IV
Raven stood up, his expression full of horror. “He said it would be no one I knew! But now I know!” He hid his face in his hands and turned away from Peter.
“What’s wrong, buddy? Dr. Raven?” Peter put his hand on the wheels of his chair, twisting them in opposite directions, so that he turned to follow Raven.
Raven looked up from between his fingers in time to see the doors from the hospital fly open. There was Wendy, looking radiant and cheerful, dressed in her beige skirt and jacket, little black boots on her feet, one hand swinging the traveling case she had originally brought to the hospital with her. She was smiling, and the wind played with her long black hair, which was mussed and tousled.
Wendy danced up to Raven and kissed him on the cheek. “I’m all better! Stop crying. And, hey! Guess what?! We have to find the magic talismans to drive back the Dark powers from the nightmare kingdom before the world gets destroyed. A ghost was helping me, but he was carried off, so we’ve got to save him, too.” She turned toward Peter and said, “Hi there! My name’s Wendy!”
A very young and harassed-looking lady in a candy-striped shirt of pink and white appeared in the door, flourishing a handful of papers. With rapid steps, she chased after Wendy, calling out that she could not leave yet, as no doctor had examined her, and no tests had been performed to prove that she was healthy. Wendy gave the girl a pinch on the cheek, saying, “There, there! I feel fine, thank you. Now go back to the people who are really sick. Raven! They won’t let me leave without signing all this stuff. Tell her how much you hate paperwork.”
“Peter Waylock, ma’am. Pleased to meet you.”
“Do you believe in faith healing? Miracles? One just happened to me! Look!” Wendy spun in a circle, hair and skirt lifting, palms out, face tilted up.
“Ma’am, we really need . . .,” said the hospital worker.
Raven said, “Here look, I sign! There and there and there! In triplicate! Now, go!” He angrily scrawled his name at random across several of the papers.
The woman shrank back, cowed. “Er—yes, doctor . . .” She turned and fled.
“What’s up, Raven? Aren’t you happy to see me?!!” Wendy, with a little whoop of joy, threw her arms around her husband. Her husband was so tall compared to her that her feet left the pavement when she twined her arms around his neck.
Wendy kissed her husband’s furry cheek, and, with her bright eyes peering over his massive shoulder, looked at Peter. “Did you say Waylock? Your son came into my bedroom on a moonbeam. He told the most wonderful story! Are you going to help him save the world? Why is he a ghost?”
Peter said, “A ghost?!” His face was stiff as iron. “Dr. Raven, what is all this?”
Raven pushed his wife away and stepped back. Wendy stared at Raven with wide eyes, her red mouth forming an O of surprise. Raven was panting, his expression wild. He turned toward Peter. Raven spoke in a shaking voice: “Very sorry, I am. So sorry. It is about your son. There is bad news. Your son is dead.”
Raven held his breath.
“No, he isn’t,” said Peter in voice of calm impatience.
“But I fear he is dead,” said Raven. “I—I have—”
“He’s not dead,” said Peter. “There he is right behind you.”
Raven turned.
“Hi Galen! Remember me?” Wendy waved at the youth standing in the doorway. The young man stood with one door held lightly in either hand, looking back and forth, blinking rapidly.
Raven was clutching his own chest, a look of terrible confusion on his face. His eyes were red with unshed tears, but a look of wild hope began to dawn across his features. “It was all a lie. A sad dream. . . I have done no wrong. . .”
The gaze the young man turned toward Wendy was calm and remote. He spoke in a clipped and icy voice. “Madame, forgive me if I do not well recollect you. My long convalescence has obscured my memory, I fear.”
“But I just talked to you!”
“How is this possible, as I have only this hour woken from a long and troubling sickness?” The young man smiled with cool politeness.
“Son—” Peter spoke in a voice that trembled. “They said they got your heart started again, but that you wouldn’t be awake till tomorrow. They said you wouldn’t be able to walk.”
The young man studied Peter’s face with a careful, even stare. “Ah, father. It pleases me well to see you once again.” He stepped forward, letting the doors swing shut behind him. “Come, father, let us away. I would have no more of this place, for it troubles me. Let us return to Everness House, I pray you.”
