Logan readied his dagger. Christ knows how many men are on the other side of the hill! he muttered to himself.
When a dark arm pointed in his direction and at the Jewel's escaping glare, the silver dagger hissed from Logan's hand and sailed through the cloudy night. The young man's heart stopped beating, and Cyrene gasped, as the glinting metal streaked for its target… and was snatched out of mid-air.
"Does this mean you don't want to keep it?" the cloud-ridden night asked.
Logan let out a cheerful whoop. "Moknay?"
The Murderer leaped off his grey horse and slid down the incline to join the young man. "Certainly," he said with a smirk, handing back the dagger. "I do wish you'd stop trying to return my gift-or at least find another way of doing it."
The other Guardsmen lost his balance on the slope and slid the rest of the way down on his backside. "Brolark, that smarts!" Thromar grumbled indignantly.
"How…? What…? When…?" Logan stuttered, futile-ly grasping for words.
Moknay clamped a friendly hand upon Logan's shoulder. "That's what I always liked about you, friend," he quipped. "You come right out and say what you mean."
The gibe made ease and gratitude stream throughout the young man. "How in the world did you find us?" he finally sputtered. "And what are you doing in Guardsmen uniforms?"
"Obviously," Thromar declared, tugging at the ill-fitting costume, "you don't know who it was who gave Moknay the name of Murderer, friend-Logan!"
Logan shook his head.
"Mediyan, who else?" Moknay grinned, his teeth glinting in the dim light of the Jewel. "I've taken out more of his commanders and leaders than Vaugen, old age, and Brolark himself! And what better-way to find you, friend, than by disguising ourselves as Guards and joining in the search? If you haven't learned by now, there's quite a number of troops looking for you."
"I've learned," the young man retorted, "but how did you get those uniforms?"
"A squad of goons tried to arrest us!" Thromar laughed. "We showed them a thing or three!"
"They didn't name me Murderer for nothing," Moknay added.
"I know," put in Thromar. "You have to pay them."
Logan threw his arms about his companions, thanking whatever gods existed in his world and theirs. They were together again, and things never went badly when Thromar and Moknay were on hand. The two were unbeatable, and Thromar held the knowledge Logan so desperately needed.
As darkness settled beneath the blanket of storm clouds, the group retold their tales. Moknay and Thromar, each continuously interrupting the other to tell his point of view, explained how they had escaped from the first squadron of Guards and had disguised themselves so as to join another troop. When messages arrived that Logan had been spotted in the Hills, Murderer and Rebel broke ranks and charged northward. It had been a combination of pure luck and Thromar's excellent tracking ability that had allowed them to find Logan so swiftly.
Logan then recounted his adventures, leaving out only his night with Cyrene. Moknay and Thromor applauded the young man's skill and intelligence in destroying Farkarrez and his almost successful attempt to trick the Guards. They cheered as Logan told of his escape from the soldiers and congratulated him on his exit from Zackaron's chamber. Moknay shivered, though, when Logan pointed out the gleaming Jewel and the gathering black clouds.
"I fear if we were to talk to Barthol, he'd tell us we had about four more days," the Murderer mused. His grey eyes scanned the foreboding sky. "Whatever the Jewel's about to unleash, it certainly is building up quite a store of it."
Logan fixed his own blue eyes on the nefarious heavens, brushing his black hair out of his face as the winds shrieked past him. "How far are we from the Smythe?" he asked Thromar.
The fighter stroked his reddish brown beard. "Moknay and I flew like the Deils to get here, but I do believe it's slightly west of here."
"No, it's south."
The quartet froze as the disembodied voice wafted across the plateau and vanished upon the gale. Lightning broke through the darkness, but the clearing remained empty of all else but themselves. The sudden flash of blue-white light suggested that no one had made that rasping whisper of direction.
"Pardon me," called Moknay, "but I think it's west."
"No, no," the whisper corrected, "it's south."
