The Tond saga continues. I'm having some formatting issues with this one, so enjoy the story but ignore the strange spacing.

Tond, Book One: The Sons of Tlaen Ras-Erkéltis

Chapter 3
Initiation

Ahíinráalis nel vórn arn tán ni xéndadhas.
“The words of the Ahíinor are carved in stone.”
From the Annals of the Ahíinor 

Council Town in South Rohándal, tenth month, Fyorian year 607

    Sleep eluded Rolan that night as he lay on his mattress anxious and fearful about the next day. What would the ahíinor do to him tomorrow? He had heard hints that there was a ceremony of special grandeur, but he had also heard tales of fear and pain. The ahíinor did not take their position lightly; and to join their ranks, one needed to take some kind of test. Undoubtably they would not hurt him physically, but there were other ways, such as the mechanas themselves, to induce pain. Holding extremely bright glowballs up to one’s eyes, for example, or using the Fiery Eye to show scenes of something horrible; what, he couldn’t imagine. They would do... they would do... No, he dared not think of what they would do; but he knew that he must do it with them. Such had been his desire since he had seen Keldar look through the Fiery Eye and see the realms of Tond. Something had awoken within him then, and he knew that he would have to walk the path to become an ahíinor. There was no other path to take.
    So he lay there, tired but wide awake, and watched the stars from his window; the constellation of the Scimitar set in the west, and the hourglass began to rise when the first rosy light of dawn appeared in the east, and he felt Keldar gently wake him.
    He sat up and rubbed his eyes. “I didn’t realize I was asleep,” he yawned. “Is Arnul up yet?”
   Keldar didn't answer, but walked out of the room slowly. So one had to be quiet on the day ot initiation.
    Rolan stretched. His muscles twanged and he realized he was sore from the adventure the day before and the almost sleepless night. He got up, went to the wardrobe, got his tunic and put it on, waited a minute, took a deep breath, grabbed his new walking-staff, and proceeded out of the room to join Keldar. Arnul was already up, and was eating some grapes from the bunch that Shillayne had given them the night before. Rolan’s stomach was too unquiet to have any. Keldar stood there and observed them both with his narrow eyes, then suddenly he took his own árukand walking-staff, threw the door open, and walked out into the light of the rising sun. Rolan followed slowly; Arnul bounced out of the door behind him, shut it, and bounded ahead.

    The morning air was crisp, but already the heat of the desert sun was beginning to make itself known. In another two hours the air would be hot and stifling, but for now it was comfortable and there were some birds singing. Rolan heard them as they passed. A stray dog sniffed at their heals, then crossed behind them as they walked down the narrow, cobbled streets. There was no other sound; nobody was out yet this morning. They passed the marketplace where usually there were throngs of people and the air was scented with the strong smells of fruits and animals and spices and sweat. This morning there were no people, and the only smell was an occasional pine or flower as they passed.
    “Where is everybody?” Rolan asked, mostly to himself. He flinched; his own voice had been loud and harsh.
    “It is two days after the Festival of the Autumn Moon,” said Keldar abruptly but quietly. “This town has a Day of Silence to be thankful for the harvest. Nobody works on this day.” He gestured to show that they should obey the custom too, but then he said quietly, “The Council will be very noisy, but it will be inside. We will not disturb their silence.”
    And so they walked silently to the Council Building, and there they met the hundred or so bearded loremasters, standing in a barely organized crowd outside of the door; all leaning on árukand walking-staffs, and all observing Rolan and Arnul solemnly. Rolan recognized Eilann among them. He alone was smiling.
    There was another ahíinor in a red and blue robe, quite unlike the drab ones the others were wearing. His walking-staff was not knobby but straight, carved with foliage patterns, and topped with a gold ornament shaped like a four-pointed star. He was obviously the leader, the lúmukor, the Master of Light, of whom Keldar had spoken. He regarded Rolan and Arnul each in turn with a long steady gaze, then waved his walking-staff in the air, opened the door, and went in. The others followed, with Rolan, Arnul and Keldar in the rear.
    Rolan had never seen the inside of this building. The outside certainly was unimpressive; a rather haphazard structure of boards nailed together and partially covered with old, wearing-off adobe; but it was usual for the Fyorians to not worry much about the appearance of the outside of a building. As they passed under the doorway, Rolan deliberately gazed around at the inside, but at first he could see very little; there were only a few glowballs and candles placed in stands along the walls to provide light, and it was quite dim. At least he could be certain that they were walking down some kind of a hallway. The air was thick and oppressive. Presently the floor began to slope downward, gently at first, and then much more steeply. There was a railing on the wall now.
    For several minutes they padded onward in silence, the only sounds from the shuffling of their feet (and Rolan’s pounding heart, he was sure). They came to a very dark place; there were no glowballs or candles at all; to Rolan the darkness looked almost like a wall, and the ahíinor simply seemed to disappear into it. Nothing could be seen further in, except vague shadows of the loremasters themselves and some dim lights that looked unusually small and far away. Rolan hesitated before the yawning blackness (noticing that Arnul was also standing there terrified); he took a deep breath and proceeded in. The air was vaguely damp now.
    He saw the inside and almost dropped to the ground. They were entering a cavern, a cavern of such dimensions that the far wall and the ceiling were lost in the shadows. The floor sloped away into nothingness. ...And to think that this immense hall had been under their feet, unknown, the whole time they had been in this town!
    For a moment he stood there in awe, until Keldar nudged him with his walking-staff and motioned to his side. There were the other ahíinor, seated; Rolan noticed now that there were benches in this part of the cavern. He could barely move, still, but Keldar kept nudging him to sit down. Finally he tore his eyes away from the void surrounding him, and he took his seat on the nearest bench. It was not wood, as he had expected, but stone, cold and hard, as if carved out of the very rock of the cavern. Keldar sat down beside him, and he could dimly make out in the gloom that Arnul had taken a seat on the other side of Keldar, and was sitting there sullenly, probably terrified, no longer wanting to jump or bound around.
    And then, in a soundless explosion of darkness, the lights all went out.