Wendy strode after him a few steps, and said fiercely, “You’re Azrael de Gray, aren’t you! You tricked Galen into carrying your soul out of the cage, and sent him to where the seal-men could make a coat out of him for you to wear!”
The gaze the young man turned toward her was so cold, so reptilian, that Raven automatically stepped forward into the way. The young man said nothing, but turned and looked at Peter, who sat blinking in impatient confusion.
Peter met Raven’s gaze, and nodded. “See what you meant, pal.” He tapped his finger to his temple. “Harmless, huh? But kinda cute.”
The young man, motionless, watched Peter from beneath lowered eyelids.
“Come on,” said Peter, turning to the boy, “let’s go.” Back over his shoulder, he said, “Nice meeting both of you . . .”
They started away across the parking lot.
Wendy said softly to Raven, “We’ve got to follow them.”
“Wha-aa-at? Why is this, my little bird?”
“Because that’s not Galen!” she whispered loudly. “Someone took his soul and put someone else in his body!”
Raven stroked his beard and squinted over at the youth strolling away under the streetlamps with Peter. Then he looked back down at his wife, puzzlement in his eyes.
V
Many were the wonders and splendors which, during his unnaturally long life, Azrael de Gray Waylock had beheld in the kingdoms of deep dreaming. He had seen from afar the glory of sunrise over Zimiamvia, where immortals live; he had survived the stench and horror of the vaults of Zin; he had seen the coasts of Nastrond, where selkie frolic amidst the heaped-up bones of men; he had walked the golden streets of Celebradon, and, through eyes tear-blurred by the brilliance of the winged beings who pass in unearthly silence down those avenues, he had seen the hushed pleasances, the shaded walks, the quiet gardens and cathedrals of that sleeping, star-crowned city.
Azrael de Gray Waylock was one of the three fully human persons who had ever beheld the windowless domes of the torture-city of Uhnuman on its plateau on the far side of the moon. He was one of the two men who had ever visited the vast onyx citadel of the Great Ones that broods atop the unknown mountain in the twilit, cold wasteland to the north of the dream-world, and he knew the reason for their remote and august reticence, and why, though fallen from Mommur, they are not loyal to Acheron. And he was the only man who knew where lay the shining meadows where walks the lonely Unicorn, where her graceful footstep stirs the meads of eternal and unwithering fair flowers; where she dwells amidst gentle beauty which cannot allay her sorrow.
Despite his wisdom in the dream-lore and all his knowledge, gained with such horrid price, and his deep experience, Azrael de Gray Waylock was astounded when he came forth from the houses of healing, once more to breathe the night airs of the waking world, wrapped in the cloak of a young man’s skin.
VI
The sights were strange and filled with wonder beyond all his expectation.
The surface underfoot was black and hard like the tar flows of volcanolit Inquanok, but crisscrossed with a geometric pattern of white lines, like the cunning handiwork of the Nidvellir. Overhead, burning with a splendid glory, slender poles or spears of some unknown elfish metal held up lanterns of crystal in which motionless pure fires lived. The light from these white fires was so bright that Azrael was at first not certain if it were day or night. He had se
en similar fires hovering in the ceilings of the healing house, where they murmured to themselves in a strange language of hisses, buzzing like bees.
Beneath the spears, here and there crouching on the black ground, were groups of metal sheds or boxes, held off the ground by cylinders. Each of these sheds was short, too short for normal men to dwell in, but was decorated with huge panels of splendid crystal; this glass was so pure and extensive that Azrael could not calculate the cost; and so clear that the insides of the sheds could be distinguished. Inside these sheds were benches or seats, set too close together to sit in, and all facing the same direction, as if they had been stacked together. Many of the seats had litter flung across them.
Beyond this yard rose a thin strip of trees, beyond which was a river of moving lights, shining and flashing like falling stars. A continuous roar and murmur came from this river, like the voices of many beasts, growling.
