“Then let’s take a walk and find some breakfast,” Mouseglove suggested.
Pol nodded, and they made their way back to the small street with the cafes. The night’s sparkle and sheen faded as they dined; and as the sun climbed higher a certain dinginess appeared here and there in the brighter quarters about them.
“Sleep well?”
“Yes. Yourself?”
Pol nodded.
“But I—”
Mouseglove’s eyes shifted sharply to his left and he nodded in that direction. Pol leaned back in his chair and stretched, rolling his head as he did so.
The man who was approaching down the narrow street was clad in black and red as he had been the previous evening. He was looking in their direction.
Pol leaned forward and raised his mug of tea.
“You still can’t recall . . . ?” he asked.
Mouseglove shook his head.
“But he’s coming this way,” he muttered without moving his lips.
Pol took a sip and listened for footfalls. The man had a very soft tread and was almost beside him before he heard a sound.
“Good morning,” he said, moving into view. “You are the one called Madwand, of Ibal’s company?”
Pol lowered the mug and raised his eyes.
“I am.”
“Good.” The other smiled. “My name is Larick. I have been appointed to conduct the candidates for initiation to the entrance on the western height of Belken this afternoon. I will also be your guide through the mountain tonight.”
“The initiation is to be tonight? I’d thought it was not held until near the end of things?”
“Normally, that is the case,” Larick replied, “but I had not been reading my ephemeris recently. I only learned last night when I was appointed to this post that there will be a particularly favorable conjunction of planets tonight—whereas things will not be nearly so good later on.”
“Would you care for a cup of tea?”
Larick began to shake his head, then eyed the pot.
“Yes, I am thirsty. Thanks.”
He drew up a chair while Pol signaled for a fresh pot.
“My friend’s name is Mouseglove,” Pol said.
The men studied each other and clasped hands.
“Glad.”
“The same.”
Larick produced a piece of parchment and a writing stick.
“By the way, I do not really have your name, Madwand, for the list of candidates. How are you actually called?”
In instant reaction Pol’s mind slid over the present and back to an earlier time.
“Dan,” he said, “Chain—son.”
“Dan Chainson,” Larick repeated, writing it. “You are fourth on my list. I still have six to go.”
“I take it that the rescheduling is as much a surprise to all those involved?”
“I’m afraid so. That’s why I have to find everyone in a hurry.”
The tea arrived and Pol poured.
“We will meet at the Arch of the Blue Bird,” Larick said, gesturing. “It is the farthest archway to the west. It is somewhat south of here, also.”
Pol nodded.
“I’ll find it. But when do we meet?”
“I was hoping we could all get together by noon,” he answered. “But that seems unrealistic, the way things are going. Let’s say by the time the sun lies midway between noon and sunset.”
“All right. Anything special I should bring?”
Larick studied him for a moment.
“How much preparation have you had for this?” he asked.
Pol wondered whether the flush he felt in his cheeks was visible through his magical disguise, scar and all.
“It depends upon what you mean by preparation,” he said. “I’ve had some instruction as to the metaphysical side of things, but I was counting on more time here for learning something of the practical aspects.”
“Then you did not—as your nickname implies—serve what might be referred to as a normal apprenticeship?”
“I did not. I know what I know by means of aptitude, practice and some study—on my own.”
Larick smiled.
“I see. In other words, you have had as little preparation as one can have had and still be said to have had some preparation.”
“I’d say you’ve put it properly.”
Larick took a drink of tea.
“There is some risk, even for those with full training,” he said.
“I already know that.”
“Well, it is your decision, and I will have time to go over things somewhat during the climb and while we wait for sundown outside the entrance. To answer your first question, though, bring nothing but the clothes you wear, one small loaf of bread and a flask of water. These may be consumed at any time during the journey, up until the actual entry into the mountain. I would suggest you keep most of it until near the end, as we maintain a total fast during the night’s progress through Belken.”
Larick finished his tea and rose.
“I’ll have to be locating the others now,” he said. “Thanks for the tea. I’ll see you at the Blue Bird Archway.”
“A moment,” said Mouseglove.
“Yes?”
“At what point on the mountain will you be emerging in the morning?”
“We’ll come out of a cave low on the eastern fece—this side, that is. You can’t see the place from here. If you want to walk along with me I’m going up to a higher level now. I might be able to point it out to you from there.”
“Yes, I’ll come.”
Mouseglove rose. Pol did also.
A flight of tarnished butterflies swept by as they mounted the stair. When Pol rested his hand against an ornamental column, it felt more like the trunk of a tree than cold stone. The huge gems set into walls had lost much of their brilliance in day’s hard glare. But Pol smiled, for the impression of beauty still held despite all of this.
They climbed a hill and Larick pointed at the mountain.
“Yes. Over there,” he said. “Near the base—that triangular, darkened area. You can see it if you look closely.”