    Rolan caught his breath. Were they going to leave him here in the darkness? Was that part of the trial? Or was the whole Council going to take place unseen? At any rate the darkness was seamless and complete; darker than the darkest night, for here underground there could be no stars or moon. He brought his hand up before his face, and could not even see the outline of his fingers. He shivered in the chill air, and he began to feel cold, lifeless things in the darkness...
    No, that was his imagination. There was nothing here except himself and Keldar and Arnul and the other loremasters; this thought calmed him somewhat.
    But the darkness was oppressive. The moments — surely they were hours! — passed slowly, and he began to wonder again if this was all that was going to happen. No, there was presently some shuffling of unseen feet, something was happening... were they going to leave him here...? The thought entered his mind again.
    A tiny light appeared, in the far distance, a star in the deep air of the cavern. A glowball on the far wall?
    There was some sound beginning too, a quiet, deep rumble, almost quieter than the silence (if such a thing is possible!), half-heard, more in the imagination than the ears.
    And a voice began to chant, deeply, resonantly, harmonizing with the silent rumble.

 Light was not, nor sun nor moon to cast it.

Darkness was not, nor night nor cave to hold it.

Warmth was not, nor sun nor fire to cast it.

Cold was not, not night nor sea to hold it.

Teilyándal’ was only.

There was nothing before Him.

There was no before, before Him.

And He said

Let there be a Song.

    And a song was beginning, echoing in the cavern, imperceptibly at first, then growing in intensity and volume; the tinkling, trembling sound of a myriad kitáls, all playing the same notes but each at its own speed, and the deep slow rhythmic throb of a túmba drum and tuned bass gongs. He glanced around trying to locate the musicians, but could see nothing; certainly the sound of the kitáls was very near; perhaps the ahíinor themselves were playing.
    The chant continued.

 Teilyándal’ made the engkéilii,

and they were the offspring of His thought and word,

and they sang to Him the music of eternity. 

    Voices were joining in the song now, high, ringing voices and deep, infinitely resonant voices, singing a single glorious chord, harmonizing with the kitáls, filling the void of the cavern with audible light that seemed to reach from the foundations of the mountains to the heights of the heavens. And they echoed into infinity.
    The chant continued.

 Teilyándal’ made the Four,

and they were the offspring of His thought and word.

 

The first of the Four that was made is Kullándu.

Kullándu is fire and energy, power and change;

Now a soft flicker of heat in the chill air,

Now the roar of crimson destruction,

Now the burning passion to father anew and forge beauty.

But Kullándu cannot make or unmake by itself,

for Teilyándal’ is the Maker.

    There was a brilliant flash suddenly the ceiling and far wall were visible (they were almost unimaginably far away) and now suspended above their heads was a brilliant white fire, burning with glorious intensity, heating their upturned faces; its edges were dancing with rainbows.

 Teilyándal’ made the Four,

and they were the offspring of His thought and word.

 

The second of the Four that was made is Tandáalis.

Tandáalis is earth and mountain and stone;

Now the lichen-covered rocks of the sky-touching mountains,

Now the delicate sands of the desert,

Now the fixture of the earth, firm, monolithic, immovable.

