“Not so.”
“I have everything she has. It’s just lower, wider, and weighs more.”
Laron took the scarf from his head and tapped something invisible. The circlet and violet sphere materialized on his head.
“Do you have one of these?”
The Toreans had been the masters of oracle-sphere sorcery, but most of the mechanisms, texts, and people essential to its understanding had perished with the continent. Wensomer was seriously tempted. The device that Ninth wore was of incalculable worth, in terms of both gold and scholarship.
“I believe we can arrange that Ninth never returns from her next trip to the market. Freelance slavers, you know. One never knows where they will strike next.”
“Admiral Forteron banned slavery—”
“Illegal freelance slavers, one never knows where they will strike next. Sairet will be upset, but I’ll console her.”
“Why not spread a rumor that she has fled with me to the island palace? That will give Feran even less incentive to have Diomeda searched.”
Wensomer stroked her chin for a moment. “I’ll do it, but only if you promise to sleep in separate rooms and not to—”
“Wensomer! Velander’s body may be twenty years old, but Ninth’s soul has existed for only a few months! She’s an auton, she has no interest in sex—and as far as I am concerned, she is my baby sister.”
Wensomer nodded to herself, then reached her decision. She stood up and began to pace, her arms folded behind her back. Laron watched, his chin on his clasped hands.
“Laron, against my better judgment, I agree. By tonight Ninth will be locked in one of the villa’s towers, safely tucked into a single bed. Meantime, you will be standing in the mud beneath the Royal Esplanade Bridge.”
What Laron had not told Wensomer was that he had been conducting brief conversations with a very, very different part of the auton girl whenever he could find a strong guard auton or etheric field to drain, or when a thunderstorm was in progress. Should I tell her, or let her find out for herself? he wondered. It would be very, very satisfying to demonstrate superior scholarship in front of Wensomer.
It was not the season for either storms or rain, but then, neither of Diomeda’s seasons featured much rain. The warm season saw no rain at all, and the hot season brought a hurricane every so often, but otherwise all of the port city’s fresh water came from the Leir. Or by the river. Citizens who felt nervous about what was being dumped, dropped, poured, or peed into the Leir River by the kingdoms upstream were inclined to import barrels of meltwater from the snows of the inland mountains. The market gardens, date palm and fig orchards, vineyards, and horse troughs were all supplied by riverwater, however, and even the silt that was used to grow vegetables and make mudbricks came from the river.
The river was rising. Normally it rose five feet every year when heavy rains fell on the inland mountains, and the flood plain around Diomeda was underwater for a few weeks. Now the river was already two feet above the normal level, and most people suspected the clouds that were raining on Diomeda were also dumping a large amount of unseasonal rain in the mountains. The citizens shivered in the tepid air of what should have been the hot season, and they made daily trips to inspect the depth markers in the river. Apart from the more exclusive villas, mansions, and palaces—which were built on hills—the entire city was on ground that was precisely one foot above the high-water mark of the annual floods.
Wensomer looked out over the river from the larger of her villa’s two towers. Ninth sat behind her. The river not only was rising, it was changing color to a rich, muddy red. Wensomer turned back to Ninth, who sat with her hands in her lap. Unless ordered to do anything, she did nothing.
“Take off your scarf, if you please,” ordered Wensomer.
Ninth obeyed. Laron had left the circlet configured to be visible. On her forehead was a violet sphere held in a silvery metal circlet, whose edges blended somehow into the skin of her forehead, and which vanished back into her hair.
Laron was on the roof, in the rain, assembling a complex mechanism of crystals, metallic spirals, sea-dragon ivory, carved greenstone, and pure copper bars. Bats enmeshed by autons trailed wires high into the sky. Presently he entered, dripping wet.
“I seem to be tapping etheric energy down out of the clouds without inducing a lightning strike,” he announced.
“I’m relieved to hear it,” replied Wensomer.
“That cushion is now right at the focus of the etheric crystal inducers on the roof. Ninth, sit down upon it, if you please?”
Ninth stood, walked to the cushion, and sat down. She wriggled uneasily, as if an ant had found its way under her robes.