Beyond this river and afar rose up tall towers hung with pure, unwinking lights, towers so tall that Azrael de Gray first mistook them for cliffsides. These places were taller than the towers of Nineveh, or of great Babylon. And when, beneath his jacket, half-turned away from the others, he made the sign of Koth above his heart, there came no answering signal or presence; and by this he knew those towers had been built not by gods or by immortal elves but by men. And he smiled coldly to himself when that knowledge came to him.
Without the doors of the healing house were three figures; a young titan in a black beard, not yet grown beyond human height, garbed in white like a priest; a girl of the fairy race; and a cripple in a cunning cart shaped like a chair. The purpose of this cart was obvious; it would carry the cripple about in it with its wheels. Azrael admired the handiwork.
Azrael recognized the bearded one in white must be from the Caucasus Mountains, where the handsomest of mortal men dwell. The sign of fire on his brow indicated he had once been in the presence of one of the eternal and ancient powers of the world, some power older than a god. Since the only such power from the Caucasus mountains was Prometheus, the creator of mankind, Azrael guessed that this young titan, still so young and still so short that his height could pass unnoticed among humans, had been sent as an agent to stop the plans of Azrael.
A night-fly buzzed in the air above the titan, making the triple sign widdershins; a clear signal that this was a hunter who dwelt in the depth of the great forests and knew the lore of tracking and pursuit.
Azrael had expected hunters, but not to come upon him so suddenly. But then he saw the paleness of the bearded titan’s right hand, and knew he had touched the sword of Koschei the Deathless. It was a signal of weakness, of a curse. Because of this, Azrael was almost ready to dismiss the bearded titan as a threat. Almost.
When the fairy-girl jumped in the air to hug the titan (evidently they were husband and wife), Azrael watched her feet carefully, trying to see how quickly or slowly her shadow leapt back toward her feet when she dropped to the ground again. The shadows of her feet seemed to reach out reluctantly to grab her feet when she touched ground again. It was a sign; she knew the secret of flight.
Strangely, the little dandelions growing in a small strip of grass near the door did not react when the fairy-girl stepped on them. Azrael was puzzled. Perhaps the fairy blood in her was impure?
Certain prognosticative signs had led him to know that he would be led to the House of Everness by one waiting for him here. Which of the three was destined to take him to the House?
As he stood there, Azrael clenched shut his eyes till he saw the light of Muspel, colorless and metallic, floating in the darkness. Then, blinking rapidly, he looked at each of the three figures in turn, to see what shadows they might cast in that light.
Looking them from face to face, Azrael recognized himself in the slant of the eyes and shape of the chin of the cripple; this man was of the blood of Waylock. By looking at the colors of the afterimage hovering in his eye when he blinked, and seeing the fans of powers radiating out from the man in each direction, Azrael discovered that this was not just any Waylock, but was the Guardian of Everness himself.
And yet, how could this wounded man be the heir to the Silver Key? He looked too young to be the grandfather of whom Galen had spoken. Furthermore, in Azrael’s imagination, he saw a picture of the man with blood on his hands, and a crowd of black shadows, bleeding from mortal wounds, hovering thick behind him, weeping for vengeance. By this he knew the man to be a warrior in service to bloodthirsty Ares.
Oddly, however, when he stared at the man, he did not feel a cold sensation, nor did his nape hairs prickle, which meant the man was not surrounded by any of the wards or protective spirits that the Guardians of Everness, by right, can call up from the Waters. There were some dust motes floating in the air behind the man; from the way they stirred and danced, Azrael knew the man had cold iron beneath his jacket a weapon of great power that the man regarded as a talisman, but a mortal weapon only, one possessed of no spiritual strength.
Contempt surged in Azrael’s brain. Since this man had been invested with the guardianship, that meant the grandfather must have fallen into depths beyond the reach of sunlight. But this man was an apostate, ignorant of the High Arts, wandering the earth helpless as a babe, without even a silver knife to ward off night-hags or salt to banish imps, much less having any of the mightier talismans or creatures, his by right, that were able to drive back the more ancient champions of Darkness.