Amid the increasing wind, the gleaming Jewel, and the land itself, Logan felt the disharmony of the world slacken. For the first time since he had been in Sparrill, the sensation of mismatchment-the accusing buzz of wrongness-faded entirely. Blind in the darkness, Logan acquired new senses and warned Moknay with a faint tap on his shoulder. Questioningly, the Murderer stared at where Logan pointed, yet neither man saw a thing. It was only after another crackle of lightning that the four saw the robed figure standing by the edge of their clearing.
Thromar's huge sword slid free of its sheath.
"Replace your sword, Thromar," a whispering, asthmatic voice advised. "I come as a friend, not as an enemy, albeit you have enough of those."
Free of the disturbing sense of disunity, another feeling plagued Logan's mind. That voice! he thought. That voice was infuriatingly familiar! The young man knew he had heard it once before… but he could not think of where. It eluded him like a dream eluded a waking man.
A dream! Logan's mind exclaimed. The voice of his first dreams! The whispering tone of the businessman/monk!
The third crack of blue-white light revealed the smile on the lean face as the mysterious newcomer approached. "I see Matthew knows who I am," he stated pleasantly, "And I wish to congratulate you, young man. You certainly didn't make as many mistakes as you think you did."
Moknay's hand was on Logan's shoulder in unspoken puzzlement, but the joy of meeting up with his companions and the release from both danger and misplacement stunned Logan to the point of speechlessness. Valiantly, the young man battled the happiness clogging his throat but could not speak.
There was a sudden eruption of color, and what Logan thought was another flash of lightning was actually a telepor-tation spell that unloaded its passengers and their horses in an elegant room of oaken furniture and smooth stone flooring.
"Brolark's backside!" Thromar roared. "Where are we?"
"My home," the robed stranger replied, and, in the light of the room, his features were immediately recognized by Logan.
The domed head was bald on top, yet long strands of pale blond hair streamed to the stranger's robed shoulders. His eyes held the friendly glow they had sparked with in Logan's second dream, and none of the threatening, ghastly tones lingered in the whispering, raspy voice. Standing before Logan-in the flesh and not in a dream-was the businessman/monk himself!
Moknay had a dagger out, his distaste for magic obvious in his grey eyes. "And just where is your home?" he queried. "I don't like being sucked out to nowhere."
The businessman/monk smiled. "You were already standing on my rooftop," he said. "I only thought I should pop you down. You would have never have found the front door from where you were standing! That's why I suggested going south. You know, down?"
"You still haven't told us who you are," Cyrene snarled, her hand reaching for her dagger that was no longer there.
"Oh, but it's so much fun playing guessing games, Cyrene," the businessman replied. "For example, I know who you are, and, let me say this, I don't necessarily agree with your methods or your actions. You're not what you appear to be, my dear, and, frankly, I don't like what I see. And you, Moknay. I must thank you and Thromar for seeing my friend here safely." He turned on Logan. "And you, Matthew. You have questions to ask me and tasks that need completing, don't you? Well, let's see how good you are at my games. This is the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, Matthew: Who am I?"
Timidly, Logan found his voice: "The Smythe?"
Surprise exploded in the young man's mind.
The long-haired businessman/monk placed a pair of glasses on the bridge of his nose. "Jonathan Smith to be exact," he repli
ed, "and, yes, Matthew, I come from Earth."
•14• Smythe
Logan blinked in astoundment. "You?" was all he could make out.
The long-haired businessman nodded his head, a smile on his lips. "Of course, Matthew. I was once Jonathan Smith, a mild-mannered businessman for a rather large corporation until this odd wind picked me up and spit me out here. Since then I've become the Smythe-spellcaster par excellence!"
Logan's companions were silent as the young man struggled to speak. The shock on his face was obvious, and wonder swirled in his blue eyes. He finally asked, "Why?"
The Smythe looked at him. "Why what?"
"Why me?"
"Why not?" The Smythe took a seat at a large oaken table and steepled his fingers. "You were probably on hand. That's the way things worked out for me. I just happened to be there."
"But you're the one who warned me!" protested Logan. "In the dream. How did you know I would be the one out of millions of other people?"
