The Farseekers (30 page)

'Release the pain now,' Nerat commanded.

And again I drifted between excruciating pain and numbness, burning heat and freezing cold.

And the pain in my legs. The pain. The pain.

For a time I forgot who I was, and it seemed all my life had been spent in a dream of pain on the top of a mountain.

Occasionally I was aware of Nerat's mind weaving a pattern in my thoughts as complex and intangible as smoke in the wind. Sometimes I smelled flowers and herbs and, sometimes, acrid choking smoke.

And then I floated for a very long time.

'She wakes,' came a thought bound with weariness and satisfaction.

I opened my eyes and found myself looking into pale avian eyes. The bird was so close I could see the fine crack in his beak, thin as a hair. I felt his mind like tenebrous fingers at the edge of my thoughts, then he gave a strangely human bob of his head and hopped away.

I did not move for a long while, waiting to see where the dream would take me next. Idly, I wondered if I would feel myself plunge into the mindstream when I died. I thought I would like to hear that glorious siren song once more.

Astyanax appeared. 'You are well, Elspeth Innle. You can get up now, or do you wish to lie there longer?' he sent with all the politeness of a host not wanting to upset a guest. Urged on by the eager expression in his eyes, I lifted my head carefully.

It is a dream, I told myself. That is why there is no pain.

Slowly, I sat upright. There was no pain in my feet or legs. I made myself look, prepared to see ruined evil-smelling flesh and black infection. My legs seemed to rise at me from a dark mist.

Below the skirt they lay before me, pale as cream and utterly without blemish. Even the old childhood scars of skinned knees had vanished.

My heart sounded like a drum beat as I reached for the laces. They were stiff with congealed blood but I felt no pain. The socks were the same, but when I pulled them down, they came away from the skin easily. The flesh beneath was as flawless as that on my calves. Unable to believe my eyes, I reached one hand out slowly, convinced I was delirious or mad. Nothing could heal so completely.

The skin felt smooth and flawless beneath my questing fingers. I wriggled my toes experimentally, watching the movement as if it were an exquisite dance.

I laughed, and my laughter seemed to reverberate off the mountains. No one could heal that fast, and I knew enough of healing to know it was impossible to heal poisoned flesh or banish old, deep scarring.

'Well, Dreamer,' Astyanax sent pertly. 'You must sup with Atthis - Elder of the Eldar.'

I climbed warily to my feet and let myself be led across to the cairn of stones and round to face an opening in the other side. I looked forward to the next development of my dream.

'Greetings, Funaga,' came a thought from within the cairn so clear and gentle it was like a song in my mind. There was the sound of shuffling movement and, slowly, a very old female Guanette bird emerged, its feathers less red than dusty brown alternating with bald pink patches. The end of its beak was broken right off, but strangest of all were its eyes. There was no pupil and they were white and milky opaque.

It was blind.

Looking at the ancient bird, a mist of terror crept through my veins with the sudden certainty that I was not dreaming.

The old bird stopped, eyes turned unerringly towards me. The movement reminded me of Dameon's blind grace. 'So, now you are come, just as was foreseen. You may call me Atthis, and I will call you Elspeth Innle, as did the yelloweyes.'

I blinked, startled. Did she mean Maruman? Then something else struck me.

I knew that voice!

It was the voice that had called to me in Maruman's mind.

But I'm dreaming, I thought dazedly. That explains everything.

The old bird stepped closer and a suffocating odour of dust seemed to surround me.

'Why do you pretend? You know this is no dream.'

I felt as if someone had kicked me in the stomach, sick and breathless all at once.

'You made Maruman sick!' I said indignantly.

'It could not be helped,' Atthis sent gently. 'We could not reach you otherwise, at such a distance.'

Something else occurred to me. 'You told me I had to go on a journey. Is that why I'm here?' A dark journey, she had said.

The bird sent nothing for a long moment, but I had the uncanny feeling she could see from those white orbs.

'I did not know when first I called to you in my dream-travels through the yelloweyes's mind, that we would meet so soon. I did not foresee then that the Agyllians would have some other part to play. Even the wise are sometimes pawns.'