But Tandáalis cannot stand by itself,

for Teilyándal’ is the Foundation.

    The white-hot center of the flame changed to blues and greens, and formed a scene of mountains, high and snow-capped, resplendent in the light of the noonday sun. This was like the Fiery Eye, only a hundred times as enormous.

 Teilyándal’ made the Four,

and they were the offspring of His thought and word.

 

The third of the Four that was made is Kewándii.

Kewándii is rain and river and sea;

Now the life-giving diamond-drops on the sand,

Now the flow of the river of water, and blood, and time,

Now the thunder of life and might at the edge of the sea.

But Kewándii cannot live by itself,

for Teilyándal’ is the life-giver.

    The scene of the mountains vanished, and for a moment the fire hung there, a giant sun in the depths above them; then suddenly it spread out and covered the whole ceiling, forming a shimmering veil of light; and then the light turned blue. For a moment Rolan thought he was looking at the sky above them, above this cavern, but then the fire changed and crashed to the ground in a roar of water, just missing them, and splashed around in waves of a vast underground sea, luminous and sparkling.
    One of the ahíinor began cheering and clapping (Rolan was sure that it was Eilann) and the others turned and glared at him. The sound of the kitáls and voices faltered, then resumed. Rolan’s mouth was hanging open in awe, but he almost laughed to himself anyway; this was ahíinu, lore power, definitely; power an order of magnitude greater than he had ever seen, and maybe it did deserve some applause!...
    A moment of silence except for the kitáls and voices, and then the chant continued.

 Teilyándal’ made the Four,

and they were the offspring of His thought and word.

 

The last of the Four that was made is Lornáalis.

Lornáalis is air and sky, wind and breath;

Now the gentle cool scent of the breath of evening,

Now the roar of storm winds untamed,

Now the swirling current under the feathered wings of birds.

But Lornáalis cannot fly by itself,

For Teilyándal’ is the Wind.

    Suddenly Rolan was looking at the sky above their heads; somehow the whole ceiling of the cavern had opened up to reveal the blue heavens, and the sun was climbing high in its daily flight.

 Teilyándal’ made the Four,

and they were the offspring of His thought and word,

and from them he forged Tond and all the creatures that dwell within.

    The scene remained briefly, then all of it faded; the underground sea lost its sparkle and its waves came to rest. It faded into the air and seeped into the rock of the cavern; the sky overhead went dim and then disappeared altogether; once more they were in the room and void of the cavern, and Rolan felt chill again. There was now a slight clash, a barely perceptible (but growing stronger) edge of disquiet, in the music. Was something going wrong with the lore? He glanced around him, but darkness was falling quickly, and the loremasters faded from view. A vague unfocused fear began creeping into the edges of his heart.
    The chant began again.

 Teilyándal’ fashioned men and women,

and they were the offspring of His thought and word,

and they dwelt in the realm of Lyarr.

He gave to them aspects of the Four.

From Kullándu He fashioned their hearts,

 and their will to create and the ability to do so.

From Tandáalis He fashioned the strength of their bones,

and their faith and knowlege and steadfastness.

From Kewándii He fashioned the Spiral of Life

and the blood in their veins.

From Lornáalis He fashioned the breath of their lungs

and their emotions and imaginations and their longing for heaven.

 

Teilyándal’ fashioned men and women,

and they were the offspring of His thought and word,

and they dwelt in the realm of Lyarr.

Teilyándal’ said to them,

“Do not cross the river Twanéla into Outer Tond.

For there you will find death.”

And they did not.

But there was a spirit in the void,

and the spirit said to them,

“Cross the river Twanéla into Outer Tond,

for there you will find endless things to take for your own.”

And half of them did.

This was the First Sundering.

 

We who dwell in Tond are the descendants of those who crossed,

and we have endless things to take for our own, and we have found death.

We are sundered from those who dwell still beyond the river Twanéla,

They have not found death,

and now they dwell in Taennishland, the City that moves.

There have been further Sunderings:

The Second Sundering separated languages;

The Third Sundering separated peoples;

and the spirit in the void

has corrupted the Four,

so now Kullándu, fire, burns beyond control or pours from the earth;

now Tandáalis, stone, trembles and is barren of life;

now Kewándii, water, sometimes withholds itself or floods from the rivers;

now Lornáalis, air, brings destruction as it roars on the fell wings of storm.

