by Steven Brust
After a while, Savn said, “Do you want to go all the way down to the water?”
“If we can. It is certain to be a place of power.”
“Why?”
“Because Lord Smallcliff used it. Even if it weren’t before, it would be when he was done. He’s like that.”
“This is as far as I’ve ever gone.”
“Bide, then.”
Savn waited, listening to the flapping of bat wings, while Vlad’s eyes narrowed, then widened slightly as he shook his head, and at last he moved his lips as if uttering an incantation. “All right,” he said at last. “It’s safe. If we climb over this ledge, crawl that way about forty feet, and drop down, we’ll fall about five feet and land on a flat surface.”
“How do you know?”
“That’s what you’ve come here to learn, isn’t it?”
“Was that witchcraft?”
“Yes and no. Without the Art, I couldn’t have done it.”
“And you’re certain—”
“Yes.”
Savn hesitated a moment, but Vlad, without waiting, went over the indicated ledge, actually a narrow slit in the rock wall which was barely large enough for them, and began creeping along it. Savn became aware that he’d been hearing the gurgling of water for some few minutes. He followed the Easterner; then, at the same place Vlad did, he hung over the edge and let go, landing easily. The sound of trickling water was louder as he landed. The yellow light grew until it faintly illuminated a large cavern, with a dark, narrow stream, perhaps four feet wide, making its leisurely way back into the hill.
“Is this the place?” said Savn, hearing his words come back to him. “Or should we go further in?”
“What do you think?” said Vlad.
“I don’t know.”
“Can you feel anything?”
“What do you mean?”
“Open yourself up to sensation. Do you feel power?”
Savn closed his eyes, and tried to feel something happening. There was a slight chill on his skin, and a soft whisper of wind against his ears, but that was all. “No,” he said. “But I don’t really know what I’m supposed to be feeling.”
“Let’s try it here, then. Sit down on that rock. Take my cloak and fold it up behind your head so you can lean back.”
Savn did these things. “Now what?”
“Relax.”
He tried to settle back into the unusual position, with only some success.
“Can you feel your scalp? The top of your head? No, I don’t mean touch it. Put your hands back in your lap. Now, can you feel the top of your head? Think of your scalp relaxing. Imagine each hair on your head relaxing. Your temples, your ears, your forehead, your eyes, your cheeks, your jaw. One at a time, try to relax each of these muscles. Now the back of your neck. Feel your head sink into the cloak, pretend you are falling into the wall behind you. . . .”
Sometime later, Vlad said, “How do you feel?”
Savn realized that a great deal of time had passed, but he didn’t know how much, nor what had occurred during that time. “I feel good,” he said, surprised to discover it. “Like I’m, I don’t know, alive.”
“Good. You took to it well.”
“You mean I’m a witch now?”
“No, that was only the first step, to prepare your mind for the journey.”
“It feels great.”
“I know.”
“What do we do next?”
“Next, we get you home. It’s late.”
“Is it?” Savn reached for the time and blanched. “The gods! I had no idea—”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Mae and Pae—”
“I’ll speak to them.”
“But they—” He bit off his words. He’d been about to say they wouldn’t listen to an Easterner, then realized there was no polite way to say it. In any case, Vlad would find out for himself soon enough.
The Easterner did not appear to notice. He made a sign for Savn to approach, and when he was there, he clenched his fist, screwed his face up, and Savn found himself once more in Smallcliff, on the north side of town, barely able to make out his surroundings in the faint yellow radiance that Vlad continued to produce.
“You teleported us!” he cried.
“I know you live out somewhere in this direction, and this is the only place I knew well enough to—”
“But you teleported us!”
“Well, yes. You said you were late. I hope you don’t mind.”
“No, no, but I don’t know anyone who is good enough to do that.”
“It isn’t all that difficult.”
“You’re a sorcerer.”
“Well, yes, among other things.”
Savn stared at him, his eyes wide, until he realized that he was being rude. Vlad just smiled back at him, then said, “Come. I don’t know where you live, so we’re going to have to walk the rest of the way.”
Stunned, Savn set off along the deserted road. He said, “How do you teleport? I’ve heard of it—”
“It isn’t that hard; you just have to be certain you know exactly where you’re going. The tricky part is not getting sick afterwards, and for that there is witchcraft.”
“But how do you know where you’ll end up?”
“You have to remember it very well—perfectly, in fact. It’s the remembering that allows the journey to take place.”
“What if you can’t remember it that well?”
“Then you’re in trouble.”
“But—”
“Sometimes you can prepare a place to teleport to. It limits you, but it’s good if you’re in a hurry.”
“Can you teach me all this?”
“Maybe. We’ll see. Where is your house?”
“On the other side of this hill, but we should take the road around, because the flax here hasn’t been harvested yet.”
“Very well.”
Vlad seemed to have no trouble finding the road up to the house, though whether this was because Easterners had better night vision, or because of his magical powers, or for some other reason entirely, Savn didn’t know and couldn’t decide on a good way to ask, so he ended by saying nothing, and they spoke no more until they stood before the one-room house, with its single door held on with straps, and two windows covered with oiled paper. There was a pale yellow light from the lamps and the stove.
