Deep Magic - First Collection

by Jeff Wheeler

  “Uncle! Thank you, thank you, thank you!” She rushed toward him, as if to catch him up in her arms. For a moment he could almost feel her embrace—wet cheek pressed into his hollow chest, the smell of warm clean hair—but when he looked down, she had run right through him. There was nothing to do but turn and follow her out into the dark.

  * * *

  Winter came early one year, and brought war with it. For several nights running, the skies above the garden blazed with battle, and the snow shimmered with a thousand colors of flame.

  Tiberius found her on the eastern wall, standing at the parapet of a crumbling tower. She was dressed all in white, a tight-fitting environment suit and a long winter coat; her hair was coiled beneath a cloth cap. He admired her profile silently for a few seconds, dark and still against the burning sky; the imperial crest was hooked to a collar under her chin, sparkling.

  “Your father has died.” Tiberius observed. “Congratulations—or condolences. Whichever you prefer.”

  She didn’t look away from the battle. “Hello, Uncle. I’ll accept the condolences, for now. It’s a bit early for anything else. Half the empire has risen against me.”

  Another voice spoke in the shadows, sly and dripping with irony. “Oh, he knows what that’s like. Don’t you, ‘Uncle’?”

  The old man turned toward the corner of the room. “Decimus. Why?”

  “War.” The speaker slouched out into the light, smiling. He was young, no more than thirty, black and beautiful, his lean body dressed in a close-fitting red shirt and breeches. His face would have been handsome, were it not so cruel. He had large bronze eyes and sharply sculpted cheekbones, his broad sensual mouth framed by a well-cut mustache and beard. “Wars and fires always wake me. I sleep the rest of the time—everything else is so intolerably boring.”

  Cleona had turned swiftly, her pistol drawn; she held it pointed at the center of the stranger’s chest. “Do you know him, Tiberius?”

  “Know me? He grew me from a bean.” Decimus turned back to Tiberius and laughed out loud. “You should see your face, old man! She’s a pretty piece of stuff. Who is she? Another of your protégés?”

  “Is he dead?” Cleona asked. Her voice was hard as ice; Tiberius smiled silently beside her. She cocked the ancient pistol and it whined eagerly, building up a charge. “If not, he soon will be.”

  “Oh, I’m dead all right,” Decimus said bitterly. “Uncle Tiberius saw to that.”

  The old man shook his head in disgust. “That was your doing, boy—no one else’s.”

  Cleona holstered her pistol and turned her back. “You ghosts can take your squabbles elsewhere. I have worries of my own.”

  “ ‘You ghosts’?” Decimus stepped toward her, head tilted to the side quizzically. The old man moved to bar his way, but he wasn’t quick enough; in a twinkling, the man in red was beside her, peering down into her face.

  “I remember you now.” He bared his teeth in delight. “I saw you once before—crying about your little pet pilot.”

  Cleona jumped. She backed away, casting a quick glance at Tiberius.

  “He’s dead, you know.” Decimus purred, eyes slitted in pleasure. He leaned in close, as if to kiss her. “He’s been blown to atoms. Vaporized.”

  The old man took a menacing step forward. Decimus giggled, dancing away.

  Cleona frowned. “What is he talking about, Tiberius? Is there something I should know?”

  “Nothing.” He gave his nephew a warning look. “He’s mad. Best to ignore him.”

  Decimus grinned. “Don’t listen to him, girlie.” He peeked over the old man’s shoulder. “He’s a rotten old liar. Always was.”

  Tiberius turned his back on Decimus, trying to put himself between the two of them. “There are other towers, Cleona. You can see what’s going on just as easily from there.”

  Cleona raised an eyebrow at Tiberius, her face a mask of humorous disbelief. “You expect me to run . . . from that?” She indicated Decimus with a contemptuous flick of her eyes. “Hell, I wouldn’t run from him if he were alive, much less now.”

  Decimus snarled. “Run. Then you can pretend that your boy is alive for a few minutes longer.” He laughed to himself. “What was his name again? Castus?”

  Cleona froze, a bit of the color draining from her cheeks.

