The Snowmelt River (The Three Powers)

by Frank P. Ryan

  A bitter wind scoured the streets, blowing sleet as cutting as ice against Alan’s face as Gaptooth took him on a winding route, no doubt deliberately clouding any sense he might have of their direction. They passed the night’s drunks, lurching between hostelries in the meaner streets, with wooden houses almost meeting as they fell toward one another in their upper stories across the refuse-soiled passages. On and on they wove, through a degenerate labyrinth that seemed to extend for miles, arriving at a district of tall and rickety buildings closely gathered about walkways of iced-over cobbles. Here, they entered a poorly illuminated inner maze, ascending and descending staircases of age-worn stone, moving through hunched arches and uneven avenues.

  At last his guide peered back into the darkness, listening hard to make sure that they had not been followed before opening a latch-gate concealed in a soot-begrimed wall of irregular and deeply shadowed boulders. They were close enough to the waterfront for Alan’s ears to pick up the creaking of rigging and for his nose to pick up the smell of polluted brine. The Mage’s chamber was a few hundred yards farther on in the twist and turn in what increasingly felt like a three-dimensional maze in solid stone. It was Alan’s impression that they had entered the fabric of the ancient city walls. He was unaware of having entered a building, so confusing was the approach through tunnels and portals, yet immediately he felt the triangle in his brow pulse with a sense of numinous power as they arrived at an antechamber with a narrow window, looking down eighty feet onto the masts of ships. There was no time for him to see if the triple mast of the Temple Ship was among them.

  A figure was waiting by a window, his white-cowled face in shadow. Alan spotted Gaptooth’s furtive hand return the runestone to its master.

  With his guide melting away through the closing doorway, Alan saw the cowl drawn back on a face harrowed with age and bent forward over a frame as spare and fragile as a heron’s. The Mage of Dreams was a good half foot taller than Alan, even though he was bent over the staff he held in his right hand. He seemed old beyond the threshold where one bothers to count the decades. His locks of hair, thinning over the front and crown of his head, fell down over his neck and shoulders in a cataract of white, as fine as silk threads. As Alan’s hand was clasped in the Mage’s withered fingers, a dwarf with coppery red hair appeared from a gothic doorway, swaying in hesitation like a drunken man. The dwarf made a guttural sound, as if he had lost his tongue, and then, with a clumsy bow, led them down a sloping passage with damp-stained walls, into a close-walled chamber where a fire crackled and roared in a corbelled fireplace.

  As he turned to leave them, the dwarf appeared to totter against the wall of the entrance passage, causing a flicker of amusement to cross the eyes of the Mage. “Forgive my servant his unfortunate habit. I retain him out of loyalty after many years of service.” The Mage’s face wrinkled to a wry smile. “Would you indulge an old man in his amusement? In this poor dungeon, I nourish such simple creatures for the joy of their beauty.”

  With a gentle clap of the Mage’s hands, clouds of brilliant color filled the air between them, dazzling and shimmering. They spiraled and fluttered until they filled the chamber, like the fall of blossom in a breeze. Alan was astonished to discover that they were butterflies of a diaphanous sapphire blue. Several alighted about the Mage’s eyes to create the illusion of a carnival mask around the clouded irises of venerable age. Alan couldn’t help sensing great power behind the gentleness. From the fire a fragrant incense cloaked a reek that Alan assumed must be rising out of the harbor.

  For a moment, in the poor light of a chandelier and the flames of the fire, the Mage made a point of putting aside his staff to stand erect before Alan and, intertwining the fingers of his hands, as if in a refinement of passion, gazed even more deeply into Alan’s eyes. “These are troubled times. Yet such determination and courage do I read in your character!”

  Those gentle eyes had curious pinpoints of gold invading the blue, like myriad fairy lights in a constant motion of weaving and whorling. For a moment Alan felt a dizziness pass over him but, with a pulse of his brow, it quickly cleared. The Mage stepped back a pace, as if in surprise, before his voice returned with a new tenor of respect underlying the prodigious intelligence and learning.