    The music faltered, then stopped altogether. There was again total darkness and silence. So this was the ceremony; Rolan had heard these words before, the Story of Origins was known to all children at a very young age. He had not seen lore like this, though. and he was still trembling.
    The voice continued, echoing in the unseen vastness of the cave.

 Hope has been given to us. To the Ancients was given the Sword of Law, the most wonderous of mechanas, the power which could judge a man and give punishment or reward according to his intent. For a thousand years the Ancients had the Sword, and they fashioned their own mechanas as well. Their peace was established, and they grew prosperous, their mechanas could hold off the damaging powers of the corrupted Four, and their knowledge and wisdom were renowned throughout Tond. They ruled in peace from the heart of Rohándal, which was then not a desert, but a land called Éyundal, filled with green and beauty. But there was a war, and then the Wrath of Kullándu fell upon the cities. Thousands perished in the initial blast (which forever afterwards was simply called the Devastation), the ball of fire that roared and consumed and expanded; the few that escaped from Rohándal went into the nearby mountains to die from the wounds in the smoldering flesh or to freeze or starve when the winter came. Now, five hundred years later, we have returned to Rohándal, if only to its outer fringes; we have, hesitantly at first, rebuilt our empire, begun once again to wander throughout Tond, collecting lore, spreading peace, and establishing our order; and beauty has returned to the ravaged land.

But the Sword of Law was lost in the Devastation.

 Now hear these words, and hear them well:

We are the guardians of Tond.

There are still mechanas left over from before the Devastation, and we know of and use many of them. But others are still to be found; they were scattered during the Devastation, and many perhaps have the powers to bring down the wrath of Kullándu down upon us again. This must be prevented at all costs.

    There was a long silence in the darkness. Was the ceremony finished? No, there had been no initiation, no one had addressed him, or addressed Arnul. There had only been an impressive display of lore powers. Was it about to end?
    A single small light appeared, not in the unfathomable depths of the cavern, but quite nearby. It was the Master of Light, standing at the bottom of the rows of benches, holding up a single glowball. The light illuminated his red and blue robe and his walking staff, and gleamed off of the four-pointed star ornament; but Rolan could still see nothing else. The voice began again, and Rolan realized it had been him intoning all along. 

We are the guardians of Tond. And it has come to my attention that,

There are two among us, two children really, who wish to join our ranks.

    Rolan bit his lip. Now he felt very vulnerable; what he had just seen would now somehow come down upon him. The test was about to begin. 

They are very young, perhaps too young, but they have expressed the desire to join our ranks. It must be determined if they really intend to do so.

    Another long silence. The Master of Light stared directly at Rolan, as if to bore into him with his eyes. He broke off and regarded Arnul in the same manner. Then he turned around, with his back toward them, facing into the depths of the cave. He let his arm fall, and dropped the glowball to his side. With his other hand he let the walking-staff clatter to the ground. Rolan had only a second to notice that the four-pointed star had remained suspended in the air like a glowball where it had been at the top of the walking-staff. But then, for the second time, light poured into the cavern, now from everywhere and nowhere, and now a thousand times again as intense. Rolan cried out and blocked his eyes with his hand, but the light penetrated and he could see the bones in his hand before his closed eyes. He turned away, but the light was coming from that direction too, a searing intensity of whiteness that burned into his very soul. And there was a physical force with that light, an explosion of power that knocked him backwards and sent him reeling into a blinding chasm of the sun.

 Behold the Circle of Shining! Behold the only new mechana, forged in the Tower of Kings by Tayon Dar-Táeminos, ahíinor of Ei Éyuhand in West Rohándal. Behold the greatest of our mechanas; the Light that enriches and destroys, the very heart of Kullándu. Tayon Dar-Táeminos himself was destroyed by its power.

The Circle was forged only a short time ago; and its full powers have never been realized.

Now I speak to you, young ahíinor-initiates; Rolan and Arnul Ras-Erkéltis, sons of Tlaen Ras-Erkéltis of Xóa Éyuhand in South Rohándal. I call you forward. Either leave our council and never again be seen here, or come forward into the Light and chance being destroyed. If you chose to leave, you will have no memory of what has transpired here today. If you come forward, and you are not destroyed, you will enter into the world of the ahíinor and begin to learn the ways of the Guardians of Tond. The choice is yours.

