‘You want big truth?’ asked Touchstone. ‘Avatar anger Great God. He struck you down.’
Talaban shrugged. ‘I do not believe in gods. Unless I am one, of course,’ he added with a smile. ‘But I was talking of Questor Ro. He is older than I. For three hundred and fifty years he lived among great wonders. No disease. No death. That is why he cannot let them go. Perhaps it is why none of us can let them go.’
‘No death, no life,’ said Touchstone. ‘We need it.’ Talaban knew what he meant. Man was part of the seasons, the youth of spring, the strength of summer, the ageing wisdom of autumn, and the cold departure of winter. Hearts beating to the rhythm of nature. ‘Easy to say when you are mortal,’ said Talaban. ‘You have blue hair like him, once?’ asked Touchstone. ‘Yes. It separates us from ordinary mortals.’ ‘You are not gods,’ said Touchstone. ‘Gods need no golden rods. And why you sire no sons?’
Talaban said nothing. Stepping forward he leaned on the rail. Several more lanterns had been lit on the ice. ‘What you do about the nomads?’ ‘I will talk to them,’ said Talaban. ‘Pah, talk! Them’s fierce men. They fight. They kill. No time for talk, I think.’
‘I will speak in a language they understand.’ Touchstone bared his teeth in a wide grin. Talaban returned to the cabin. Touchstone followed him, pulling closed the door. ‘I’ll be with you when you talk,’ he said. ‘But now I sleep.’
Alone once more Talaban moved to a long wooden chest by the wall. Inside, wrapped in black velvet, was an ornate weapon, golden in colour, and shaped like a hunting bow. Gems of many colours adorned the grip. Talaban hefted the weapon and touched his thumb to a red gem just above the grip. Thin threads of light flickered, forming what appeared to be the strings of a harp. Talaban tuned his mind to the zhi-bow. The weapon was almost empty. No more than one bolt remained. He touched a white gem above the red and the strings of light disappeared. Setting the weapon down he considered the problem. He could take the bow to the Serpent’s chest and recharge it, but there was little power left there, and if he drained it none of them would survive the voyage back to the city. The .Avatar Serpents were never seaworthy vessels in their own right. Only the power of the chests kept them afloat.
Dismissing the idea, Talaban removed his clothes and moved to the bedroom. Lying on his bed he could see the stars flickering through the curved window.
He had been far to the north-west when the Great Bear’s paw had lashed the ocean, sending a tidal wave three miles high across the continent of the Avatars. But even 2,000 miles away, on the outer edges of the empire, the earthquakes had toppled buildings, and a terrible hurricane had swept across the land, ripping away homes, killing hundreds of thousands.
Many had thought it to be the end of the world. For much of the earth’s population it was exactly that.
The five settlements on the Luan River had escaped with only minor damage, and loss of life that ran into hundreds. Talaban had sailed the Serpent across to the west, seeking sign of other colonies. But he found nothing. With the Serpent running short of energy he had returned to the twin cities of Pagaru and Egaru.
A mere 500 Avatars had survived the fall of the world -and only this many because the former Questor Anu had brought 200 with him from Parapolis.
Thinking of Anu brought back memories of the Vagar mystic. Talaban drifted to sleep with the ragged man’s words echoing in his mind.
He will devour all the works of Man. Then he will sleep for 10,000 years, and the breath of his sleep will be death.
* * *
Touchstone sat on the floor of his cabin, lifted a small brown pouch from around his neck, and held it cupped in both hands. This was his medicine bag, and contained great magic. Through the soft hide of the pouch he could feel the curved fang of the first lion he had killed. It was entwined with a lock of Suryet’s dark hair. Beauty and savagery, forever together. There was a tiny sea shell, and a small amount of earth from the belly of the great mountain. The shell allowed him to commune with the spirits of the sea, the earth brought him the scent of home. Lastly there was the feather flight from his first arrow. This reminded him that he was a hunter and a provider for his tribe. All that Touchstone loved was epitomized by the contents of his medicine pouch. His land, and the sea that washed its shore, his woman, his tribe, and his mother, the earth.
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