“I see it,” Mouseglove said.
“Yes,” said Pol.
“Very well. Then I must be on my way. I will see you later.”
They watched him head off toward a group of buildings to the south.
“I’ll be waiting there when you come out,” Mouseglove said. “Don’t trust anybody while you’re inside.”
“Why not?”
“I’ve gotten the impression here and there that Madwands are looked down upon and resented by those who have served regular apprenticeships. I don’t know how strong the feelings might be, but there’ll be nine of them in there with you. I wouldn’t turn my back on them in any dark corridors.”
“You might have a point there. I won’t give them any opportunities.”
“Shall we stroll back and see whether Ibal is receiving company yet?”
“Good idea.”
But Ibal was not yet receiving. Pol left a message that the schedule had been advanced and that he would be leaving that afternoon. Then he returned to his own quarters and stretched out upon his bed, to rest and meditate. He thought over the entire story of his life as he now knew it—the story of the son of a powerful and evil sorcerer, his life preserved in exchange for his heritage as he was exiled to another world, one which knew no magic. He recalled the day of his return, his bitter reception in this world when he was recognized by means of the dragon birthmark upon his right wrist. He remembered his escape, his flight, his discovery of the ruined family seat at Rondoval and all that went with it—his identity, his powers, his control over the savage beasts that slept there. He relived his conflict with his brilliant but warped step-brother, Mark Marakson, in the anomolous center of high technology which that one had resurrected atop Anvil Mountain in the south. He thought of his brief but doomed affair with the village girl Nora, who had never stopped loving Mark. And now .
. .
The Seven. The peculiar manipulation of his life by the seven statuettes, which seemed to have ended that day atop Anvil Mountain, returned to plague his thoughts. He still had no notion as to their true functions, purposes, aims. He felt that he would never enjoy full freedom from apprehension until he came to terms with them. And then the recent unexplained attempt upon his life, and the midnight encounter with the sorcerer who seemed to have answers but did not care to share them . . .
About the only personal thing that did not pass through his mind was a consideration of his recurrent dreams. Soon he fell asleep and had another.
He took his loaf and his water flask with him to the Arch of the Blue Bird. Mouseglove accompanied him to that point. Larick and six of the others were already present. The westering sun had encountered a cloudbank and the city took on its evening sheen prematurely. The other candidates were uniformly young and nervous; and Pol forgot their names—except for Nupf, with whom he was already acquainted.
The sky continued to darken while they waited for the others, and Pol idly let his vision slip into the second seeing. As he cast his gaze about he noted a blue-white pyramid or cone near the center of town, a thing which had not registered itself upon his normal perceptions. Continuing to watch it for a time, he gained the impression that it was growing. He moved his seeing back to its normal mode and the phenomenon faded.
Making his way past the other candidates, he approached Larick who stood, obviously impatient now, watching the massing clouds.
“Larick?”
“What do you want?”
“Just curious. Would you know what that big cone of blue light growing up over there is?”
Larick turned and stared for several moments, then, “Oh,” he said. “That is for our benefit—and it reminds me again just how late things are getting. Where the devil are the rest of them?” He turned, looking in several directions, and then a certain tension seemed to go out of him. “Here they come,” he said, noting three figures on a distant walkway.
He turned back to Pol.
“That cone you see is the force being raised by an entire circle of sorcerers,” he explained. “By the time we enter Belken, it will have reached the mountain and filled it, attuning all ten stations within to greater cosmic forces. As you move from one to the other, each a symbolic representation of one of your own lights, the energies will flow through you and you will thereby be shaped, reshaped and attuned yourself.”
“I see.”
“I am not certain that you do, Dan. The other nine candidates, serving proper apprenticeships, should have developed their lights properly, in the natural order. For them, tonight’s experience should only be an intensification with some minor balancing. With you, though—a Madwand may take any path. It could prove painful, distressing, even maddening or fatal. I do not say this to discourage or frighten, merely to prepare you. Try not to allow anything that occurs to cause you undue distress.”
Here Larick bit his lip and looked away.
“Where—where are you from?” he asked.
“A very distant land. I’m sure you would never have heard of it.”
“What did you do there?”
“Many things. I suppose I was best at being a musician.”
“What about magic?”
“It was not known in that place.”
Larick shook his head.
“How could that be?”
“It is just the way that things were.”
“Then yourself? How did you come to this land? And how did you become a Madwand?”
For a moment, Pol found himself wanting to tell Larick his story. But prudence put a limit to his desire.
“It is a very long tale,” he said, looking back over his shoulder, “and the other three are almost here.”
Larick glanced in that direction.
“I suppose that you had some interesting experiences once you discovered your abilities?” he said hurriedly.
“Yes, many,” Pol replied. “They might fill a book.”
“Do any stand out in your memory as particularly significant?”
