Ay climbed into the boat close by the water's edge and beckoned for Tarkanyon to sit with him.
“Can we trust her?” Tarkanyon asked. “I realise it is her lake now.”
“Bahula is old. And weak. I have moved across these waters many times. I think we need not worry.”
“Very well,” Tarkanyon said, sitting in the boat and wondering if Ay knew more than he was letting on.
A soft mist hung over the water, crowding around the isle in the middle of the lake. The tall building in the island could be seen clearly, however, ominously visible through the mist.
“I take it we are travelling to the island?” Tarkanyon said as Ay began to row.
“Yes.”
They kept quiet as he rowed. Tarkanyon looked over the side of the boat, sensing the depths of the lake. He knew that if a water dragon lived in the lake it would be connected via underwater caves to other lakes. The breadth and depth of what would be a network of caves fascinated him, and he wondered what marvels Bahula may have beheld deep within those caves. He wondered, too, which one was her home. He sensed her eyes upon him as they crossed, ancient eyes looking deep into him.
But they arrived at the island safely. A small path led to the tower, built into a large rock formation on the isle's highest point. The mist seemed to wrap itself around the tower more than anywhere else, but Tarkanyon still found the path difficult to navigate as it winded and twisted underneath jutted crevices and over jagged rocks.
The air seemed sultry and even the sound of their walking was stifling. The gray and faint rising of the morning sun seemed to reflect their path in a rather uncanny way. At last they came to the tower, pale in the light, standing thinly with no windows and a flat roof. Tarkanyon wondered for a moment at its use and saw no markings on its walls, or the small wooden door which stood before them.
Ay simply pushed open the door, which revealed a thick blackness inside. He fumbled at the entrance and drew out a lamp and tinder box, obviously kept at the door for his use. Lighting the lamp he moved over to Tarkanyon's bo, which Tarkanyon had kept drawn since their meeting with Bahula.
“May I?” he asked, looking at Tarkanyon's bo.
Tarkanyon nodded and Ay moved the flame over to the top of the bo. Immediately it glowed a soft orange, emanating a clear light around them like a lamp. Ay enjoyed what he saw for a moment and then pointed towards the door. The bo-staffs of the Outlanders were made from a special wood only found within the forests of the Ancient Gardens, or from the bottom of the WaterCity Lake, from a tree known as the Parikaya. The wood was called Gilioallan. But it was not so much the wood as the process of creating the bo that made it unique: The bo could be lit, at any point, where it would retain the flame within the wood for a great deal of time. The wood of the bo would not burn away unless the bo was kept alight for weeks on end as the resin from the wood created an oil that allowed it to continue burning. The forging of the bo was a secret kept by the Outlanders from ancient generations, and it was only the Sixth Order which knew the art.
Tarkanyon moved toward the door and looked inside. To his surprise stairs did not lead up the tower as he had expected, but down. Down into thick darkness. Down where Bahula, no doubt, would be.
“I grow weary of this riddle,” Tarkanyon said. “You must tell me clearly where you are taking me.”
“It is hard to explain. But I understand. This tower, from my studies and what I have discovered, appears to be none other than a tower of the Genicoins.”
“It bears no such markings,” Tarkanyon said.
“No, it does not bear the markings we have come to know much throughout Lexedore,” Ay replied. “It is an older tower from older Genicoins. Older than the times of the War or when the Genicoins allied with men and other creatures.”
Tarkanyon weighed this answer. The story of Bahula once again came to his remembrance. “This is the tower of Gharouk, is it not?”
Ay did not seem surprised at the question. “I have no doubt he used it,” he said, “but he did not build it.”
Tarkanyon frowned. “I do not trust this place.”
“I did not expect you to. But I can only give you my word that there is no danger here for either of us.”
Tarkanyon sighed and gestured for Ay to lead. Ay stepped in through the door and descended the stone stairs. Some were missing or broken and they had to tread carefully. Ay's confidence, however, made it evident that he frequented this dwelling.