The old bird came closer, its tattered wing brushing one of my feet. I looked into its blind eyes with faint horror.

'You do not like the look of my sightless eyes? Well, sight is a facile thing,' Atthis sent.

It was nearing dusk, and a fleeting final sunbeam bathed the old bird in crimsons for a moment. Beyond the cairn, lay the rim of the world. On one side the sky was night dark and, on the other, the sun shone its final rays. In the west, the moon was rising flat and bright. I looked back to see that the avian face had not looked away from mine.

'Elspeth Innle . . . The Seeker,' the old bird sent.

'I don't know why you call me that name. It's just a name Maruman made up. I don't call myself by it,' I sent.

'All names are not chosen,' Atthis sent. 'Some names are bestowed.'

'What is this all about?' I said briskly.

'You know,' Atthis sent, unperturbed. 'Have you not wondered at the coincidences and chances in your life? Have you not felt that there were great forces at work about you - forces for good and for great ill? Have you not felt the purpose in your life burning?'

Unwished, a vision came to me of the black chasm I had glimpsed while being tortured by the Zebkrahn. I thought of Jik asking if it were possible for it to happen again, and of the Druid and his insane search for Before-time weapon machines, his greed for power and revenge blinding him to all else.

'You know,' sent Atthis. 'You have always known.'

'Who are you?' I whispered.

'You may call me a chronicler and . . . what do your people call it - a futureteller. Long ago I foresaw that the machines which made the great destructions had not been destroyed. I saw that a second and greater destruction would come to the world, if these machines were used. And despite all the funaga did to bury the past, it was inevitable they would be discovered, unless they were destroyed. That will be no easy matter, for the machines have a kind of intelligence, and will protect themselves. Then I dreamed one would be born among the funaga, a Seeker to cross the Black wastes in search of the death machines, one who possessed the power to destroy them.

'Then, I foresaw a faltering in that life - a moment when you might easily die. I saw that you would be near to death with such mental and physical injuries that only the Agyllians might heal you. And so I sent out my egglings to find you.'

'If these machines are so far away, might they not be useless by the time anyone found them?' I asked.

'The machines have slept without harm for hundreds of lifetimes. The danger of their discovery alone would not be enough to make me act. But I have foreseen that there is another funaga whose destiny is to discover and resurrect the machines. Your paths intersect. If you do not get there first, he will succeed. You are the Seeker, he is the Destroyer. If you do not find the machines before him . . .'

I felt sick. I wanted to tell myself that it was too ridiculous, that I must be dreaming, that prophecies belonged to stories, but too much had happened. I had seen and felt too much, and in my heart, just as the bird said, I had known for a long time that I would find that chasm. The burning of the doors had only been the beginning.

'Why does it have to be me?' I asked. 'Don't I have any choice?'

'There are always choices.'

I shook my head, feeling suddenly bitter. 'If what you say is true, then the future is set out and I have no real choice.'

'The future is a river whose course is long designed, but which a flood or time of no rain might easily alter. Whatever choice you make will have its own consequences. If I had not chosen to interfere, and have you healed, your death would have been a kind of choice.'

The sun sank and suddenly it was night, the old bird no more than a dust-scented shadow.

'What do I have to do?' I whispered.

'For now, only live,' Atthis sent. 'What else comes will come.'

'You . . . you brought me here for that?' I asked, incredulous.

The old bird seemed to sigh. 'The time is not yet right for the journey to the machines. You were brought here to be healed, and so you are healed.'

'I'm afraid,' I said.

'That is wise,' Atthis sent gently. 'Only a fool has no fear. Yet put aside fear for now. There is nothing here to harm you. Return to your home and friends. Help them in their struggle, for it is worthy and they have need of you. But do not forget that your true path lies away from them and their quests. They will be glad to see you, for now they think you have passed into the great stream of life and mourn you.'

'Have you . . . foreseen that I will destroy the machines if I go on this journey?'

Atthis shifted slightly and dust filled the air. 'That, I have not foreseen.'

A wave of weariness flowed through me, and a kind of hopelessness. I sensed compassion in the mind of the old bird. 'One day, you will learn that it is not always safest to be alone. Until then, happiness will elude you. But perhaps it is best for you to be alone until this quest is ended.'

