Farfalla had taught him that: had taught him how to be better and faster with his left hand than he had ever been with his right. For Hearst, that was a great gift. A gift of friendship. Yet she had lied, had betrayed him, had caused Ohio's death. What should he do with her?
– A hero will know the answer to that. Strength, man of Rovac, strength. Hastsword, my brother, my brother in blood, destiny waits for us. Strength, Hearst, hero, song-singer, sword-master, leader of men.
Leader of men. Yes. He remembered leading men to their deaths. In Looming Forest, when Heenmor – no, he would not think about it. He would concentrate on the task at hand. The man who pretended to be a hero must become a hero for real.
He had killed a dragon in the wild country deep in the heart of Argan. Wasn't that enough? No: he had been faced with a choice between the dragon or a duel with Elkor Alish. Either might have killed him. Many men go into battle for fear that if they run, their commanders will slay them; we do not call them heroes because one fear overbalances another.
The tower of the order of Ebber was closer now. This was what they were all afraid of. Farfalla was afraid of it. The people of the Harvest Plains were afraid of it. From memories he had inherited from the wizard Phyphor, Hearst knew that even the wizards of the order of Arl feared the order of Ebber.
– But we, Hastsword, my hero, we have no fear. Are you with me, my brother? Are you with me? Who are we? We are the Rovac! The heroes! Strength, man of Rovac, strength.
Hearst glanced round for one last look at the sunlight. He saw Blackwood and Miphon on the battlements. They started to run forward, shouting. At the distance, he could not hear what it was they were trying to tell him. But he was pleased to see them there.
They would witness his deed.
– And now. Now! Do it!
Hearst reached out and touched the substance of the tower of Ebber. It parted before his hand. With the flame of the black-faceted jewel burning at his throat, he walked into the tower of Ebber. The way closed behind him, and he stood in darkness, sword in hand.
Slowly, pale lights like wan and wasted captive stars came to life and illuminated the interior of the tower. Strange devices loomed out of the gloom: towering configurations of burnished metal in which the features of man, bird and insect were blended as if in a nightmare. They were, for the moment, silent. Quiescent. Waiting.
Hearst, bewildered, gaped at them.
The wan starlight grew no stronger. No threat came from the silent metal. Slowly, he dared a footfall forward. Then another. Gaining confidence, he walked forward, stirring up a little dust. He sneezed, vigorously, three times. Nothing and nobody challenged in response.
Ahead, he saw a stairway.
Hearst climbed the stairs. Sword poised to strike, he sidled into the chamber above. It was bare but for a series of stone tubs in which water, lit from below, glittered with an uncanny light. Looking into one, Hearst saw the water seemed to descend for leagues, clear as an ice-bright winter sky. Far below, out of reach, globes spun in that clear water, some white, some orange, some red; one globe – how beautiful! – was all browns and blues, capped top and bottom with irregular markings of winter white.
Hearst watched. Waited. Listened. Nothing moved. No challenge came. He went up the next set of stairs -then the next.
By the time Hearst reached the uppermost storey of the tower of the order of Ebber, he had only scorn for those who were afraid of it. It contained a great many strange things, to be sure – but there was nothing to be afraid of. Nothing that was malignant: nothing that was even alive. He was glad of that.
He had sobered up enough by now to see what a terrible risk he had taken. It was one thing to risk his own life: any man was free to do that. It was quite another thing to risk the entire city of Selzirk by daring to stir up whatever evil might have been lurking in the tower. As the effects of the wine wore off, Hearst saw, too, that no feat of heroism, however bold and outrageous, was going to resolve his problems, his questions. Still, in a way, he was disappointed that he had found no challenge worthy of his courage.
The uppermost storey of the tower of Ebber was almost empty. The only thing in it was a wooden staff, which looked much like the staff of power that the wizard Phyphor used to carry. Hearst sheathed his sword, deciding to take the staff as a souvenir. Blackwood, with all the reading he had done since they arrived in Selzirk, might even know how to get some use out of the staff.
Hearst took hold of the staff: and was overcome. He had no defences whatsoever against what he had encountered. He lacked even the time in which to register his protest, it was done so quickly.
And afterwards, once it was done, Hearst found that he could observe everything: but could alter nothing.
The wizard Ebonair – he called himself by the name of the island on which he had been born, many thousands of years before – held his staff in the only hand available to him. He looked down at the hook which had been substituted for the right hand. Clumsy. How did that happen? He scanned the available memories, saw how the copper-strike snake injected its venom into the hand, how the sword rose and fell, sweeping the hand away. Truly the action of a ruthless man!
Then, scanning other memories, Ebonair changed his mind. Not ruthless at all. Weak. Confused. Sentimental. Ebonair had not tasted such agonising since the time he invaded the mind of an adolescent student priest of the Temple of the Ultimate Ethic. Weak, yes: yet successful. Such opportunities! Reclaiming the Harvest Plains would take only a word.
The wizard Ebonair had known it would take a hero to seize the key to the tower of Ebber from the pyramid tomb, and then to invade the tower itself, but he had been successful beyond his wildest dreams. Instead of using the hero's body and reputation to fight to reclaim his kingdom, he had only to step outside the tower and all would be on their knees before him.
Another memory.
Interesting.
Underground darkness. The noise of the river, rushing, rushing. A voice. Pain in the voice: weakness. Fear. 'You will have the power to enter the tower of Arl. And you will understand the High Speech, the reading of it, the writing of it, the speaking of it.' Darkness and the beat of a heart. Darkness, and then – Interesting indeed. Ebonair had never known that a wizard of Arl could, as he died, transfer his memories to the living. A pretty trick. A pretty trick indeed. But it is one thing to pass on a few disorganised memories: quite another to preserve one's identity within an artefact while spending centuries engaged in the Meditations, building the power needed to take possession of another body.
Such long centuries! Dust. Madness. The taste of ambition sustaining the will when eroding silence seems beyond endurance. And now the time has come.
He yawned.
Grinned like a skull.
Then laughed.
He was young, free, alive, with all the world supine beneath his trampling feet! Time to go…
The wizard Ebonair descended to the lowest level of the tower of Ebber, in which were gathered many metal devices from the Days of Wrath. In his last incarnation, the secrets of those devices had escaped him. In this incarnation, he hoped to do better. Ebonair commanded the tower: 'Open!'
A doorway opened to a flood of afternoon sunlight, revealing the two who stood on the battlements.
'Hearst,' said Blackwood. 'Are you all right?'
'What happened?' said Miphon. 'Morgan, you look strange. Are you hurt?'
As Blackwood and Miphon stepped forward, the wizard Ebonair let the Hearst-body sag toward the floor. Miphon ran forward and caught it, brushing against the staff of power; the wizard Ebonair took him with… a little difficulty. That was not as easy as he had expected! 'Miphon,' said Blackwood. 'Help me. Hearst's unconscious. Why are you standing there like that?'
Ebonair scanned Miphon's memories. Pox. Pox doctor. Scabs. Boils. Poultices. Leaking wombs. Bad backs. Leeches, application of. Bruises. Solicitous words to a man… what? Dying? If dying, why bother with him? Hands greasy, slimy, blood, blood, tender hands easing a cord free from the neck, taking the weight, eliciting the first birthcry – and smiling! Spare us from biology.
'Miphon,' said Blackwood, shaking him.
'Take this,' said Ebonair, getting the Miphon-voice all wrong, but the note of command was right, the peasant
