A young monk hears voices in his head. A dream - and something more. Wolves in the temple. A father's sacrifice...

Chapter Two: The Boy

Constant knelt on his prayer mat and shifted his weight until he was comfortable. He tried to clear his mind.

It had been a bad day. The news from the far south was bleak. The Bastion had fallen. Wolves roamed the southland, raping and slaughtering at will. None could stand against them. A few survivors had fled but there wasn't much for them to flee to. The land around the Bastion was hard country.

Constant wanted to do something, but there was nothing he could do. The worst thing was that everyone looked at him as if he had all the answers. He had ordered prayers said and bells struck for the people of the Bastion. The wheels turned and the monks chanted. Constant tried not to think about what the Bastion falling meant for humans, but he knew without thinking about it. There were no more cities to fall.

Prayers were always said.

On the floor in front of him there was a small metal bowl half-filled with water, a fire steel and tinder, and a thin yellow candle, tallow spitting as the flame danced around the wick.

Constant took a deep breath and steeled himself for what was to come. In his mind, he said his words.

I am myself

I am alone but not alone

I know my own mind.

Over and over he said them, until the familiar sense of calm flowed through him. He lowered himself into a half bow and held his arms out sideways in supplication. He counted in his head, eleven times to eleven, focusing on each number as he thought it, slowly emptying his head of all other thoughts. When he was ready he blew out the candle and began the prayer.

'Light in the darkness, he began. The chorus of voices rose in his head immediately, drowning out his own voice. The noise was painful.

Light in the darkness

possessed of infinite compassion

consumed by unimaginable wisdom

I honour you with my being.

Heart of existence

embodying indescribable nobility

exemplifying purity and virtue

I worship you with my existence.

Flame of the universe

eternal selfless benefactor

unflinching guardian visionary

I subsume myself into your completeness.

Constant struck the steel until sparks had caught in the tinder, then nursed the flame until he could re-light the candle.

I embrace the pure light of your perfection.

The voices ended with the prayer. Constant realised he'd been gritting his teeth. He touched his fingers in the water and then to his forehead. Then he tidied everything away and got ready for bed, the ringing in his ears subsiding.

Constant was not enjoying reincarnation this time around. He wondered sometimes whether any of his predecessors had.

Most of the time he wasn't aware of it. Most of the time he didn't feel like he'd ever been someone else. He wasn't some ancient monk looking out from inside a boy's skin, an image he still found creepy and wished he'd never thought of. Constant was Constant, and always had been.

Except sometimes he remembered being someone else. And quite often he found himself knowing things he didn't know, and feeling things he could not have felt. Like what it felt like to fight in a war, or to make love, or to be old, or to be woman.

That one had been fleeting, but alarming. No one had told him one of his predecessors had been female. The Great Record made no mention of it. Brother Simon had said that meant it was so long ago it was before the founding of the Faith. One of the Unnamed who did not know they were reincarnates, who were never Recognised.

Constant was twelve years old. His memory was four thousand years older.

Brother Simon had taught him the importance of maintaining composure and a detached perspective. It was a lesson he had come to appreciate. It was Simon who had taught him the words. Some words that calmed turbulent thoughts and distracted the user from their concerns. A tiny incantation, the only magic he was allowed to learn and the only magic which worked on the Anvil. One of the few bits of magic which still worked anywhere, according to Brother Simon. Not that Constant could go and check this for himself.

Ritual brought the old priests out. Whenever he did something which his predecessors had also done, he felt them. The Night Prayer was the worst. Most of them had said it every evening for their entire lives. When he spoke it the memory of their voices was so loud they might as well have been in the room, a chorus of intoners six dozen strong raising their voices as one. Brother Simon assured him it would get better as he grew older. Constant couldn't wait.

One of the side effects of reincarnation, he'd discovered, was a strong need to be alone and enclosed. There was a suite of rooms in the temple which belonged to him. There was a big bed and servants to look after his needs. Huge windows opened to the sky, looking south over the Path of Fire and the endless green of the great forest. Constant didn't like it. He felt exposed. Brother Simon had suggested he try one of the old novice cells deep in the mountain. They had no windows and no sky. That felt safe. He'd moved in as soon as he could.

He'd felt good about that decision. Then Brother Simon had told him that making the suggestion was one of the tasks appointed to him in the Tutor's Book. The book was almost four thousand years old and described in fine detail exactly what a reincarnate needed to learn. A desire to hide under a billion tons of rock was common among his predecessors, it seemed. That made Constant even less sure that he was thinking his own thoughts.