  “Indeed, young sir!” His skeletal hands, dappled with liver spots, waved him to a comfortable leather armchair by the fireside, while the Mage took his seat in an identical one opposite, with a low round table in between them. “A gentleman is a gentleman in all worlds—and it is such a rare pleasure to meet one these days. And the bearer of such a portal of power—known to the ignorant as the Oraculum of the Three Witches. You grace a lonely scholar with your visit. Alas, I am compelled to endure these reduced circumstances. But still I am able to offer some refreshment.”

  The Mage’s blue eyes twinkled with merriment as he picked up a tiny silver hand bell and tinkled it above his head. Only four of his teeth still survived, all canines, which gave his smile the look of an old cat yawning. His nostrils, as if suffused with the emotion of their meeting, had begun to run with mucus, and the tip of his nose had turned a bright scarlet. With the forgetfulness of an old man, he wiped his running nose on a pendulous sleeve as silkily white as his hair and interwoven with cabbalistic symbols in gold and silver threads. Then, with a flourish of his hand, he beckoned entry to the dwarf, who stood cautiously in the inner door. Alan inspected the small yet heavily shouldered servant, whose features were different from those of any dwarf he had ever seen before. His skin was reddish bronze, his face square and heavy, his nose broad and flattened and his lips thick and wide. There was a sense of unbreakable pride in his emerald-green eyes that belied the status of a servant.

  “Ah!” the Mage cried. “A noggin, my dear Zoda. A refreshing sup of our special reserve that will aid our guest to unburden himself of his apprehensions.” Then, as the servant hesitated, those aged eyes fell upon Alan and the thick brows arched in a moment’s benign contemplation.

  “Forgive my boldness, yet I already know the reason you have come. I have been expecting you.”

  “How do you know about me?”

  “My goodness! He is the direct one, is he not, Zoda?”

  Inclining his head, the rheumy eyes widened with a mischievous amusement. “Of course we adept have long awaited your arrival. You, my dear young man, are the incarnation of prophecy. But enough of this! Zoda! Have I not called for refreshment?”

  Alan felt increasingly uncomfortable with the obsequious tone of the Mage. He nodded his appreciation while his voice remained firm. “I don’t have the time to chat. My friend, Mo, is missing. You sent me your runestone with Mo’s face in it. Can’t you just tell me where to find her?”

  A more knowing smile crinkled the corners of the Mage’s withered mouth. “The young gentleman is in a great hurry. Ah, but surely we can help him, can we not, Zoda, on the condition that each of us is prepared to share a secret or two with the other?”

  Alan sighed. “I don’t have any secrets.”

  “No secrets! Hark at the gentleman!”

  “I just don’t have time to be fooling around. All I want is your help in finding my friend.”

  The Mage of Dreams nodded his wise old head. “It is true—I did send you her image. And I assure you that I will do all within my power to help you. But first I must have a little information in return. I am curious to know more about your companions. A she-cat of the Western Mountains, a Kyra who bears an oraculum of power upon her brow, and a rebel princess from the Council-in-Exile. Tell me more of these. Why have they accompanied you to Isscan? What business have they in coming here?”

  Alan tried to conceal his surprise. How could the Mage of Dreams know about Ainé and Milish? He had no awareness of his mind being probed.

  He wondered if he dared to use the triangle to probe the mind that lay behind the rheumy blue eyes. As he considered this the dwarf re-entered the chamber and handed Alan a goblet of heavy silver, chased with glittering sym
bols over its bowl. The dwarf filled the goblet almost to the brim with a clear, thick liqueur, poured from a decanter of turquoise crystal. The Mage studied Alan closely as he warily took a sip to find that it tasted sweet and strong. His senses reeled from an immediate intoxication.

  “Where’s my friend?”

  The Mage of Dreams accepted a similar goblet and he took a delicate sip from its contents before replying. “We should not hurry this conversation. First, a toast! To the pleasure of your visit, my dear young sir!”

  Though he was increasingly irritated by this time-wasting nonsense, Alan went through the motions of taking another sip. The Mage of Dreams also took a second, noisier, swig. “But to business! I can tell you that your friend has indeed been brought to Isscan. By a one-armed bear-man, one of the ferals.”

  Alan sat back, startled. “Snakoil Kawkaw?” Somehow the traitor had not only escaped but must have known where Mo was and taken her with him.