“You know that I am your new patroness, don’t you?” asked Wensomer.
“Yes, ladyship.”
“I have decided to make you my personal servant.”
“Yes, ladyship.”
“Would you like that?”
“Yes, ladyship.”
“Have you ever been to bed with a man?”
“No, ladyship.”
Interesting, thought Wensomer. No memories of when the succubus controlled the body. Not so much a clean slate, as nobody to hold the chalk.
“What are you, Ninth?”
“An auton, ladyship.”
Wensomer continued to wait. Ninth remained Ninth. Laron ran about frantically, making adjustments. Wensomer sat back in a chair and began drumming her fingers on the armrest.
Velander cowered as the thing loomed over her. It had elements of cold, sharp hunger about it, and was quite powerful. Almost a raptor elemental, she thought, but not quite. It focused on her.
“You are very faint, but quite complex,” it observed, without showing any hostility.
“I was once alive,” said Velander.
“Are you saying you are a ghost?”
“I am dying, very slowly.”
The thing circled the almost vanishingly faint axis, examining Velander.
“Can I help?” it asked presently.
The offer took Velander by surprise. Help. In a curious way the thing was already helping. Speaking with it was helping to focus what was left of her. It was like a huge, clumsy puppy, radiating etheric energy everywhere. Velander basked in the glow, like a cat lying in a sun-drenched garden.
“Just talk, be near,” she said. “Your life force … reviving me.”
The thing moved closer. An experienced darkwalker would not squander energies like this; most were so controlled that they were difficult to see.
“I am lost,” the thing admitted. “My worldname is Elltee. I am a … scholar.”
“I am Velander. I was once a priestess. Where are you from, what are you trying to find?”
“A sorcerer has been speaking with me. He tells me secrets, in return for secrets of the cold sciences from my world. I—I am afraid that I was experimenting with a new setting on my circlet when he called this time. Instead of focusing on the oracle sphere and body where I was being summoned, I found myself here.”
“Elltee, please, stay with me. I shall tell you skills and secrets without asking for any in return. I have been alone for so long.”
“Velander, I have no control of how long I can stay in this place, but tell me how to help while I am with you. I shall do all that I can.”
Wensomer had eaten two small pastries, drunk half a jar of wine, read part of a book on seduction castings, then fallen asleep before Laron finally cried out in triumph and dashed back into the room.
“The little wretch must have been fiddling with her circlet’s settings!” he announced as Wensomer shook her head and sat up. “I have had contact all along, it was just the focus that was missing.”
He made an adjustment to Ninth’s circlet. Abruptly she writhed in the grip of a spasm, falling back with her spine arched. Laron held Wensomer back, and moments later Ninth sat up. She looked around slowly, as if seeing the room for the first time.
“Elltee?” asked Laro
n.
“Laron! Sometimes I just can’t believe this.”
Wensomer instantly knew this was not Ninth. The thing radiated energy and self-confidence.
“Where were you?”
“In a dark place, full of sparkles and shadowy shapes. I was talking to a sort of fuzzy bubble on a glowing, orange string. She said she was a ghost.”
“What? You were darkwalking?”
“Yes, that’s what she said it was.”
“Elltee, you should never talk to strange elementals. They can trick you, even kill you. It might have been a succubus, not a ghost.”
“Oh no, she seemed much too nice for that. Bit of a
“‘Dork’?” said Laron, echoing the inconvertible word.
“Dork. I thought I was supposed to think and speak in the language of my host.”
“Not if the word does not exist.”
“A dork is an overfocused scholar or natural philosopher with limited social skills. They tend to take themselves a bit seriously—”
“Not now!” snapped Laron. “I need to ask you some important questions.”
“Whatever you like.”
“Dork,” said Wensomer, savoring the work like a pleasant sweet. “That describes a disturbingly large number of sorcerers.”
“Who is your lady friend?” asked Elltee, turning from Laron.
“‘Lady friend’ is putting it a bit strongly, but her name is Wensomer. It’s actually she who wants to ask the questions.”
He looked to Wensomer and shrugged.
