the light.
The single-room house was divided by partitions made of wooden poles and rattan mats. The partitions formed a wall between the two beds. Behind the wall, on Tiphan’s side, a strange, greenish light shone, brighter than any lamp or torch.
“Son?”
Still no answer. Vexation gave way to concern.
Ever practical, Konza unpegged the poles on the door flap and brought in his basket, setting it on the table by the hearth. He picked up a thick, ironwood walking stick and walked slowly around the partition. The air grew even colder. Goose bumps rose on his arms.
There was Tiphan, seated cross-legged on a mound of furs, surrounded by his Silvanesti scrolls. Eyes closed, hands cupped together at his chest, he did not appear to be breathing. Floating in the air above his hands was a sizable chip of spirit stone. The bright greenish light emanated from the levitating stone.
Konza was dumbstruck for a moment. Gathering his scattered wits, he breathed, “By all our ancestors! What are you doing?”
The floating stone wobbled, as though reacting to his voice. Konza held out his walking stick, meaning to knock the hovering stone away. Before the wood touched the stone, Tiphan’s eyes sprang open.
Konza cried out. His son’s eyes were no longer blue. They were ice-white from corner to corner.
“Beware, old man.” The voice came from Tiphan’s lips, but it was not his son’s. Deeper, more powerful, it resonated strangely inside the stone house, sounding like several voices speaking in unison.
Konza lowered the walking stick with a shaking hand.
“Who are you? What have you done to my son?”
“We are many, old man. Fear not. Your son is with us.”
“Are you the spirits held captive in the stone?”
“That is as good as any explanation.”
“Give me back my son!” Konza demanded.
“We hold him not. He is here because he sought us. Through him we shall find release from our prison.”
“Liars! Deceivers! You tricked him! Restore him to me!”
He — they? — laughed, a low chuckle, arid with the dust of bygone ages.
Konza gripped the sturdy walking stick in both hands and shouted, “Tiphan! Son, if you can hear me, hold fast! I shall release you!”
He brought the knurled ironwood down hard on the hovering spirit stone. The instant the wood came in contact with the shard, a silent blast of light filled the small house.
Hundreds of eyes watched Tiphan. Nothing was clearly visible, just the suggestion of forms and shapes beyond the boundaries of his sight. They spoke in whispers or shouted in unison, a chorus of a thousand separate voices, which he understood despite their numbers. They were calling him by name.
Join us, they said. Be our gateway to the world we once knew, the world of light and color. Do this, and we will share with you power undreamed!
The words sent a thrill of exultation through Tiphan, and he eagerly consented, yet even as the spirit host enfolded him, a fragment from his newest scroll flashed through his mind.
The Way to Bind the Sun contained a gloss by a sage named Kerthinalhest, who had lived many hundreds of years ago. According to Kerthinalhest, not all the spirits who fought in the great war had gone into captivity voluntarily. Some had been imprisoned by still greater spirits, forced into silent oblivion after ferocious resistance. Kerthinalhest believed minions of Evil were present in the stones in equal numbers with spirits of Good and Neutrality. Great care must be taken, he wrote, to choose stones containing only beneficent spirits.
The spirits sensed his doubts. We are Good spirits, they told him, unjustly imprisoned in this shell of unfeeling rock. Free us! Lend us your mind and body. Great will he your reward! We, the Many, shall favor you above all mortals.
Tiphan’s mouth opened. He was ready to agree when he heard his name being called. This voice was very different from the others. It sounded frightened, then angry. The Many tried to drown out the new voice, but no matter how much they whispered, screamed, and teased at his senses, the voice succeeded in reaching him.
“Give me back my son!”
It was his father’s voice, and he sounded terrified.
Tiphan turned toward a slim column of light. He held out his hand -
A thunderous explosion struck him, and all the voices cried out as one.
Tiphan opened his eyes. His sight returned slowly, and he found he was lying with his back against a cold stone wall. Every muscle in his body ached, as though he’d been flung against the wall.
The house was dark, but he could make out familiar shapes. He took a deep breath and sat up, cradling his throbbing head in his hands.
Give me back my son!
His father’s furious words echoed in his head. “Father?” Tiphan called. “Father, where are you?”
The only answer was the incessant ringing in his ears. Groaning, Tiphan stood and looked for flint with which to strike a light. In his groping, he found the small table holding the clay bowl of tinder and the lamp had been knocked over.
Powerful tremors shook Tiphan. The house was so bitterly cold! The spilled lamp oil had congealed in the chill, and his hands and feet were numb. He headed toward the door to open the flap and let in light and heat. As he crossed the room, he trod on what felt like gravel. He hissed in pain as the sharp bits cut his bare feet.
Once the door flap was opened, the last of the day’s light flooded in. He turned back and beheld chaos.
Everything had been thrown to the floor — tables, stools, loose clothing, furs. There was no sign of his father, but just inside the door a large basket lay on its side, dry beans and burlnut flour spilling across the floor.
His father had come home, but where was he?
From the overturned basket, Tiphan’s gaze fell upon a sight that made his heart race. Beside his bed was a strange mound of whitish gravel, the same stuff that had cut his bare feet. The mound was shaped like a man — two separate, long piles for the legs, two more like arms, a higher, rounded area for the head, and a thick section for the torso.
Tiphan knelt and ran his fingers through the stuff. It was like soft limestone, the color of old bones. Instinctively, he knew he was touching the remains of his father. Konza had come home and found him entranced. Taking fright, he’d interfered, and this was the result. The thwarted spirits had taken Konza’s life.
Tiphan felt oddly detached as he looked at the crumbling remains. A part of him regretted Konza’s death, but his head still rang with the voices of the Many. He could hear them still, calling him…
The crinkle of parchment distracted him. His precious Silvanesti scroll lay curled up on the floor under his foot. He lifted his foot quickly and picked up the scroll. Chalky white dust cascaded to the floor when he unrolled it slightly. The scroll was undamaged.
Fortunate, Tiphan mused, turning his back on Konza’s remains. He had much to learn before he dared converse with the Many again. Righting the table, he spread the Silvanesti scroll and began to read.
Pairs of torches blazed atop the wall on each side of the west baffle. A lone watchman stood by the southern set of torches, shielded from the night wind by a long fur cloak.
Anuca, son of Montu the cooper, gnawed absently on a strip of smoked venison and wished something would happen to enliven his dull duty. His friend Min, son of Nubis the stockman, had seen stars racing across the sky the night he stood guard. On this dreary night, there were no stars. So far, all Anuca had done was keep his torches lit in this wretched wind.
The hoofbeats of a fast-moving horse caught his ear. Shoving what was left of his snack in his mouth, Anuca took a torch in one hand and his spear in the other. He pondered how to summon help. He had no third hand to hold the ox horn he was supposed to blow. Dithering a moment, he put down the spear to take up the horn.
“Hold!” he shouted, waving his torch. “Who are you?”
The horse skidded to a stop, and the rider slid off the animal’s neck and fell inelegantly to the ground. In a heartbeat he was up again.
