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Authors: Robert Holdstock, Angus Wells
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rock. Floors and walls and ceiling welded into one continuous surface, curving around and up, and down to meet in unseeable planes that defied sensible apportionment, so that it was impossible to say surely which was which, almost impossible to stand upright, so confused as the eye. The surfaces were black amber and iridescent silver at the same time. There were no torches to illuminate the chamber, yet it was bright as white-hot iron. Her mind told her that it must be warm, yet she shivered, for there was both intense heat and utter cold within the chamber. And all seemed to emanate from the stone in the centre.
Then, with a shock, of surprise, she realised that it was truly, at the centre: it floated, mid-way between curved base and curved roof, its position exactly equidistant from every surface. And it pulsed as a living embryo beats within the womb sac.
‘Now,’ Spellbinder said softly, turning towards her, ‘let us ask the Stone about the future.’
Five
‘The hand that guides the implement must equally control it, else tool guide the master. Against that, beware.’
The Books of Kharwhan
The radiance within the chamber seemed to grow as Spellbinder approached the stone. The pulsing of the thing mounted so that Raven began to doubt her first assessment: that it was a cleverly hung puppet, controlled by the Stone-priests. When it shifted, spinning upon its own axis, then darting from side to side of the cell, she doubted no longer. And, as though happy with her belief, the thing ceased its movements, settling back to its original hovering position.
It appeared to be stone yet not stone. In outline, it was like a piece of smoothed flint, blue-veined and smoothly shining, as though washed in the stream of time itself. But the veins shifted, moving as do a man’s beneath his skin, its outer covering wavering as flesh above a fast-running pulse. When Spellbinder touched it, setting both his hands flat upon its surface, it calmed as a nervous horse quiets beneath the comforting grip of a confident rider. And a subtle transformation filled the silent chamber.
Within the body of the stone, one light pulsed brighter than the others, and the radiance illuminating the cell died down. That single pulsation seemed to focus on Raven, a flinty eye probing deep into the hidden recesses of her soul. Gradually, almost reluctantly, she felt a mighty lassitude creep through her; it was both comforting and reassuring, though she knew she should not fall into sleep at such a time. But sleep she did—or that was what it felt like, for she knew her eyes grew heavy, her limbs torpid, and soon she saw nothing but the blue glinting of that stone stare.
Slowly, pervasively, images crept like slow tendrils of ivy through her blanked mind.
She say Lyand again, from the slavepens and the streets. Saw her mother’s face; that of Karl ir Donwayne; that of the slavemaster as he applied the brand. Argor’s bearded visage was there, and Spellbinder’s.
And then...
Then there were things she could not understand. Unknown faces of men and women, and things between; some human, some bestial. She saw creatures that flew through skies of ice, and beings that dug through fields of snow; great lizards spouted flame and creatures almost human devoured one another; warriors in metal clashed swords and axes in clamorous fight; and bright poisons dripped from ringed fingers while painted faces smiled. Jewels sparkled on smooth necks and silver-banded heads; blood shone darkly on pitted swords; entrails dangled from pike points, the bloody pulsing of their excrescence becoming amethyst and ruby, glistening amber and sheening gold.
Cities grew before her blind eyes. Towers of wood built skywards, were consumed in fire; rebuilt in stone. The stone crumbled. Was built up again, greater than before, only to fall again. Towers higher than any she had known—any she could imagine—argued with the heavens, and some roared flame and hurled themselves
Then, with a shock, of surprise, she realised that it was truly, at the centre: it floated, mid-way between curved base and curved roof, its position exactly equidistant from every surface. And it pulsed as a living embryo beats within the womb sac.
‘Now,’ Spellbinder said softly, turning towards her, ‘let us ask the Stone about the future.’
Five
‘The hand that guides the implement must equally control it, else tool guide the master. Against that, beware.’
The Books of Kharwhan
The radiance within the chamber seemed to grow as Spellbinder approached the stone. The pulsing of the thing mounted so that Raven began to doubt her first assessment: that it was a cleverly hung puppet, controlled by the Stone-priests. When it shifted, spinning upon its own axis, then darting from side to side of the cell, she doubted no longer. And, as though happy with her belief, the thing ceased its movements, settling back to its original hovering position.
It appeared to be stone yet not stone. In outline, it was like a piece of smoothed flint, blue-veined and smoothly shining, as though washed in the stream of time itself. But the veins shifted, moving as do a man’s beneath his skin, its outer covering wavering as flesh above a fast-running pulse. When Spellbinder touched it, setting both his hands flat upon its surface, it calmed as a nervous horse quiets beneath the comforting grip of a confident rider. And a subtle transformation filled the silent chamber.
Within the body of the stone, one light pulsed brighter than the others, and the radiance illuminating the cell died down. That single pulsation seemed to focus on Raven, a flinty eye probing deep into the hidden recesses of her soul. Gradually, almost reluctantly, she felt a mighty lassitude creep through her; it was both comforting and reassuring, though she knew she should not fall into sleep at such a time. But sleep she did—or that was what it felt like, for she knew her eyes grew heavy, her limbs torpid, and soon she saw nothing but the blue glinting of that stone stare.
Slowly, pervasively, images crept like slow tendrils of ivy through her blanked mind.
She say Lyand again, from the slavepens and the streets. Saw her mother’s face; that of Karl ir Donwayne; that of the slavemaster as he applied the brand. Argor’s bearded visage was there, and Spellbinder’s.
And then...
Then there were things she could not understand. Unknown faces of men and women, and things between; some human, some bestial. She saw creatures that flew through skies of ice, and beings that dug through fields of snow; great lizards spouted flame and creatures almost human devoured one another; warriors in metal clashed swords and axes in clamorous fight; and bright poisons dripped from ringed fingers while painted faces smiled. Jewels sparkled on smooth necks and silver-banded heads; blood shone darkly on pitted swords; entrails dangled from pike points, the bloody pulsing of their excrescence becoming amethyst and ruby, glistening amber and sheening gold.
Cities grew before her blind eyes. Towers of wood built skywards, were consumed in fire; rebuilt in stone. The stone crumbled. Was built up again, greater than before, only to fall again. Towers higher than any she had known—any she could imagine—argued with the heavens, and some roared flame and hurled themselves
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