  “No, no,” the younger ghost mused, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “That’s not right. Cassius? Castor? Something like that, wasn’t it?” He shook his head, mumbling to himself. “It was so hard to make out, with all the sniveling . . .” Suddenly he snapped his fingers. “Casca!”

  Her jaw suddenly stiffened in fury, and she turned to Tiberius with eyes blazing. “How exactly does he know that name?”

  “I’m dead. I know the names of other dead people.” Decimus smiled like a skull, tapping his temple with one finger.

  “I am not to blame,” Tiberius told her quietly. “I do not confide in him now, any more than I did when he was alive. But he is a resident ghost. He could skulk about . . . overhear things.”

  “Indeed he could!” Decimus hooted with delight. “ ‘Oh, Casca! Why, why didn’t I take you off the line?’ ” he simpered girlishly, trying to imitate her voice. “ ‘How will I ever live without you?’ ”

  Cleona turned her amber eyes toward the younger man, with an expression of undisguised loathing. “History books sometimes lie, but the garden does not. You really are an awful thing, aren’t you?”

  Decimus leaned back against the wall, eyes closed and head half-turned toward his shoulder. He shivered with pleasure, listening to the distant scream of energy weapons in the dark. “Such a pretty child,” he sighed. “She carries herself well; doesn’t she? I’d dearly love to hear her scream.” Tiberius shook his head in disgust, and the younger man smiled brightly. “Isn’t this fun, Uncle?”

  “I’ve never shared your enthusiasm for petty cruelty.”

  Decimus laughed and folded his arms. “And yet you taught me everything I know.”

  “Indeed. That is why it pains me to see you. As always.” Tiberius closed his eyes, weary with the weight of centuries.

  “Does it?” Cleona’s voice was tender. “Are you suffering, because of him?”

  Tiberius turned toward her. “Does that matter?”

  “Yes.” Her eyes shimmered with flashing spears of war light, but her voice was kind. “It matters to me.”

  “Then yes.” Tiberius waved a hand. “It causes me genuine grief to see him. He shames me. He is a reminder of mistakes I can never unmake.”

  “Oh, please.” Decimus rolled his eyes. “As if you had feelings!”

  “That will be quite enough.” She wheeled on the younger ghost. Her voice held such a ringing note of command that both men jumped at the sound. “I think it is time that you were laid to rest once and for all, Decimus Severan.”

  Decimus sneered. “Dead is dead. What more can you do to me?”

  “There is death, and then there is damnatio memoriae.”

  The handsome face twisted, racked by a sudden spasm of emotion. “No. No one would do such a thing. It is blasphemy.”

  “Someone would do it, or it wouldn’t have a name.” Cleona turned to Tiberius. “And you will show me how it is done.” She turned her left hand palm upward and slowly closed the fist, clenching the gloved fingers like claws. “We will tear him out of this garden like a tumor.”

  Tiberius looked down into her eyes, his heart so full of fierce love that he thought it would burst his chest like a mortar shell. “As you wish, my sovereign.”

  Something like sweat had broken out on the younger man’s face. “You’re bluffing. If anyone could do that—”

  “I would have arranged it before?” Tiberius shook his head. “That was always the trouble with you, Decimus—so little imagination.” He smiled. “I haven’t been sleeping for all these years. I know where they buried you.”

  “And when he leads me to your tomb, I will end this.” Cleona spoke with firm and gentle assu
rance. She walked toward Decimus, steps slow and predatory. “Regardless of what I must do. I will rip apart your vault like paper. Throw your bones into the street for stray dogs. Leave your mother’s jewels in the gutter for beggars. Smash your sister’s skull under my boot like a wedding glass . . .”

  “You can’t do that!” Decimus roared back. He struggled to master himself; when he spoke again, his voice had dropped back to a low, insinuating hiss. “And you wouldn’t. This place is sacred!”

  Tiberius gave a bark of laughter. “Is it? Perhaps it was when there were priests to tend it. You killed something far greater than yourself, Decimus, when you put those old men to death.

  “No.” Decimus put his hands to his head, as if to shut out their voices. “You can’t. I’m family! Family!”

