“My time is passing. But yours is to come. That is my great joy. Please don’t take it from me.”
Isabelle shut her eyes, and tears ran down a face hard with anger. She closed her hand over the fireball, extinguishing it. Her shield dissolved.
The danger was over.
The energy inside Galen slowed, quieted. Galen realized the pain she must be in, watching her teacher and mother dying. He was shocked at the anger he’d felt only a few seconds earlier. How could he have been so close to attacking her?
Galen stepped aside, and Isabelle returned to Burell. She grasped the shimmering arm of the chair. Burell stroked her hand. “You’re my dearest Isabelle.”
Isabelle bowed her head. “What if I don’t try to heal you,” she said softly. “What if I just give you some of my organelles, in case they can do any good.” She glanced back at him, and the hardness had gone from her face. “Galen could give some too.”
Galen moved to Isabelle’s side. “If part of your tech is inert,” he said to Burell, “then you’re probably producing fewer organelles than usual. They may be overtaxed. Perhaps more could help. Not cure you, but help you cope with the stresses.”
From the set of Burell’s crooked lips, Galen could see she believed it would do no good. Yet her gaze lingered long on Isabelle, and at last she said, “Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps it can help.”
Isabelle wiped her tears. “Yes. Maybe it will help. Maybe it will. Galen?”
Isabelle pulled back Burell’s sleeve and laid one hand on her arm, the other on the back of her head. Galen went around Burell to the other side and did the same. Her forearm felt like a cold stick in his hand. He visualized the spell to trigger the release of organelles.
His hands tingled, and there was an odd sense of a shift in his body, as when he got out of bed in the morning and his blood redistributed itself. In a moment it passed, and he removed his hands.
A tentative smile had appeared on Isabelle’s face. “You need rest now.”
Burell took a deep breath. “Yes.”
Isabelle followed Burell into the bedroom. While they were both gone, Galen tried to study the research of Osiyrin but instead found himself worrying about his earlier anger toward Isabelle. They had turned on each other in a moment. Between their work and Burell’s deteriorating health, Isabelle was exhausted. But what was his excuse?
The restless energy of the tech—he had already become so accustomed to the constant, irritating undercurrent that it seemed part of him. Could he blame it for his flash of anger? Or did the impulse to anger begin with him? In either case, how could he better control it?
Isabelle returned from the bedroom looking much better. She had washed the tears from her face, and a sense of peace that he hadn’t realized was missing had returned to her features.
“She went right to sleep,” Isabelle said. “Usually she can’t, because of the pain. I think that’s a good sign.”
Galen followed a path through the boxes and piles to Isabelle. He took her hand. “I pulled you away from her because I was worried what would happen to you.”
“I know. Sorry about the fireball.”
He nodded.
“I guess we’ve had our first fight,” she said.
He released her hand.
“Now it’s time to share something more pleasant.” She took a breath, composing herself, pushing herself ahead. “Our first Winter Solstice.”
“What?”
“You may have lost track of time, dear Galen, but I have not. Today is December twenty-second on Earth, the time when the sun reaches its farthest point south of the equator, a time of turning, changing. Our ancestors considered this a day of power, the day when the sun stopped its journey away and began its return. From then on, every day grew longer, and light pushed back darkness, hope pushed back despair. It is a day Burell and I—always celebrate.”
“How do we celebrate?”
“First, I have a present for you.” She went around the counter into the kitchen area, reached into a cupboard and pulled out a brightly wrapped box.
“I don’t have anything for you.”
“That’s the best time to get a present, isn’t it? When you aren’t expecting one?” She led him toward the sofa, squeezed into the small cleared area beside him. He liked the feeling of her body next to his. She handed him the box.
He opened it. Inside was something tan-colored, woven. He pulled it out. A scarf.
“To keep you warm.” She grabbed it and wrapped it around his neck, her subtle essence enveloping him. She leaned back, biting her lip. “Quite handsome.”