“No.”
“I get the impression that you do not like to talk about these things. All right. There is no requirement that you do so. But if you would tell me, I would like to know one thing.”
“What is that?”
“A white magician may on occasion use what is known as black magic, and vice-versa. We know that it is all much the same and that it is intent that makes the difference—and that it is from intent alone that the magician’s path might be described. Have you yet chosen one path or the other?”
“I have used what I had to use as I had to use it,” Pol said. “I like to think that my intentions were relatively pure, but then most people so justify themselves in their own eyes. I mean well, most of the time.”
Larick smiled and shook his head.
“I wish that I had more time to talk with you, for I feel something very peculiar behind your words. Have you ever used magic with great force against another human being?”
“Yes.”
“What became of that person?”
“He is dead.”
“Was he also a sorcerer?”
“Not exactly.”
“ ‘Not exactly’? How can that be? A person either is or is not.”
“This was a very special case.”
Larick sighed and then smiled again.
“Then you are a black magician.”
“You said it. I didn’t.”
The three final candidates now approached the group and were introduced. Larick looked them all over and then addressed them:
“We are late getting started. We will head along this way immediately and then proceed until we have departed the city. The trail will commence shortly thereafter and we will begin our climb. I do not know yet how many—if any—rest stops we may make along the way. It depends on our progress and the time.” He gestured toward a heap of folded white garments. “Each of you pick up a robe on the way by. We’ll don them right before we enter.”
He turned and passed under the arch, moving away.
Mouseglove approached Pol.
“I’ll be at the exit point in the morning,” he said. “Good luck.”
“Thanks.”
Pol hurried after the others, moving toward the head of the group. When he glanced back, Mouseglove was gone. He continued his pace until he caught up with Larick, felling into step beside him.
“I am curious,” he said, “why you are trying so hard to make me out a black magician.”
“It is nothing to me,” the other replied. “Those of all persuasions meet and mix freely in this place.”
“But I am not. At least, I don’t think I am.”
“It is of no importance.”
Pol shrugged.
“Have it your way, then.”
He slowed his pace and fell back among the group of apprentices. Nupf came up next to him.
“Bit of a surprise here, eh?” the apprentice said.
“What do you mean?”
“The suddenness of it all. Ibal doesn’t even know I’m on my way. He’s still—” he paused and grinned. “—occupied.”
“At least he got my name onto the list before he turned his attention to other matters.”
“It was not entirely altruistic of him,” Nupf replied. “I envy you considerably, should you come through this intact.”
“How so?”
“You don’t know?”
Pol shook his head.
“Madwands—particularly those who make it through initiation,” Nupf explained, “are, almost without exception, the most powerful sorcerers of all. Of course, there aren’t that many around. Still, that is why Ibal would like to have you remember him with a certain fondness and gratitude.”
“I’ll be damned,” Pol said.
“You really didn’t know?”
“Not in the least. Could that have anything to do, I wonder
, with Larick’s efforts to find out whether I’m black or white?”
Nupf laughed.
“I suppose he hates to see the opposite side get a good recruit.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, I don’t really know that much about him, but the rumor going around among the other candidates has it that Larick is so lily white he spends all of his free time hating the other side. He is also supposed to be very good—in a purely technical sense.”
“I’m getting tired of being misjudged,” Pol said. “It’s been going on all my life.”
“It would be best to put up with a little more of it, for now.”
“I wasn’t thinking of disturbing the initiation.”
“I’m sure he’ll run it perfectly. Whites are very conscientious.”
Pol laughed. He adjusted his vision and looked back at the cone of power. It had grown noticeably. He turned away and moved on toward the mounting clouds. Belken had already acquired something of radiance beneath them.
VI.
Seated upon the wide ledge outside the cavemouth, three-quarters of the way up the mountain’s western face, Pol finished his bread and drank the rest of his water while watching the sun sink beneath the weight of starless night. There had been only one brief break on the way up and his feet throbbed slightly. He imagined the others were also somewhat footsore.
There came a flash of lightning in the southwest. A cold wind which had followed them more than halfway up made a little whistling noise among rocky prominences overhead. The mountain had a faint glow to it, which it seemed to acquire every night, only tonight it continued to brighten even as he watched. And when he shifted over to second seeing it seemed as if all of Belken were afire with a slowly undulating blue flame. He was about to comment upon it to Nupf when Larick rose to his feet and cleared his throat.
“All right. Put the robes on over your clothes and line up before the entrance,” he said. “It will be a bit of a walk to the first station. I will lead the way. There is to be no talking unless you are called upon for responses.”
They unfolded the coarse white garments and began donning them.
“ . . . And any visions or transformations you may witness—along with any alterations of awareness—are occasions neither for distress nor comment. Accept everything that comes to you, whether it seems good or bad. Transformations themselves may well be transformed before the night is over.”
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