Are you sure it is safe? he asked, pressed tightly against the rock wall.
But there was no reply.
Continuing downward, he realized that the temperature had not risen excessively, as might be expected this near the point of an eruption. Could Moonbird be playing games with his own flames, to frighten off the enemy?
No, he decided, looking down into the glow. It covers too large an area and burns too regularly to be dragonfire.
He reached the floor of the crater unharmed. Clots of fire continued to flee upward, but none rose from points near him. Walls and pillars of flame came up in great number here, though what it was they fed upon, he could not discern. There was a clear aisle through their midst, however, heading in the direction he intended to take. He followed it.
The floor of the crater was even more ravaged than he remembered it, as a result of his bombing. He picked his way through heavy rubble toward the heart of a large depression as he headed for the site of his earlier digging. After several more steps, he realized that a vast shadow loomed at its center, below him.
He took another step.
Moonbird . . . ?
It swayed in his direction, and he saw the great head of the dragon nodding toward him, an ornate rod held between the enormous teeth.
The scepter! You’ve found it!
Mouseglove extended his hand.
Get onto my back.
I do not understand.
Talk later. Mount!
Mouseglove advanced and climbed upon Moonbird, scrambling toward his shoulders. Immediately, the dragon began to move, climbing out of the pit, heading toward the northern wall, almost exactly opposite the place he had climbed earlier.
When they reached the crater wall, Mouseglove suddenly caught hold more tightly as Moonbird reared and commenced climbing.
Moonbird! You can’t get to the top from here! It gets almost vertical about halfway up.
I know.
Then why are we climbing?
It is easier here. Till then.
But—
Wait till we reach the ledge.
Mouseglove recalled the rocky shelf to which he referred. It had looked wide enough to support Moonbird—barely—but it was, in effect, a dead end.
Moonbird was climbing much more rapidly here than he had up the other wall. The way was less steep, more rugged. As they mounted higher, Mouseglove glanced back down. The glow from the fires below seemed to be spreading, intensifying. He felt a wave of heat upon his face. It was followed almost immediately by another, much warmer.
At last, Moonbird reached the rocky shelf, hauled himself onto it, turned and looked downward. As he did so, the brightness and the heat increased again.
“What is happening?” Mouseglove asked aloud.
The last explosion shook me from the wall, Moonbird replied. After I fell I sensed the rod nearby.
“And the fires started about that time?”
I started the fires. To drive off your pursuers.
“How did you do that?”
I used the bottom segment of the rod. It is for fire magic.
“You can use the rod? I had no idea—”
Only the bottom segment. Dragons understand the secrets of fire.
“Well, we seem to be safe now, but the fires keep getting stronger. You might turn them off now—if you can.”
No.
“Why not?”
I will need a tower of heat. To rise out of here.
“I do not understand.”
I will dive from here toward the fires. It is easier to ride the warm air upward.
Shadows were dancing all about them now. Mouseglove felt a fresh wave of heat.
“It’s not all that far to the bottom . . . ” he said. “Are you sure you can get yourself airborne in that distance?”
Life is uncertain, Moonbird replied. Hold tightly.
He spread his wings and plunged into the blazing crater.
XIV.
The depth of my philosophical speculations as to the nature of my own being and that of the universe only increases the more I see of the world. And no real answers seem to occur, either practically or on a more general level. I now find myself wondering whether a state of uncertainty might not be the lot of all sentient beings. Still, it strikes me that there are reasons I do not fully comprehend underlying the actions of others. Their activities seem directed toward creating certain situations, whereas I have no real—objectives. I circulate. I obtain information. But I have no idea what it all means. I do not have an objective, only its mysterious ghost—something which keeps haunting me with the notion that I should have more.
Despite my perplexity in the face of existence, I continued to obey the small imperative which had accompanied me since my departure from Rondoval. I saw Mouseglove off on his errand and watched to see that Ibal did indeed possess the means to deliver him to his destination expeditiously—not to mention the will to do it. I observed Mouseglove’s departure and then returned to the place at the foot of Belken where I had obtained my first lessons in animating a body. I tried it again with the spare, with good results, frightening a group of hikers made up of a number of the younger apprentices.
Then I hovered undecided. Should I follow the still discernable emanation trail of that strange sorcerer back into the city, to discover what he was about? Or should I undertake the pursuit of Pol and Larick toward Avinconet in the north? Almost immediately, that small imperative resolved the matter.
I rose, achieving some altitude, resolved myself into a tighter form, then headed approximately northward. I overtook them in their flight and simply paced them then, drifting, for the rest of the day. Nothing was answered for me by this, but I no longer felt the pressures I had experienced earlier. For this time, I was as content as I had been in the old days, moving aimlessly about the ruins of Rondoval.
Of course it could not last. I realized this as the day wore on and the light was squeezed from it and the great castle, Avinconet, loomed before us in the darkening distance. In that moment, I learned the feeling of fear.
