by Tanya Huff
Feeling better after that short burst of pettiness, she started across the checkerboard room to the archway. Raulin would not stay put, that went without question. Jago might, but she rather doubted it as he had no way of knowing if either of his companions still lived. She had to find them before they found something they couldn’t handle. Or something found them.
Raulin could be dead, Avreen pointed out. Why don’t you call the Mother’s son and find out? He did say he’d come if you called.
Raulin isn’t dead. Crystal’s voice was edged.
You could know for sure. What is it about Lord Death that frightens you lately?
Crystal slammed a barrier down so hard she felt her other shields tremble. She couldn’t keep Avreen locked away for long, but she’d enjoy the peace while it lasted. Afraid of Lord Death, indeed. He was her oldest friend. Why didn’t she call him?
The center four tiles of the sixteen in the floor dropped out from under her.
Her power caught her just before she hit the spikes. She drifted up and out of the pit, furious at herself for being distracted.
“What a stupid way for a wizard to die,” she muttered. “I keep this up and someone’s going to have to rescue me.”
When she reached the arch she paused and pushed a wave of power through before her.
Glyphs flared up both sides and the opening pulsed red then black then red again. A binding, similar to the one that had imprisoned the demon. With nothing to hold, the binding faded and the way was clear.
She stepped into a long hall, the archway in the middle of one side. Fourteen windows stretched black and featureless almost floor to ceiling across from her. The ends of the hall held identical doors.
As she approached the nearest window, the glass glowed green. When it cleared, she looked out into a snow covered garden where three children were building a fort. One of the children turned to yell instructions and Crystal recognized her half-brother, the Heir of Ardhan. The two smaller children had to be the twins. She laughed as a disagreement turned into a wrestling match, the twins, as usual, ganging up on the older boy but never quite managing to pin him down.
Maybe, she thought, leaning against the window frame, when I’m finished here, I’ll go . . .
Zarsheiy tried to force her barriers and Crystal suddenly realized what powered the window.
She threw herself back and the scene faded.
“Clever,” she acknowledged. She hadn’t felt it draining her.
Idiot, snorted Zarsheiy.
Staying a careful distance from the rest of the windows, Crystal made her way to the door in the left end of the hall. Finding Raulin first seemed the only choice; Jago, at least, she knew was alive.
On the other side of the door were twelve steps, leading down.
Crystal slammed the door.
“Games!” she snarled. “Twelve, fourteen, sixteen, this isn’t a tower, it’s a puzzle board.”
Boredom had been the greatest enemy of the ancient wizards. The world had fallen at their feet and left them nothing to do.
“This isn’t a tower,” Crystal repeated. “And yet the tower must be close or Aryalan wouldn’t have been able to watch her games played. Watch and influence the outcome.” She pushed her hair back off her face and thought.
After a moment, she smiled.
With lines of power, she drew a door in the air, opened it, and stepped through . . .
. . . into the center of a circular room, its seven walls made up of seven mirrors.
She turned slowly, hoping to catch sight of Raulin or Jago but saw only Crystal. She touched one mirror with power and let it reflect onto all the others. Nothing. If Aryalan had watched from this place perhaps it was tuned only to her, or there was a trick to activating it that Crystal hadn’t yet discovered.
Or Aryalan might have anticipated Crystal’s move and the room was itself a part of the game.
Idiot.
Trust your instincts.
Reason must be the key.
She should follow her heart.
Maybe, maybe not.
“Be quiet!” Crystal snapped. “All of you.” she buried her face in her hands, trying to think, and when that didn’t help, began to spin slowly on the ball of one foot.
“The ancient wizards were not only bored,” she said, seeing herself surrounded by herself, “but vain.”
The reflections wavered, and changed.
Eegri laughed out at her, tossing brown curls.
Tayja smiled and spread a mahogany hand against the glass.
Zarsheiy’s eyes burned with fire contained but far from under control.
Sholah opened wide her arms, offering refuge.
Nashawryn, stars caught in midnight hair, only stared, her silver eyes impossible to read.
One mirror showed a graceful line of shoulder and back, as Geta, still grieving for her brother, continued to hide her face.
And Avreen. The goddess of love pushed auburn hair away from amber eyes.
“Have I no reflection left at all?” Crystal whispered.
Avreen shook her head, and sighed. All the reflections are you . . .
. . . you . . .
. . . you . . .
. . . you . . .
. . . you . . .
. . . you . . .
Red light played over the lowest level of the tower as the most powerful of its guardians stirred. While not exactly aware, it was capable of independent thought and actions within the boundaries Aryalan had set for it centuries before. Until she created her dragon, the ancient wizard had considered it her greatest achievement and it had given her many hours of amusement.
The Wizards’ Doom had not affected it, nor had the centuries it had lain dormant.
It had watched the intruders and now it knew them; knew their strengths and knew their weaknesses; followed the lines that joined them and knew how to tie them in place.
It judged them worthy of its attention.
It gathered together the power still at its disposal and prepared to use the knowledge it had gleaned; prepared to place all three pieces in the final configuration.