  “Is she okay?”

  The Mage of Dreams shrank back, as if shocked. “Such concern! You really do care deeply about this young friend. To my knowledge, she is unhurt.”

  “Why won’t you just tell me where she is?”

  “Patience—patience! I must know more before I can help you. To answer your needs, I would know of your secret. What is the source of your power? Who bequeathed you, so obviously ignorant in such matters, such an oraculum of destiny?”

  “I’ve had enough of your questions.”

  “Had enough of my questions? Such discourtesy is disappointing. I merely enquire as to its source. Ah—hmm! I have in mind a perfidious being, enamored of spiders, worms and slime! But one who is yet careful to conceal her machinations. Have you by chance encountered such a being?”

  “I don’t give a damn about this.” Alan attempted to stand up again, but immediately fell back in his chair, his senses reeling.

  The Mage’s eyes glittered, then widened. “Ah—forgive my rambling! Replenish the goblets, Zoda. And you, my friend, drink up! It will relax your mind and help me to help you in your need. Yes, that’s it—that’s the way!” Suddenly Alan felt an overwhelming compulsion to take another drink of the clear liqueur. The Mage nodded, watching him lift the heavy silver goblet to his lips. He waited until Alan had taken a much deeper draught, then smiled a great wide yawn, with those four pointed teeth bared. “Yes . . . um! But can it be true that you know nothing at all about the source of your power?”

  Alan’s mouth began to speak, as if against his will. “I . . . I might have seen somebody like you describe . . .”

  “How fascinating! And did she give you a purpose—one that has led you here to my door in search of your poor friend, who, alas, is lost and calling out your name?” He clapped his hands and the sad-looking dwarf reappeared.

  “More refreshment, clumsy oaf!” The Mage struck the dwarf a sharp blow across his face, causing him to totter back, striking the wall with a wince of pain. “Get to it!” The Mage dismissed the servant to take a rasping slurp at his goblet, draining its contents, before returning to Alan. “How should I put it, my fine young sir? Perhaps you have spent too much time in the company of witches.”

  Alan was startled at the grimace of loathing that accompanied the Mage’s derogatory reference to women.

  “Ummm—I wonder if these witches have been telling you lies? Oh, you will think me overly suspicious no doubt, but experience has made me wonder if all women are not born with lying tongues. Is it not conceivable that at the very least you have been misled by them—these witches who pretend to be your friends and yet have broken the edicts of their own High Council-in-Exile?”

  The Mage’s tone had taken on a growling quality, and his brow had fissured into a spiderweb of wrinkles. “My good young man, you must ask yourself that simple question, as indeed have I. Have you been beguiled? Yes, beguiled I say!” The yawning smile appeared no longer to be a smile at all, but a triumphant baring of teeth. “Consider all that has befallen you since you first arrived in this blighted land.”

  Alan felt the compulsion to reply, to tell all, to agree with the preposterous insinuations the Mage was making. Meanwhile, the Mage waited, with ill-concealed impatience, for the frightened dwarf to refill both goblets, all the while studying Alan with intense speculation. A covetous look flickered across a face that now seemed more scaly than lined. His lips drew back, thin and wide, to drain the contents of the goblet in a single swallow. His shoulders seemed to fill out and hunch massively about his neck. Suddenly Alan sensed a violent invasion of his mind.

  A deeper growl replaced the old Mage’s quaver. “Do not have the insolence to resist me!” The changing figure stretched enormously long arms, as if to reach out to claw at Alan’s oraculum. Alan found a deep reserve of self-preservation that pulsed momentarily in the triangle, causing those long arms to retract. The Mage’s face contracted, revealing a huge, alien contortion, which he covered with a hand, as if to suppress a yawn, after which he widened his eyes and shook his weary head. “The first power you appear to have discovered—if poorly. You derive a modest strength from it. But still you have much to learn.” A hateful glee transfigured the Mage’s restored face. The inner beast was so close to the surface that his expression seemed to vary from moment to moment. “My, my . . . so much that puzzled me is now revealed. The witches’ plans—I see them now. Confound them and their execrable trinity!”

  Alan was sweating freely from his struggle to block the mental probing. He found his voice, though it caught in his throat. “I—I don’t understand anything you’re saying.”