The air was stuffy and thick and became worse as the stairs continued to wind down, until at last they came to an end where Ay led him under a small archway and into a large wide hall.
The light of Ay's torch and Tarkanyon's bo reflected brilliantly against the ceiling and floor, revealing a glitter and almost unnatural light. The walls, however, remained an ominous black that, to Tarkanyon, seemed unnatural — it looked as if they did not exist or stretched for miles around them.
Ay waited for Tarkanyon to get his bearings. Tarkanyon moved to the side, looking for the wall. He eventually found himself touching something that seemed solid but was icy cold. He moved his bo closer towards it, seeing the light reflect only very slightly on the surface, while the rest of the light shone out towards something further, where something moved. Tarkanyon, astounded, stood back for a moment.
“It is glass,” Ay said as he watched him. “It stretches along the walls of this hall and shows us the depths of the lake outside.”
Tarkanyon looked further on. “That is interesting.” He tapped on it. “Glass? It must be very thick for it not to crack.”
“Indeed,” Ay said. “But that is not what I brought you here to show you. Come.”
Tarkanyon looked out the glass for a moment, seeing nothing but blackness. He felt Bahula's eyes on him again. Quickly he moved his bo away so the light would not attract attention. He wondered if the glass was made for those to see out into the lake or for the creatures in the lake to see in. He moved away from it and reluctantly followed Ay.
It was not long before the hall descended downwards and the floor became stairs that stretched out the length of the area, leading them still further downwards. The glass walls continued to extend with the stairs, and the ceiling started lowering until they eventually had to lean down to continue the descent.
At once Tarkanyon became aware of a faint voice which alarmed him. He stopped. “What is that voice?” he whispered. “Do you hear it?”
“Yes,” said Ay placidly. “That is what I have come to show you.”
“A voice?”
“Yes, a voice. It comes from the hall down there.”
“Who, or what, is down there?” said Tarkanyon with alarm.
“There is no one down there,” Ay replied smoothly. “Come, only when you see will you understand.”
How could there be no one down there when someone was speaking? What could be down there? Tarkanyon, feeling a tinge of panic, nevertheless continued to follow Ay as the voice got louder. It was a whisper in a language Tarkanyon could not grasp. Ay eventually started to explain.
“The tongue is ancient,” he said. “It is very ancient. I have acquired many books to study it and understand it. It appears to be a mixture of ancient languages, from what I can gather.”
“I'm afraid I still do not understand,” Tarkanyon said.
“Listen then, and carefully,” Ay said sternly. “The voice repeats itself, but it repeats many different things for a great deal of time. But there is no one there. It is a mystery to me, too, but there is no one there.”
“A spirit? I do not like this.”
“No. I am sure it is not a spirit. I have spent times alone and experienced nothing uncanny.”
“Nothing uncanny?” Tarkanyon asked. “The whole thing is uncanny.”
“You will see.”
The walls, Tarkanyon noticed, edged closer until they came to the end of the hall. A doorway, the size of about ten men side by side, was before them. Through the doorway was a circular room, and in the m
iddle of the room a small square stone pillar. The whispering voice reverberated throughout the room. Tarkanyon, with clear confusion and alarm on his face, stood at the entrance with his bo ready. Ay, however, calmly moved to the centre of the room and sat down on the floor facing the pillar.
“The voice comes from the pillar,” he said. “Come, listen.”
As Tarkanyon stepped forward he began to notice books and scrolls and various scribblings lying everywhere. The light from his bo reflected against the walls and ceiling, causing the whole room to glimmer a soft red light as it reflected against red shining stones in the walls. It was quite a beautiful sight.
Surprisingly, the air seemed fresh and cool. He stood by Ay, hearing the whisper in a harsh but flowing tongue he had never heard before. Once his mind had locked into it, it seemed to lull him to a calmness. He did not understand its effect. He looked over at the books and scrolls and asked Ay what they were.
“My studies,” answered Ay. “There are four things the voice repeats. I do not know what they all mean, but I have found a few words.” Tarkanyon noticed the voice repeating the same thing over again.
