“Is this what you want of me?” Valorian asked quietly to the arch of blue sky. He hoped for a sign or some sort of answer, yet the heavens remained unchanged and the mountains were still.
Maybe it was a good thing that he did not receive an answer, Valorian decided. The last time he asked something of the gods, he got struck by lightning. This time, he would just have to have faith that his journey to Ealgoden and back hadn’t been just a whim of the gods and that bringing the Clan to the Ramtharin Plains was the right thing to do.
He came back to himself with a start to find Hunnul had stopped and was grazing contentedly on a patch of last year’s sun-dried grass. Valorian swung his leg over and slid to the ground. He was surprised to see that they were high in the mountains, just above the tree line on the flank of one of the tallest peaks. Hunnul had apparently climbed that far with little effort or guidance. The stallion was feeling very good, Valorian thought.
Patting his horse, the clansman looked around. Although stubborn patches of snow still hid in the shadows, most of the ground in that area was bare, and the rocks glistened with moisture. The thin air was warm with sunlight despite a cool, fitful wind that blew from the north. Valorian grinned, stretched his arms, and left Hunnul cropping grass. He walked up the slope toward a small plateau where he could have an excellent view of the range. He had never been to this particular place before, and it looked like a good spot to continue his thoughts.
As Soon as he reached the edge of the plateau, he realized he wasn’t the first man to come this way. There at the opposite edge, overlooking a sheer cliff, was the ruin of an ancient temple. It was really nothing more than a foundation of stones skillfully laid into a ceremonial platform about waist-high and ten paces wide, with a large, flat stone in the Center to represent an altar. Valorian had seen similar ruins on another peak to the south. The old platforms were all that remained of a race of people who had been there before the Clan, the Tarns, and the Chadarians. They had lived and died in the hearts of the mountains they had worshiped while the clanspeople were still learning to ride. Valorian knew little about them other than a few old tales passed on from the Chadarians.
Curious, he walked over to the platform. It was still in good condition in spite of its age and the harsh weather, so he clambered up to the top and stared out over the edge of the mountain. From the platform’s vantage point, he could see the summit of the mountain he stood on and the peaks of two other mountains. Together the three summits formed a triangle with its points to the east, west, and south. Valorian wondered if there had been any significance to that placement in the minds of the platform builders. He felt a stab of sorrow for their disappearance and a deep respect for the remains of their culture.
And yet they bad left something behind. The ceremonial platforms might not be significant in the course of men’s lives, but they were reminders to all that saw them that their builders had lived and cared enough to worship their gods. Could the clanspeople say as much? If they dwindled and died, would anything of their creation be worth remembering?
Valorian didn’t think so. Not at this time. Too much of their culture had been destroyed or lost; too much was impermanent. The village at Stonehelm would rot in a few years if abandoned, and too many of the best Harachan horses had passed into the hands of others. No, if the remnants of the Clan faded, no one outside of the Bloodiron Hills would notice.
The realization made Valorian bitter. His people deserved better than an ignominious extinction. They should have a chance to live and renew their culture in any realm they chose. Amara was the goddess of life. She would certainly understand that!
Raising his hand to shoulder level, he fired a blue bolt of magical energy into the mountain air and watched as it seared toward the cool blue sky and finally fizzled out. A bright, hot feeling of excitement, exultation, and even nervousness jolted through him, and its heat burned away the last of his doubts.
“If I’m going to learn to use my power,” Valorian suddenly shouted to the peaks, “this is as good a day as any to begin!”
From the top of the ancient platform, Valorian hurled more blue blasts of energy harmlessly into the air. He experimented throughout the remainder of the morning and the afternoon with the power, trying different intensities and speeds. He practiced his aim on the stone face of the peak and pushed himself to learn the limits of his strength while the sensations of magic’s power coursed through his body and became more and more familiar. By dusk, he was exhausted and elated by his success. Without a word to anyone, he returned to camp, sat up late with Mother Willa, and helped her deliver a beautiful Harachan filly.
The next day he came back to the platform and worked on other skills. Keeping in mind the lesson he had learned in the cavern of Gormoth, he focused his mind on the magic and practiced making his spells as exact and concise as possible. He tried making protective shields of various sizes and thicknesses, spheres of light that glowed in different colors, and fires that could light a candle or incinerate a tree. He also learned what could happen if he let his concentration slip and the gathered magic go awry.
He was sitting in a small dome-shaped protective shield when a large golden eagle came gliding on the warm updrafts between the mountain peaks. Enthralled by the sight of the rare and sacred bird and by the beauty of the sun shining on its feathers, Valorian’s mind began to wander.
The next thing he knew, the shield’s red energy had ruptured, and the uncontrolled magic was swirling around him into a vicious red whirlwind that trapped him in the center of its fury.
The clansman staggered to his feet. His ears ached in the shriek of the whirling energy, and his skin tingled as if covered with ants. Desperately he pressed his hands to his ears. He had to do something to disperse the tornado, for he could feel it feeding on the magic around it and building to an explosive level. Yet it was hard to think or act in the maelstrom.
With a great effort, he gathered his thoughts into a single purpose and forced his will into the center of the magical vortex. Bit by bit, he slowed the frenzied whirl of broken magic and spread it apart until it dispersed into a mist on the afternoon wind. When it was gone, he sank down on the stone and wiped his sweating forehead in relief and chagrin. “That will teach me to be complacent,” he said aloud to the stones.
Valorian didn’t make that mistake again. Over the next few days, while his family hunted for food, cared for the livestock, and waited for the Birthright, he went to the mountain to practice his magic. He let his imagination help him and tried whatever came to mind. He learned many things about the natural power, including its limitations. He found that he could not create life or something out of nothing. He could alter forms or images, move objects, and shape the magic into the deadly blue blasts and protective shields, but he couldn’t conjure something out of thin air or give life to something inanimate. He also discovered that he had to be very careful not to overextend his power. If he became too weak to command the magic exactly as he willed, it could turn on him and destroy him. He realized from his mistake with the shield that if he hadn’t had the strength to bring the magic back under control, he would have died in the release of unspent energy.
Late one evening, ten days after he had begun his self training, he rode home to Kierla. With a mischievous grin, he borrowed one of her wooden bowls, and before her mystified eyes, he filled it full of small rocks. He covered the rocks with a scrap of cloth, closed his eyes, and murmured something to himself. After a moment, he whisked off the cloth and presented the bowl to Kierla. Her mouth dropped open and her eyes popped. The bowl was full of her favorite black grapes.