Beyond all the bad decisions and missed opportunities, his mind kept returning to his final moments in the temple of Via. Feslund and the others had rousted him from his bed before dawn. The surprise had been complete; Urbis had fallen before he even knew it was under attack. The Gallians aimed gants at him and shoved him out of his room. Occasionally they killed a frightened servant, as if for sport. Tirelius had never seen a gant being used before; the destruction was instantaneous, total, and terrifying.
But he’d had no chance to ponder this. They half-pushed, half-dragged him across the forum and up the stairs to the temple. Inside, he stood before Via while the Gallians conversed. What did they want from him? It didn’t matter. He stared at Via, for so long the center of his life. Now it belonged to others.
And then the boy spoke. He wanted Tirelius to send him home in Via. He demanded it. Tirelius was confused and annoyed. What did this have to do with him? He refused. Ask Affron, he had said. Or Valleia.
The boy told him they were dead. Tirelius hadn’t believed him then; he assumed that they were behind the Gallians’ raid. Later he would find out that both he and the boy were wrong. The boy waved his gant at him. But Tirelius could not be threatened. He was old and defeated; he welcomed death. He turned away.
And then the boy did…something.
Not with the gant; with his mind. His mind was inside Tirelius, overpowering him with fear and dread. Terra was nothing, he suddenly saw; even Via was nothing. And he himself, of course, was nothing—a bug about to be squashed by a sandal. He staggered and would have fallen if a guard hadn’t grabbed him. He shrugged off the guard and looked at the boy.
The boy returned his gaze and then turned away.
And that was all.
The dread subsided but did not entirely disappear. It would be like a wound that never properly healed; the memory of the moment would be with him as long as he lived.
“Get up!” the guard called to him from outside his cell. “You have a visitor.”
Tirelius raised his head. The guard was unlocking the door of his cell. This was different; this was new. He had come to think that he had been forgotten. The pontifex struggled to stand but found that he couldn’t. Behind the guard was a man in a bright blue robe. Tirelius thought he recognized him but was unsure. Who was he?
“This place is dreadful,” the man said to him in cultured Latin. “Let’s take you someplace more comfortable.” He gestured to the guard. “Help him up,” he ordered.
The guard got Tirelius to his feet. “I am…slow,” the pontifex muttered. His voice sounded odd. How long had it been since he had spoken?
“No matter,” the man in the blue robe replied. “We have all day.”
They started walking. Out of the cell, down the dark, foul-smelling corridor.
“You don’t remember me,” the man said.
“You are familiar,” Tirelius said. “But my mind is not what it was.”
“Yes, of course. My name is Liber. I attended the schola once.”
Tirelius stared at him, and finally the memories came. Liber. A drunkard. Still a drunkard, he surmised. But what was he doing here? Helping the Gallians, apparently. Traitor. “You disappointed us,” Tirelius said.
“I disappointed myself.”
Tirelius did not reply. They walked past the guards’ desk, then out into a hallway. The hallway was dreary, but at least it smelled better than the corridor outside his cell. It was good just to see something, to be somewhere, different.
Liber opened a door and went inside. “Come,” he said. Tirelius knew what was inside; he could smell it. The smell made his knees weaken. He followed Liber into a small room. In the middle of the room was a table covered with platters of food.
“You do not look well, my pontifex,” Liber said. “Sit. Eat. It will be good for you.”
Tirelius sat at the table. Was the food poisoned? Not likely. Why would they bother? There were easier ways to kill him. Liber sat down on the other side of the table and was helping himself to a chicken leg.
“Wine?” Liber asked, gesturing to a jug. “It is very good.”
Tirelius shook his head.
“As you wish,” Liber said and poured himself a cup, diluting it with water from a second jug.
Tirelius took a chicken leg and bit into it. It was so delicious he thought he might pass out.
Liber was watching him. Enjoying himself, Tirelius thought. Enjoying his power over the man who had ruled his life at the schola. What did he want?
“Well, then,” Liber said, tossing the remains of his chicken leg into a bucket, “I am very sorry for your imprisonment. I am here to discuss how we can bring it to an end.”
“Bring it to an end?” Tirelius asked. “What power do you have here?”
“Ah, I should have explained. I am chief minister. Prince Feslund has given me wide latitude to make decisions for the good of the empire.”
“You? That’s absurd. How did this happen?”
Liber smiled at Tirelius. “Governor Decius had me kidnapped from a tavern in Roma. I was a tutor to rich men’s children, and not a very good one. But I attended the schola, and I am not a fool. I am smarter than Prince Feslund, at any rate, and smarter than his former chief minister, and Feslund is smart enough to recognize this. So here I am.”
Tirelius ripped a chunk of bread from a loaf, soaked up some of the chicken drippings with it, and took a bite. He considered. “You are not a fool, but you are talking to me because you need my help,” he replied after he had swallowed the glorious food. “The Gallians are incompetent, and you know nothing.”