“Days will pass that the voice will speak so,” said Ay. “I have listened to it extensively. Even the tones of the voice are similar — as if it is being read, or stated, exactly as before, without any change of inflection or emotion. I know that the tones of the ancient languages could change the entire meaning of the word.”
“I have heard of such,” said Tarkanyon. “Where is this voice coming from?”
“I sense it is the Hidden Ones. But I cannot speak with them. They only speak to us, through here.”
“I have never heard of that.”
Ay stood listening for a moment. “This is the third of the phrases, or paragraphs, I have heard of from the four since I discovered this rift.”
“Rift?”
“Yes, I cannot think of it any other way. It appears to be an opening into where those that are hidden may speak to us. They are telling us things about our world that we must know.”
“What is it telling us?”
“This phrase has a few words that I have found,” Ay said. “One of them, Iokiel, is an ancient word for the Riches.”
Tarkanyon contemplated this, but kept listening.
“Another, which was also easy to find, is the word Kiokiel, similar to Iokiel. It is a word for the Wealth.”
“I take your word for such,” Tarkanyon answered. “The Riches and Wealth. I am not surprised to hear you claim that.”
“There is a phrase here which I find interesting,” Ay said. “It says that the Wealth comes with the child, or, the Wealth is with the child.”
“Which child?”
“It does not say, or I do not know,” answered Ay. “That is all I can distinguish from these sayings.”
“What other sayings have you heard?”
“Yes,” Ay said. “There are some. First, there is a word used which we know. It is pronounced Ha-hee-arr-koi, in the tongue we hear in this pillar. Hircoi in ours.”
Tarkanyon listened to the whispering to try and hear the word, but it started whispering the same sentence it was whispering when they had originally arrived. The voice was more like a mumble, with a slight tinny sound, sounding as if it was far away yet it was right there in front of them. He frowned as he considered the strangeness of it.
“When is that word used?”
“Not in this phrase,” Ay said. “In another. Hircoi and the north is all I can distinguish. It was fairly easy, because Lay-xê-dure is Lexedore, as we say it.”
“Hmm...”
“Indeed. There's more. The other phrase speaks of the Wealth that comes with those who were chosen. It took some time for me to understand it, but once I understood something of our history I think it can make sense.”
“Tell me then, what does it mean?” Tarkanyon asked.
“I shall tell you a story, but I do not wish for you to be offended,” Ay replied. “I shall tell it to you as a story alone, and you may decide what it means or whether it should be believed.”
Tarkanyon frowned. “Tell me. I shall not hold it against you.”
“Very well,” Ay said, drawing a deep breath. “There were once a race of people from the northern kingdom known as Karlone. This was one of the kingdoms from the north who succumbed to the Moncoin early in the war. In fact, they sought out the Moncoin with a lust for power.”
“I have heard of them,” Tarkanyon confirmed. “When the Moncoin was destroyed in the great war the Karlone were a hated race.”
“Indeed,” Ay continued, “they were outcasts and their land was stripped from them by all the kingdoms of Lexedore, including those that served the Moncoin because he conquered them. Thus they became a lost and hated people, without a land of their own. As a nation they were broken and sold into slavery to the people of the lands of Lexedore.”
Tarkanyon nodded as Ay continued. “One such man from this race; and I do not know his name; fell in love with a Genicoin, before the Genicoins disappeared.”
“But this Genicoin hated and despised him too, no doubt,” Tarkanyon interrupted.
“No,” replied Ay. “She fell in love with him. Whether out of pity or real love, it is not known. But it was forbidden for a Genicoin to marry or love any other than a Genicoin, which you well know.”
“There are many love stories told in this vein,” Tarkanyon said flatly.
“Ah, but none that effects you so greatly,” Ay replied with satisfaction. “For, despite that it was forbidden — and he, Karlone — they both fell in love and married secretly. Soon she bore children. However, she was tied to her people and was forced to leave her husband when the Genicoins began to disappear. When her father discovered she had married in secret, he was not angered with her but filled with admiration and pity for her and her husband.”