An advantage of the cells was that they were far away from any wide-eyed and adoring monks. Constant felt thankful for and guilty about this. He saw them often enough, in the rituals that marked his day. They treated him like he would shatter like egg shell if they got too close.

'You have to be who you are,' Brother Simon said often. 'You don't have to let it rule you.'

Constant hadn't read the Tutor's Book. He wasn't supposed to. He wondered sometimes whether it set out what kind of man the tutor should be. He hoped so. He wanted to believe that one of his predecessors had thought about the qualities a tutor needed and had decided that kindness, good humour and strength of character were high on the list. If it was just luck that Brother Simon was like that, then he might not be so lucky next time around.

'How much of me is me?' Constant had asked once, when he was much younger.

'You always say this,' Brother Simon had replied. His voice was reassuring. 'Each incarnation feels the same. It gets better. Each one of them was their own person. You know this. You can feel them. You are too. You have to be who you are. You don't have to let it rule you.'

You will not rule me. He stripped down to his breechcloth and rolled into his cot. He snuffed the candle, closed his eyes and tried to forget the past.

Constant dreamed.

In my dream, I am asleep by the seashore. I am dreaming I am a sparrow, darting from tree to tree, turning with the slightest wing beat, a thought of a bird in this dream within a dream. I throw my wings back, catch a branch in the curl of my claw, pause, and throw myself once more into the sky. I swoop through the forest, tumbling, rolling, a joyful staccato popping in my breast. Then I burst through the canopy and I am on the shore, the surf breaking hard against the rocks, the sea raging at the land. I alight on a rock and I wake up and I am boy again, no more than four years old. I wipe the sleep from my eyes and behind me I hear my father, that shining man, cry ‘Dive little sparrow! Dive into the ocean!’ And without turning to see him I dive deep, as deep as I can, because this is the game that we play together. The current pulls me down but I am a strong swimmer and I know that I am safe because my father is here. I touch the sand, push my fingers into the cold grit, turn and push up. As I reach the surface I see him through the water waiting for me, and as I breach he grabs me by the shoulders and pulls me to his chest in one motion. We are laughing and I am happy because he is my father and we are together and I love him.

Two men walk along the beach towards us. They wear shabby red robes and their heads are shaved. They are still some way off when they Recognise me. I start to cry, although I do not know why - but then I do know. I am crying because I have been found. I am crying because I have lost everything.

Now there is a boy here I do not recognise.

'Wake up right now,' says the boy. ‘Wake up or we’re going to die.’

Constant did not remember the boy when he woke up.

There was blood on Constant's face. He knew immediately it wasn't his.

Brother Simon stood over his cot. A deep gash had opened the left side of his face from scalp to chin. Blood seeped from the wound. He held a sword in his hand, wet and red. Beneath the blood, the edge shone silver.

'Wolves. Wolves in our house. They're at the Fourth Temple. You must go.' He thrust a long bundle into Constant's arms, rough cloth bound with rope, surrounding something hard. Constant felt the shape and knew what it was. The hilt of a sword protruded from one end.

'Come,' said Brother Simon. 'Come now.'

A strange separation occurred in Constant's mind. A corner of it started sobbing in fear. That part wanted Brother Simon to tell him everything would be okay. But the greater part, the part which took control of his body and propelled him out of his bed, was calm, collected, and older. But he still felt like himself. That was important.

He found some knee-breeches and pulled them on. Since moving into the mountain he'd taken to wearing a novice's short, red, hooded robe over a loose shirt, because they were warm. He shrugged into both.

'You're wounded?' he said, as he pulled the robe over his head.

'A few cuts,' said Simon. 'Nothing serious.'

Constant felt the lie more than he heard it. A blood flower bloomed at Brother Simon's side, soaking through his red robe. A wolf had stabbed or slashed him. It was bad. But he was upright, he was alive.

'What of the brothers?' Constant asked, pulling on his boots.

'Each brother now living stands between them and you. They fight. They're dying. We must go now.'

'Go where? If the wolves are in the fourth temple we're cut off. We can't reach the Sanctum or the Hall of Swords. We're cut off from the map room too. The novice cells aren't defensible. There's only the deep tunnels and the kitchens beyond here and they're dead ends.'

'You have to get off the Anvil.'

'We can't get to the basket either.'

‘There's a way,' said Simon, his voice thick with pain. Constant noticed he was swaying and put out a hand to steady him, but Brother Simon brushed it away.

'There's no other way off the Anvil,’ Constant objected.

'There's a way to the basket. Come with me.' Simon grabbed his arm and half-dragged Constant from his cell.