The sensation of hot anger surprised Azrael; he had not realized how proud he was of his great family, and of their eternal patience and faithfulness, of their power, and of their ancient tradition, till he saw this, one of his remote sons, an ignorant and unlettered traitor to that heritage. It surprised Azrael that such realizations still had such power to wound him.
The fairy-girl spoke to him and told everyone that he was not Galen Waylock. Being mortals, however, they ignored what the fairy said even though it had been spoken plain and clear in front of them. Azrael did not answer her (it is bad luck to challenge fairies) but waited until the cripple employed his dull ignorance to dismiss her.
After a farewell, the two of them were moving away together across the yard, with Azrael walking beside the cart-chair. Azrael regarded this beginning of his return to Everness with grim pleasure. But he noted how, behind him, the bearded titan was regarding him with a curious stare.
VII
Peter Waylock was growing more worried about his son—more worried, more angry, more bewildered. When they had first gotten into Peter’s special handicapped-drivable van, Galen had been very slow and disoriented, asking whether there was some table to which these chairs were to be brought and then forgetting how to put on his safety belt when Peter reminded him to do it. When the engine started, Galen had flinched and snarled, grabbing at his left hip with his right hand, and then, when they pulled out into traffic, Galen sat stony faced, almost as if he were trying to control some unreasoning panic.
But then he seemed to relax and take an almost childish glee in the van ride, fumbling the window down and hanging his head out, awestruck and smiling, as if the conservative forty-five or fifty-five miles per hour Peter drove was a speed thrill like a roller-coaster ride. Once Galen made a comment on the “neat and steady hand” that had lettered the roadsigns.
At first Peter thought Galen was gazing at the passing street lamps and stoplights, but then a chilling thought struck him, and some of his impatience and anger drained away.
“I guess you haven’t seen what the world looks like since the season changed. Leaves still on the trees since you went to sleep,” said Peter. Something about it struck Peter as sad, almost horrifying. Gruffly he wiped his eyes, muttering a swearword to himself.
Galen pulled his head back in through the window, his expression blank, and looked carefully at Peter. “Plain to view, it is, I deem, that the world is much changed since last I walked awake on it. Any oddities of mine I trust you will excuse, my father.”
But Peter w
as brooding on some thought of his own, and did not answer.
They drove for a very long time in silence. Galen occasionally drew in his breath, as if startled or surprised, and Peter glanced up from his driving to see Galen staring at a billboard advertising bikinis or at the lights of a passing plane. But soon they were in the countryside, the road was bordered by nothing but trees, and Galen seemed calmer.
Eventually Peter said, “I’d be glad to. Excuse your odd things, I mean. You even talk different now. You picked that up from your Grampa, I know. He and I never got along. But I want you to know . . . well, all that stuff during the divorce, and stuff. . . damn it, boy, what I’m trying to say, is that, well, when you were laying there in bed, helpless as a baby . . .”
A remote, sorrowful look came into Galen’s eyes.
Peter resumed talking. “It reminded me of when you were just a baby. And, you know, you would spit up on me or poop in your pants, and just do things that babies do ‘cause they’re babies. And they didn’t get to me. Didn’t get on my nerves. Then, when you grew up, and I wasn’t around so much, you went off to live with your Grampa. And that got on my nerves. But I forgot, see? I forgot that, even when your babies grow up, it doesn’t matter what they do, you can’t stop,. . . well, you can’t stop caring about them. You understand?”
“I am not certain I do,” said Galen coldly. “Surely Grand Pa” (he pronounced it carefully, as if it were two words) “knew well the traditions and lore of our great house, and could thus well instruct me, since, as you say, you were gone away at the wars.” He watched Peter carefully for his reaction when he said this.
Beneath his watchfulness, Peter thought he could detect a hidden anger in his son; contempt and injured pride. “That’s what I’m trying to say, son. You did some things I didn’t like when you left me to live with Grampa and his money. But I realized I was wrong. There, I said it. Sorry; I was wrong.”
The Last Guardian of Everness (War of the Dreaming 1) Page 11