study and meditation, even the physical exercises, running, archery, and sword skills. In every way he felt a part of the Thirty.
Bar one.
He tapped at the door and then pushed the latch. The room was lit by the golden light of three glass-sided lanterns, and he saw Dardalion sitting at his desk, poring over a goatskin map. The abbot looked up. In this gentle light he seemed younger, the silver highlights in his hair gleaming gold.
“Welcome, my boy. Come in and sit.” Ekodas bowed, then strode to a chair. “Shall we share thoughts, or would you like to speak out loud?” asked Dardalion.
“To speak, sir.”
“Very well. Vishna and Magnic tell me you are still troubled.”
“I am not troubled, Father. I know what I know.”
“You do not see this as arrogance?”
“No. My beliefs are only those you enjoyed before your adventures with the killer Waylander. Were you wrong then?”
“I do not believe that I was,” replied Dardalion. “But then, I no longer believe that there is only one road to the Source. Egel was a man of vision and a believer. Three times a day he prayed for guidance. Yet he was also a soldier, and through him—aye, and Karnak—the lands of the Drenai were saved from the foe. He is dead now. Do you think the Source refused to take his soul to paradise?”
“I do not know the answer to that question,” said the young man, “but what I do know is that I have been taught, by you and others, that love is the greatest gift of the Source. Love for all life, for all his creation. Now you are saying that you expect me to lift a sword and take life. That cannot be right.”
Dardalion leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desktop, his hands clasped together as if in prayer. “Do you accept that the Source created the lion?”
“Of course.”
“And the deer?”
“Yes, and the lion slays the deer. I know this. I do not understand it, but I accept it.”
“I feel the need of flight,” said Dardalion. “Join me.”
The abbot closed his eyes. Ekodas settled himself more comfortably in the chair, resting his arms on the padded wings, then took a deep breath. The release of spirit seemed effortless to Dardalion, but Ekodas found it extraordinarily difficult, as if his soul had many hooks into the flesh. He followed the lessons he had learned for the last ten years, repeating the mantras, cleansing the mind.
The dove in the temple, the opening door, the circle of gold on the field of blue, the spreading of wings in a gilded cage, the loosing of chains on the temple floor.
He felt the first loosening of his hold on his body, as if he were floating in the warm waters of the womb. He was safe there,content. Feeling drifted back to him, his spine against the hard wood of the chair, his sandaled feet on the cold floor. No, no, he chided himself. You are losing it! His concentration deepened once more, but he could not soar.
Dardalion’s voice whispered into his mind. “Take my hand, Ekodas.”
A light shone golden and warming, and Ekodas accepted the merging. The release was instant, and his spirit broke clear of the temple of his body, soaring up through the second temple of stone to float high in the night sky above the land of Drenai.
“Why is it so difficult for me?” he asked the abbot.
Dardalion, young again, his face unlined, reached out and touched his pupil’s shoulder. “Doubts are fears, my boy. And dreams of the flesh. Small guilts, meaningless but worrisome.”
“Where are we going, Father?”
“Follow and observe.” East they flew, across the glittering, star-dappled Ventrian Sea. A storm raged there, and far below a tiny trireme battled the elements, great waves washing over her flat decks. Ekodas saw a sailor swept overboard, watched him fall below the waves, saw the gleaming spark of his soul float up and vanish.
The land appeared dark below them, the mountains and plains of Ventria stretching to the east, while on the coast brightly lit towns and ports
Bar one.
He tapped at the door and then pushed the latch. The room was lit by the golden light of three glass-sided lanterns, and he saw Dardalion sitting at his desk, poring over a goatskin map. The abbot looked up. In this gentle light he seemed younger, the silver highlights in his hair gleaming gold.
“Welcome, my boy. Come in and sit.” Ekodas bowed, then strode to a chair. “Shall we share thoughts, or would you like to speak out loud?” asked Dardalion.
“To speak, sir.”
“Very well. Vishna and Magnic tell me you are still troubled.”
“I am not troubled, Father. I know what I know.”
“You do not see this as arrogance?”
“No. My beliefs are only those you enjoyed before your adventures with the killer Waylander. Were you wrong then?”
“I do not believe that I was,” replied Dardalion. “But then, I no longer believe that there is only one road to the Source. Egel was a man of vision and a believer. Three times a day he prayed for guidance. Yet he was also a soldier, and through him—aye, and Karnak—the lands of the Drenai were saved from the foe. He is dead now. Do you think the Source refused to take his soul to paradise?”
“I do not know the answer to that question,” said the young man, “but what I do know is that I have been taught, by you and others, that love is the greatest gift of the Source. Love for all life, for all his creation. Now you are saying that you expect me to lift a sword and take life. That cannot be right.”
Dardalion leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desktop, his hands clasped together as if in prayer. “Do you accept that the Source created the lion?”
“Of course.”
“And the deer?”
“Yes, and the lion slays the deer. I know this. I do not understand it, but I accept it.”
“I feel the need of flight,” said Dardalion. “Join me.”
The abbot closed his eyes. Ekodas settled himself more comfortably in the chair, resting his arms on the padded wings, then took a deep breath. The release of spirit seemed effortless to Dardalion, but Ekodas found it extraordinarily difficult, as if his soul had many hooks into the flesh. He followed the lessons he had learned for the last ten years, repeating the mantras, cleansing the mind.
The dove in the temple, the opening door, the circle of gold on the field of blue, the spreading of wings in a gilded cage, the loosing of chains on the temple floor.
He felt the first loosening of his hold on his body, as if he were floating in the warm waters of the womb. He was safe there,content. Feeling drifted back to him, his spine against the hard wood of the chair, his sandaled feet on the cold floor. No, no, he chided himself. You are losing it! His concentration deepened once more, but he could not soar.
Dardalion’s voice whispered into his mind. “Take my hand, Ekodas.”
A light shone golden and warming, and Ekodas accepted the merging. The release was instant, and his spirit broke clear of the temple of his body, soaring up through the second temple of stone to float high in the night sky above the land of Drenai.
“Why is it so difficult for me?” he asked the abbot.
Dardalion, young again, his face unlined, reached out and touched his pupil’s shoulder. “Doubts are fears, my boy. And dreams of the flesh. Small guilts, meaningless but worrisome.”
“Where are we going, Father?”
“Follow and observe.” East they flew, across the glittering, star-dappled Ventrian Sea. A storm raged there, and far below a tiny trireme battled the elements, great waves washing over her flat decks. Ekodas saw a sailor swept overboard, watched him fall below the waves, saw the gleaming spark of his soul float up and vanish.
The land appeared dark below them, the mountains and plains of Ventria stretching to the east, while on the coast brightly lit towns and ports
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