V
. . . Pol drifted again through the great Gate and into the land beyond. Moving more rapidly than in the past, he viewed another hunt, transformation and pursuit with growing amusement. On the second capture, however, the victim was cannibalized and another had to be sought. Pol experienced a psychic tugging which drew him away from the scene and on out across the wasteland. For what seemed to be days he traveled, in a dim, indeterminate form, over the unchanging deadlands, coming at last to a worn but high range of black mountains which extended from horizon to horizon. Three times he assailed its heights and three times he fell back; on the fourth occasion, the dry, howling winds forced him toward a gap through which he fled. He emerged on the other side above a terraced city which covered this entire face of the range. This slope, however, continued to a far lower level than that on the opposite side, dropping at last to the shore of an ancient, waveless, tideless sea and continuing on below its surface. Circling, he saw the outlines of buildings beneath the waters and the dark, moving forms of the beings who dwelled there. Through the always-evening haze, he saw the creatures of the upper terraces, gray, long-limbed, ogre-like, slightly smaller versions of the things he had seen in the wastes. Human-appearing beings also were there, moving freely among them.
He descended very slowly, coming to rest atop a high spire, where he perched and regarded the figures below. A great number of these congregated quickly at the base of the structure. After a time, they built a fire, brought forth a number of bound people, dismembered them and burned them. The smoke rose up, he breathed it, and it was pleasing to him.
Finally, he spread his wings and spiralled downward to where they waited upon the lowest terrace. They made obeisance to him and played him music upon instruments which wailed, thrummed and rattled. He strutted among them, occasionally choosing one to rend with his great beak and talons. Whenever he did this, the others watched with awe and obvious pleasure. Later, one who wore a brass collar studded with pale, smouldering stones approached, holding a three-pronged iron staff surmounted by a sooty white flame.
He followed the light and the one who bore it into the shadowy interior of one of the buildings—a lopsided metal structure of tilted floors and slanted walls. It was windowless and damp; it smelled of stale perfumes. Deep within the place, cold and still upon a high marble slab, lay the woman, candles burning at her head and her feet, her only garments garland and girdle of red flower petals already touched with brown. Her hair was a soft yellow verging upon white. Her lips, nipples and nails were painted blue. He uttered a soft trilling note and mounted the stair, the slab and the woman. Raking her once with claw and slashing her twice with his beak, he began to sing. He enfolded her then with his wings and began a slow movement. The one who bore the iron staff struck it in slow, regular rhythm upon the cold stone floor, its flame making dancing shadows upon the weeping walls.
After a long while, the woman opened her pate eyes, but they did not focus and she did not move until many minutes had passed. Then she began to smile.
When the three of them came forth, others had assembled and more were rising from the depths and moving downward from the higher levels. The thrumming, wailing, dry rattling of the music had grown to massive proportions, and a steady clicking sound which came from the chests of the assembled creatures themselves rose in counterpoint to it. Then began a slow procession, led by the light-bearer, which moved over many levels of the world-circling, sea-dipped city. They stayed in red chambers during their journey, and the sea changed color six times as they moved both above and beneath it. Massive russet worms swam to accompany their passage—eyeless, humming, streaked and rotating—and space was folded, that prospects came and went with great rapidity. The notes of a mightly gong preceded them and signed their departures.
The sky grew even darker on the day of his daughter’s birth. Nascae tossed, moaned and cried out, afterwards lying as still and cold as she had that day upon her slab. The mountains shouted thunder and a red rain fell, flowing like waterfalls of blood down the terraces to the sea. The child was named Nyalith, to the sounds of tabor and bone flute. When she spread her wings and soared above the world there was a sound like thunder, and horns of yellow light preceded her. She would rule them for ten thousand years.
He flew to the highest peak of the black range and turned himself to stone, there to await Talkne, Serpent of the Still Waters, who would come to contest the land of Qod with him. The people made pilgrimages to that place, and Nyalith offered sacrifices at his feet. Prodromolu, Father of the Age, Opener of the Way, they called him in tireless chant, bathing him in honey and spices, wine and blood.
He felt his spirit rise, singing, to flash beyond the mountains. Then the deadlands twisted and churned beneath him. He dropped through a fading night toward brightness.
Pol awoke with a feeling of well-being. He opened his eyes and regarded the window through which the morning light leaked. He drew a deep breath and flexed his muscles. A cup of steaming coffee would be delightful, he decided, knowing full well that such was not attainable upon this world. Not yet, anyway. It was on his list of things to look into when he had the chance. Now . . .
At that instant, his dream returned to him, and he saw it to be the source of his pleasure. With it came remembrance of other dreams of a similar nature, dreams—he realized now—which had come to him every night since the nameless sorcerer had visited him on the trail and changed his appearance. But these, unlike the others, were uniformly pleasant despite a certain grotesqueness.