“Did you weave this yourself?” It had an odd texture, with bumps spaced irregularly over its surface.
She rested her head against his shoulder. “Of course.”
“Does that mean there’s a spell woven into it?” He ran his hand over the bumps as if reading Braille.
“That’s for you to unravel.”
They sat in silence for a few minutes as Galen puzzled over the gift. Isabelle’s ribs pressed into him as she breathed. “Are there any more parts to this celebration?” he asked.
“Just one more. A toast.” As she put a hand on his chest and pushed herself up from the sofa, he regretted asking the question. He followed her into the kitchen, where she poured two glasses of wine. Her head was bent, a line of muscle in her neck revealing tension. “I first read of the Well of Forever when I was nine years old. I knew Burell was having trouble getting tech to study, and I suggested to her that we go to the Well. When she told me that it had been lost, this burial place of the earliest techno-mages, this great repository of tech and knowledge, I became obsessed with finding it.” She handed him a glass. “Every Winter Solstice, Burell and I toast, and say ‘Next year, we find it.’ You’ll have to stand in—” Isabelle’s voice broke, and she turned away. “If the Circle had only given her tech to study, she wouldn’t have had to experiment on herself. She wouldn’t”—she ground out the words—“be dying.” She picked up her glass and turned back to him with a fixed, despairing smile on her face.
She raised her glass and with a pointed look, told him he should do the same. He hated to see the pain on her face. Yet Isabelle would not give up the quest, he realized, feeling another moment of connection with her. Her failure to find the Well in time to help Burell would make her more determined to find it, just as Galen’s failure to live up to the Code made him more determined to prove himself. Perhaps he could help her, and in their success, in recovering this lost piece of the mages’ past, he could erase that expression of despair from her face.
They spoke together. “Next year, we find it.”
“Have you done this before?” Isabelle asked.
“You’re asking now?” Galen jammed the thing in, shaking it up and down.
“It seems the question of the moment. Well?”
“No.” He pulled it out, cursed, jammed it in again. “Have you?”
“No. Maybe we should have thought this out a bit more.”
“Alwyn told me it always works.” He pulled the card out of the lock system. The door remained stubbornly closed.
“Nothing always works.” Isabelle’s back shifted against his as she spoke, and the full-body shield she had conjured around herself tingled over his skin like an electrostatic charge. She was keeping watch while he worked on the lock to the Drakh’s building.
The neighborhood was dark, since they’d cut off the power supply, and that had knocked out the Drakh’s monitors and alarms. But locks always had a battery backup. “We’ve got to try something else. Force?”
“That will ruin our plan.” Galen’s mind was racing. He felt like an idiot. He strove for calm, control.
“Heat? Electrical surge?” Isabelle suggested.
“Will that open it?”
“No idea,” she said.
Galen turned the card upside down, jammed it in again. The door clicked open. Isabelle turned at the sound. “Brilliant!”
They hurried inside, closed the door gently behind them, sealing themselves into blackness. Isabelle’s shield gave her silhouette a faint blue glow. She had urged Galen to conjure a shield as well, but he’d told her that if he tried to sustain one, he’d be unable to concentrate on anything else. Anyway, if all went to plan, they’d be in and out without anyone knowing they were there, just as Elric taught.
The plan was a bit crazy, but they’d been able to come up with nothing better. The Drakh was likely the only one on Zafran 8 who knew whether or not the Shadows were involved. But he never left the building, and their probes had detected no communications to the rim that they might intercept. The only way to discover the truth was from the Drakh’s own lips.
In his mind’s eye, Galen looked out through the probe on the outside of the front door. Using the infrared band, he watched a Wychad across the alley wander toward the main street and the lights. No one had observed their entrance.
The probe in the Drakh’s bedchamber showed that he was still asleep. It was five after ten. He was the only one in the building.
Galen put his sensors on the infrared band, so he could find his way. Isabelle preceded him down the stairs. He checked that the door would open from the inside without any trouble when they were ready to leave. Then he followed.