A strange foreboding came over me—a dark premonition, if you like—accompanied by the seeming sourceless knowledge that I could die, that my existence could be terminated and that this thing could occur within that place. It was something which had never occurred to me before, and it came as an awful revelation—for even as I considered it along with what I knew of myself, I saw that it could well be true. It would seem that a life as aimless as mine, more filled with questions than anything else, might not be worth much. I realized in that same moment that this was not the case. More than anything else, I felt, I wanted to continue it, as purposeless and puzzling as it seemed.
I drew nearer to Pol. I wrapped myself about the warmth of his being. Why the thought of flight did not even occur to me at that time, I had no idea. I clung to him as a child to a parent as we rushed nearer that dark citadel.
I remained with him after we landed, accompanying him to the cell in which he was confined. I remained there with him for some time—until his food arrived and I realized that it was unlikely he would be disturbed for the rest of the night. While my earlier fears had not been abated, they had receded sufficiently by this time to permit more rational considerations to come to the fore. Now, while all was still and nothing seemed afoot, would actually be the best time for me to survey the place, to locate whatever menaces might be lurking and consider the best means to nullify them.
Accordingly, I drifted away, leaving Pol in his safe and uninteresting quarters. I moved about various chambers, terminating rats and mice, observing sleepers, seeking signs of dark magics or dangerous forces.
I moved very slowly, not wishing to be surprised. The night wore on, and I came gradually to feel that I had suffered a false augury. Nothing threatened, nothing loomed. It seemed just another pile of rocks made suitable for human habitation by the application of a few simple construction principles and the installation of simple plumbing, some ru
de pieces of furniture and garish hangings of a nonfunctional nature. The only traces of magical doings seemed painfully innocuous.
Yet, feeling what I had felt, I was not to be so simply discouraged. The middle of the night drew on and passed. I explored each high tower. I—
An indescribable pang passed through my being. It was like nothing I had ever experienced before, unless it be the unremembered shock of my own birth. Something had suddenly changed, something affecting me to the depths of my personality. But even as it occurred, I grew doubtful that it was the fearful thing I’d sought. No tone of dark magic accompanied it. Its ultimate result was a sense of something having been settled in my own case. If I could but discover what it was, I felt that a part of my personal mystery might be solved. I drifted for a long while, meditating, but no illumination ensued and I could not determine the source of whatever it was that had come over me. It was almost as if, somewhere, my name had been spoken, just out of my hearing.
I settled, descending from floor to floor. I had investigated most of what lay above the ground and I decided to regard the areas below the castle, within the mountainside. There were a number of openings, both natural and artificial, and one by one I invaded them and explored.
It was in one of these recesses that I came upon the sleeping woman. She lay unmoving within a container, her spirit wandering, a very pale light of life still visible about her. I moved nearer, to inspect her further, and a trap was sprung. It was a subtle spell, designed to ensnare any less than material being such as myself who might venture too near the lady—presumably to protect her against possession.
So I was caught, several body-lengths from her, in what might best be described as a gigantic, invisible spiderweb. I struggled briefly and saw that it was to no avail. I relaxed against my bonds and tried altering my shape. This did not work either, nor did my attempts to shift away to another plane. The web of forces held me tightly.
I hung, spread out there, trying to analyze it. It had a certain aura of venerability about it, of the sort humans ascribe to vintage wines. I was familiar with this effect from my experience with certain old spells which remained about Rondoval. The good ones, such as this, unfortunately grow better with age, because of the counter-current entropy on the plane where magic operates. This spell, as nearly as I could judge, went back fifteen or twenty years. I tried sending charges of energy through it, a small segment at a time, hoping to locate a weakness at which I might work, from which I might unravel the thing like a stocking. All to no avail. It was of a piece, and it had me.
I remained there for a long while, recalling everything I knew that might be applied against it. When I tried them all and nothing worked, I decided that it might be time to cultivate philosophy to a greater extent. I began musing upon existence and non-existence, I reexamined my premonition, I reconsidered my pang . . .
I heard footsteps.
It is generally easy to remain inconspicuous when you are invisible and soundless, but I made extra efforts to achieve stillness on all levels, including the mental, when I saw Pol approaching led by a peculiar palm of light as immaterial as myself.
There was something familiar about the flame-like thing, something I did not like at all. I felt, without knowing why, that it had the power to harm me.
I sensed some exchange going on between Pol and the brightness. I heard only Pol’s half of it, not willing to try attuning myself to listen in fully, fearing that this might somehow make my presence known to the fiery one.
Finally, Pol unfastened the lid of the container, removed it and set it aside. There was another long pause, and then he removed the woman, crossed a ledge and entered a tunnel, following the flame.
Suddenly, I was free. The spell must have been centered upon the woman, not the locale, not the container.