  Cleona shook her head. “No. You are not. I will decide what that word means from now on.” She turned on her heel, her white coat whirling, and disappeared into the snow.

  * * *

  The sweet drone of bees roused him from torpor many years later. Like an aging bear, Tiberius rose and followed his nose; he wandered out into the garden, drawn by the smell of fine perfume.

  She stood against a wall thick with blooming lianas, leaning close to breathe in the fragrance of a trumpet-shaped flower. Her gown was long and dark, its velvet hem sweeping the ground; her hair fell, sleek in whip-thin honey braids, down to the small of her back. One of her hands was pressed there above her rump, as if to ease a nagging pain. When she turned, he saw that her other hand rested on a pregnant belly.

  She smiled. “There you are.”

  “Here I am.” He cocked his head to look at her, staring so long that she laughed from embarrassment.

  “What is it, old man?”

  “You. You look . . . lovely.”

  She chuckled. “Maternity clothes. Small wonder you like them—I feel like something out of a museum.”

  He nodded. “The old styles suit you.” He put the back of his hand to his mouth, clearing his throat. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”

  She looked up at the summer sky; it was full of gleaming darters, swooping occasionally to snatch a smaller insect out of the air. “Nothing in particular. A warm day, a few canceled appointments. I wanted to get away from people for a while.”

  “Ah.” He was unable to hide his disappointment. “Well, I won’t trouble you, then . . .”

  She laughed brightly. “Don’t be silly, Tiberius. You don’t count as people!”

  He gave her a wry sidelong glance. “If I were alive, I might take that remark personally.”

  “Then it’s lucky you aren’t.” She smiled and beckoned to him. “Come, old man—walk with me.”

  He led her through the garden slowly, finding the low and easy ways through woods and fields. For the most part she seemed to have no difficulty, although she would stop from time to time, distracted by something she found beautiful.

  They came to a giant marble chessboard on a hilltop, still standing as if in the middle of a game; it looked as if two colossal players had abandoned it suddenly, called away on pressing business. Each piece was a perfectly exact and life-size sculpture of a human being, placed according to his or her role in life—priest and pilot, emperor and heir, guard and servant. Although several pieces lay smashed on the ground, she laughed to see the sculptor’s sense of humor in those still standing: the cook raising his ladle for a taste of the soup, the maid checking the bottom of her shoe, the priest picking his nose.

  In another place, they found a collapsed earthen wall, beaten down into the grass by many seasons of rain. Countless bones had tumbled out of the broken clay, and the ground was littered with rotten fabric and glinting gold. As they approached, a black bird was hopping among the old remains, pecking at some bright thing that had caught its eye; it rose flapping at they drew near, carrying in its beak a royal finger bone with a signet ring still attached.

  At last Tiberius looked back along a dark forest path and saw that she had fallen behind. Her face was flushed, brow shining; he paused in the center of a low stone bridge, clasping his hands behind his back, to give her a moment to rest in the shade.

  Cleona breathed deeply, one hand still holding her stomach. “The baby’s awake.” She ran her palm over that ripe hard curve. “I felt her move.”

  Tiberius turned away, afraid his face would betray him if he looked her in the eye. “Must be . . . all the exercise.”

  The silence between them was long, but peaceful. Tiberius watched the stream rush by beneath his feet, fascinated by the bright quick water; it was so hypnotic that she had called his name three times before he looked up again.

  She was standing very still, looking to the path ahead. “Tiberius.” She spoke more softly this time. “Someone is coming.”

  He turned to look. A plump old matron was walking toward them through the forest, wearing a turquoise dress and a light shawl over her gray hair. In one hand, she carried a clear plastic bag of candies; the other was folded behind her back.

  She stopped halfway across the bridge, looking up at them with friendly brown eyes and a beatific smile. “Excuse me.” Her tone was perfect, befuddled and a little embarrassed. “Have you seen my little cousin? He’s gotten away from me, it seems.”

  Cleona smiled warmly. “What does he look like?”

  The old woman blinked and looked down with a rueful little smile. “Oh, he’s just a little boy . . . about six years old? He was wearing a yellow jacket.”

