Thrax moved the rod slowly back and forth several times, and the contrivance walked its way jerkily across the slab. As it approached the edge, however, its motion became stiffer and slower, and Thrax had to push harder on the rod to keep it moving. “It’s starting to jam,” he said. “I can feel it.”
“Hmm.” Dalgren stooped to peer at the horizontal guides. “Ahah, yes, I think I can see why. The main guide is expanding and starting to jam.” He sighed and sat down on a stool. “I’m not sure how we get around it. It may need an additional compensating liner.”
Every problem solved seemed to introduce a new complication. They had adjusted the device for correct operation early in the morning, but as the world shrank from east to west under Grakh’s kneading, the mechanism’s dimensions had changed. Automatically, Thrax began mentally composing a prayer to Gralth. Then he checked himself, remembering that those were old methods that had to be set aside firmly if the new ones were ever to be understood. At the same time, he felt an inner twinge of discomfort at such defiance of all his years of conditioning.
As if echoing his doubts, a voice spoke accusingly from the doorway. “Sorcerers! Blasphemy! These things belong to a higher realm. They are not meant to be meddled with here in the world of Waroth. That is why the powers are failing. Just as you are abandoning faith, so are the gods abandoning us.”
It was Keyalo, a foster son of Dalgren and Thrax’s aunt, Yonel. He was a couple of years older than Thrax and had resented Thrax’s
intrusion into the household ever since Thrax’s own family had been lost when Vandros, the underworld god whose blood ran as rivers of light, punished the Dertelians by consuming five villages in a lake of fire.
“No one can be Sure of that, Keyalo,” Dalgren replied. His voice was curt. Keyalo had never expressed gratitude for being taken in, and there was little liking between the two of them either way. The fact that he had come down to the basement at all indicated that he was out to cause trouble.
“The priests know!” Keyalo retorted. “The gods are putting us to a test. And we shall all be judged by the failures of those who deny them, such as you.”
“Appeasing the gods, angering the gods . . .“ Daigren shook his head. “I’m beginning to suspect that it’s all in the mind. The world runs according to its own rules, and what we think they influence is all our imagination. When has anyone ever—”
Without warning, Keyalo stepped forward and shot out an arm in the manner of a Master casting a fire bolt, pointing at the mechanism on the slab. The tip of his finger swelled and glowed faintly for an instant—most people could achieve that—and then returned to normal without discharging. Keyalo stared at it in anger and surprised disappointment.
Perhaps he had thought that a concentrated moment of belief and will would induce a god to favor him.
Keyalo’s problem was that he was lazy. He hung around the disciples and the Masters, and sometimes attended the ceremonies, and even a few of the lessons, occasionally; but he could never have mustered the concentration and discipline to enter one of the orders and train into an adept. Probably that was why he was so jealous of Thrax, whom he knew had the potential. But in Keyalo’s eyes Thrax not only abused his ability but, what was worse, misdirected it upon heresy.
“We are busy,” Dalgren said in a tight voice. “Your words are wasted here, Keyalo. Leave us alone.”
“It is those like you who are bringing destruction on all of us,” Keyalo hissed. Then, white-faced with rage, he turned and left the room.
Dalgren took the rods and walked the device back across the slab in silence while the mood cleared. “They say there are devices in Hyperia that propel themselves,” he murmured absently. “Imagine,
Thrax, a chariot without a drodhz. What form of propulsion could move it, I wonder?”
“They say there are devices that fly, too,” Thrax pointed out, his voice registering the obvious impossibility of such a notion. “The stories become exaggerated with telling and retelling.”