by Lyndon Hardy
For a moment Jemidon heard no reply, and then, above the roar, Canthor's voice shouted back.
"Wait here," the bailiff yelled. "Wait here until I am done. I will release you from the glamour after I have helped the others as best I can."
Jemidon tried to crack open his eyelids, but a feeling of swirling grit and din immediately forced them shut. He sighed and curled into a ball, helpless to do more than await the outcome of the battle.
After some measureless time, Jemidon heard the words that ended the illusion of the blasting sands. He stood and stretched, then blinked at what he saw. It was night, and the moon had nearly set. Upslope, barely a hundred feet from where he stood, ran the crestline of the mountains.
"I remember being led like a blind man and stumbling upward for an eternity," he said. His mouth was dry and felt full of old rags. "What happened? Why are we here?"
"My apology for taking so long to release you." Canthor clasped him on the shoulder. "But others had wounds more greivous than your discomfort. Putting as much distance between us and the pursuit was the primary goal. Enchanting away the pain, when we finally were able to stop, was the next. The royal troops have camped for the night. We can rest here until the dawn."
Jemidon looked about a second time with more care. The trail and pass were nowhere in sight. Below him stretched the downslopes of the mountains. Like the crumpled robe of a master, the ridges and folds disappeared into the blackness. The ground underfoot was smooth and nearly devoid of plants; it curved gently in a flat arc to form part of the rocky spine that ran to the horizon. Except for the camp, there were no other lights. Of Pelinad's band, barely forty remained huddled around two small fires of brush.
"I caused enough confusion with the glamours for the prince's men to fall back and regroup," Canthor answered Jemidon's questioning gaze. "It gave us enough time to withdraw. But by then, Pelinad and most of the others were gone." The bailiff shrugged. "The shirts of mail were too many. We did not attack from the rear as was our plan."
"Ocanar-why did he not appear?" Jemidon asked. "If we had to bear the brunt of three companies, then he would have had to face only one. He should have finished up quickly and scrambled over the rubble to come to our aid."
"It was only byrnies from Searoyal that we saw pouring back through the pass," Canthor said. "Not vests of leather, or scythes and flails. Somehow, despite the strange one's craft, I suspect that Ocanar fared no better than we."
Jemidon wearily sagged back onto the hard ground. "But why did we then retreat into the mountains?"
"There was no open path down the trail in either direction," Canthor said, "and by striving for the peaks, we were more likely to link up with what remained of Ocanar, if he was doing the same. Indeed, his thoughts did run in a similar path to mine. The lookouts on the crest have seen a tattered band on the far-side downslopes. In a few moments more, he will be here."
Jemidon grunted and looked at the dark line that marked the skyward limit of the peaks. Almost instantly, he saw Canthor's pronouncement come true. A triangle of black shadow poked above the crestfine and then, beneath it, a rectangle with gently undulating sides. With a whoosh of air that Jemidon felt from where he sat, Drandor's tent settled on the crest.
Weary fighters appeared on either side, some dragging scythes and others totally unarmed. In twos and threes, they staggered down the slope into Canthor's camp. Silently, they slumped around the small fires.
One of two shirts of mail mingled with the rest. In a clump of lieutenants, Ocanar stomped down the slope, each step a thump of anger rather than the stumble of fatigue. The leader looked about and saw that only Canthor stood, of all of Pelinad's men. Stroking his beard, he approached and squinted in the dimness.
"Pelinad?" he asked.
"They follow me now," Canthor said.
"But you were only the sorcerer," Ocanar said.
"It was my skill as a man-at-arms more than any craft that saved the few whom you see here." Canthor shrugged. "Glamours do not organize a retreat or pick the course of the march. But that is of no consequence. Because of the odds, how we fared should be no surprise. Why are you running along the crestline, too, rather than polishing shirts of mail and bragging to the villagers about your victory?"