The spellcaster grinned. "Ah! That! Try and follow what I say." He cleared his throat. "Before you arrived, you had a dream in which a nasty, bald-headed fellow-me-warned you not to misinterpret, as it were, dreams from truth. Later, when you got 'zapped'-as you so quaintly put it-to Sparrill, that warning came in handy. While in Debamian, you had a second dream. Only this time that nasty bald-headed man wasn't quite so nasty… in fact, he was a little bit confused. He looked you over curiously, muttered something about it must have worked because you were still alive, and then vanished. Do you remember?"
"Yes," Logan nodded, "but I don't see…"
"That second dream was, in all truth, the first dream," the Smythe went on. "I had to first wait until you had arrived in Sparrill, see who you were, and then go back in time and warn you. That was what I meant by it must have worked. Is all this understandable?"
"The second dream was the first?" Logan repeated unsteadily. "Like in a time warp or something?"
"Crudely put, but yes. I couldn't do anything until after the wind had picked someone up and I learned who that someone was. All right?"
The young man rubbed at his forehead, the astonishment in his eyes replaced by puzzlement. "So there's no special reason?"
"None whatsoever," replied the magician. "For any of us."
"Any of us?" Logan echoed. "It certainly made a good choice with you! You became the Smythe!"
"My being the Smythe has hardly anything to do with who I am," the businessman answered. "It's not some inner calm that allows me to be a spellcaster here, it's where I'm from. Matthew, you and I are very different here-we don't belong. Because of that, the land senses our difference. What makes this land so different is its magic. The two differences then-us and the magic-clash, and yet, also merge. It was no accident you stumbled upon the Jewel, my boy. You are attracted to magic just like magic is attracted to you."
"What am I, some kind of magnet?" the young man retorted.
"In a sense, yes," the Smythe responded. "Because we are not of Sparrill-not of this world-all magic and magical items attract-and are attracted to-us. It's the strangest twist on 'opposites attract' that I've ever heard of!"
"But I don't want to be a spellcaster," Logan cried. "I want to go home."
Jonathan Smith stroked his chin. "Not me, my boy," he said. "I wanted to stay. I was sick and tired of my life on Earth and was quite glad for the change of pace. Of course, you're not a spellcaster the first day you set foot in Sparrill-it's a slow, lengthy build-up-but I muddled through. I survived. And now"-he motioned about him-"now I am the Smythe, second only to Zackaron."
"Is Zackaron from Earth too?" Logan wondered.
"Good heavens, no!" the wizard declared. "Zackaron has the gem in your saddlebag to thank for his powers."
"What you're saying," Moknay said from one corner, "is that Logan is capable of becoming the next Smythe."
The Smythe turned on the Murderer. "Quite so. Quite so. In fact, that's the whole reason for the wind. Sparrill's magic knows it must have a vessel in order to be used-for the good of the land, of course. Still, once Logan's here, it's up to him who he sides with."
"I don't want to side with anybody!" the young man shouted. "I just want to leave this place. That's why I came here-not to be your bloody replacement!"
The Smythe sighed somewhat and leaned forward in his seat. "Yes, yes," he said, "that's your choice as well. But these 'mistakes' are vital to the land. That, my boy, is something I've come to learn since being here. Mistakes are a vital part of anyone's life… even to something as vast as Sparrill itself.
"You and I, Matthew, are mistakes. And we ourselves suffer from a number of odd accidents. Like the Jewel. As I said before, your leaping astride Pembroke's horse was not accidental, and yet, it was. It was no accident that the Blackbody blamed you first for upsetting the natural Balance of things, and, then again, it was. And it certainly was no accident that you camped by the Ohmmarrious so you could talk to the Sprites, and yet, it was. Is all this understandable?"
"Yeah," muttered Logan, "my life here's nothing but one big contradiction."
The Smythe chuckled at the quip. "Hardly, dear boy, Hardly. Can you remember what Groathit said to you the first time he faced you? You denied he was there, saying Sparrill was a dream and everyone in it was created by you. Groathit then said, 'I should think not… although… we may become so later.' He was referring to the power you could hold. The power that could, indeed, make Sparrill… or unmake it."
"Is that why the Reakthi-scum are hounding friend-Logan?" Thromar queried.
