Calm yourself! The Shrine has been plundered before. The Eyes will be hidden. Step inside, and pay homage to the spirit of the hero.
Taking a deep breath, he moved forward and pushed open the ancient wooden door. The dust-covered room was no more than thirty feet long, and twenty wide. Wooden pegs were hammered into the walls, but nothing hung from them now. Once Oshikai’s armour had been displayed here, his breastplate and helm, and Kolmisai, the single-bladed hand-axe which had felled a hundred foes. There had been tapestries and mosaics, detailing his life and his victories. Now there were only bare and empty walls. The Shrine had been ransacked hundreds of years ago. They had, so Nosta Khan informed him, even opened the coffin and torn off the fingers of the corpse to get to the golden rings worn by Oshikai. The chamber was bleak, the stone coffin resting on a raised platform at the centre. The coffin itself was unadorned, save for a square of black iron set into the stone. Upon it, in raised letters, were the words:
Oshikai Demon-bane – Lord of War.
Talisman laid his hand on the cold stone of the coffin lid. ‘I live,’ he said, ‘to see your dreams return. We will be united again. We will be Nadir, and the world will tremble.’
‘Why do the dreams of men always lead to war?’ asked a voice. Talisman spun to see that sitting in the shadows was an old blind man wearing a grey robe and cowl. He was stick-thin, and hairless. Taking hold of his staff, he levered himself to his feet and approached Talisman. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘I have studied the life of Oshikai, sifting through the legends and the myths. He never wanted war. Always it was thrust upon him. That was when he became a terrible enemy. The dreams you speak of were mostly of finding a land of promise and plenty where his people could grow in peace. He was a great man.’
‘Who are you?’ asked Talisman.
‘I am a priest of the Source.’ As the man stepped into the beam of moonlight coming through the open western window, Talisman saw that he was Nadir. ‘I live here now, writing my histories.’
‘How does a blind man write?’
‘Only the eyes of my body are blind, Talisman. When I write I use the eyes of my spirit.’
Talisman shivered as the man spoke his name. ‘You are a shaman?’
The priest shook his head. ‘I understand the Way, though my own path is different. I cast no spells, Talisman, though I can heal warts and read the hearts of men. Sadly I cannot alter them. I can walk the paths of the many futures, but do not know which will come to pass. If I could, I would open this coffin and raise the man within. But I cannot.’
‘How is it that you know my name?’
‘Why should I not? You are the flaming arrow, the messenger.’
‘You know why I am here,’ said Talisman, his voice dropping to a whisper.
‘Of course. You are seeking the Eyes of Alchazzar, hidden here so many years ago.’
Talisman fingered the dagger at his belt, and silently drew it. ‘You have found them?’
‘I know they are here. But they were not left for me to find. I write history, Talisman; it is not for me to create it. May the Source give you wisdom.’
The old man turned away and walked to the sunlit doorway where he stood for a moment, as if waiting. Then his voice sounded once more. ‘In at least three of the futures I have seen, you struck me down as I stood here, your dagger deep in my back. Why did you not do so in this one?’
‘I considered it, old man.’
‘Had you committed the deed you would have been dragged from this chamber, your arms and legs tied with ropes attached to the saddles of four ponies. You would have been ripped apart, Talisman. That also happened.’
‘Obviously it did not, for you still live.’
‘It happened somewhere,’ said the old man. Then he was gone.
Talisman followed him into the light, but he had vanished into one of the buildings. Seeing Gorkai drawing water from the well, he strolled across to him. ‘Where is Zhusai?’