, now, and ignore the hungry eyes of Druyus. O, men can be cruel -- and Soran knows more of Druyus than the priest might like. The vile one courts favor with Azhtoc, and Soran has come to hate him almost as much as Iridan despises him.
Peace, Soran – his time will come. Who knows this better than Iridan, Oracle?
Turn page to Chapter Fifteen...
Return to Chapter Fourteen...
He runs like a deer, sweet Faunos, and does not even realize how the Power throbs through him even now. The curse of his forefathers is mending his bones, healing his wounds, while he flees for his liberty, if not his life.
So -- run, Faunos Phinneas Aeson, the last and fairest student of my old master’s pedigree. The fools will betray thee, they will hunt thee, but when has thou ever trusted men? Ever hast thou shunned them, and so cannot be played false by them.
Like a gazelle in the highlands, he is soon lost among the olive groves and vines which ramble away up the hillside, and he knows the shortest trails. There is a pounding in his heart and head, but the Power still pulses through his veins, nothing will stop him while there is a slightest chance of men seeing where he fled.
In his heart is the spark of dream, and it calls him a coward for his flight. But what should he have done? Would he stand before them while the mob gathered, and fight? The scene would have come swiftly to blood, and the law of Vayal would have called it murder.
Iridan, Oracle, whispered into the ear of sweet Faunos -- Run, boy! Be like the wind, without a backward glance!
Across the hill now, he splashes through a stream and stops there for a moment to drink. Sheep and goats peer foolishly at him, knowing nothing of the terrible business of men. In moments Faunos is moving again, scheming and planning for how he will move Galen, and where they will go.
He thinks to build a litter that can be dragged, and he will take the old man down to the water gypsies. He reasons that by now Keffek, the mercenary old camp master -- who would sell the services of his mother and siblings for a bit of silver -- will have vanished with the tide, and a different camp will be pitched below the dunes. And he is right. The water gypsies move constantly, which is very much to Faunos’s purpose.
Sharp as the wolf, his ears are cocked, listening out behind, but he hears nothing. He wonders if the physician and the carter were frightened enough to send for the soldiers … the ride to Vayal is a three-hour ordeal down the highroad, changing horses a dozen times at the taverns, exhausting one beast after another in the pursuit of speed.
With every step he prays to Helios and Gaya, to Selena and Hados, for a boon. He has fled like a coward, could the villagers not leave it there? Yet he knows they cannot. Their dread and superstition are fathoms deep -- they fear for their children, their crops, their animals, as they have been taught.
How many times have they heard this half-truth -- that the witchboys of the line of Diomedas can blind their eyes, turn their flesh to stone, alter the unborn of humans and beasts into the abomination, wither their crops in the field, fetch in the storm that destroys every house and inundates the land with salt water, rendering it barren for years.
And alas, a sparklet of truth lies buried deep within the dread of superstition. Each seventh son of line of Diomedas is born with the Power; but no scion of that great house was ever left to fumble through the learning alone, and wreak harm.
There is a truth which not even the great teachers, like Galen … like Iridan, may the gods one day take mercy upon him … can deny. The Power is blind and senseless. Like the wind of Hurucan and the wrath of Volcos, it would sweep away the sinner and the righteous at one time, if it were alllowed to.
But the senses and wits are provided by the living vessel in whom the Power is born, in any generation. Compassion and decency are the qualities of the host, and for twenty years a single mentor devotes his or her life to the tutorship of the youth
In all the centuries, never has there been a time when the Power was perverted, distorted, darkened by vile passions. Never has there been a witchboy whose heart was mean or cruel. Knowest thou not the one great truth? The Power itself fetches ancient magic into the seventh son of the seventh son, and it might be Diomedas himself, reborn.
Faunos knows all this, but does not yet feel it. Knowledge is like a verse he has read, an image he has seen -- dancing in memory, but not yet known to the heart. Many lessons must he learn, yet, before Galen would have called the tutorship complete; and those lessons will not be easy.
Behind him, headed east on the physician’s best horse, the carter lies flat over the withers of the sweated, straining animal. At this pace, he will be in Vayal while the fires of sunset still blaze in the west, over Zeheft. The carter knows where he is going, for he is an old soldier. He marched and fought for Vayal, quit the legion with twenty years’ service complete, and the gratuity to plunge into his trade. He is headed, straight as an arrow, for the chambers of Baobo, his old captain.
As the afternoon ages and the whole island begins to compose itself for evening, Iridan’s shade follows the priest, Druyus, who shadows the steps of Soranchele. Filled with anger, simmering with resentment for his great father, Soran has played better than he has in years.
His victory on the ball court is the talk of Vayal, and Druyus’s hot, dark eyes are fixed on the lithe, naked body for which he has lusted so long. In Soran’s mind, one thought foments: Baobo’s hunters will find Faunos very soon, perhaps tonight. His pulse quickens at the notion that he might have Faunos in his arms once more before the stars of midnight have finished their wheel about the pole.
Neither Soran nor Druyus, Baobo nor Faunos himself, yet knows that a man is racing toward Vayal, leaving a string of lamed horses and angry stablemen behind him.
Soon, Soran. Only wait, now, and ignore the hungry eyes of Druyus. O, men can be cruel -- and Soran knows more of Druyus than the priest might like. The vile one courts favor with Azhtoc, and Soran has come to hate him almost as much as Iridan despises him.
Peace, Soran – his time will come. Who knows this better than Iridan, Oracle?
Turn page to Chapter Fifteen...
Return to Chapter Fourteen...