"Partially," the Smythe answered. "True, if Logan stayed he would be as great as-if not greater than-I am. However, our difference to the world makes both magic and magical items easy to find. Think what Vaugen-or Mediyan-could do with a man who could gather together every single magical force in the land."
"Destroy anyone who dared stand in their way," gulped Moknay.
"Or else Matthew could help us," Cyrene remarked. "He could help the people destroy both Reakthi and Mediyan."
"I told you before I don't like that attitude of yours, Cyrene," the Smythe barked at her.
"I'm not going to work for anyone," Logan said. "I had guessed that everyone wanted me because I was different, and I was right. Well, I'm sick and tired of being so different, and I want to go back to my world where I can just fit back in with all the others like myself."
Thunder boomed from outside.
"Uh… perhaps we had better hand over the Jewel?" Moknay nervously suggested.
"Ah, yes, the Jewel," the Smythe responded. "You know, Matthew, I'm really ashamed of you. You've had the ability to halt the Jewel all along."
Logan's anger exploded at the wizard. "What do you mean? Am I a spellcaster already? Can I do more than take out my fucking eye?"
The sorcerer winced at the foul language. "No, no. Attaining the magic takes a long period of time, as I mentioned previously. Of course, being in the areas of great magical concentration speeds up the process, but, even your close proximity to the Jewel hasn't transferred any magic to you. The nearest time you used any force was when you took in the powers of that talisman. But, as for the Jewel, you must remember, Pembroke was Zackaron's servant-boy. He was no spellcaster."
"Stop talking in riddles, damn you!" Logan spat. "Answer me this: Can you send me back home?"
The stone chamber was silent.
"Yes," the Smythe finally whispered.
Another clap of thunder resounded from outside.
"Answer this, then: Will you send me back home?" Logan demanded.
The Smythe got up from his chair. "If you so wish it."
The fury boiling inside Logan gradually subsided and relief washed over him. This "mistake" would be cleared up-Logan would be free to return to his world and his way of life. After all that time of uncertainty, ignorance, and fear, Logan had finally found his way home.
The young man cast his gaze on the three behind him and his guilt crept back into his brain.
Druid Launce died to get you here, it told him. Mara was injured trying to save your life. Moknay and Thromar risked their necks to find you. Cyrene gave herself to you in thanks. And now you are just going to leave them? What if your reversal of the wind's "mistake" causes some major calamity worse than the Jewel?
"It won't unbalance anything if I go back, will it?" he questioned the Smythe.
The spellcaster waved him off. "No. The wind will probably pick someone else up once it realizes you're gone… hopefully. I'm afraid my time as the Smythe is about up. I'm getting old-even here."
There seemed to be an aura of despair radiating from the long-haired businessman, and Logan felt the guilt grow. The Smythe had come to love his new world and had hoped to pass on his position to someone with similar feelings. Logan, however, had only tolerated this land. True, he had admitted to himself it had good points, but he still longed to return home. A pity he couldn't pop back to Sparrill whenever his own world grew monotonous.
The Smythe turned away from a bookcase and eyed Logan. "You're sure you want to go back?" he inquired.
The young man gave his companions one last glance. "Positive," he replied.
"Very well, then," the wizard sighed. He took a few steps toward a corridor. "We'll have to go into my workroom. These are my living quarters. Can't have any magical smoke seeping into the bedcovers, now can we?"
Although the magician resumed his usual jesting, the gloom still hovered above him. Logan's guilt caused sorrow to twinge in his heart, but he refused to be persuaded by remorse. Not even tears from Cyrene would stop him from going back to his rightful world.
I'll never be able to say good-bye to Mara and Barthol, he thought sadly.
"Now, if all of you would step into next room," the Smythe instructed. "Oh, bring your horses too."
Plagued by his thoughts, Logan took his stallion's reins and followed the robed businessman into another room. The Smythe's workroom was cluttered with devices and artifacts like Zackaron's cavern had been, but in much neater array. Down another corridor the four could see the opening to the Smythe's home, and cold winds howled into the workroom from the orifice. Double doors towered behind them, and a single door was to their left, closer to the actual opening in the mountainside.
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