“Oh, you two and your Heresies. I have yet to understand what either of you mean by Heresy. You have said nothing I have not learned or thought a thousand times…”
“There are eleven Talents,” said Himaggery.
“Nonsense,” she contradicted him. There are thousands. All in the Index, all of them. Each type of Gamesman has his own Talent.”
“No, there are only eleven.”
“But…”
“You have asked, now be still and let me say. There are only eleven, Silkhands, twelve if you count the Immutables.”
“The Immutables have no Talent!”
“Indeed? They have the power to mute our Talents, to be themselves unchanged no matter what we attempt to do. Is that not a Talent?”
“But, that’s not what we mean when we say Talent…”
“No. But it is what is true. It is in Windlow’s book.”
“The Index lists thousands. I have learned their names, their dress, their types, how they move, their Demesnes, all…”
He turned from her to the mists and the fruit trees which mingled outside his windows. “Healer, your Talent is one of the eleven. You can name the others if you would. They are those which you have recently learned at Windlow’s House.”
“You mean what Windlow said about the First Eleven, from the religious books? What has that to do with…”
He laughed. “Silkhands, you are such a child. Do you know that elsewhere in this world there is a group of very powerful Wizards who are known, collectively, as the Council? Did you know that they have taken upon themselves to assure that there are no heretics in our world? None who speak of arrangements not found in the Index? None who talk of the Immutables having Talent? You are so innocent. Here, we can talk of it. Here you are safe, in the Bright Demesne. But you will not thank me for it.
“It was Windlow who saw it, long years ago, and taught it to me, quietly, so that it should not come to the attention of the Guardians, those of the Council whose interest it is to maintain things always as they are. It was Windlow who saw that the books of religion are actually books of history, that what was said about the descent of our forebears was indeed true.
“We are told of Didir, a Demon. Imagine, Silkhands, imagine Yarrel, a world in which there were no Talents. It will be easy for you, Yarrel. Imagine a world all pawns. No power but the power of muscle and voice, persuasion and blows, nothing else. Perhaps some power of intelligence, too. Windlow and I argue about that.”
“There would be intelligence,” said Yarrel. “There is power in intelligence. I know. I can imagine your world.”
“Very well. Then, imagine that into this world is born one woman who can read the thoughts of others. Didir. Why is it that we call them Demons? Those who read thoughts? Hmmm? We speak of evil godlets as demons, wicked spirits are demons. Why, then, is a Reader a Demon?”
“Because they would have considered her an evil spirit, an evil force,” said Yarrel. “They could not have helped but feel that way. It would have been terrible for them to have their thoughts wrenched out into the open, laid before others…”
“Ah, yes. Even so. And the books of religion go on. They say that one was born named Tamor, an Armiger. The oldest books say Ayrman. Why is that do you suppose?”
“Because he could fly,” said Silkhands. “Armigers can fly.”
“And what would the world of pawns think of that?”
“They would wonder at him,” said Yarrel. “And fear him, and perhaps hate him. I wonder that they did not kill him.”
“Windlow says not,” Himaggery went on. Old Windlow nodded where he sat. “Windlow says that they, the pawns of that world took Tamor and Didir to some other place, away from the world of the pawn.”
“What other place?” said Silkhands. “What place is there?”
Himaggery shook his head. “Who knows? But Windlow believes this because he says it makes sense out of much he has read. He says that Didir and Tamor were sent away, and that thereafter they mated with one another, and either they or their offspring mated with some of the pawns who went with them. From their mating came Hafnor, an Elator. The Talent of an Elator is to transport himself, or herself, from place to, place. Generations later, from the family and lineage of Didir came the first Seer, Sorah. And so forth. And when you have listed them all, you have eleven.”
“But there are more. There are Heralds, and Witches, and Rancelmen, and …”
“The Witch has three of the eleven,” said Himaggery, patiently. “Firemaking, beguilement, and the power to store power, as Sorcerers do. A Witch has none of these in the strength that those who hold them singly do, but the witch has all three.”
“And Heralds?”
“Heralds have the power of flight, but only in small, and the power of Seeing, also in small, and a slight ability to move things with their minds, as Tragamors do.”
“And Rancelmen?”
“Seeing, Reading the thoughts of others, both in small, and a natural curiosity which seems to have little to do with Talent.”
Yarrel said slowly, “Reading, Seeing, Flying, Transporting, Moving, Storing, Healing, Firemaking, then what would you call it?”
“Beguilement, the power of Kings and Princes. A power to make others believe in one, follow one. Sometimes the Talent is called ‘follow-me.’ And this leaves two more: Shapeshifting and Necromancy. Those are the eleven. There are no others, except for the one held by the Immutables.”
“Which the books of religion say was created purposefully by two Wizards, Barish and Vulpas.” Yarrel was very thoughtful. “I can imagine why they did it. They probably saw all the people without Talents being eaten up in the Game, and they felt it was wrong. So, they created a power which would protect the pawns from harm, and they gave it away. But only to some,” he concluded bitterly.
“Perhaps there was not time to give it to all,” Silkhands said.
“Perhaps they were prevented from doing so,” said Windlow. “When first I read of that act, I wondered why two Wizards would behave so. Then, at last, I knew. A Wizard would do such a thing when he learned the word Justice. It is a very old word. It is in my book. It means to do what is right, to correct what is wrong, to find the correct way.”
“Correct?” asked Silkhands. “I do not understand correct.”
“No, we do not know the word,” Himaggery agreed. “In the Game it is only the rules which matter. The rules are always broken, and there are few penalties for that, but it is still the rules which matter. Few care for what is honorable. None cares for what is right or just. They care only for the rules. Windlow says the rules were created to bring some order out of chaos, but over the centuries the rules became more important than anything else. They became the end rather than the means. Now, I have taught you heresy. There are those in the world who wish the Game to continue as it has been played for generation upon generation. There are those who do not care for the idea of justice — and well they might not. Thus far we have been fortunate, the Bright Demesne has been fortunate. We have not been challenged in a Great Game. We have made common fortune with some few Immutables and spoken with them from time to time on neutral ground. Much do they suspect us, however. We hold a tenuous peace. It cannot last forever, and it may be that Peter’s abduction is the falling pebble which starts the avalanche.
“Windlow Sees, and he tells me to have good heart. I trust him with my life and love him with my soul, as though we were thalani. But I am not courageous always,” confessed Himaggery. “I have not that Talent.”
“Lord,” asked Silkhands, “what Talent do you have?
“What is the Talent of Wizards?” He laughed at her and rumpled her hair but did not answer. “If I have any, it is to link Gamesmen together to pursue this word, this justice. If I have any at all, it is that.”