    Rolan glanced briefly forward again. The light bored into his eyes like flaming pokers, but he could (in the half-second that he could look) see that there, in the flaming center of the whiteness, was the distorted shadow of the Master of Light, holding aloft, something... the very heart of blinding power, and it was indeed shaped like a circle. Then the pain of the light exploded in his head again and he cried out, feeling invisible tentacles of shimmering reach out to grab him. He sat there for... minutes? Hours?... while the light and the pain and the terror coursed through him; and the tentacles tightened their flaming grip. He writhed in agony, and felt the world collapse into a burning cinder of pure light. He saw, as he screamed, a brief distorted vision of the other loremasters; they were not recognizable as humans, the light seemed to have ignited their skin and they gleamed a ghastly white, the red and blue veins in their faces were exposed to the air, their eyeballs were transparent so that all he could see were glowing sockets.
    And then another thought came, as if from elsewhere. Yes, of course it was only the light that was making them look that way, of course they were still human, not desiccated ghosts. They were sitting here, just like he was, and none of them were crying. In fact they had probably been through all of this before, themselves, and none of them had been destroyed. Had he ever even heard of an ahíinor initiate being destroyed (killed? burned up?) at the initiation ceremony?
    He sat up, deliberately gazed straight forward into the heart of the light. The pain exploded again, but not as severe. He turned away, and he stood up. Shielding his eyes with his hand, which only helped dull the intensity a little, he walked forward, step by step, down the rows of seats, between the loremasters.
    And then he turned back. Arnul was still back there, cowering, writhing, screaming. Rolan walked back, up the rows of benches, to his brother, took his hand. Arnul looked up briefly, then collapsed with a sob, his black hair gleaming strangely incandescent in the light. Rolan shook him. He looked up again, their eyes met, (Oh, those vacant sockets! If only the light would let them see normally for half a second!) and Arnul stood. His legs wobbled and he cried again, but he stood. And he followed Rolan down, step by step, down the rows of benches, into the very center of the brilliance.
    They came before the Master of Light, and stood there, terrified but secure that the worst was over. The light continued to pour out its terrible glory, and it buffeted them and tugged against them and tried to push them away, but they stood.
    And the light dimmed.
    The Master of Light dropped his arms. Slowly the light became the lesser radiance of a sunny day, then of the full moon on an autumn night. Rolan looked at Arnul and Arnul looked back; they appeared human again, their eyes once again filled their sockets, and their faces were recognizable.
    The unearthly radiance was gone. Only the four-pointed star amulet, still suspended in the air in front of them, was glowing, dimly (or it could have been quite bright, Rolan wondered if he could ever call any light bright again).
    The Master turned around to face them.
    “See the four-pointed star?” His voice was now that of a man, not the powerful force it had been before. “There are two four-pointed stars here; take them.”
    Rolan reached up, and took it in his hand. Yes, there were two; one easily separated from the other and he took it down; the other remained in the air. Arnul reached up and pulled it down.
    Rolan turned his star amulet over and over in his hand. It was made of a hard, cold metal, silvery and shiny and smooth to the touch, but it was not heavy. Surely it was a mechana! The first one he had been permitted to touch, except for the glowballs and the walking staff.
    “The four-pointed star is the symbol of the ahíinor,” said the Master of Light. “It stands for the Four, the powers which we tap with our mechanas. It stands for the Sword of Law, which we once used to rule a great empire. (See? Doesn’t it look a little like a sword?) It also stands for the Sword of Shar, who was killed by Roaghrumtsuk the Karjan, but who foretold of the end of strife in Tond. And it stands for the Four kinds of ahíinu, the loremasters’ art.”
    “These four-pointed stars are given to you, to symbolize that you are now apprentice ahíinor, Guardians of Tond, and you may begin training. They are also mechanas of a kind, though you probably will not find their use for several years. Maybe you can invoke the Mystery Challenge to find out what they are for!” (There was some scattered laughter.) “But always keep them near you, in your pockets, or on a chain around your neck or your wrist, when you learn ahíinu. ...Now turn to face the other ahíinor.”
    As Rolan and Arnul turned around, still holding their metal stars, the Master of Light boomed, once again in his powerful loremaster’s voice, “Fyorian Ahíinor of Rohándal, may I present to you Rolan Ras-Erkéltis and Arnul Ras-Erkéltis, sons of Tlaen Ras-Erkéltis of Xóa Éyuhand in South Rohándal, two new ahíinor in our order.”
    Cheering erupted in the benches. Rolan noticed briefly that the seat where Eilann had been was empty (that was unbelievably rude!), but the other loremasters were standing up and cheering. From somewhere a drum began pounding, and the cheers grew louder. Keldar stood, holding up the two walking staffs, and Rolan felt that he should have brought his with him down to the floor of the cavern.


To read more of this book: Tond, Book One: The Sons of Tlaen Ras-Erkéltis: Scribner, Steven E.: 9781520157573: Amazon.com: Books