'I don't understand,' I sent.

'I know. You are tired. Sleep and while you sleep, my egglings will transport you to a place where one waits to carry you back to the mountain valley of Obernewtyn.'

The old bird's eyes stared into mine, and I felt myself falling into them, sinking into the soft whiteness as if it were a feather bed.

The cold woke me.

I was freezing and I wondered if it had snowed in the night. I felt a sharp stab of grief and was puzzled by it.

Then I remembered Jik.

I opened my eyes.

It was a night. I frowned wondering at the icy coldness of the air. Perhaps I had slept longer than I guessed, or winter had come early to the White Valley. Even so, it felt too cold for the Highlands. I doubted it had ever been so chill even at Obernewtyn in the dead of winter.

With a shock, I realized something else. The suppressing barrier was gone from my mind, and so was the pain!

The only answer seemed to be that I had slept off the pain somehow, but if that were the case, the infection in my feet would have worsened, being untended. The pain would be dreadful. Better lie still.

And wait.

I frowned, wondering what I was waiting for. I shivered and again puzzled at the chill in the air.

Why was it so cold?

Curiosity overcame my fear of pain. Very carefully I rolled away from the wall, meaning to look out of the cave entrance to find out if it really had begun to snow. I was surprised to feel no pain and guessed the numbness had returned.

Something warm and moist touched my face and I gasped in fright staring wildly into the darkness. Gazing down at me with dark, troubled eyes, was a black horse - unmistakably Gahltha.

'It is I, Funaga,' Gahltha sent in answer to my thought that I was still dreaming. 'I am Galta who was once Gahltha.'

'Galta?' I echoed stupidly. My eyes drifted past the horse, and questions about his self-imposed change of name were swept aside in an even greater shock.

I was no longer in the cave in the White Valley, with its pervasive reek of smoke and the blackened skeletons of trees standing outside like silent sentinels.

I was lying on a flat narrow stone ledge jutting out from what seemed to be a cliff face. I had woken facing the cliff, but there were no walls around me, and no roof. I was out in the open. Spread on all sides beyond the grey-pitted cliff face was a vast, flat plain covered in snow. The moon shone a cold bluish light on the glittering snowy plain. In the distance, I could see darkly defined the shape of mountain spurs and outcrops of cracked stone. There was not a single tree or bush in sight.

The ice and snow, the lack of trees, and the incredible brightness of the stars told me I was in the mountains.

Except that it was impossible.

I thought fleetingly that the suppressing had shattered and the accumulated pain had destroyed my mind. Madness seemed the only rational answer. I giggled at the paradox and shivered when the sound echoed.

Gahltha watched me patiently, his dark coat almost blending with the pelt of the night.

I opened my mouth to speak, then closed it with an audible snap, thinking of the queer dream I had fallen into after Daffyd had gone. If it had been a dream. The dream answered all the questions clamouring in me - how I had come to the high mountains, why and when.

The old bird had said I would be delivered to one who would carry me back to Obernewtyn. But how could it be Gahltha? I clutched at this flaw with a rush of relief, since it must mean the dream was just a dream. If it were real, then all the rest must be real too, the prophecy, and the Beforetime machines. And the healing.

Carefully, I levered myself into a sitting position. There was no pain in my feet or legs. I looked down.

My legs were bare and unscarred. I touched them reverently, remembering I had done that in the dream. Only it had not been a dream. Thin legs with knobbled knees and rather long feet, but at that moment the most perfect legs in the world.

'Where are we?' I asked my feet.

'In the mountains,' Gahltha answered gently. I looked up to find him staring across the frozen wasteland. 'When I came here, there was a lake. Now it has frozen over. I have found a place where we will be warm. We must go there before the storm comes.'

'Storm?' I said vaguely.

Gahltha looked down at me with grave serenity, and I wondered at the change in him. The last time I had seen him on the banks of the Suggredoon, he had been almost insane with terror and frustration. The violent impatience and scorching bitterness that had characterized his behaviour had disappeared as completely as my own wounds.