moved with a precision and grace
that verged on beauty. But when Thai Dei and Tobo joined us
briefly, later, both outshone the old man. It was hard not to stop
just to appreciate Tobo’s mastery.
The boy made me feel clumsy and inept just standing still.
Everything came so easily for him.
He had all the talents and skills he could possibly need. If any
question remained, it concerned his character. A lot of good people
had worked hard to make sure that he became a virtuous and upright
man. Which he did appear to be. But he was a blade not yet tested.
True temptation had not yet whispered in his ear.
I missed a step badly, stumbled. Uncle Doj laid his cane across
the seat of my trousers as vigorously as if I had been an
adolescent. His face remained bland but I suspected that he had
wanted to do that for a long time.
I tried to concentrate.
----
12
Glittering Stone:
Steadfast Guardian
T he being on the
huge wooden throne in the heart of the fortress at the center of
the stone plain is a construct. Possibly he was created by the
gods, who fought their wars upon that plain. Or perhaps his
creators were the builders who constructed the plain—if they were
not gods themselves. Opinions vary. Stories abound. The demon
Shivetya himself is not disposed to be unstinting with the facts,
or is, at best, inconsistent in their distribution. He has shown
his latest chronicler several conflicting versions of ancient
events. Old Baladitya has abandoned all hope of establishing an
exact truth and, instead, seeks the deeper range of meaning
underpinning what the golem does reveal. Baladitya understands that
in addition to being foreign territory the past is, as history, a
hall of mirrors that reflect the needs of souls observing from the
present. Absolute fact serves the hungers of only a few
disconnected people. Symbol and faith serve the rest.
Baladitya’s Company career duplicates his prior life. He
writes things down. When he was a copyist at the Taglian Royal
Library he wrote things down. Now, nominally, he is a prisoner of
war. Chances are he has forgotten that. In reality he is freer
today to pursue his own interests than ever he was at the
library.
The old scholar lives and works around the demon’s feet.
Which has to be as close to personal heaven as a Gunni historian
can imagine. If the historian does not remain too determinedly
wedded to Gunni religious doctrine.
Shivetya’s motives for refusing categorical declarations
may stem from bitterness about his lot. By his own admission he has
met most of the gods face-to-face. His recollections concerning
them are even less flattering than those spicing most of Gunni
mythology, where few of the gods are extolled as role models.
Almost without exception the Gunni deities are cruel and selfish
and untouched by any celestial sense of
rajadharma
.
A tall black man stepped into the light cast by
Baladitya’s lamps. “Learned anything exciting today,
old-timer?” The copyist’s fuel expenses are prodigal.
He is indulged.
The old man did not respond. He is almost deaf. He exploits his
infirmity to its limits. Not even Blade insists that he share
routine camp chores any longer.
Blade asked again but the copyist’s nose remained close to
the page on which he was writing. His penmanship is swift and
precise. Blade cannot decipher the complicated ecclesiastical
alphabet, except for some of those characters it shares with the
only slightly simpler common script. Blade looked up into the
golem’s eye. That appeared to be about the size of a
roc’s egg. The adjective “baleful” fit it well.
Not even naive old Baladitya has ever proposed that the demon be
delivered from the restraint guaranteed by the daggers nailing its
limbs to the throne. Neither has the demon ever encouraged anyone
to release it. It has endured for thousands of years. It has the
patience of stone.
Blade tried another approach. “I’ve had a runner
come from the Abode of Ravens.” He prefers the
that verged on beauty. But when Thai Dei and Tobo joined us
briefly, later, both outshone the old man. It was hard not to stop
just to appreciate Tobo’s mastery.
The boy made me feel clumsy and inept just standing still.
Everything came so easily for him.
He had all the talents and skills he could possibly need. If any
question remained, it concerned his character. A lot of good people
had worked hard to make sure that he became a virtuous and upright
man. Which he did appear to be. But he was a blade not yet tested.
True temptation had not yet whispered in his ear.
I missed a step badly, stumbled. Uncle Doj laid his cane across
the seat of my trousers as vigorously as if I had been an
adolescent. His face remained bland but I suspected that he had
wanted to do that for a long time.
I tried to concentrate.
----
12
Glittering Stone:
Steadfast Guardian
T he being on the
huge wooden throne in the heart of the fortress at the center of
the stone plain is a construct. Possibly he was created by the
gods, who fought their wars upon that plain. Or perhaps his
creators were the builders who constructed the plain—if they were
not gods themselves. Opinions vary. Stories abound. The demon
Shivetya himself is not disposed to be unstinting with the facts,
or is, at best, inconsistent in their distribution. He has shown
his latest chronicler several conflicting versions of ancient
events. Old Baladitya has abandoned all hope of establishing an
exact truth and, instead, seeks the deeper range of meaning
underpinning what the golem does reveal. Baladitya understands that
in addition to being foreign territory the past is, as history, a
hall of mirrors that reflect the needs of souls observing from the
present. Absolute fact serves the hungers of only a few
disconnected people. Symbol and faith serve the rest.
Baladitya’s Company career duplicates his prior life. He
writes things down. When he was a copyist at the Taglian Royal
Library he wrote things down. Now, nominally, he is a prisoner of
war. Chances are he has forgotten that. In reality he is freer
today to pursue his own interests than ever he was at the
library.
The old scholar lives and works around the demon’s feet.
Which has to be as close to personal heaven as a Gunni historian
can imagine. If the historian does not remain too determinedly
wedded to Gunni religious doctrine.
Shivetya’s motives for refusing categorical declarations
may stem from bitterness about his lot. By his own admission he has
met most of the gods face-to-face. His recollections concerning
them are even less flattering than those spicing most of Gunni
mythology, where few of the gods are extolled as role models.
Almost without exception the Gunni deities are cruel and selfish
and untouched by any celestial sense of
rajadharma
.
A tall black man stepped into the light cast by
Baladitya’s lamps. “Learned anything exciting today,
old-timer?” The copyist’s fuel expenses are prodigal.
He is indulged.
The old man did not respond. He is almost deaf. He exploits his
infirmity to its limits. Not even Blade insists that he share
routine camp chores any longer.
Blade asked again but the copyist’s nose remained close to
the page on which he was writing. His penmanship is swift and
precise. Blade cannot decipher the complicated ecclesiastical
alphabet, except for some of those characters it shares with the
only slightly simpler common script. Blade looked up into the
golem’s eye. That appeared to be about the size of a
roc’s egg. The adjective “baleful” fit it well.
Not even naive old Baladitya has ever proposed that the demon be
delivered from the restraint guaranteed by the daggers nailing its
limbs to the throne. Neither has the demon ever encouraged anyone
to release it. It has endured for thousands of years. It has the
patience of stone.
Blade tried another approach. “I’ve had a runner
come from the Abode of Ravens.” He prefers the
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