"Ask the cold one who claims to be a master," Jemidon heard Ocanar growl. "We would rout them all without the loss of a single man, he said. And so, after the scouts had ridden by, we stood by the mouth of the pass, not even bothering to group into any sort of formation. It seemed amusing to watch instead the elaborate preparations, lanterns and focusing lenses, and the vast expanses of white linen on which some great glamour was to play. The royal troops were to be petrified, frozen in mid-stride. We were to be able to move among them unchallenged and slit their throats at will."
"The rock slide started prematurely," Canthor said. "Three-quarters of the men-at-arms were left on our side of the pass. What upset the timing of our plan?"
"The timing was perfect," Ocanar spat out. "That part Melizar accomplished as we had-" Ocanar stopped and looked at Canthor through narrowed eyes. He tugged at his beard, waiting for the bailiff to say more, but Canthor remained silent. "Yes, prematurely," Ocanar said slowly at last. "I meant to say the rock slide came too soon. Undoubtedly another miscalculation like the rest. It was all Melizar's fault and none of mine. Now he hides in his canvas contraption and awaits my wrath.
"But none of that matters. One hundred men-at-arms slashed their way through the white linen as if it were not there. My men in leather were unprepared. Nimrod tried to rally them, but they did not stand a chance. Of all who waited this morning, hardly a fifth are left alive."
Jemidon followed the wave of Ocanar's arm, as the last of the men came over the crest. He saw his father trudging down the slope, one leg ringed with a dirty rag. He scrambled to his feet and ran to greet the older man with an embrace, relief mixing with guilt that he had forgotten about the perils that Jemilor must have faced.
"Melizar let me ride in his tent," Jemilor said as they disengaged. "Without his assistance, I doubt I could have kept up the pace. But I had followed his instructions well, just as he taught. There should be no blame for me that the sorceries did not work as planned."
Jemilor sagged to the ground and motioned Jemidon to follow. "Listen, my son," he said, pointing at his leg. "The cut is jagged and is slow to close. I am lucky to have gotten this far. An inch to the left, and tomorrow you would be questing on your own once again."
"Do not speak of such things as this," Jemidon chided. "If you can walk away from the battlefield, you will live to see the next. You know the saying as well as I."
"Melizar's apprentice." Jemilor waved away the words. "I want you to promise me now. He is most eager to take on all who will follow his direction without question. Do as he says and you may yet serve my memory with pride."
"But who is he and where is he from?" Jemidon asked. "I want his secrets, yes, but what is his ultimate intent?"
"He fights to overthrow Kenton and his barony," Jemilor replied. "That is enough recommendation for me. Promise me, Jemidon. Without that, I will not rest in peace."
"You will feel much better in the morning," Jemidon said. "And I do not think that the strange one will accept kindly one who sent magic swords swinging through his plans in the grotto."
"Promise me," Jemilor insisted. "After all that has passed, do not deny me one last kernel of hope."
Jemidon looked again into his father's pale face. He sighed and placed his hand on the older man's shoulder. "It is not that I have not tried. Father. Believe me, I want the robe as much as you."
"We could have served him both together today," Jemilor said. "Setting up the lantern and stretching the sheets you would have found easy enough to do. And your arms are yet strong and your reactions quick. Who could say what the difference might have been as we raced for the protection of the tent?"
"I am a man, full-grown," Jemidon said. "The quest I pursue is now my own."
"Your own?" Jemilor turned his head away. "Was it for that that your sister gave you the coin?"
Jemidon rose and stretched. His father had long since fallen into a fitful sleep. And he had made up his mind. Whatever caution his instincts threw in the way could not stand against the logic of everyone else's counsel. Slowly he climbed the distance to the crestline. Puffs of air skittered around his ankles as he approached the tent. The flicker of candlelight escaped from the hem of the canvas as it danced over the uneven ground.
At the tentflap, Jemidon reviewed what he planned to say. Perhaps stressing what he already knew would be best. He believed in the Postulate of Invariance, even if no one else seemed to give it great weight. Besides, ferreting out the secrets was no longer to be his intent. Despite his reservations, he would ask to be taught. He would find out by direct explanation, rather than by deduction, what he needed to know. He would learn the means to become a master and to cast off at last the burdens that pushed him on.
