A Secret Atlas (47 page)

things, but nothing quite matched the Wastes. He found all of it hauntingly familiar, as if he

were half-remembering dreams.

The western reaches seemed to be full of places apart from the world. It took them a day

to get through a lush valley carpeted with maroon plants that bore massive blue blossoms.

The stems and roots throbbed, and none of the horses would eat them or the flowers.

Tyressa had picked one blossom, and a whole swath of flowers had snapped shut in a

rippling wave. Keles had dug into the ground and, as nearly as any of them could make

out, the plants shared a network of roots.

Even more interestingly, the valley began to shift. The land itself moved, deepening the

valley and urging them forward. Things never got to the point where they were in danger

of being crushed, for the land’s swelling came gently. Moraven just felt as though the

valley was nudging them along the way a finger might nudge a caterpillar off a leaf.

He’d looked over at the Viruk trotting alongside them. “This valley can’t possibly be alive.”

“No more so than the
gyanrigot,
but that does not prevent them from moving.”

Things continued to get more strange, as if each valley or plain had been shaped

according to a plan. One meadow they rode through caused Rekarafi to stop dead and

just crouch amid the flowers. Moraven wasn’t sure why, but Ciras offered a quiet answer.

“On Tirat there are scrolls. They are very old and on them are pictures of plants that no

longer exist.” He looked around. “They look like these.”

The swordmaster rode over to the Viruk. “We can linger here, if you wish.”

“And allow me to wallow in a past that will never return?”

“Let you refresh memories that once brought you joy.”

Rekarafi looked at him carefully. “Even happy memories hurt. It’s the separation.”

Moraven had ridden off to allow the Viruk some peace. The ancient one’s words had

found resonance in him. There was something about the Wastes he did not like. He

wanted to ascribe it to constantly feeling the tingle of magic, but that had never been an

unpleasant experience before. Still, he was so used to controlling magic that the sensation

had him constantly on guard, and that did wear him down.

But as unsettling as he found the land of wild magic, Ciras clearly found it more so, and

this bothered Moraven. He had not been as young as Ciras when he first felt the tingle

of
jaedunto,
and had been more fortunate in having had training in a variety of schools prior to that. He couldn’t remember that training, but it had existed and Master Jatan’s

instruction brought the skills back to him, even if he could not recover the memories.

The
serrian
experience had given him discipline and had trained him how to evaluate

experiences so he could learn from them. This he had done immediately, and learned how

to expand his access to the magic of swordsmanship. Phoyn Jatan had recognized his

potential and position. He also took measure of Moraven’s maturity and explained very

simply that he was at a crossroads in his life. If he were to view
jaedunto
as power, as some sort of right that allowed him to do as he willed, the power would twist him. Though

he would live for generation after generation, his existence would be an eternity of

torment. He would never know peace.

Taking to heart Master Jatan’s teaching, Moraven slowly learned how to harness his

power. His lessons did come slowly, however, mastered only over time. He could never

forget the haunted look in the eyes of young Matut when he’d slaughtered bandits without

a thought on the road to Moriande. From that day forward, if it were possible to avoid

combat, he did. If it were possible to avoid killing, he did. Where he had to kill, he made it

clean and quick.

Ciras had not yet reached the point where he could separate the desire to perfect his skill

from the consequences of employing that skill. Ciras did argue that the slaying of ruffians

in Asath really mattered little and, in fact, had been necessary to prevent any alarm about

Keles’ escape. Moraven agreed with both points. Had he not agreed with the latter, he

would not have slain those he faced. The former point, however, was not as clear-cut.

While the death of a ruffian had limited consequences—grief to those who loved him being

the most likely—that view failed to take into account the effect on the swordsman.

Moraven could not remember every person he’d ever slain, and believed the peace

of
jaedunto
insulated him from many of those memories. It did not save him from all of

them, however. He’d killed in battles, in roadside encounters, and in duels. He recalled

how it felt when a sword stroked a belly open, or the scream when a limb parted company

with the body. Each time he took a life, it weighed his spirit down.
In realizing my full

potential, I block others from realizing theirs.

Moraven was fully aware that one school of thought about
jaedunto
suggested this was

entirely necessary. It suggested that the way one reached that lofty position was by

assuming the potential of those slain along the way. The obvious contradiction of this was

a skilled cobbler whose skill slew no one, yet grew daily and carried him ever closer

to
jaedunto
. Perhaps there was more than one path to
jaedunto,
or just that with each masterpiece made, someone else was robbed of the chance to have created it.

Regardless of the theoretical source of the power, hard work, discipline, and patience

were all seen as vital. In their wanderings, Ciras Dejote had developed a certain

impatience which, while it had not yet entered the realm of swordplay, did bring with it a

disturbing contempt. He had no use for Borosan Gryst and his
gyanrigot
. While Moraven

had been impressed with the Naleni’s skill at creating and re-creating the devices, Ciras

harped on how quickly they broke, or how other, more simple methods could accomplish

what they did.

Moraven had tried to deflect Ciras by giving him a simple duty. In their survey they cut

across signs of a bandit company scouring the landscape. They found evidence of raids at

several small encampments.
Thaumston
prospectors had been murdered and any store of

the precious mineral stolen. Likewise they’d discovered a number of small tombs—things

from ancient cairns to tiny caves that had been walled shut—which had been opened and

the contents rifled.

To Ciras fell the duty of recording all evidence of the band’s predation. This kept him

focused. The idea of meeting and dealing with cutthroats, murderers, and defilers of the

dead fueled him. It sharpened his powers of observation and even sparked his

imagination. He watched the tracks so closely he could identify individuals based on their

horses and footprints. He gave them names and would report back on their current states

of existence.

