Part 23 (1/2)

Also by Lynna Merrill:

The Makers of Light, the second volume of The Masters That Be and The Weavers of Paths, the third volume of The Masters That Be: Expect The Shards of Creation, the fourth book in the series, in 2012.

Excerpt from The Makers of Light,

Chapter 1: Mentor.

Mentor Maxim to Apprentice Mentor Ardelia, Mierber, Year of the Master 700: You can only become a Mentor when, left alone in the middle of the darkest forest, you can find your way back again. This is the first part of the Mentor's Trial.

The second part is entering a human mind for the first time and finding your way out of that. Only after you have done both, can you receive your detectora”Oh, but you thought you needed the detector in order to do those? Oh, no.

A detector can only make the way easier; it will never find the way for you. A detector, like any tool, and even more so than other tools, can be deadly in the wrong hands.

Before you are trusted with one, you must earn it. Before you are trusted with walking inside others' minds, you must learn to walk with no props, and to walk alone.

Dominick

Morning 8 of the First Quarter, Year of the Master 706 Dominick could hear the echoes of his steps, although he had stopped walking a while ago. The temple walls always affected sound. However, just before daybreak, when the first tiny rays of skyfire battled darkness into ghastly long shadows, sounds were especially contorted in the empty House of the Master.

The time just before daybreak had been special for Dominick, once.

He walked further, the echo falling silent for a moment as his right leg slid beneath him. He gritted his teeth and kept his balance, then continued walking. The detector vibrated strongly in his hand, but he ignored that, too.

The circle beneath the central dome was still dark, and a draft brushed Dominick's face, chilly despite its deceptive softness. He pulled his cloak more tightly around himself, as he stood inside the circle and closed his eyes.

”I need wisdom, Master,” he whispered, barely inaudible, almost in his mind. The only answer was the draft tugging at his collar, and the echo, reverberating nonsense from the walls and dome above his head. He opened his eyes. ”If you are ever going to offer me any”a”his voice was louder nowa””this is the time. This is the time I need it.”

Nothing.

What had he expected? A great voice from the sky? The detector vibrated again, and he slapped at it with the other hand. Perhaps a voice, any voice, was too much to expect twice in a lifetime.

It had been eight years ago; he had been twelve. Just the age for the fifth son of two Balkaene peasants to decide whether he was going to toil in the same rotten field in the same filthy, backwards village as his father, or seek a life and fortune of his own. However, whereas other Balkaene boys seeking their own life and fortune mostly found other rotten fields in other filthy villages, Dominick succeeded in finding Mierber.

The central, largest city in Mierenthiaa”perhaps people would say it should not be too difficult to find. But it would be people who had never even seen Balkaene Province, never wallowed in drudgery, superst.i.tion, ignorance, and misery, thinking (in the rare cases when they managed to sc.r.a.pe a thought or two) that this was life.

The journey from Goritsa Village to the Blessedber Pa.s.s took him tens of days walking, or riding in the occasional donkey cart, living on what the merciful amongst the superst.i.tious and ignorant gave in exchange for helping in the fields. Then, from the Pa.s.s to Mierber, it was just four day-nights riding in the biggest, fastest, most beautiful thing he had ever seena”what now he would call an old, dusty, screeching, b.u.mping intercity stage coach. A symbol and harbinger of civilization. A new world.

Dominick watched the first rays of the Sun stream through the painted windows, with colored light spots das.h.i.+ng inside his circle. Soon the day would come, and the circle would be illuminated fully, the windows designed to concentrate bright light in this very spot while leaving the temple walls in shadows. A light designed for the Mentor, the father (or mother) of the ma.s.ses who crouched beside the walls every tenth day to hear the wisdom of his words, and every thirtieth day to confess and await Cleansing.

Light captured and directed by a system of gla.s.s and mirrors. Not by the Master.

Trickery.

”Make it s.h.i.+ne beside the walls, will you? Do something to show me you exist.”

Nothing.

”I did not bring you anything this time.”

He had, eight years ago. Thin, little, dirty, scruffy, meandering through wide, brightly-lit streets and gaping with wide, ignorant eyes at what to him had been enormous buildings, he had stumbled upon the temple and before it, the little tree. He had broken a little branch from it as an offering, like his simple, heedless parents had taught him for years.