He rose, to visit the latrine, to wash, to dress, to rinse the streak in his hair with a jar of liquid he had purchased from an apothecary on the way home the previous evening. While he was about these things, he heard Mouseglove stirring. He dismantled the warning spells while he waited for the man to ready himself. Then the two of them stopped by Ibal’s quarters but were told by a servant that the master could not be disturbed.
“Then let’s take a walk and find some breakfast,” Mouseglove suggested.
Pol nodded, and they made their way back to the small street with the cafes. The night’s sparkle and sheen faded as they dined; and as the sun climbed higher a certain dinginess appeared here and there in the brighter quarters about them.
“Sleep well?”
“Yes. Yourself?”
Pol nodded.
“But I—”
Mouseglove’s eyes shifted sharply to his left and he nodded in that direction. Pol leaned back in his chair and stretched, rolling his head as he did so.
The man who was approaching down the narrow street was clad in black and red as he had been the previous evening. He was looking in their direction.
Pol leaned forward and raised his mug of tea.
“You still can’t recall . . . ?” he asked.
Mouseglove shook his head.
“But he’s coming this way,” he muttered without moving his lips.
Pol took a sip and listened for footfalls. The man had a very soft tread and was almost beside him before he heard a sound.
“Good morning,” he said, moving into view. “You are the one called Madwand, of Ibal’s company?”
Pol lowered the mug and raised his eyes.
“I am.”
“Good.” The other smiled. “My name is Larick. I have been appointed to conduct the candidates for initiation to the entrance on the western height of Belken this afternoon. I will also be your guide through the mountain tonight.”
“The initiation is to be tonight? I’d thought it was not held until near the end of things?”
“Normally, that is the case,” Larick replied, “but I had not been reading my ephemeris recently. I only learned last night when I was appointed to this post that there will be a particularly favorable conjunction of planets tonight—whereas things will not be nearly so good later on.”
“Would you care for a cup of tea?”
Larick began to shake his head, then eyed the pot.
“Yes, I am
thirsty. Thanks.”
He drew up a chair while Pol signaled for a fresh pot.
“My friend’s name is Mouseglove,” Pol said.
The men studied each other and clasped hands.
“Glad.”
“The same.”
Larick produced a piece of parchment and a writing stick.
“By the way, I do not really have your name, Madwand, for the list of candidates. How are you actually called?”
In instant reaction Pol’s mind slid over the present and back to an earlier time.
“Dan,” he said, “Chain—son.”
“Dan Chainson,” Larick repeated, writing it. “You are fourth on my list. I still have six to go.”
“I take it that the rescheduling is as much a surprise to all those involved?”
“I’m afraid so. That’s why I have to find everyone in a hurry.”
The tea arrived and Pol poured.
“We will meet at the Arch of the Blue Bird,” Larick said, gesturing. “It is the farthest archway to the west. It is somewhat south of here, also.”
Pol nodded.
“I’ll find it. But when do we meet?”
“I was hoping we could all get together by noon,” he answered. “But that seems unrealistic, the way things are going. Let’s say by the time the sun lies midway between noon and sunset.”
“All right. Anything special I should bring?”
Larick studied him for a moment.
“How much preparation have you had for this?” he asked.
Pol wondered whether the flush he felt in his cheeks was visible through his magical disguise, scar and all.
“It depends upon what you mean by preparation,” he said. “I’ve had some instruction as to the metaphysical side of things, but I was counting on more time here for learning something of the practical aspects.”
“Then you did not—as your nickname implies—serve what might be referred to as a normal apprenticeship?”
“I did not. I know what I know by means of aptitude, practice and some study—on my own.”
Larick smiled.
“I see. In other words, you have had as little preparation as one can have had and still be said to have had some preparation.”
“I’d say you’ve put it properly.”
Larick took a drink of tea.
“There is some risk, even for those with full training,” he said.
“I already know that.”
“Well, it is your decision, and I will have time to go over things somewhat during the climb and while we wait for sundown outside the entrance. To answer your first question, though, bring nothing but the clothes you wear, one small loaf of bread and a flask of water. These may be consumed at any time during the journey, up until the actual entry into the mountain. I would suggest you keep most of it until near the end, as we maintain a total fast during the night’s progress through Belken.”
Larick finished his tea and rose.
“I’ll have to be locating the others now,” he said. “Thanks for the tea. I’ll see you at the Blue Bird Archway.”
“A moment,” said Mouseglove.
“Yes?”
“At what point on the mountain will you be emerging in the morning?”
“We’ll come out of a cave low on the eastern fece—this side, that is. You can’t see the place from here. If you want to walk along with me I’m going up to a higher level now. I might be able to point it out to you from there.”
“Yes, I’ll come.”
Mouseglove rose. Pol did also.
A flight of tarnished butterflies swept by as they mounted the stair. When Pol rested his hand against an ornamental column, it felt more like the trunk of a tree than cold stone. The huge gems set into walls had lost much of their brilliance in day’s hard glare. But Pol smiled, for the impression of beauty still held despite all of this.