“Nice place,” said Vlad.
“Thank you,” said Savn, who had been thinking how small and plain it must look to someone who had lived in Adrilankha.
They had, evidently, been seen, because just before they reached the door it flew open so hard that Savn thought it would tear off its leather hinges, and there were Mae and Pae, silhouetted in the soft glow of the stove. They stood almost motionless, and while Savn couldn’t see the expressions on their faces, his imagination had no trouble supplying Mae’s wide-eyed anger and Pae’s annoyed confusion.
As they stepped forward, Mae said, “Who are you?” which puzzled Savn for a moment, until he realized to whom she was speaking.
“Vlad. You saw me earlier today, at Tem’s house.”
“You. What have you been doing with my son?”
“Teaching him,” said Vlad.
“Teaching him?” said Pae. “And what is it you think you’ll be teaching my boy?”
Vlad answered in a soft, gentle voice, much different than Savn had ever heard him use before. “I’ve been teaching him to hear the voices of the stones,” he said, “and to see prophecy in the movement of the clouds. To catch the wind in his hand and to bring forth gems from the dunes of the desert. To freeze air and to burn water. To live, to breathe, to walk, to sample the joy on each road, and the sorrow at each turning. I’m sorry if I’ve kept him out too late. I shall be more careful in the future. No doubt I will see you again. I bid you all a good evening.”
Mae and Pae stood there against the light, watching the Easterner’s back as his grey cloak faded into the night. Then Pa
e said, “In all my life, I never—”
“Hush now,” said Mae. “Let’s get this one to bed.”
Savn wasn’t sure what Vlad had done, but they didn’t say a word more about the hour, or about what he’d been doing. He went over to his corner under the loft, spread his furs out, and climbed in underneath them without saying another word.
That night, he dreamed of the cave, which, upon waking, he did not find surprising. In the dream, the cave was filled with smoke, which, at least as he remembered it, kept changing color, and a jhereg kept flying out of it and speaking in Vlad’s voice, saying, “Wait here,” and, “You will feel well-rested, alert, and strong,” and other things which he didn’t remember.
The dream must have had some effect, however, for when he did wake up he felt refreshed and ready. As he prepared for the day he realized with some annoyance that he would have to spend several hours harvesting, and then several more with Master Wag, before he had the chance to find Vlad again and, he hoped, continue where they had left off.
He forgot his annoyance, however, after the morning harvest, when he arrived at the Master’s, because the Master was in one of his touchy moods, and Savn had to concentrate on not giving him an excuse for a tongue-lashing. He spent most of the day listening to an oft-repeated rant to the effect that no one dies without a reason, so Reins couldn’t have, either. Apparently Master Wag had been unable to find this reason, and was consequently upset with himself, Savn, Reins, and the entire world. The only time he seemed pleasant was while scratching Curry’s left arm with the thorn of the blister plant to treat his fever, and even then Savn knew he was in a foul temper, because he simply did it, without giving Savn the lecture that usually accompanied treatment.
After the fifth rant on the subject of causeless death, Savn ventured, “Could it have been sorcery?”
“Of course it could have been sorcery, idiot. But sorcery does something, and whatever it did would leave traces.”
“Oh. What about witchcraft?”
“Eh?”
“Could a witch—”
“What do you know about witchcraft?”
“Nothing,” said Savn honestly. “That’s why I don’t know if—”
“If a witch can do anything at all beyond fooling the gullible, which I doubt, then whatever he did would leave traces, too.”
“Oh.”
Master Wag started to say more, then scowled and retreated into the cellar, where he kept his herbs, splints, knives, and other supplies, and where, presumably, he kept the pieces of Rein’s skin, bone, and hair that he had preserved in order to determine what had happened. Savn felt queasy considering this.
He looked around for something to do in order to take his mind off it, but he’d already cleaned everything in sight, and memorized the Tale of the Man Who Ate Fire so well that the Master had been unable to do anything but grunt upon hearing Savn’s recitation.
He sat down next to the window, realized it was too cold, discovered that he still had at least another hour before he could go home, and put some more wood onto the fire. It crackled pleasantly. He walked around the room, looking over the Master’s collection of books, including On the Number of the Parts of the Body, Knitting of Bones, The Sorcerer’s Art and the Healing of the Self, The Remembered Tales of Calduh, and the others which the Master had consulted from time to time in healing patients or instructing Savn. One book that he had never seen the Master consult was called The Book of the Seven Wizards, a thick, leather-bound volume with the title in gold lettering on the spine. He took it down, went over by the fire, and let it fall open.
It had been written in a neat, even hand, as if the scribe, probably a Lyorn, had attempted to remove all traces of his own personality. The pages were rather thicker than the leaves of many books, and in good condition. It occurred to Savn that Master Wag probably knew a spell to preserve books, so this one could be of any age. At the top of the page, he read: “On the Nature of Secrets.”