It had been just before daybreak, and he had proceeded to walk inside the dark, empty temple, like a Balkaene peasant pa.s.sing for a quick early prayer before leaving for the fields. He had later learned that sophisticated Mierberian people never did that, for in Mierber temple prayer was done only once every ten days and only under the guidance of a Mentor. (Sophisticated people rarely were out in the streets before daybreak, too.) Then, like today, the temple had been tall, dark, and forbidding, despite the sleep candle that glowed on one wall. Whereas the temple in Goritsa was a small, smooth-cornered, crudely painted, una.s.suming stone building with a tiny circle and chairs beside the walls, this one offered no place to sit at all. The walls were stark and high, painted with dark pictures of a harsh, disquieting beauty. There was the Master, drawn as a black-clad, lean young man with a shadowed face, a book in one hand and a sword in the other. To fight the zmaya”that evil, handsome fey man who could change shape into a giant flying serpent so that he could steal peasant girls, young Dominick had thought. Georgi the Balkaene fairytale hero had fought the zmay like this.

Little had Dominick known that Georgi, the zmay and the whole a.s.sortment of halli, heroes, tallasumi, forest spirits, samodivi, enchanted lords, and ladies who married grubby dim peasants who could not blow their own noses, were not real. Never had been.

Dominick sighed, then tiredly ran his right hand along his forehead, before resting it on the left wrist, where the detector was still throbbing. Whatever had happened, whatever was going to happen, they were not going to become real. Ever.

”But how about you, Master?”

The young man with the sword was silent, and so was the old-aged version of the same man, painted on the wall across from him, the one dressed in a red Ber robe, whose hands were empty and whose eyes watched Dominick with inexplicable sadness.

It was before the old man's painting that twelve-year-old Dominick had laid the blossoming tree brancha”a boy knew to keep away from young men with weapons. The branch had lain lonely on the swept and polished stones. Had this been Goritsa Temple, there would have been many flowers, some still fresh, others wilting, shrunk petals and leaves sprinkled on a floor made of unswept earth.

Flowers grew freely and were picked freely in Balkaene, unlike in Mierber, where they were the province of little parks and n.o.bles' gardens. Peasants often left flowers in praise of the Master, and every spring, on the Day of Flowers, each would take a flower to the temple and return with a flower brought by someone else. Such a flower carried the Master's blessing with it, they believeda”as if the Master cared to bless worthless, rustic, good-for-nothings.

”Master, I offer you this flower. Please bless me,” Dominick had said, or rather, ”Masta', I offa' ye dis flawa. Plis bless m'.”

And then a deep, disembodied voice had changed his life. It had echoed through the empty hollowness of the temple, behind the shadowed curtain between the dark, unlit chandeliers; a voice of harsh authority with the barest hint of softness. It had pervaded the little peasant's worthless little heart, even before his mind had registered the words themselves.

”Do you believe that this is right, my son?” the voice had said, while the boy fell on his thin, dirty knees before the wall, trembling. ”You did not plant the tree, you did not water it, you did not cover it in winter to keep it from the cold. Do you think that it is right to just come and break a little branch so that you can offer it?”

Think? No one had ever before asked Dominick what he thoughta”or if he could think at all.

”Forgive me, Master, I swear I'll give you something else,” was all he could initially say, through tears. Then he shook his head and cast his gaze down to the floor, and said quietly, to himself, ”I've heard the Master's voice. The Master has spoken in my ear.”

”The Master? In your ear?” The same voice, but it sounded closer now, more human and almost amused. When Dominick raised his head he met an old man's eyesa”bright, intense eyes nested between bushy eyebrows, and long gray hair and beard. The eyes became slightly more gentle when their owner almost smiled, but still the boy felt as if the old man could see through him.

”The Master, my boy ...” He bent his long, bony fingers and reached towards Dominick, knocking on his forehead with a knuckle.

”The Master only speaks here. The question is, will you listen to him?”

Dominick watched the knuckle, transfixed. The man had not lied. At the same time, other people, people in Balkaene, had claimed that they had heard the Master's voice (as well as the voices of samodivi and halli) with their ears, and they had not lied, either, even though Mentor Spiridon had whipped them for it. Dominick always knew when people lied; once or twice it had saved him from some quite unpleasant things. Now, faced with contradicting truths, he was confused.

What do you do when you see many truths, or, rather, see no truth at all? Doubt. It was the path to a Mentor's undoing, the grown Dominick knew.

”I ... I will, sir. Sir Blessed Mentor. I will listen to the Master,” the little Dominick said.