Unfortunately, this duty also fed his impatience. Whenever they would find fresh tracks, he

would want to set off immediately in pursuit. Moraven always forbade it, citing the need to

help Keles. Ciras argued that their mission from Master Jatan demanded they intercept

the raiders and should take precedence. Moraven reminded him that the mission had

been given to
him,
not Ciras, and he would decide when the time to strike was at hand.

Finally, they had run across tracks that told a story that required investigation. Moving

through lowlands, they came to a canyon splitting the face of an escarpment. The bandits

had ridden into it, then most of them had come back and continued along the escarpment

toward the northeast. Yet three of them had not returned, and Moraven found his curiosity

piqued.

He chose to ride in the lead and studied the rock walls rising up so high the sky became

but a thin ribbon of blue. He saw no one up there, nor any signs of climbing, but he

remained alert. Moraven was fairly certain that the bandits had no idea they were being

trailed, so the chances of their setting up an ambush were minimal—and using only three

men to do so was foolish. Assuming, however, that the missing members of the group

might be dead meant that something had killed them.
Whatever or whoever that was will

present a similar threat to us.

Three miles in, the canyon opened onto a narrow valley that continued for another couple

of miles before closing in again. Moraven could not see to the far end, but found it easy to

imagine that the trail led to the top of the escarpment. It looked to be a fairly convenient

way to move to the highlands, and doubtless was used by people and animals alike.

It was not without its perils, however. Three hundred yards into the valley sat a small pool

of water roughly thirty feet in diameter. Not a ripple showed on its surface, and the sun

reflected brightly from it. Given that much of the water in the Dolosan lowlands had a

brackish quality to it, this pool looked quite inviting.

The only thing that spoiled the image was the circle of bleached skeletons and fresh

bodies around it. Most lay with their heads facing the pool but a few, including one of the

bandits, had been running from it. The circle touched the valley’s east and west walls, and

several skeletons huddled against the stone—including a couple of warriors in armor.

Moraven reined up, and the others spread out in the small safe zone nearest the canyon,

with the Viruk squatting in a thin slice of shadow to the east. The horses stamped and

shied, not wanting to linger in this place of death.

Keles patted his horse’s neck. “I don’t blame you for not liking it here.”

Ciras rode up beside Moraven and pointed his quirt at one of the bandits. “That is Pegleg

and the dead bay is his horse. The other two are Cutheel and Solehole. Pegleg went

down first, and Cutheel next, knocked out of his saddle. Solehole went down with his

horse and tried to run. He may have even dived for Cutheel’s horse—that, or fell—then

tried to crawl away before dying.”

“I think your reading is correct.” Moraven used a hand to shield his eyes from the sun and

peered more closely at the bandits. From where he sat, he couldn’t see what had killed

the horses, but Solehole had a hole in his overshirt right over his spine. It appeared to be

a burn mark, with considerable scorching around it. One of the armored skeletons also

seemed to have a hole in his breastplate, but it was too far distant for Moraven to figure

out what had caused it.

He slid from the saddle. “There definitely seems to be a perimeter. Stay back. I want to

see what happens when—”

“If I might make a suggestion, Master Tolo?”

Ciras spitted Borosan with a harsh stare. “Quiet,
gyanridin
. My Master knows what he is doing.”

Moraven laughed. “Actually, I don’t. I would welcome a suggestion.”

“It would have been easier had we not abandoned my wagon at Telarunde, but I’ll make

do.” Borosan climbed down off his horse and walked back to the packhorse he’d been

leading. He opened a pouch and pulled out the mouser. “We can use this to see what is

out there.”

The swordsman nodded. “Excellent idea.”

The
gyanridin
bowled the mouser into the circle and it snapped its legs out the instant it stopped rolling. The little metal ball scuttled forward, then left and right, slowly closing with the dead bay.

The pool reacted. As if a rock had dropped at its heart, a ripple spread out in a perfect

ring. It hit the edges, but instead of lapping over, it reversed and sped back in. It picked up speed, and when it converged at the center, a column of water shot ten feet into the air. A

spherical drop leaped up and hung there, glistening in the sunlight as the column flowed

down again.

The sphere throbbed and altered its shape. It flattened into a disk, then thickened in the

middle. Sunlight flashed through it, and suddenly the mouser began to smoke. The

little
gyanrigot
continued its dash toward the dead horse and the zigzagging course forced the disk to shift shape and reposition itself. Several black char marks dappled the

mouser’s shell, but it reached the dead horse and hid between haunch and tail.

A final puff of smoke matched the curling of tail hair. The disk became a sphere again and

floated there. Light played through it slowly and languidly. It appeared almost inviting and

certainly benign.

And had I not seen what I have just seen, my thirst might have driven me to accept the

pool’s hospitality.

The Keru crouched at the edge of the death circle. “I don’t know what it is. I don’t know if it is alive, so I don’t know if we can kill it. I don’t know if we should even try, but I’ve grown to be fond of that little mouser.”

“It would be a pity to lose it.” Moraven ran a hand over his jaw, then glanced right at Ciras.

“What are you doing?”

His apprentice neatly folded his overshirt and began to draw off his shirt, despite the chill

air. “I am the swiftest among us. I will run to the mouser and retrieve it. If I dodge as it did, the sphere will be unable to kill me.”

Sacrificing yourself for something you despise? Perhaps there is hope for you,

Ciras.
Moraven held a hand up. “That may be a bit premature. Master Gryst, can you not recall your mouser?”