“Think of me as you will,” Liber said. He poured himself some more wine. Yes, Tirelius remembered him now. Smart enough, like everyone who attended the schola, but he drank too much and lacked self-control. He’d had some kind of run-in with Affron. Ah, Affron. At first he had thought Affron was behind the Gallians. But that had been absurd, a consequence of his confusion and fear. He and Affron had disagreed on much, but Affron would not bring down the empire. He would not hand it to the Gallians.
The boy, on the other hand…
“The old world is gone,” Liber went on, “and it is not coming back. But we can control what the new world looks like.”
“We?”
“Why not? I know what you wanted when you were pontifex: to use the wonders we found on other worlds to help us here on Terra. All we seek is wisdom, Hieron taught us. But he was wrong—you and I both know that. There is so much good we can do, if only we can break free of the shackles that Hieron’s words placed upon us. You never said it quite like that, but it is what you meant. Well, the shackles have come off, my lord. We can do whatever we want.”
“You can do whatever you want,” Tirelius replied. “This has nothing to do with me.”
“You can make my work so much easier, though. The Gallians are in possession of Via. But they don’t know how to use it, and neither do I—at least, not very well. To learn will take them many years of trial and error, as it did for Hieron and his followers. But why must we wait? You can teach us.”
“Ask other viators,” Tirelius replied. “I am old and tired.”
“Viators seem to be hard to find. But here you are, sitting a few hundred paces from Via. So consider: you can wither away in your cell, contemplating the injustices that have been done you. Or you can help me change the world. The riches of the multiverse—medicines, inventions—are at our disposal. Help me make Terra a better place.”
Tirelius ate a handful of grapes. He longed now for a cup of wine, but he knew even a single sip would render him unable to think clearly. “Help you make the Gallians succeed,” he replied.
“Does it matter who gets the glory, if we help Terra?” Liber asked.
“The Gallians won’t help Terra; they will help themselves.”
“Everyone will benefit. The sick will be healed. Life will become easier for all.”
Tirelius was tiring of this. “What happens if I refuse?�
� he asked.
“Why would you refuse?” Liber responded. “Come, I am offering you the chance to achieve what you have always wanted to achieve.”
“You did not answer my question.”
Liber sipped his wine and stared at him across the table. “Ah, well. If you do not help me, what need do I have of you? The only reason to keep you alive is the possibility that you will change your mind.”
Tirelius shook his head. “I cannot, will not teach the Gallians how to use Via.” He thought a moment and added, “And even if the Gallians knew how to use Via, Affron would destroy them, if he is still alive.”
“Where is he?” Liber demanded. “Do you know?”
“I do not. But do you think he will approve of Prince Feslund and the rest of them? Do you think any of you will be safe from him?”
Tirelius was pleased to see the effect this had on Liber. The man was frightened of Affron. Affron had a powerful effect on people. “Very well,” Liber said. “We will see about Affron.”
Tirelius inclined his head. “If there is nothing more…”
Liber waved his hand in dismissal. Tirelius got to his feet with difficulty and returned to his cell. Liber didn’t bother accompanying him.
The guard seemed surprised to see him return. “Back so soon?” he asked.
Tirelius did not reply. The guard led him down the corridor and locked him into his cell, where he collapsed onto his cot. Even this trivial exertion had exhausted him. His body was giving up. He lay back and closed his eyes.
Perhaps he had done wrong by reminding Liber about Affron. It didn’t matter, he supposed. Affron could take care of himself. And if Liber was concentrating on Affron he wouldn’t give a thought to the boy.
The boy.
It had been the boy all along. The boy had led the Gallians to victory. And the boy had not gone home; Tirelius was sure of it, though he didn’t know why. And he knew that the boy would return to Urbis. The Gallians had far more to fear from him than from Affron.
He hoped the boy would destroy them all.
Fifteen
Larry
“What am I doing here?” Larry asked.
“How should I know?” Affron replied with a hint of a smile.
“You wanted me to come,” he pointed out.
“True, but you were the one who came.”
“How did that work, exactly? All the way from Urbis I tracked you, without knowing what I was doing or where I was headed.”
“How should I know?” Affron repeated. “There seems to be an…affinity,” he added.
“You’re not going to make this easy, are you?”
Affron shrugged. “It hasn’t been easy for me, either,” he pointed out.
“That thing on the hilltop in Scotia—was it the portal?”
“A portal.” They were speaking in English, where the difference between a and the was clear.
“And you created it,” Larry said. “With your mind.”
“With my mind. With my hands. With…something.”
“How? Okay, don’t bother answering that. How should I know?—right?”
Affron smiled.
Larry considered. “An affinity,” he repeated. And then: “I have the same ability you have—the one you used on that pawnbroker and on Decius. I killed a woman with it in the temple of Via. Then later, I didn’t use Via to return home when I had the chance. Gratius offered me the choice: he would take me home, or we could go in search of you. I chose you. I don’t know how I found your portal on that hill in Scotia, but I did. And when I found your portal, I used it. Just now. I left Terra behind. Walked away, into nothingness. And somehow I managed to make the portal disappear behind me, so Palta couldn’t follow. How did I do that? Why did I do that?”
“Yes, those do seem to be the questions.”
“And what other abilities do I have?”