Had Aryalan been there to watch, she would have been very amused indeed.
* * *
—WIZARD—
The mirrors faded and Crystal found herself suspended in blackness. Red lines, sullenly pulsating, held her securely and where they touched they brought torment. Hurriedly, she threw shields up against the pain and found it left her no power to get free.
—YOU HAVE A MOVE STILL REMAINING IN THE GAME—
Fury banished fear.
She bit off each word and spat it out. “I’m not playing.”
Lines of red flashed out from those that bound her, wrapped about and illuminated two bodies; Raulin to her left, Jago to her right. They had no protection from the pain and screamed wordlessly and continuously, thrashing and fighting as the light spun out between them and completed the triangle.
The voice sounded clearly over the brothers’ cries.
—TO FREE YOURSELF, WIZARD, BREAK THE BALANCE—
Raulin shrieked her name and she spun toward him. The motion caused the lines about Jago to flicker and brighten. He threw back his head and his screams grew shrill. When she turned to Jago, Raulin writhed in new agony.
—ONE MUST BE SACRIFICED, WIZARD, IT IS THE ONLY WAY—
To free herself.
“No.” Her chin went up. “I am not like the ancient wizards,” she said. “I don’t play games.”
She dropped all barriers and threw wide her power. This time, she didn’t fight. The word she’d searched for, the word that pulled it all together, was acceptance.
All the reflections are you. . . .
The pain hit first, from the lines of red, then Zarsheiy burned and the pain was lost
in fire. She felt Sholah and Tayja give themselves joyously to the new matrix and she felt Eegri dance through the flame. She acknowledged Avreen, acknowledged the face the goddess wore and added to the reforging the sorrow of love admitted too late. Darkness surged forth with the eldest goddess. But there came no answer from the light.
Only the threat of Kraydak had convinced Geta to help in Crystal’s creation. Kraydak, like Getan his father, had died. Geta mourned her twin and would not be moved.
Then Jago screamed and chance alone made the words the last that Getan had cried.
“Mother, it hurts!”
And the goddess looked to the image of her brother writhing in pain.
No!
Freedom rose to stand against the darkness.
Crystal looked to Raulin, now hanging limp in his bonds and remembered the strength in his arms and the pleasure they had shared, the warmth that had banished winter’s nights. She looked to Jago, who still twisted and fought, and gently touched the place where his life touched hers, savoring the knowledge that, for a time, she had not been alone. Gathering up the memories, she placed them where she hoped they would survive what was to come, for friendship was too rare a thing to lose. All this in less than a heartbeat . . .
. . . then Crystal let go of self.
The red lines disappeared, for the wizard they had held was no more.
* * *
“Mortal! Mortal, wake, or you will go to my Mother by my hand!”
“Bet you wish you could shake him.”
Lord Death whirled and glared at the dwarf. “Do not mock me, Elder, lest I misuse the power I wield. You can be killed and I am Death.”
Doan spread his hands, his face unwontedly serious. “I do not mock you, Mother’s son. I spoke without thinking. Forgive me.” He dropped his eyes to the two men crumpled on the ground. “The mortals live?”
“They live. But I cannot get them to wake.”
“Perhaps I can help.” Sokoji pushed passed the dwarf, her arms full of fur. She wrapped both bodies in the overcoats, then bent over Raulin. After a moment, she shook her head. “If he wakes at all,” she said sadly, “it will not be for some time.” She moved to Jago and her expression grew more helpful. “This one has something in him that fights what was done and is almost healed.” Lifting Jago’s head onto her lap, she held out her hand to Doan. “Give me your flask.”
“There’s not much left,” Doan warned her as he passed it over.
“It won’t take much.” Sokoji waved the open flask under Jago’s nose.
Jago coughed and opened his eyes. “What . . . what happened?”
Doan snorted. “We hoped you’d tell us.”
With the giant’s arm a firm support across his back, Jago sat up and looked around. The tower, the island, and the lake were gone. In their place, a perfectly circular bowl of bare rock curved up around him, Sokoji, the dwarf, Lord Death, and the still body of his brother.
“Raulin!” He twisted out of Sokoji’s grasp. “Raulin?”
“He lives,” Sokoji told him, “but he needs help I cannot give.”
She paused, and in the silence, Doan prodded: “Perhaps Crystal . . .”
Jago shook his head, spattering the rock with tears. “Crystal is . . . she . . .”
“She what, mortal?”
Jago met Lord Death’s eyes. “I don’t know,” he whispered. He laid his hand against Raulin’s cheek, comforted by the feather touch of breath, and tried to describe what he’d seen in the instant between pain and oblivion.
“Her face was perfectly still and her arms were open. It sounds crazy, you couldn’t see through her or anything, but she looked clear,” his mouth twisted, “like crystal. She’d been wearing clothes she’d borrowed from us—from Raulin and me—they were gone. Silver light began to pour out from her hair, then from her eyes, then from her skin, then there was only light so brilliant it burned. That’s all.”
He couldn’t describe what he’d felt when Crystal had dissolved into light, the searing glory that had burned along the life-link and threatened for an instant to consume him too. He didn’t have the words for it. He doubted the words existed.
