But he did not halt.
He came to the bottom of the well and moved across it, passing among broken stones and over fissures in the rocky floor. At last he reached the opposite wall, wherein a great orange fire danced.
It became cherry-red as he approached, and when he stood before it, it was the blue of a sapphire’s heart.
It stood to twice his height, pulsing and twisting. From it, little flamelets licked out toward him, but they drew back as if they fell against an invisible barrier.
During his descent he had passed so many flames that he had lost count of their number. He knew, too, that more lay hidden within the caverns that open into the well bottom.
Each flame he had passed on the way down had addressed him, using its own species of communication, so that the words had sounded drumlike within his head: threatening words, and pleading, promising words. But no message came to him from this great blue blaze, larger than any of the others. No forms turned or twisted, tantalizing, within its bright heart. Flame it was, and flame it remained.
He kindled a fresh torch and wedged it between two rocks.
“So, Hated One, you have returned!”
The words fell upon him like whiplashes. Steadying himself, he faced the blue flame then and replied:
“You are called Taraka?”
“He who bound me here should know what I am called,” came the words. “Think not, oh Siddhartha, that because you wear a different body you go now unrecognized. I look upon the flows of energy which are your real being—not the flesh that masks them.”
“I see,” replied the other.
“Do you come to mock me in my prison?”
“Did I mock you in the days of the Binding?”
“No, you did not.”
“I did that which had to be done, to preserve my own species. Men were weak and few in number. Your kind fell upon them and would have destroyed them.”
“You stole our world, Siddhartha. You chained us here. What new indignity would you lay upon us?”
“Perhaps there is a way in which some reparation may be made.”
“What is it that you want?”
“Allies.”
“You want us to take your part in a struggle?”
“That is correct.”
“And when it is over, you will seek to bind us again.”
“Not if we can work out some sort of agreement beforehand.”
“Speak to me your terms,” said the flame.
“In the old days your people walked, visible and invisible, in the streets of the Celestial City.”
“That is true.”
“It is better fortified now.”
“In what ways?”
“Vishnu the Preserver and Yama-Dharma, Lord of Death, have covered the whole of Heaven, rather than just the City—as it was in days of old—with what is said to be an impenetrable dome.”
“There is no such thing as an impenetrable dome.”
“I say only what I have heard.”
“There are many ways into a city. Lord Siddhartha.”
“You will find them all for me?”
“That is to be the price of my freedom?”
“Of your own freedom—yes.”
“What of the others of my kind?”
“If they, too, are to be freed, you must all agree to help me lay siege to that City and take it.”
“Free us, and Heaven shall fall!”
“You speak for the others?”
“I am Taraka. I speak for all.”
“What assurance do you give, Taraka, that this bargain will be kept?”
“My word? I shall be happy to swear by anything you care to name — ”
“A facility with oaths is not the most reassuring quality in a bargainer. And your strength is also your weakness in any bargaining at all. You are so strong as to be unable to grant to another the power to control you. You have no gods to swear by. The only thing you will honor is a gambling debt, and there are no grounds for gaming here.”
“You possess the power to control us.”
“Individually, perhaps. But not collectively.”
“It is a difficult problem,” said Taraka. “I should give anything I have to be free—but then, all that I have is power — pure power, in essence uncommittable. A greater force might subdue it, but that is not the answer. I do not really know how to give you satisfactory assurance that my promise will be kept. If I were you, I certainly would not trust me.”