The location—underground with no ready exit—wasn’t a good one. But as far as he and Isabelle had been able to discover, the Drakh had no weapons. Although the Drakh was physically quite large, Galen felt certain they could handle him if he became violent. He wondered why Captain Ko’Vin, who was always armed, had been so afraid.
Isabelle stood outside the Drakh’s room, her hands weaving mist. It appeared as granular red wisps in his mind’s eye. With her dark robe and pale red skin, she seemed to float like a spirit.
The mist quickly filled the Drakh’s bedchamber. Galen waded carefully through it. He breathed deeply, repeating to himself his vow to uphold the Code and the directives of the Circle. He would conjure nothing by instinct, but consider carefully before visualizing any spell. He touched his pocket and felt the special tranq tab they’d made. They would use it after they’d gotten all the answers they wanted, or earlier, if the plan began to fail. Galen found the brilliant red of the Drakh’s body, knelt beside the Drakh’s head.
Isabelle came into the room and stood to one side of the door. She nodded to him. She would record whatever the Drakh said and did. She moved her fingers, and a dim light suffused the mist. Galen turned off his sensors, his regular vision now sufficient.
The Drakh lay on his back, arms straight down beside him, his face turned upward. He slept with a thick cylindrical pillow beneath his neck, which kept the back of his head from touching the mat. He seemed larger in person, and somehow more real. A subtle scent hung around him, like mold. His skin was a striated brown and black, looking more like rock than flesh. The two craggy outcroppings on the back of the head were striped with more fluid lines, making Galen think of cooled lava.
He called up Osiyrin’s scans of the Drakh brain, with the area Osiyrin believed corresponded to the temporal lobe highlighted. According to Osiyrin, the Drakh brain wasn’t that different from the brains of other intelligent species; the temporal lobe was supposed to be located within the upper outcropping. It was the lower outcropping that really distinguished the Drakh, serving no purpose that Osiyrin had been able to identify.
Galen circled his hands around the upper outcropping, bringing them as close as they could without touching the Drakh. If Osiyrin was right, this should work.
Galen closed his eyes and visualized the equation to stimulate the temporal lobes. Kell had done the same to Galen when he had challenged Galen with a hallucination. Stimulating the temporal lobes turned an illusion into an extremely intense emotional experience, disorienting and striking, each moment weighted with great import. Galen wanted that for the Drakh.
The corner of the Drakh’s mouth began to twitch.
Galen glanced up. Isabelle was a gray shape in the mist. He couldn’t see her hands, but he knew they must be moving, for a darkness began to gather within the dim curtains of mist. Over the Drakh’s bed a shadowy figure formed. It was vague, shifting, a black form with spiky limbs poking out in various directions. They had decided to keep it vague, since Osiyrin’s description of the Drakh god had been a bit uncertain. The effect was rather like a black sun with a shifting, spiky black corona. In the center of that dark sun were four piercing points of light, the one detail that seemed certain. According to Osiyrin, the god wasn’t exactly a Shadow; he was the source of Shadows. The Shadows were his highest servants. And the Drakh served the Shadows.
The Drakh stirred.
The god spoke, in a dry voice that carried a faint echo. Isabelle had worked hard on the voice, which was similar to the Drakh’s own, but more resonant. It spoke in the limited vocabulary of Drakh that Osiyrin had provided. The words were translated in Galen’s mind’s eye.
You have earned my wrath.
The Drakh jerked awake. His arms shot out to the sides, pressing against the mat as if he were desperate for balance. His mouth fell open in what Galen hoped was awe.
You have not prepared the way. You have not furthered my cause. You are not fit.
The Drakh’s head wavered back and forth as he fought disorientation. Galen struggled not to make contact with his skin, though he doubted the Drakh would notice if he did.
The Drakh’s lips moved, though no sound came out. Then, the Drakh whispered. Osiyrin’s dictionary translated. I have tried. I am devoted to your cause.
