The Seeker - Isobelle Carmody [176]
“Who are you?” I whispered.
“You may call me a chronicler and … what do your people call it—a futureteller. Long ago, I foresaw that the machines that made the great destruction lie sleeping. I saw that a second and greater destruction would come to the world if these machines were not destroyed. That will be no easy matter, for the machines have a kind of intelligence and will protect themselves. But I dreamed one would be born among the funaga, a Seeker to cross the black wastes and ensure that the deathmachines can never be used again.
“Very recently, I foresaw a faltering in that life—a moment when you might easily die. I saw that you would suffer such mental and physical injuries as only the Agyllians could heal. And so I sent out my egglings to find you.”
“I’m grateful,” I said. “But why seek the machines at all? If they’re so far away—if they’re truly in the Blacklands—might they not be useless by the time anyone found them?”
“The machines are beyond the Blacklands, but they have slept without harm for hundreds of lifetimes. The danger of their discovery alone would not be enough to make me act. But I have foreseen that there is another funaga whose destiny is to resurrect the machines. Your paths intersect. You are the Seeker, the other is the Destroyer. If you do not find the machines first …”
I felt sick. I wanted to tell myself that it was too ridiculous, that I must be dreaming, that prophecies belonged to stories. But too much had happened. I had seen and felt too much, and in my heart, just as the bird said, I had known for a long time that I would find the chasm from my vision. The burning of the maps on Obernewtyn’s doors had only been the beginning.
“Why does it have to be me who finds them?” I asked. “Don’t I have any choice?”
“There are always choices.”
I shook my head, feeling suddenly bitter. “If what you say is true, then the future is set out, and I have no real choice.”
“The future is a river whose course is long designed but which a flood or drought might easily alter. Whatever choice you make will have its own consequences. If I had not chosen to interfere and have you healed, your death would have been a kind of choice.”
The sun sank, and suddenly it was night, the old bird no more than a dust-scented shadow.
“What do I have to do?” I whispered.
“For now, only live,” Atthis sent. “What else comes will come.”
“You … you brought me here to say that?” I asked, incredulous.
The old bird seemed to sigh. “The time is not yet right for you to travel that black road. You were brought here to be healed, and so you are healed. Return to your home and friends. Help them in their struggle, for it is worthy and they have need of you. But do not forget that your true path lies away from them and their quests.”
“Have you … foreseen that I will succeed on that path? Will I destroy the machines if I go on this journey?”
Atthis shifted slightly and dust filled the air. “That, I have not foreseen.”
A wave of weariness flowed through me, and a kind of hopelessness. I sensed compassion in the mind of the old bird. “One day, you will learn that it is not always safest to be alone. Until then, happiness will elude you. But perhaps it is best for you to be alone with this secret burden.”
“I don’t understand,” I sent.
“I know. You are tired. Sleep, and while you sleep, my egglings will transport you to a place where one waits to carry you back to the mountain valley of Obernewtyn.”
The old bird’s eyes stared into mine, and I felt myself falling into them, sinking into the soft whiteness as if it were a feather bed.
24
THE COLD WOKE me.
I was freezing, and I wondered if it had snowed in the night. I felt a sharp stab of grief and was puzzled by it. Then I remembered Jik.
I opened my eyes.
It was night. I frowned, wondering at the icy chill of the air. Perhaps winter had come early to the White Valley. Even so, it felt too cold for the highlands. I doubted it had ever been so cold even at Obernewtyn in the dead of winter.
With a shock, I realized something else. The