“Unlikely,” Tarkanyon said.
“There are reasons for this. For she was the daughter of a line of Genicoin who were said to have been from a long line of the creator king, the one who had formed the Wealth.”
“Interesting.”
“When the marriage and children were discovered by those that still followed the Moncoin, the family was hunted down by a creature known as the Hunter, to destroy the lovers, firstly, and then destroy their children - who were still very young.”
“Why?”
“The children were seen to be bearers of the Wealth,” Ay answered. “Chosen to bear and carry the Wealth inside of them. They were seen as successors to the line of Genicoin kings, a line that stretched back to the creator king.”
“So they wished to destroy this line?”
“Yes. The line of the Wealth, you see,” answered Ay, plotting a line with his gloved fingers. “Now you can see the link.”
“Perhaps. It makes sense why this voice says the Wealth comes with the child,” Tarkanyon said.
“That is only the one link, yes, but not the link I thought, or hoped, you might see,” Ay said, looking at Tarkanyon suspiciously.
“I do not follow,” Tarkanyon said.
“The Hunter was not successful,” Ay said slowly, “but the family was nonetheless torn apart and the wife had to go with her people, for her protection. The husband and the children then hid, but the children were called the 'chosen ones' by the Genicoins — those who would still carry the Wealth and the lineage of who they saw was the true king.”
“I see, but I don't know if I understand yet.”
Ay looked at Tarkanyon very seriously. “They were hidden in a stronghold by the Genicoins where they could be safe and remain hidden for a time. It was an ancient stronghold and centre of learning for the Genicoins, where none dared to enter.”
“The Monument?” Tarkanyon flushed in surprise.
“Yes,” replied Ay with relief. “Now you understand. The children of the Genicoin and the man are the Outlanders, the chosen ones.”
Tarkanyon stood up, his face reddening with anger, desp
ite the red glow of the room. “That is not possible. We are a pure race, descended from our own line of ancient people. We are not a mix between a race of Moncoin worshippers and a rebel Genicoin woman. We fought when the Genicoins fought against the Moncoin. We have always been a pure race, the truest race of men.”
“Certainly not as other men,” Ay interrupted. “For you possess talents that other men do not possess.”
“For they are a mix of other people and races,” Tarkanyon said sharply.
Ay sighed. “But you are the chosen ones?”
“Well,” Tarkanyon replied. “Yes — of course. Chosen to ensure peace and watch for the Wealth. But that’s beside the point!”
“It is a story. I did not mean to offend.”
Remembering his promise, Tarkanyon sat down again.
“Is it not far greater that, perhaps, in your blood flows the blood of the Genicoins?” Ay asked.
“It is a story,” answered Tarkanyon, who thought of it a moment. “No, it would be a wicked thing, that.”
“Well, your people would have taught you a history of their own,” Ay said flatly.
“Yes – we were taught history,” Tarkanyon said.
“Yes,” answered Ay cautiously.
Tarkanyon looked away. “Besides, it would make no sense. We search for the Wealth, why would we do so if we were bearers of the Wealth?”
“That I do not know. But Bahula, remember, looked for the Wealth from you, did she not?”
Tarkanyon shot a look at Ay. “I do not understand why she did that. Or even why I answered as I did. I thought she was looking... but she did not find anything. And besides, she has surely encountered many Outlanders in her time.”
Ay dropped his head. “That is true.”
“Is that why you have brought me here?”
“Yes,” answered Ay. “For this voice is speaking to us of our history, or perhaps our future. I do not know which. But I have taken the risk of showing this to you even while knowing that what I have shown you will be taken to your Council.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Then so be it,” answered Ay. “However, I do not trust them.”
Tarkanyon said nothing, still red in the face. For a moment they sat listening to the voice and then abruptly, it stopped. They both stared at the pillar for a long moment.
“They have stopped speaking,” Ay said after a while. “It is time to go.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN