The Golden Torc

by Julian May

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  There was a ruminative buzz. A single pale-green plaque fell with a muted click into the hopper. The computer made no sound at all as it obliterated from its memory the entire body of data that Bryan and Ogmol had stored within it.

  Greg-Donnet patted the machine, tittering, and tucked his copy of the survey into a pocket beneath one of the tails of his clawhammer coat.

  "Tidy graphs and learned jargon! Statistics and correlations and extrapolations of dire, dire portents! No surprise to me, of course. Who needs an anthropologist to point out the deluge coming? Naughty humanity! Imagine poor Thaggy thinking we'd been good for his people! Won't he be shocked to find that Nodonn was right about us? And here it is—all spelled out by clever Bryan and simple Oggy—the fate of humanity and the Tanu-human hybrids writ so plain that even the most thick-headed of the Host will understand ... Ah, Bryan. With Oggy riding herd on you, you'd just tamely hand the thing over to the King and trust in his good sense not to do the obvious. Or do you even see the obvious, Bryan?...And they call me crazy!"

  He went back to the scattered books on the floor, formed them into a neat stack, and skipped away with it. With a little luck, he wouldn't have missed any of the fireworks.

  ***

  Ogmol led Bryan through a secret passageway that eventually opened into an alcove hard by the dais of Creation House's great rotunda. The nook was shielded by curtains of an ingenious weave that provided a one-way view into the chamber.

  "An old guard cubbyhole from the Times of Unrest five hundred years ago," Ogmol whispered. "All of the Guild headquarters have them, and the secret passages, too. But no one bothers with them any more except Gomnol and his coercers. You know how paranoid about security they are."

  Bryan was paying little attention to the explanation of his companion, nor did he waste much time on the High Faculty already seated on the dais around the empty throne of silver encrusted with beryls that was the accustomed seat of Aluteyn Craftsmaster. The anthropologist recognized perhaps half of the top-ranking creators: the aged musician Luktal, Renian Glasscrafter, Clana the illusion-spinning daughter of the Queen and her blood-sister Anéar, Seniet the Lord Historian, Lord Celadeyr of Afaliah, Ariet the Sage, and the two talented hybrids of the High Table, Katlinel the Darkeyed and Alberonn Mindeater.

  The rotunda proper was jammed almost from wall to wall with hundreds of Guild members, dressed in various permutations of their heraldic blue-green with white or silver. There were also a great many outsiders of high rank who had, Ogmol explained, either wangled guest passes or simply crashed what should have been strictly an in-house ceremony.

  "See there?" Ogmol pointed. "Those two in the hooded white cloaks? The Thagdal and Nontusvel in mufti! Dressed like that, they're officially nonpresent, so no one need pay any special attention to them."

  The royal incogniti had, however, been accorded front-row standing room next to the dais.

  "Here's Lady Eadone," said Ogmol. "Now we'll begin."

  The tall silver-clad woman, flanked by two male attendants in silver niello half-armor, came out and stood at the right side of the stage. Somewhere the chain jangled. There was dead silence. Bryan now had no difficulty understanding Eadone's speech.

  "Creative Brothers and Sisters! We are in extraordinary assembly. According to the most ancient rules of our fellowship, I stand forth as speaker until the matter of this meeting shall find resolution. Let my action be noted."

  "The action of the Dean of Guilds is so noted," declared all of the members.

  Eadone said, "Let Aluteyn Craftsmaster, President of the Guild of Creators, come forth and assume his rightful place."

  There was a low murmur from the crowd. From the wings opposite the alcove where Bryan and Ogmol hid came a stout figure in a richly jeweled caftan. Aluteyn posed for a moment in front of his throne, his silvery-gold hair and mustache abristle with static. In a loud, harsh voice he said, "I take my seat, yielding the speakership freely to the Fivefold Benevolence of the Lady Dean." He plumped himself down, spread his legs, and hunched forward with arms angled and hands resting on his knees. He looked as though he was ready to spring at the first sign of restiveness in the ranks.

  "Lord President and fellow Creators," Eadone declaimed. "There has been presented, with due process, a challenge." The throng uttered a sound like a wave breaking gently on an offshore bar. "Let the challenger come forward and be heard."

  A small commotion broke out on the side of the rotunda opposite the dais. The crowd opened an aisle leading toward the throne. The creators and the curious aristocrats of Muriah craned their necks. A few even had the bad manners to levitate slightly in an attempt to get a better view as Mercy entered.

  "Way!" sang a herald near the entrance. "Way for the Exalted Lady Mercy-Rosmar, Creative Sister to us all, wife to Nodonn Battlemaster Lord of Goriah, and challenger this day before the extraordinary assembly of the Creator Guild!"

  Watching her, Bryan felt his heart contract within him. She had put off the rose-and-gold colors of her awesome husband and assumed those of her adopted guild. Her long gown was silver tissue cut at the edges in long dags and scallops resembling butterfly wings; like wings also were the patterns of iridescent greenish blue that made great swirls and eyespots which appeared and disappeared on the fabric as she approached Aluteyn. Her auburn hair hung free. Mercy was followed by four brawny gray-torcs in the livery of House Nodonn pushing a wheeled trolley of polished wood. Upon it reposed a large and ornate cauldron, apparently made of gold.

  "It is the Kral," Ogmol whispered, "the sacred vessel of our Guild which is usually seen by the commonalty and membership only at the Grand Combat. Traditionally, the Lord Creator must fill it at that time for the edification of all Combatants."

  "What's Mercy doing with it now?" Bryan demanded. But Ogmol only gestured for him to watch.

  The human woman had reached the foot of the dais, where an area perhaps ten by ten was opened for her. She made a sign. Her attendants placed the cauldron on the floor in the center of the space, then stepped far back so as to leave Mercy standing alone with the great kettle beside her.

  "Speak your challenge, Mercy-Rosmar," said Eadone.

  The pale face lifted. Bryan imagined that he saw the sea-colored eyes go wide and wild.

  "I challenge Aluteyn Craftsmaster to defend his presidency of the Guild of Creators! I bid him stand forth at the manifestation of powers during the Grand Combat, contending with me in the exercise of creative metafunction, until by the express judgment of the King, the Dean of Guilds, and our noble membership, one of us shall be declared supreme over the other and shall assume the presidency; while the one vanquished shall choose between the quitting of this Kingdom of the Many-Colored Land and voluntary life-offering to the Goddess, whose Will shall in all things prevail."

  There was a roar from the crowd. Bryan turned to Ogmol. "What did she mean, for God's sake? Life-offering? Isn't that your orgy of ritual executions at the end of the games? Do you mean that the loser in this damned manifestation of powers forfeits his life?"

  "It is the most honorable course. But a few, such as Minanonn the Heretic, who was deposed by Nodonn, and Leyr the former Lord Coercer, overcome by Gomnol, have chosen the ignominy of banishment."

  Bryan cried out, "Mercy!" But Ogmol held him behind the concealing curtains and the sound of his voice was lost in the tumult.

  "You should feel the Craftsmaster's thoughts!" Ogmol fingered his golden torc. "Very bad form to let your hostility show like that, even if one is a First Comer. Watch this now, Bry. The validation, we call it. Can't have just any young upstart making the challenge, you know."

  Aluteyn had risen from his throne and now moved forward until he was able to look down upon Mercy from the front of the dais.

  "I accept your challenge, Creative Sister—subject to your filling our sacred
cauldron here and now, demonstrating the validity of your right to challenge. And first, you shall extirpate the thing I place therein!"

  There was an explosion and an ammoniacal stench. The woman leapt back as a slimy apparition materialized out of the golden kettle. Its body was sinuous but without scales, dripping foul mucus. There were pores along the heaving sides like small portholes. Groping filaments the size of elongated human fingers fringed its head. It resembled a monstrous eel, perhaps eight meters in length and nearly a meter in diameter, oozing forth from the cauldron toward Mercy while Aluteyn watched with folded arms and a sour smile. The creature had no proper mouth. Its head terminated in a species of funnel lined with carunculated ridges; inside gleamed row upon row of sharp triangular teeth. From the gullet of the monster protruded a tonguelike member as thick as a human forearm, studded with rasps.

  "Good God, what is it?" cried Bryan.

  "A lamprey fish, I'd say—or a simulacrum of one, more likely, unless he had this fellow stashed away and magnified him. Not a particularly ingenious effort. Perhaps Aluteyn thought your lady's sensitivities would be overcome by its horrid appearance. But she doesn't seem to be intimidated ... ha! Watch!"

  Mercy stood her ground with resolution as the thing hung over her, its horrid lips aquiver and tongue groping for prey.

  "The Craftsmaster has given you a fish!" she cried in a loud voice. "I will give you its accompaniment!"

  There was a second detonation, together with a great cloud of steam that swathed Mercy and the giant lamprey swaying above the cauldron. Abruptly, the stench in the air vanished. There was another aroma, one that was not only pleasant but mouth-watering—and quite familiar to Bryan the former Londoner. The vapors parted and there stood the auburn-haired sorceress with her huge kettle filled to the brim with small things that were golden-brown and smoking and giving off that delicious fragrance together with a complementary smell of fried potatoes.

  Mercy began scattering the kettle contents to the crowd.

  Bryan collapsed in laughter against the wall of the alcove, as much from relief as from any other emotion. "Oh, my dear! That's showing him!"

  Ogmol said, "I presume this is some human in-joke."

  The throng of Guild members and nobles were catching the tidbits that Mercy threw and devouring them with hilarious cheers. Aluteyn turned his back on the scene.

  Lady Eadone declared, "Let it be noted that the challenger, Lady Mercy-Rosmar, has demonstrated her right to meet Lord Aluteyn Craftsmaster in the manifestation of powers. Until that time, let the two of you dwell in the peace and fellowship of our Guild. This extraordinary assembly is now adjourned."

  "Lady Mercy-Rosmar farspeaks you through me," Ogmol said to Bryan. "She has perceived our presence behind the curtains because of the—er—cri de coeur you uttered when you realized she was placing herself in peril by issuing the challenge. She wishes to reassure you. She further asks that you meet her tonight in the Creators' Forecourt, where she will arrive in her calèche at twenty-one hundred hours. She wishes to discuss important matters with you."

  "Assure her that I'll be waiting."

  The Tanu-human bowed in a strangely formal manner. "I must go now to present the results of our survey to my Awful Father. "

  "Yes, of course. Well, why don't I wander back to my rooms for a bit—and then a swim. Will you join me later?"

  "I fear not, Bryan. The interview with the King may take some time."

  "Well, give him my compliments." The anthropologist was jovial. "Later, I'll tell him myself what a good job you've done. I've never seen anyone pick up cultural theory so quickly. Perhaps the King will authorize us to do a broader study along these lines. I'd like to continue working with you, Ogmol."

  Still displaying the air of distance that was at variance to his usual friendliness, Ogmol held out a golden-furred hand for Bryan to shake. "I've enjoyed working with you, too, Bryan." He opened the secret door and held it while the anthropologist slipped inside. "Good—good luck to you, Bryan! And thank you for the hangover pills!"

  Before the startled human could reply, the sliding panel closed in his face. He was alone in the dim passage between the walls.

  "Funny. " Bryan took out the pale-green rectangle of his survey and stared at it. "We did a workmanlike job, given the short time available. An interesting overview, all in all. Old Thagdal should be pleased with it."

  But why, then, had Ogmol seemed apprehensive? Bryan hadn't a clue. "Perhaps I've been too close to the study during these hectic weeks," he told himself. "As a half-blood, Ogmol may be making a subjective evaluation of the survey relative to some exotic criteria of his own."

  Well, a little relaxation and he might noodle it out. Nothing like a good swim in Oggy's private pool to refresh his fatigued cortex. And then a drive with Mercy in the cool of the evening.

  He got to thinking about her and the fish and chips, and went off chuckling. The puzzle of Ogmol—and the plaque in his jacket pocket—were completely forgotten.

  ***

  On the dark summit of the Mount of Heroes there was a small open meadow between twin crags, far above the College of Redactors and the city and the gunmetal lagoons. They sent the old carriage driver away to wait and stood side by side in the utterly silent night. It seemed that they had come to a place between two different skies—the one above all distant and frosty and old, and the one below warm and exciting with the twinkling lights of three kinds of people—the olive-oil flames lit by humans, the jewel-lamps of the Tanu, and the massed bonfires of the Firvulag making a festive display out on the southern flats.

  "I think," Mercy said, "that my favorite thing in all this Many-Colored Land is the faerie look of the lights ... and best of all when I see them from up high. Like this, from a mountain, or when flying with my Lord."

  She took a small backward step so that his arms could come around her. Her hair met his lips as she swayed back against him. "But I forgot that you've never flown with us, Bry. My poor earthbound one! When I'm able to go alone and lift another, I must take you. But in the meantime, we have this here tonight."

  She turned to him. The still-incredible thing began to happen again. Their minds and bodies came together in the ecstatic conjugation that seemed as far beyond ordinary sex as music was beyond noise. They lofted into ever-ascending levels of life-energy where balls of colored light pulsed and sang, clinging and crying out—she in triumph and he in wonder and a kind of defiance that dared the love to become love-death if this was the only way to prolong it infinitely. But it could not be, never was, and always there was the brink and the tumble into deep dark while the glaring colors shrank and receded and went out. And he, swallowed, sated, was enfolded within her and flown safely back over the hollow waters, hearing her hush him as he mourned the end (again), ever asking, "Why doesn't this sea reflect the stars?"

  "Hush, love," she said. "Never mind."

  They lay quietly on her soft cloak. When his mind steadied he was able to look at her starlit face and very nearly recall what the fulfillment had been like (again).

  "It's enchantment, Mercy," he said. "You've bewitched me. Are you killing me, too?"

  "Does it matter?" she laughed, taking his head into her lap. A fold of fabric wiped his eyes and she kissed the lids.

  "It can't go on, can it?" he asked. "After the Combat, he'll take you back to Goriah. Or will you stay if you become Lady Creator? Is there a chance you'll stay, Mercy?"

  "Hush."

  "Do you love him?" he asked after a while.

  "Of course," she replied, her voice warm.

  "Do you love me?" He spoke low, his mouth partially muffled in her gown.

  "Would I be here with you if I didn't? Ah, my dear. Why must you always talk of loving and staying instead of the joy? Haven't you been happy? Haven't I given you all that I could, all that you could bear? Do you want the whole of it? Will nothing else satisfy you?"

  "I can't leave you. Oh, Mercy."

  The corners of her
mouth turned up. "And you'd do anything for me, would you?"

  He gazed at her smile and could not speak. She began to hum, and the words of the familiar love ballad formed in his mind by the power of hers:

  Cupid is winged and doth range

  Her country, so my Love doth change.

  But change the earth or change the sky,

  Yet will I love her till I die.

  "And now we'll have one another again, sweet Bryan, and after that go down into the city. And you'll give me as a gift the little book you've written, the book that promises such terrible things for my Tanu people if they continue on as before with the humans and all. But you never intended your book to apply to me, did you, Bryan?"

  "Oh, no. Not you."

  "I'm one of them, after all, and always have been. He knows that and so do you."

  "Yes ... both of us know what you are."

  "But it's really a most upsetting thing you've written, sweetheart, particularly if the wrong people such as Culluket or Imidol should read it and misunderstand. Not even Nodonn can control the entire Host. And they believe all humankind to be harmful. Even me. Even the dear loyal hybrids. But you weren't to know that, were you? How your little book could be the death of us all. You'd never foresee such an interpretation ... so earnest, so civilized and sane, my love."

  Bryan was puzzled, lost in his dreaming. The survey? That was only his work. "It has nothing at all to do with us, Mercy. Nothing to do with you. Enchantress."

  "Then give me your copy of it. Give it to me and never tell that I have it."

  Of course he did. And she lifted his head from her lap, laughing, and then leaned over him kissing and leading him on. When they had gone there and back (again), she summoned the carriage and driver and they drove down the mountain. Outside Redact House, as she expected, Nodonn and Culluket the King's Interrogator were waiting.

  "He's asleep," she told them. "The only other copies of the survey are in the possession of Ogmol and the Thagdal—and stored in the computer, of course."