The god’s voice grew louder. You are too slow. You are too cautious. It is time I stretched forth my hand.
I am working toward the great conquest, the Drakh whispered. The plans are [words unavailable in program].
You are too slow.
Your high servants are cautious, but they will bring us victory.
Too late.
No, the Drakh said, flailing a hand in agitation. We are gathering the resources. We are gathering allies. We have made great progress. Within weeks, our provocations will begin. Within a year, the galaxy will be consumed with war. Chaos will ascend.
The Drakh pushed himself into a sitting position, his head slipping out from Galen’s hands. Galen’s heart jumped and the tech echoed his panic. He reached for the tranq tab, glanced at Isabelle. He couldn’t make out her expression, but the illusion continued.
I see no allies, the god said. Where are they?
The Drakh, seeing the image now without distortion, looked around the room, puzzled. He uttered a word then in his dry voice, a long, intricate word that sounded like the rustling of papers in the wind.
[Word unavailable in program.]
If they were to continue, they couldn’t let the Drakh get his bearings. Galen jerked to his feet and seized the Drakh’s outcropping, nervous energy swelling within him. He kept a fierce focus on the single equation he was visualizing. He would let nothing else slip through.
The Drakh threw his arms out, trying to fight off the attack, but overcome again with disorientation and awe.
Who are these allies? the god asked.
The Drakh continued to flail about, elbowing Galen in the side. He repeated the long, intricate word.
What of the magic workers? Isabelle had jumped ahead to their final question.
But Galen realized the Drakh would answer no more. Galen visualized the equation to stop the temporal stimulation, snatched the tranq tab from his pocket, and slapped it onto the Drakh’s neck just as the Drakh turned to look up into his face.
Galen stepped back, and within seconds, the Drakh fell over onto the mat, asleep. He would be unconscious for hours. Galen’s pounding heart began to slow. He turned to find Isabelle beside him.
There’s something near the door, her message read. My sensors are picking up—something. The interference we detected earlier.
He focused his sensors on the area near the door, ran through different frequency ba
nds. At the upper end of the infrared band he caught the static. His sensors showed him more precisely what the probes had only crudely transmitted. The static wasn’t due to some energy in the area. If that were the case, the static would be widespread. But the mist that floated in front of the doorway showed clearly on his sensors, with no interference. Something within the doorway, some shape within the mist, was a source of static.
The Drakh sat up. “You have been most clever,” he said in his arid voice. He spoke English. “I commend you.” The Drakh’s eyes were in shadow; Galen couldn’t tell if they were open or not. But the Drakh couldn’t be awake. The tranq had been strong enough—they thought—to keep him out half the day.
“I told you what I thought you wanted to hear,” the Drakh said. “I hope you don’t mind. I found your questions intriguing. I wanted to see what you would ask. And now I will ask. Why do you come here? Why do you ask me this?”
Except for his mouth, the Drakh did not move at all. His head hung downward, his arms limp. He looked like a marionette held up by a single string. You must follow the strings from puppet to puppet master, Elric had said.
“It was a prank,” Isabelle said in a wavering voice.
Heart pounding, Galen scanned higher frequencies, searching for any kind of energy that could be holding the Drakh up, that could be making him speak. Galen almost ran past it, the energy was in such a focused, narrow band. It was exciting the lower outcropping of the Drakh’s brain, the area whose purpose Osiyrin had been unable to explain.
“You are young,” the Drakh said. “Forget this matter, and it will be forgotten. Or if you truly seek knowledge, join me. My associates can offer you great knowledge. The secrets of the universe. Is that not what every techno-mage seeks?”
Isabelle’s blue-tinged shield suddenly unfolded and extended to form a barrier across the room, between them and the doorway. The static-filled silhouette was moving through the dim mist toward them. Isabelle’s fingers worked furiously.
The shimmering static reached the shield and with only a slight hesitation, passed through it.
Casting Shadows (The Passing of the Techno-Mages #1) Page 24