Nervously, Jemidon fingered the brandel about his neck. He felt the uneasiness in his stomach begin to grow. He could sense how the discomfort would increase as he drew closer to the cold one inside the tent. He did not want to enter, or to offer assistance, when deep inside he felt a distrust that no argument would chip away. Somehow in the end, their objectives could never be the same. But he thought of his father sleeping restlessly down the slope and of Canthor's advice given with no hidden bias. Against their words, he had only vague feelings to argue himself away. Cautiously he pushed aside the flap.
Melizar slowly turned as Jemidon looked inside. "Yes, what more does Ocanar want? I have given him the explanation. It must have been a great attempt at sorcery on the island. Probably far more powerful than this world has ever seen. So great that even here, the intensity was strong enough to force the animation to be the least contradiction. The effect varies as the cube of the distance. It is not my concern if he refuses to understand."
Jemidon tightened his arms around his stomach to quiet the rising discomfort. He saw that the interior of the tent looked much as it had on Morgana. Two small candles provided most of the light. The flap leading to the rear chamber was closed. The now-familiar lattice leaned against one of the supporting poles. Delia's counter was gone. On the bare ground, Melizar had been studying his drums and weights. Except for the buzz of the imps about the cold one's head, there was no other motion.
"You have worked with others before," Jemidon said. "Drandor the trader and Holgon the magician. Do you have available the position for yet another apprentice?" Melizar glided forward until he stood directly facing Jemidon. A slender hand jutted from the flowing robe and poked Jemidon in the shoulder. A wave of intense cold that numbed his arm sent a shiver down his back. He looked from the darkly painted nails, up the draped arm, to the cowl that hid everything but reflections of the candlelight in deep-set eyes.
"But more important than that," Jemidon blurted, "who are you? From where do you come?"
"Inquisitiveness is not the mark of a good follower," Melizar replied as the cowl moved closer in the dimness. "Obedience is the virtue that will garner the greater reward."
"Even if the reward is knowledge?" Jemidon asked.
"Even if the reward-" Melizar stopped and studied Jemidon's face. "I have seen you before," he said at last. "You were the one who tried to imitate the magician in the grotto."
"That is in the past and does not matter," Jemidon said quickly. "We now work for a common cause. Teach me more of the Postulate of Invariance. I wish to learn."
"The Postulate of Invariance! Who told you of that?" Melizar asked softly. "The demon swore on his eggclutch that it was only me and my manipulants. None of the rest were able to follow."
"I deduced it from what I have seen," Jemidon answered. "Sorcery deactivated and another craft in its place." He paused and wrinkled his forehead. "Only now it seems the pendulum has swung back the other way. The Rule of Three possesses vigor. Even Canthor was able to use it to delude the royal troops. No doubt that was why they were able to march through the animations on your side of the pass. They saw only a clever lantern show with no power to enchant."
"Of course," Melizar said slowly. He grabbed the cube at his waist and fondled it with his fingertips. "The sorcerer with the deceit that his powers were still whole. I had dismissed him entirely. He must have tried a glamour in the battle, just before the animation was to begin. Not many leagues, but only yards away. I was close enough for the shift to take place."
Melizar paused, head bowed for a moment, and then turned his attention back to Jemidon. "But the words would not be enough. Merely mouthing the charm without producing the effect does not give any contradiction."
Jemidon frowned, trying to follow the train of Melizar's thoughts. "It was the Song of the Shifting Sands," he said, "and Canthor threw a handful of dirt into the face of an assailant as he spoke."
"As simple as that." Melizar's voice took on a soft tinkle, like that of a delighted child. "I need not embellish my original plan. There is not some great sorcerer against whom I must pit the excuses for masters that I have. A simple animation will be more than enough to make the charms down the slope the smaller contradiction."
Melizar waved his arms at the drums. "The surface is merely dimpled. Two weak glamours, at most three or four. I will awaken Drandor to perform the animation and another to witness the effect. It will be enough within the confines of the tent."