They stumbled down the ill-lit corridor further into the mountain. Constant could hear furious howls and the clang of steel echoing along the tunnels. A battle raged. It was close.

Simon led him deeper still into the mountain, until Constant was sure he was taking him to some hidden chamber or secret tunnel. But they turned and headed back upward. Before long they were in the kitchens. The doors were massive, Constant noticed, as Simon swung them closed and pulled a sturdy bar across them. Much thicker than a kitchen needed.

Simon caught his gaze. 'That won't hold for long,' he said.

Near the ceiling a deep shaft bored upwards at a sharp angle through the rock to the outside, letting in air and, in theory, light. A long ladder stood next to it. Constant thought he knew the plan then and headed toward it, but Brother Simon shook his head.

'No, that leads nowhere but sheer mountainside. This way.' He pointed to the chimney.

Constant peered up into the opening. Beyond the great spit and turning chains there was nothing but blackness.

Simon was filling a shoulder bag with food. Rummaging through drawers, he found some candles and a fire steel and shoved them in too.

'You can't show a light at first, they'll see it from below,' he said. 'You'll have to feel for the holds. They are uneven, could be on any wall. There's no time to show you. They are quite shallow. Test each before you move to the next. Brush out the dust. Brace yourself against the opposite wall when you change position.'

'Are you sure about this?'

'The first brothers were not fools,' said Simon. His breathing was becoming laboured. 'We have a Hall of Swords for a reason. We have an escape route for the same reason.'

'None of the brothers has ever spoken of this.'

'The brothers do not know. I know because it is my duty to know.'

'That makes no sense. What possible reason could there be for keeping this from... Oh.'

Simon nodded. 'This way is not meant for the brothers. It is for you. It is the reason we steer you to sleep in the novice cells. It is in the book.'

'Oh. Oh, of course it is,' said Constant, his voice bitter. He looked again into the hole, and sighed. 'How far must I climb?'

Simon tipped flour onto the table and began sketching in it.

'The chimney follows a natural crack in the rock. After a hundred cubits it turns to the right, almost horizontal. Go far along that tunnel. It rises toward the end. When you hit a wall, the next climb is above you. After another forty cubits, a tunnel branches off from the chimney on the opposite wall from the handholds. The air draws through it, feel for it, listen for it. If you climb past it you'll hit a dead end, so if you knock your head you've gone too far. it will be difficult to climb back down, so try not to miss it. Follow the tunnel until the end. It's low and narrow, you'll have to crawl. Rest and strike a light then, the wolves won't see it there. Don't rest long. The rest of the climb is straightforward.'

'How do you know all this?'

'I climbed it twenty years ago, when I began my training under the old Tutor. And again, last month, when the beasts burned New Amdo.'

'You're almost sixty!'

'It was a hard climb,' Brother Simon allowed.

Constant shook his head in disbelief. 'Where does it come out?'

'Almost at the plateau. There is a path of steps cut in the rock. Head for the point of the Anvil. To your left as the steps end. The way is dangerous and slippery. The basket winding mechanism is there, and steps leading down to the basket.’

‘Then I have to lower myself down!’ Constant almost screamed. ‘It takes five men to wind the wheel! It’s impossible!’

Simon shook his head. 'Not for you. Great Father, understand: this place is yours. Every stone and slate, every cut in the rock, the bridges and temples and paths, they all exist to keep you safe. For no other reason. The first brothers were not fools. Remember this, and live. There is old magic here, stored in the stone, which remains against need. The need is here.'

'I don't know anything about magic! You said the book said I wasn’t allowed to learn magic. You said it never helps.’

'It will help you here.' Simon groaned suddenly, grabbed his stricken side, and went white. 'No, I yet live,' he said, as Constant moved to hold him. 'Listen. You can do magic here.’

Constant gaped stupidly. ‘What? But… you said the stone only allowed the words!’

‘That’s what your words are, yes. But more, too.’

‘How can -’

‘The book says not to tell you. It is too dangerous. But the stone will respond to you. And you have been men who knew real magic. The Great Record says this.’

The revelation was like a blow. But Constant’s mind moved quickly. ‘They’re all dead! I don’t know spells, I don’t know -’

Simon cut him off. ‘There’s no trick to magic. Spells are for frauds, mere show to fool the gullible. Say what you want to happen with the desire to make it so. That is magic. The rest is fakery. You know this. Remember.’ He coughed suddenly and violently, and wiped away blood. ‘On this mountain you do not need even that,’ he continued. ‘The magic here will know you. This was the First Father's gift. You just have to reach out with your mind. It will find you when you try. If you step into the basket, it will lower you down. Head to the Iris and away from here.’