  With what appeared an immense struggle, tranquility again cloaked the Mage’s features, though his eyes still stared suspiciously into Alan’s own. “Such a power, as you, young sir, have now discovered, may be a trial as much as a blessing. For nobody could carry this accursed mark without knowing the secrets of their plans. Secrets you will volunteer to me. Ah, confound the witches!”

  Alan forced his will into the oraculum again, to discover some last well of strength to oppose the Mage. “You look sick, old man . . . confused?”

  “Do not play games with me, foolish manling! Oh, devour the witches! Lick their blood!” Those bony fingers scratched at the ancient brow, the overly long nails in what were increasingly transforming from aged hands to claws, gouged the skin to either side of his wrinkled face. “How deviously they have plotted against the Master! Well, their plans are now undone.”

  Alan had noticed how, with every slurp of his drink, the scarlet of the old man’s nose was spreading further to become a butterfly mask of thick red scales that was spreading over his cheeks. “Pain cleanses. Pain,” the monstrous face now seethed, “is the delight that lies at the core of debased womankind. Does she not cry out in the ecstasy of it as she gives birth to her foul progeny?” Two large animal eyes now peered out of their enfolding wrinkles with the hard black glitter of polished jet.

  “Where the hell is my friend Mo?”

  The transforming thing opposite growled, the words barely distinguishable. “Drink, manling! Zoda, you scabrous excrement! Fill the goblets—to the brim!”

  Alan had no intention of drinking what the Mage was forcing on him. He tried to create a barrier within his mind. But he was unable to resist picking up the glittering silver goblet, unable to resist drinking again, though his senses swooned until he was almost unconscious. And the Mage, with lip-smacking relish, drained his own in another noisy slurp.

  “Soon you will stock my larder, you and all your brattish friends.” The Mage’s hands had tightened about the bony swelling that formed the head of his staff, fingers arched about it like claws over a skull. “You will forget all about the answers you seek when I introduce you to the delights of torment. In such circumstances your cries for mercy will become a music of their very own!”

  With growing horror, Alan realized that he was losing control of his will. “You’ll never win!”

  “Thus would you repartee with me?”

 
; The increasingly beast-like face, with elongating snout, reached across the table to snap its teeth in Alan’s face. “Hark at the fool! What a poor rival you have proved, in truth.”

  Through his increasingly clouded senses, Alan remembered the white-robed figure lifting the chalice to his lips before the exultant crowd in the plaza. He had been too distant to see that figure’s face. But now he knew who that figure must have been. He used the oraculum to enter the mind behind the curtain of those alien eyes. And in so doing, he confronted an alien intelligence, dreadful and ominous. A dew of sweat oozed out of his brow and plastered his hair to his head. There was nothing at all that he could do to prevent the talon that reached out to his brow, that touched with a contemptuous ivory point the recoiling matrix of the oraculum.

  “Ah,” growled the voice, now crackling with glee. “You so desperately wish to find your friend? Perhaps the information you seek is in the possession of my Master. Surely then it is my Master you would like to meet!”

  Saving Mo

  A black vapor materialized over the table that stood between them. It solidified as a perfect pentagon. Though it seemed smoother than still water, no reflection showed upon its surface. In its depths Alan perceived an expanding matrix of awesome power. With that twinkling smile returned to his malleable features, the Mage had taken a bloodred prism, shaped like a multifaceted inverted cone, from a pocket in his capacious robe and caused it to rise into the air, suspended, it seemed, without any visible attachment over the center of the pentagon.

  Suddenly the bloodstone began spinning rapidly around its vertical axis, and the Mage’s growl became distant and hypnotic.

  “In search of enlightenment you came to me. Well, now, enlightenment has found you. For this key will open the door to the most secret and hallowed of labyrinths, my foolish young friend.”

  The withered Mage was eclipsed by a third presence, a more formidable figure by far, its features shadowed like coals within a bloodred flame. Even to look at this presence pained Alan’s eyes. But he could not avert his gaze any more than he was able to blink. Slowly the cowled head lifted, and he saw there a being of utter darkness. The figure willed him closer, and his limbs ached to comply with that instruction, though he fought back with all of his might.