‘Let me present my own arguments,’ pleaded Ekodas.
‘No, my son. But I will do them justice, I promise you.’
‘I did not doubt that, sir. But I cannot do justice to yours.’
‘Do your best, Ekodas. No man can ever ask for more than that.’ Dardalion lifted a finger to his lips, then closed his eyes. All heads bowed instantly and the union began. Ekodas felt himself floating. There was no sight, no sound, no feeling. Just warmth. He sensed Vishna, and Magnic, Palista, Seres … all the others flowing all around him.
‘We are One,’ pulsed Dardalion.
‘We are One,’ echoed the Thirty.
And the prayer-song began, the great hymn to the Source, mind-sung in a tongue unknown to any of them, even Dardalion. The words were unfathomable, but the sensations created by the sounds produced a sweet magic, filling the soul with light.
Ekodas was transported back to his childhood, to see again the tall, gangling dark-haired youth with the violet eyes, working behind his father in the fields, planting the seed, gathering the harvest. Those were good days, though he did not know it at the time. Shunned by the other youths of the village he had no friends, and no one to share his small joys, his discoveries. But now, as he soared within the hymn he saw the love his parents gave him, despite their fears at his Talent. He felt the warm hugs from his mother, and his father’s calloused hand ruffling his hair.
And such was the power of the hymn he could even see, without hate, the Vagrian soldiers attacking his home, watch the axe that dashed his father’s brains to the floor, the plunging knife that snatched his mother from life. He had been in the barn when the Vagrians rode in. His parents had been slain within the first minute of the raid. Ekodas had leapt from the high hay-stall and run towards the soldiers. One turned and lashed out with a sword. It cut the boy’s shoulder and neck, glancing up to slash across his brow.
When he awoke he was the only living Drenai for miles around. The Vagrians had even butchered the farm animals. All the buildings were burning, and a great pall of smoke hung over the land. He walked the two miles to the village on the third day after the raid. Bodies lay everywhere, and though the smoke was gone now, great flocks of crows circled in the sky. He gathered what food remained -a half-charred side of ham, a small sack of dried oats -and found a shovel which he carried back to his home, digging a deep grave for his parents.
For a year he had lived alone, gathering grain, edible roots and flowers that could be made into soups. And in that year he saw no one. In the day he would work. At night he would dream, dream of flying through the night sky, of soaring above the mountains in the clean light of the stars. Such dreams!
One night as he circled and soared a dark shape had materialised before him. It was a man’s face, black hair waxed close to the skull, high slanted eyes, long braided sideburns that hung far below the chin.
‘Where are you from, boy?’ asked the man.
Ekodas had been frightened. He backed away, but the face swelled and a body appeared, long arms reaching out for him. The hands were scaled and taloned, and Ekodas fled. Other dark shapes appeared, like the crows above the village, and they called out to him. Far below he saw the little shelter he had created for himself from the unburnt timber of the barn. Down, down he flew, merging with his body and snapping awake, his heart beating wildly. In the heartbeat between dream and awakening he was sure he had heard triumphant laughter.
Two days later a traveller came by, a slender man with a gentle face. He walked slowly, and when he sat he winced with pain, for there was a stitched wound in his back.
‘Good morning Ekodas,’ he had said. ‘I am Dardalion -and you must leave this place.’
‘Why? It is my home.’