"My apprenticeship," Jemidon said as Melizar started for the rear chamber. "You have not yet answered to the reason why I have come."
"The Postulate of Invariance is not the concern of any manipulant," Melizar said. "To him, such information is utterly of no use. And the fact that a metalaw holds interest for you harms, rather than abets, your suit. Wait patiently. I will decide your fate when the more important task is done."
Jemidon frowned as Melizar disappeared behind the flap. For a moment, he debated whether or not he should follow. But before he could decide, the strange one returned, stroking the cube at his side.
"They will be fully awakened in a moment," Melizar said. "Time enough for the part that I must perform." He unlatched the cube from his waist and began to twist it as he had done the day before.
Jemidon started to reply, but suddenly he felt the queasiness in his stomach grow and he sagged to the ground. Once again, his thoughts began to take off on their own, running through chains of discordant logic that he could not control. Events and random facts danced in his head. Pieces of the puzzle, all perceived at once, somehow fitted into a coherent whole. Morgana, the center of sorcery, on the night of celebration before the awarding of the prize…Pluton and the vault in the grotto-taking away tokens and then adding to them with more…Stopping the pumps before Holgon worked his transformation with the dove…The rebellion in the wheatlands-Melizar's being delighted that thaumaturgy was so strong, after he had told Ocanar that his goal was for it to stop…
The mental brew frothed and bubbled, growing in intensity and carrying Jemidon farther and farther away from where he willed. He imagined a box of secrets with the lid cracking open and the scent of its delights swirling out, to mix with the other experiences he had witnessed along the way.
Through glazed eyes, he watched Melizar finish his ritual with the cube. Dimly and uncertainly, he perceived someone-Drandor, perhaps-manipulating what might have been animated projections. But as before, the scenes blurred in streaks of light and dark. He felt as if he were on some great beast, charging across a featureless plain, or like the shot of a catapult arcing across the sky, a monolith of energy that crushed whatever was in its way. He cried out, trying by sheer will to force the plummet to stop. The last of his senses whirled into incohesion.
Then, after an indefinite time, and with a lurch that shook his body in a giant convulsion, Jemidon darted his eyes open. The feeling that had built so intensely was just as suddenly gone. Everything was clear and in focus. All senses were restored. From
outside the tent, he heard a cry of pain and, following that, another louder than the first. Instantly he knew what had happened. "Sorcery again is gone," he mumbled. "Canthor's soothing charms are no more."
He looked quickly around the tent, hoping to see what he wanted. "Delia!" he exclaimed as her slender form caught his eye. He felt his heart race with a surge of pleasure. "You are here, as I suspected. And Drandor-"
Jemidon stopped short as he looked more closely at the trader, now standing beside a small lantern and a scatter of transparent images on the floor. One arm dangled at his side, flat and shapeless, like an empty glove. His face sagged to the side, lips curving down to where the firm line of the jaw should have been; the cheek was only a loose bag of flesh.
Jemidon's eyes darted back to Delia and scanned her body from head to toe, searching for additional disfigurements. But except for the vacant stare produced by the animation, she was apparently whole. She wore the same gown in which he had seen her last. A band of iron still circled her left wrist. He let out his breath and finally looked back at Melizar as the strange one put away his cube.
"What has happened to him?" he asked, pointing at Drandor. "Was he exposed to the fighting as well?"
"My helpers, my manipulants," Melizar responded, accenting the last word. "No, they are too precious to waste in such a manner. But negligence cannot go unpunished." He swept his arm in Delia's direction. "This second one should never have been allowed to get away. Nor did the pets I gave him thrive under his care."
"By all the laws," Drandor slurred, "stop him before he does more. The cave beneath the tent, the sleepers, the sucking! I can feel the dissolving inside. Stop him before there are more."
"Silence," Melizar commanded. "Silence, or the manipulants shall have fresh marrow before it is needed." He turned and faced Jemidon. "You spoke of apprenticeship. There is more than one way that you can serve."