“Perhaps we’ll find out. By the way, welcome to Kravok-Li.”
Larry found Affron’s attitude irritating but also somehow inevitable. Something was working itself out, and whatever it was, it was inside him. It wasn’t up to Affron to explain it, even if he could. Affron had expected his arrival, and now he had arrived, and a new life began.
It was a terrible life, at first. The food on Kravok-Li was so spicy that he couldn’t even eat it. And when he did eat it, he had the worst diarrhea of his life. He recalled that awful disease—drikana—that had almost killed Kevin when they had been trapped in Carmody’s world. Larry had been lucky so far in his travels; his health had been good. But maybe his luck had run out. Maybe he would die here of some nameless disease.
And there was the language. It was incomprehensible—an endless succession of meaningless syllables, spoken in rapid-fire staccato. He was sure he would never understand it. And the music. It was played everywhere, at all hours, and it sounded even weirder than the music on Terra, filled with percussion and dissonance. And the crowds, and the smells…Every time he went outside, he felt as if his senses were being assaulted.
But most of all, the loneliness. What was he doing here in this strange world? What was happening on Terra? Was Palta happy? Did she miss him as much as he missed her? What were Feslund and the Gallians up to?
And what was happening on Earth? His family must have given up on him by now. Would Kevin have told them about the portal? If he had, would that have given them any hope? It didn’t seem likely. He would be just another missing teenager, like the ones you saw shows about on TV—kidnapped or murdered by a pervert. Just what his mother had always worried about.
He had made her life hell. And he was sitting here in this weird world with a portal in the next room. Could Affron take him back to Terra, back to Earth?
Larry didn’t ask. He sat in their room and waited.
Affron was gone most days, working as a laborer to earn money. He didn’t say much about it. Larry thought sometimes that he should help, but he didn’t see how he could without knowing the language.
When Affron arrived back at the room one night, Larry finally said, “I don’t understand what’s happening. I still don’t know why I’m here.”
Affron didn’t respond.
“I want to go home. To Earth. My Earth. Can you take me home in your portal?”
“I don’t have much practice yet, but I suppose so.”
“Will you do it?”
Affron shrugged. “As you wish.” But then he added: “Let’s go in the morning, shall we? Just to be sure you want to leave.”
“All right. But I do want to. Being here is a waste of time. Nothing is happening. I don’t know why I’m here.”
“It’s your choice. Let’s do it in the morning, though.”
Affron cooked dinner in the communal kitchen. Larry helped, even though the food, whatever it was, was barely edible. Back in their room, they ate the food and drank some kind of mildly alcoholic wine that always made him drowsy. Which was good, because otherwise he didn’t know how he’d ever get to sleep.
They snuffed out the candles and settled down on the floor. Distant music thumped and clanged, as always. People shouted good-naturedly outside their window. But finally Larry drifted off, to confusing dreams of Palta and Scotia and Glanbury and his old nemesis Stinky Glover. Professor Gardner, from Carmody’s world, was explaining it all to him. But he couldn’t quite hear him, couldn’t quite understand his words. If only he could understand…
He awoke to find himself sitting in what Affron called the “shrine,” next to the bedroom. He was just a few feet away from the portal. A cool breeze moved through the open windows. It was still nighttime. What was he doing in the shrine? Was he awake? Dreams faded, returned, rearranged themselves.
He felt his arms start to move. Was this too a dream? No, it seemed real. Had he willed the movement to happen, or were his arms moving on their own?
And then he saw his hands making strange motions in the air in front of his face. As if he were conducting an invisible orchestra. As if he were searching
for something in the dark.
As if he were Affron, seated by the window of their insula back in Roma, doing exactly the same thing.
“Well then,” Affron said from behind him. “I think we’re ready to begin.”
Sixteen
Liber
“Decius is waiting for you, my lord,” Cingulus informed him when he arrived at his office in the palatium.
Liber sighed. “Very well.” It irked him that Decius felt he could simply walk into the office of the chief minister, and that Liber’s secretary would allow this, but he let it pass. He strode into the room. “What’s the news?” Decius asked him. “Has King Carolus finally arrived?”
“He has.”
“Was the queen happy to see him?”
“The greeting was warm enough, I suppose,” Liber replied. “What I saw of it, anyway.”
“Do you think he’ll bring her out of her stupor?”
Liber considered. “Yes, I suppose he will. It couldn’t last forever, in any case. She has required my presence tomorrow morning.”
“That could be bad. Feslund has mostly let us do what we like.”
“True. But his lack of interest has not always been helpful. Perhaps Gretyx will see things our way.”
“This seems unlikely, my lord.”
Liber wondered if the “my lord” was meant to be ironic. But this, too, seemed unlikely. He and Decius were allies, weren’t they? They knew what they had to do: to try to ensure that Gallian rule was fair and just and benefited the people. And to keep the empire from falling apart. Decius knew far more about such matters than Liber, but Liber, as chief minister, now outranked him. Feslund had appointed him to the position out of gratitude for making him a hero with the miraculous medicine, and also because his predecessor had been useless. But that didn’t mean Liber knew how to run an empire.
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