  “We haven’t seen him,” Tiberius said, drawing away from the woman with a shudder.

  “I’ve got to find him before it gets dark,” the old woman said sensibly. “He’ll get lost out here on his own . . .”

  “We can’t help you,” Tiberius said quickly. “We have business of our own to attend to.”

  “Well, if you do see him, tell him to go back to the fountain and wait. Tell him his auntie is very worried . . .”

  Cleona put out a hand to forestall her as she turned to walk away; Tiberius shook his head.

  “Let her go.”

  The girl frowned at him, annoyed. “Don’t be silly, Tiberius.” She turned to the old woman again, mouth open to call her back, but the words died unspoken.

  As the old woman walked away, the hand behind her back was visible: her fingers were folded around the hilt of a dagger.

  Cleona paled. “What—?”

  “The Empress Prisca. The boy she’s looking for is Zeno, the legitimate heir to the throne. She found him not far from here, and made use of that knife; if that scene is about to be reenacted, I’m fairly certain you don’t want to see it.”

  She shivered. “And I was going to help her look for him.”

  “You had no way of knowing.”

  “Poor old ghost.” She sounded genuinely sad. “Just imagine being forced to murder that child again and again, for centuries—never knowing that the two of you are both long dead.”

  “Yes.” He shuffled nervously. “Terrible.”

  “It’s funny, isn’t it?” Her tone was dreamy. “How different the modern ghosts are from the older ones?”

  He turned and looked at her oddly. “Different?”

  “Come now, Tiberius. I’ve spent more time in the garden than you think; I have noticed it.”

  “Noticed what?”

  She made a face. “I used to come here for afternoon walks, after the war. Did I ever tell you that?”

  He startled, surprised.

  “I found it very hard at first, having to sit in session with the senate all day. I would run to the garden just to get away from it; I knew no one would dare disturb me here, especially if I brought flowers for my father.”

  “Clever. Devotion must come before budgets and taxes.”

  “I always wondered if I would see you here. But you never appeared.”

  “I’m sorry I missed you. I enjoy your company.”

  “Of course, I saw a lot of other ghosts.” She gave him a searching look.
“They aren’t like you, Tiberius.”

  “I suppose not.” It was a subject that obviously made him uncomfortable.

  “Some of them . . .” She trailed off for a moment, frowning. “Some of the newer ghosts really are just echoes, aren’t they—like a recording, a holographic film. They only appear when you come near a certain spot; if you back just a few steps away from them, they disappear again. You can make them appear and disappear several times just by walking back and forth. Like flipping a light switch on and off.”

  He frowned. “You shouldn’t do that sort of thing. It’s disrespectful.”

  She looked down over the railing of the bridge. “The older ones, though . . . they seem more like people.” Cleona looked at him again, and he struggled to keep his expression blank. “Dead people, of course. But genuinely human . . . not just a taped message. Do you understand what I mean?”

  “I suppose so,” he said reluctantly.

  “You can actually talk to them. I spent several hours that summer talking to Quintus Valerius—I kept meeting him by the north wall.”

  Tiberius nodded. “His presence is strong there.”

  She was studying him carefully as she spoke, watching for any hint of reaction. “Whenever I met Quintus, he was always wearing the same clothes. If I asked him his name, or his reason for being in the garden, he would always give me the same basic information—but the way he said it would vary. Just as you would expect, if he were a living man. He never knew me; no matter how many times we had spoken before, I always had to introduce myself. He couldn’t remember any of our previous conversations.”

  “And then there’s old Tiberius.” He completed the thought for her.

  “Then there’s you.” She held him with her serene copper eyes. “Quintus and the others . . . all seem to be asleep somehow. When I speak to them, I’m always waking them from the same dream.”

  “The dream of being alive.”

  “Exactly. Ask them a question; they’ll answer—they even have questions of their own, once you’ve started a conversation. But if you want to know what year it is, or what they’re doing in the garden, they’ll say it’s 1393, and they’ve just come for a little walk, and they have to get straight back afterward for dinner.” She shook her head wonderingly. “Quintus actually seemed to think that I was the ghost; when I told him my name, he assumed I was Cleona the First.”