He wanted to turn away from the expression on Lord Death’s face. He didn’t.
“She called me,” Lord Death told him. “I heard her.”
“I’m sorry.” And Jago cried for more than just Crystal and his brother.
Sokoji stood and scanned the sky. “From out of darkness came the Mother, but in what fire was she forged?” She glanced down at Doan who stared at her in puzzlement. “It is a question my sisters and I often think on.”
“Yeah, so?”
The giant smiled. “And now it has been answered. There will be new worlds born from this day.”
“Let me get this straight,” Doan shoved his hands behind his belt, “you think that Crystal just became a new . . .” His mouth opened and closed unable to get around the concept.
“A new creator?” Sokoji nodded. “Yes.”
“No.” Lord Death’s hands curled into fists and he staggered forward, fell to his knees and howled. “NO! Crystal, come back! I love you!”
The words hung in the air for a long moment and then they faded.
A silver spark danced along the path of a wandering breeze. And then another. And then another. And then the breeze danced in silver hair and Crystal opened her arms to Lord Death.
“I can touch you now.” Her words were a promise.
Lord Death laid a trembling hand in hers and let her pull him to his feet.
“I heard you call,” he told her. “I heard you say you loved me.”
Back before the remaking, when love had been separate, and love had worn his face. . . . “Yes,” she said, drawing him close, “I called.”
“I came.”
Her lips parted.
Then his arms were around her and the glory enfolded them both. The silver light grew brighter, and brighter still, and then, abruptly, it was gone.
Except for one small spark that settled gently on the very tip of Raulin’s nose and flared, wrapping his body for an instant in light.
When it faded, Raulin blinked and yawned. “S’it over?”
“Yeah.” Jago managed to get the word out past the lump in his throat.
“Then why are you crying? Didn’t things work out?”
Jago glanced from Sokoji to Doan. The giant only smiled, the dwarf rocked back on his heels and shrugged, so Jago came to his own decision.
“It’s okay,” he said, and wiped his eyes. “Everything worked out.”
END
Raulin tossed the purse on the table and grinned at the way the clerk’s jaw dropped.
“Go on, man,” he prodded, “open it; this is the day the Council admits new members.”
The clerk glanced nervously over his shoulder at the six councilors and with trembling fingers untied the purse strings. Twice a year, in the spring and in the fall, the Council opened its doors, allowing new members to buy their way in. This was the first time anyone had tried for the seats that cost more than most citizens of the crumbling Empire saw in a lifetime and the price had to be paid in gold. Twice a year the four men and two women who ruled the city ranged themselves at one end of the council chamber and waited while curious citizenry ranged themselves at the other. And also waited.
When Kraydak had fallen, many of the weak and corrupt he had put in power hung on.
“. . . 28, 29, 30.” The clerk looked back again, and waved one hand over the stack of freshly minted coins. “It’s, it’s all there, milords.” He obviously had no idea of what to do next.
One of the councilors stepped forward, glared first at the coins, and then at Raulin.
“Where did you get this?” she demanded.
Raulin winked at her. “It used to be my brother’s.�
�� In fact, it used to be Jago’s braid, but he had no intention of telling her that.
“It must be tested.”
“Go ahead.” Nor did he intend to tell her of how, on the long trip back, Doan had melted down the soft pure strands of gold Raulin had found in his pouch and doubled their volume by reforging them into a metal less pure but more acceptable.
The clerk was sent to find a goldsmith and the councilor withdrew back to her fellows where they muttered and fretted and planned. A rustling noise came from the crowd as something very like hope drifted through their ranks.
Although Jago had gone that morning to the Scholar’s Hall, Raulin could feel his brother at his back, and knowledge, he’d learned, was as formidable a weapon as wealth or steel. He touched the jewel he wore on a silver chain about his neck—one of the two emeralds inexplicably mixed in with the rubies; Jago wore the other—and thought of the patch of light in the center of his palm. The kiss Crystal had given him, for later. If Jago had been changed by their journey—and there was no denying the younger man had picked up a number of interesting abilities, not the least of which was self-healing—Raulin had only had something he’d always believed reinforced.
Anything is possible.
He smiled at the row of councilors. One by one, they tried to stare him down. One by one, they dropped their gazes.
That’s right, he said silently, squirm. ’Cause there’s going to be some changes made.
* * *
Other places might look gray and depressing in early spring, but the Sacred Grove, Tayer felt, bore a promise for the renewal that lay ahead. Delicate new growth already touched the ground with green and, even with their branches bare, the ancient silver birches ringed the Grove in beauty.
“Majesty.”
Tayer started and stared at the squat, broad-shouldered man who had so suddenly appeared. Her brow furrowed. “Do I know you?’”
Doan bowed. “We met once, many, many years ago.”
“Here?”
“No, in the wood. But you had just come from the Grove.” His eyes moved for an instant to the space in the circle where a tree no longer stood.
Tayer smiled sadly. “I don’t remember much of those days.” She remembered light and love and not much more.