They climbed a hill and Larick pointed at the mountain.
“Yes. Over there,” he said. “Near the base—that triangular, darkened area. You can see it if you look closely.”
“I see it,” Mouseglove said.
“Yes,” said Pol.
“Very well. Then I must be on my way. I will see you later.”
They watched him head off toward a group of buildings to the south.
“I’ll be waiting there when you come out,” Mouseglove said. “Don’t trust anybody while you’re inside.”
“Why not?”
“I’ve gotten the impression here and there that Madwands are looked down upon and resented by those who have served regular apprenticeships. I don’t know how strong the feelings might be, but there’ll be nine of them in there with you. I wouldn’t turn my back on them in any dark corridors.”
“You might have a point there. I won’t give them any opportunities.”
“Shall we stroll back and see whether Ibal is receiving company yet?”
“Good idea.”
But Ibal was not yet receiving. Pol left a message that the schedule had been advanced and that he would be leaving that afternoon. Then he returned to his own quarters and stretched out upon his bed, to rest and meditate. He thought over the entire story of his life as he now knew it—the story of the son of a powerful and evil sorcerer, his life preserved in exchange for his heritage as he was exiled to another world, one which knew no magic. He recalled the day of his return, his bitter reception in this world when he was recognized by means of the dragon birthmark upon his right wrist. He remembered his escape, his flight, his discovery of the ruined family seat at Rondoval and all that went with it—his identity, his powers, his control over the savage beasts that slept there. He relived his conflict with his brilliant but warped step-brother, Mark Marakson, in the anomolous center of high technology which that one had resurrected atop Anvil Mountain in the south. He thought of his brief but doomed affair with the village girl Nora, who had never stopped loving Mark. And now . . .
The Seven. The peculiar manipulation of his life by the seven statuettes, which seemed to have ended that day atop Anvil Mountain, returned to plague his thoughts. He still had no notion as to their true functions, purposes, aims. He felt that he would never enjoy full freedom from apprehension until he came to terms with them. And then the recent unexplained attempt upon his life, and the midnight encounter with the sorcerer who seemed to have answers but did not care to share them . . .
About the only personal thing that did not pass through his mind was a consideration of his recurrent dreams. Soon he fell asleep and had another.
He took his loaf and his water flask with him to the Arch of the Blue Bird. Mouseglove accompanied him to that point. Larick and six of the others were already present. The westering sun had encountered a cloudbank and the city took on its evening sheen prematurely. The other candidates were uniformly young and nervous; and Pol forgot their names—except for Nupf, with whom he was already acquainted.
The sky continued to darken while they waited for the others, and Pol idly let his vision slip into the second seeing. As he cast his gaze about he noted a blue-white pyramid or cone near the center of town, a thing which had not registered itself upon his normal perceptions. Continuing to watch it for a time, he gained the impression that it was growing. He moved his seeing back to its normal mode and the phenomenon faded.
Making his way past the other candidates, he approached Larick who stood, obviously impatient now, watching the massing clouds.
“Larick?”
“What do you want?”
“Just curious. Would you know what that big cone of blue light growing up over there is?”
Larick turned and stared for several moments, then, “Oh,” he said. “That is for our benefit—and it reminds me again just how late things are getting. Where the devil are the rest of them?” He turned, looking in several directions, and then a certain tension seemed to go out of him. “Here they come,” he said, noting three figures on a distant walkway.
He turned back to Pol.
“That cone you see is the force being raised by an entire circle of sorcerers,” he explained. “By the time we enter Belken, it will have reached the mountain and filled it, attuning all ten stations within to greater cosmic forces. As you move from one to the other, each a symbolic representation of one of your own lights, the energies will flow through you and you will thereby be shaped, reshaped and attuned yourself.”
“I see.”
“I am not certain that you do, Dan. The other nine candidates, serving proper apprenticeships, should have developed their lights properly, in the natural order. For them, tonight’s experience should only be an intensification with some minor balancing. With you, though—a Madwand may take any path. It could prove painful, distressing, even maddening or fatal. I do not say this to discourage or frighten, merely to prepare you. Try not to allow anything that occurs to cause you undue distress.”
Here Larick bit his lip and looked away.
“Where—where are you from?” he asked.
“A very distant land. I’m sure you would never have heard of it.”
“What did you do there?”
“Many things. I suppose I was best at being a musician.”
“What about magic?”
“It was not known in that place.”
Larick shook his head.
“How could that be?”
“It is just the way that things were.”
“Then yourself? How did you come to this land? And how did you become a Madwand?”
For a moment, Pol found himself wanting to tell Larick his story. But prudence put a limit to his desire.
“It is a very long tale,” he said, looking back over his shoulder, “and the other three are almost here.”
Larick glanced in that direction.
“I suppose that you had some interesting experiences once you discovered your abilities?” he said hurriedly.
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