'I just have to fight my way through an army of wolves to get there.'

‘Yes.’ Brother Simon smiled grimly at Constant's look of horror. 'I didn't say it was a great chance. It's just your only chance.'

'Where do I go then? I don't know anywhere but here!'

'There is one place you know.'

Constant swallowed hard. 'I don't... I mean, I was a baby, I've never... I don't know how!'

'You will.'

Constant scowled. 'You're asking me to take a lot on trust.'

'Yes. Do you trust me?'

'Yes,' said Constant immediately.

'And I you. You will survive. It is what you do best. And if not, your wheel will turn again.'

Constant steeled himself. 'Well then. I will go first, give me room before you start up. I will call where I find the holds.'

But Simon shook his head. 'You go,’ he said. 'I will wait here a spell.'

Constant took a deep breath, and whatever was holding back his emotions gave way. He realised then that he was crying.

'You've got to come!' he said. 'I need you. You're my only friend. I love you.' He wrapped his arms around the old monk's chest, sobbing like a baby.

Simon pushed him away. 'Beloved son,' he said. 'Great Father. I will stay here. Werewolves can see in the dark. They can smell. They can climb. I will wait here, and discourage them.'

'They'll kill you!' Constant all but screamed.

Simon shrugged. 'I was a soldier before I was a monk. A good one. We'll see.'

He took Constant by the shoulders. 'Now listen. Wolves in the temple. Wolves everywhere. You know the Writing. This must be what it means. This is the start of it all. I am very sorry that this has fallen to you. You've done nothing to deserve it. But you must fulfil it. Or everything is lost. Everything.' His face twisted in agony and his weight pressed more heavily on Constant's shoulders. ‘You can survive this,’ he gasped.

'I can't!’ Constant protested, tears beading in the corners of his eyes. 'I'm only twelve!'

'You are. And you must remember that. But you are older as well.' Brother Simon closed his eyes and Constant saw them moving rapidly under his lids as he searched his memory. He opened them again, or tried to; one eye stayed half closed.

'Look you. The Record tells us that seven hundred years ago, the fifty-eighth Great Father was not Recognised by the brethren until he was already a man. His name before then was Darcen Ysir. We have spoken of him. By then he was already a great warrior - one of the greatest ever, if you believe the histories. But not a good man. A bad man. It was a troubled time.’

He coughed up more blood, then continued.

'Think on him as you climb. Hear his voice. The warrior he was, not the monk he became. I know you don't like this but in some sense, you are him. Let his memories come forward. You have never learned to fight but it was meat and drink to him. Make his memory your own. You're going to need that when I am not there.'

Constant cried out as though he'd been struck. Simon placed his big calloused thumbs under Constant’s eyes and wiped his tears away.

'Say the words, son,' he said. 'Feel this later, when you are safe. Say your words.'

Without thinking the incantation appeared in Constant's mind. He said the words, choking back his anguish. The familiar calm descended on him. The terrible hurt and grief he felt were still there. It seemed to him though that he had put it aside for a moment, safe and sound, to come back to after a time.

He gazed at Brother Simon, drinking in every detail of his face. Storing the sound of his voice, the way he moved and breathed, the light in his grey eyes. The blood on his hands. He tried to think of something to say, something which could convey the depth of his love for the only father he had ever known. He found himself saying the words of the Penance.

'For any hurt I have caused you, for any fault or sorrow, I ask forgiveness. My soul is yours.'

Simon closed his eyes and nodded a little. 'I forgive you, and your soul is your own. Go now, and know that you are loved.'

Both knew the meaning.

Constant strapped the long bundle across his back and threw the food bag over his shoulder. Then he kissed Simon hard on the cheek and ducked into the grate. Now that he knew they were there the first few footholds were visible, just, but they soon disappeared into darkness.

I hope one of you dead people was a mountaineer, he thought, and started to climb. He didn't look back.

Simon waited until he could no longer see the boy. He found a cask of spices and kicked it over, sending an earthily aromatic red powder into the air and masking Constant’s scent. Then he dragged a heavy wooden chair across the room until it faced the doorway. He sat down hard, and as he did so tasted blood in his mouth again.

He knew death was beside him, waiting to take his hand. He'd spent his energy being strong for the boy. But perhaps there was a little left. Enough to give some werewolves pause.

There were noises in the corridor beyond. 'The wolf is at the door,' said Brother Simon, out loud. He felt light-headed. He laughed as the door split open. He raised his sword.