I hung back. I wanted to see where they were going but I did not wish to get too near, lest I be trapped again. I drifted slowly behind them, leaving myself ample leeway, well aware now of the effective range of the spell.
I recognized the big chamber as soon as I entered it. The last time I had passed this way, I had been moving at metaphysical speeds and following a magical trail, so there had been no need for noting landmarks. Consequently, I’d had no idea that this was where the Gate was located.
The Gate . . .
Just as I remembered it, from Pol’s dreams and from my own fast passage, the Gate loomed huge, threatening and fortunately, closed. It had never been opened upon this plane, I guessed, though its ghostly version had been ajar many times, permitting the passage of sendings, essences, spirits. Had its physical self stood so, it might not be possible to close it again, for I could see how an interpenetration of the worlds would begin, the strangely structured, more ancient forms of that other with its vastly stronger magics flowing through to dominate this younger, magically weaker land, changing it into something of its own image, revivified by the raw, natural forms of this newer place. Stronger in magic, weaker in general vitality. The magic would dominate, I was certain . . .
Pol deposited his burden upon the stone with the aura of death about it. His movements were slow, irresolute, as if he were walking in his sleep. I reached out carefully then, more carefully than anything I had ever done before, and I touched his mind, just skimming his surface thoughts.
He was bewitched. He was not aware of it, but the flame had him in thrall.
I saw no way that I might interfere successfully. I knew without knowing how I knew that the thing was stronger than me. I felt totally helpless as it led Pol about, as it directed him to produce the statuette. I was more than a little pleased when Pol’s power failed and the project had to be abandoned. The flame’s frustration gave rise to the closest thing to joy that I had ever known.
I watched them depart. I doubted that Pol was in any immediate danger, and I wanted to explore the chamber a little further. A large, rectangular piece of morning decorated the wall to my left. I began to feel a fresh premonition, concerning this room.
XV.
Pol was awakened from a dreamless sleep by the sound of his cell door being unbarred. At first he felt leaden-limbed, hung over, ragged about the edges of his mind, almost as if he had been drugged. But then, within moments, before Larick had even set foot in his cell, the dragonmark began to throb wildly, heavily, in a way it had never done before, sending an adrenalinlike shock through his entire system, clearing his head instantly, informing him with a sense of wild power unlike anything he had known previously.
“Get up,” Larick said, approaching him.
Pol felt that he could strike the man dead with a single gesture. Instead, he complied.
“Come with me.”
Pol followed him out of the cell, adopting the cumbersome, lumbering gait suitable, he’d judged, for a disguised monster. Through the first window they passed, Pol saw that full daylight now lay upon the world, though he could not see the sun to judge the hour. They took a different route than that upon which he had magically followed Larick the previous evening—different, too, than the way upon which the flame had led him.
“If you cooperate,” Larick said almost casually, “it is possible that you will be released unharmed.”
“I do not consider myself unharmed,” Pol said, mounting a stair.
“Your present situation might be remedied.”
“What’s in this for you?” he asked.
The other was silent for a long while. Then, “You would not understand,” Larick said.
“Try me.”
“No. It’s not for me to explain things to you,” he finally answered. “You will have your explanations shortly.”
“What is the price for betraying the trust of the initiation committee?”
“Some things are more important than others. You’ll see.”
Pol chuckled softly. The power continued to spiral within him. He was amazed that the other could not feel its presence. He had to restrain himself from lashing out with it.
&n
bsp; They traversed a lengthy corridor, mounted another stair, crossed a wide hall.
“I would like to have met you under different circumstances,” Larick said then, as they reached a downward stair.
“I’ve a feeling that you will,” Pol replied.
He recognized an area through which he had passed during the night. He realized then that they had come into the northeastern wing of the building. They approached a dark, heavily carved door. Larick moved ahead and knocked upon it.
“Come in,” came a voice slightly higher in pitch than Pol had expected.
Larick opened the door and stepped across the threshold. He turned.
“Come along.”
Pol followed him into the room. It was a study in rough timbers and stone, with four red and black rugs upon the floor. There were no windows. Ryle Merson was seated at a large table, the remains of his breakfast before him. He did not rise.
“Here is that Madwand we discussed,” Larick said. “He is completely docile in all but spirit.”
“Then you’ve got the part that counts,” Ryle replied. “Leave him to me.”
“Yes.”
“I mean it literally.”
Pol saw the look of surprise which widened Larick’s eyes and parted his lips. “You want me to go?”
Ryle’s broad face was expressionless.
“If you please.”
Larick stiffened.
“Very well,” he said.
He turned toward the door.
“But stay within hailing distance.”
Larick looked back, nodded curtly and departed the room, closing the door behind him.
Ryle studied Pol.
“I saw you at Belken,” he said at length.
“And I saw you,” Pol said, returning the older man’s stare. “On the street, talking with Larick, in front of the cafe where I sat.”
“You have a good memory.”
Pol shook his head.
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