He wondered if it were some sort of sign that it had fallen open in that spot—if, in fact, there were some sort of secret to be discovered. Probably not, he decided.
The book told him:
Be aware of power in hidden places, and be aware of that which is apparent, for secrets may lie open to view and yet be concealed. All of the Seven Wizards know of secrets, and each, in his own way, speaks of them, calls to them, and reveals them to those who search diligently and honestly.
Diligently and honestly? he thought. Well, that could be said of everything. What about thoroughly? He turned his eyes back to the book and read:
She Who Is Small finds the secrets of the present in the past; that when the past is known, it is the power of the mage to find Truth in Mystery; that thus is the latter transformed into the former.
It seemed to Savn that he knew very little of the past, and that there must be many secrets indeed that he could discover if he turned to history. He wondered how Master Wag would feel if he asked for a history book. Not today, in any case.
He turned back to the book and read:
She Who Is Tall says that the secret is in the song, and opens only to one who dares to sing. It is said that when she sings, the secret is plain to all who listen, but that it is hidden again when the song is past, and few are those who are blessed to hear the echoes of Truth in the Silence that follows.
Well, he liked music well enough, and he liked singing, but there was probably some sort of mystical and powerful meaning in the passage, which he didn’t understand. He shrugged.
The next paragraph read:
She Whose Hair Is Red wraps the secret ever tighter in skeins of words, so that it vanishes as if it never were, and in these layers of words the secret emerges, shining, so that it is hidden to those who look, yet revealed to those who take joy in the unfolding patterns and sounds of words.
There was certainly some mystical and powerful significance to this, and he certainly didn’t understand it. He tried to visualize something being wrapped up in words, but all he got was an image of the black lettering from the book, removed from the page, attaching itself to some undefined thing and smothering it.
He read:
He Whose Eyes Are Green knows where the secret lies, for his eyes pierce every shadowy place; yet he no sooner finds the secret than he buries it anew. But it is said that in the burying the secret has changed, while that which was hidden walks the land ever after, waiting but for one to recognize it, and offer it refuge.
That didn’t make any sense at all. If he knew where the secrets were, why did he want to hide them? And who were these wizards, anyway?
The book went on:
He Whose Hair Is Dark laughs at secrets, for his pleasure is in the search, not the discovery—and the paths he follows in this search stem from whim, not from plan. Some say that in this way he reveals as many as another.
That almost made sense. Savn could imagine how it might be more fun to look for something than to actually find it. He wondered if there was something he was looking for, or something he should look for. The secret to Reins’s death? But he could hardly expect to find that if Master Wag couldn’t.
He continued reading:
Of the Gentle One it is said that she sets down the order and method of all things, and that, in this way, all hidden things may be found. To her, each detail is a signpost, and when each is placed in its own position, the outline of the secret will be laid bare for any who will look.
Well, that was certainly possible, thought Savn. But what do you do when you don’t know anything?
There was one more passage on the page:
The Master of Rhyme still searches for the Way of the Wizards, for to him, this is the greatest Secret of all. Yet, as he searches, he lets fall Truths for all of those who come after, and in this he sees no miracle, for what is plain to one is a Secret to the next. He is often praised for this, but it is meaningless to him, for who among Men will rejoice in finding Truth that he has never thought hidden
?
Savn frowned. That, too, almost made sense. It was as if you could see something, and maybe someone else couldn’t, but to you it wasn’t anything to get excited about, because it was right there all the time.
It occurred to him to wonder if there were things right in front of him that he couldn’t see. He was pondering this when Master Wag returned and said, “What are you reading?”
Savn showed him the book. The Master snorted. “There’s nothing in there you need, at least not yet. Why don’t you go home?”
Savn didn’t need to be given this suggestion twice. He put the book on the shelf, said farewell, and dashed out the door before the Master could change his mind.
He raced to Tem’s house, expecting to see Vlad either lounging outside or in the common room, but the Easterner was not in evidence. As he stood there, wondering whether he dared to ask Tem which room Vlad was in, his sister walked through the door, accompanied by two of her friends, which caused him, for reasons he couldn’t quite specify, to abandon this plan.
She came up to him at once and pulled him into a corner. “What happened to you last night?”
“What do you mean?”
“You were gone forever. Mae and Pae were going crazy. I finally went to bed, and when I got up this morning and asked if you’d shown up, they looked at me like they didn’t know what I was talking about and said that you were already up and out.”
“Well, I was.”
“That’s not the point, chag-brain.”
“Don’t call me chag-brain.”
“Where were you?”
“Exploring the caves.”
“At night?”
“Sure. Why not?”
“But why were you so late?”
“I lost track of time.”
She frowned at him, clearly unsatisfied with the answer, but uncertain how to find out more. “Well, then,” she said, “don’t you think Mae and Pae were acting a little strange, the way they were so worried at first, and then—”
“Oh, you know how they get. Look, I’ll talk to you later, all right? I have to go.”