“Where were you born?” Wensomer asked.
“The Royal
Several words were inconvertible, obviously from a culture, language, place, time, and world that had little in common with hers.
“How old are you?” Wensomer asked.
“Eleven,” she replied, then added, “Years.”
“What are the most advanced etheric machines where you were born?”
“There are no ether machines there. We use a type of ether called
Wensomer shook her head, fighting to conceal her astonishment. On the other hand, she was learning nothing that a clever trickster could not have devised.
“Then what are some of your advanced machines?”
“
“All right, that’s enough!” Wensomer called.
Hardly a word had been intelligible. A something shuttle. Did that mean they had very advanced weaving? Wensomer wondered. And a something teller. That might be a machine to tell stories to children while parents were out gathering the harvest. Teller. Perhaps it was a machine to speak castings—and possibly to store ether. Now, that would indeed be an advanced machine. But she said they had no ether machines there. There were too many words that made no sense. The elemental could be of immense value, yet she was like a book of advanced castings in a dead language—with no pictures or diagrams. Long and careful study of her was clearly needed.
Wensomer came to a decision. “What are your last memories of the world you were born into?” she asked.
“I was doing my
“And how long ago was that?”
“Just now, before I found myself in the etherworld with the ghost.”
Wensomer’s jaw dropped. She quickly closed her mouth, swallowed, and blinked. This had no precedent in the world’s history. The oracle spheres could enclose the essence and memories of a soul from the moment of imaging, but never thereafter. This girl was not just an image, she was an image linked to a live creature. A thought came to Wensomer.
“Elltee, how many moonworlds circle the lordworld of your world?”
“None.”
“What?”
“None.”
“Ah, how many suns circle your world?”
“None.”
Wensomer put a hand to her forehead. This was either the greatest hoax in history, or she was so far out of her depth that—
“How many moonworlds in your world’s sky?”
“One.”
Wensomer’s shoulders sagged with relief.
“And does it provide all light and heat?”
“No, the sun does that.”
“But you said there was no sun.”
“I said no sun circles my world. My world circles a sun.”
A world with a huge sun at an immense distance. Wensomer now wondered if Laron was playing some monstrous hoax on her. If not … Wensomer suddenly went over to a writing desk and began to scribble on reedpaper.
“Fantastic,” she said to herself. “Instead of a sun circling Miral, the girl’s world circles a sun.”
Laron forced down the smile of triumph that was trying to curl his lips upward.
“No, Miral circles a sun, too.”
Wensomer opened her mouth to say Heresy, but caught herself.
“How do you know that, if your world’s skies are so different?”
“There are four of what you call lordworlds in our skies.
Barely comprehending, Wensomer wrote it all down. This day, the universe had changed. Outside, there were people worrying about a rising river and a besieging army, yet in this tower the very order of the skies was being juggled. She was talking to something with the knowledge of a god. What did one ask a god?
“What is ether, what is the source of our magic?”
“Miral is known to our sciences as a
“Would I die on your world?” asked Wensomer, gleaning a fragment of meaning from the last sentence.
“I think so. You probably need ether as much as food, water, and air. There is not much on my world.”
All the important words were unintelligible to Wensomer. She sighed and laid down her quill. Suddenly Elltee cried out.
“
From the roof came a loud crackling, followed by a sharp blast. Laron hurried away to investigate, and the acrid smell of something burning wafted down to Wensomer. Ninth shook her head and sat up.
“Ladyship? Should I wait upon you?”
“I—I feel a little faint; I must rest now,” said Wensomer. “Go and find my steward, have him put you in the lower tower.”
She left. Wensomer contemplated her notes, scribbled a few figures on a slate, consulted several texts, did some calculations on an abacus frame, then stared in disbelief and rubbed her eyes when she saw the result. Presently Laron came down again, carrying his sodden, blackened apparatus.
“The amberstone etheric insulators burned out and shattered,” he reported. “That disrupted all my castings and the autons collapsed, letting the bats escape. Luckily, nothing I borrowed from the Academy was damaged too badly, except for the amber.”
“Does Mother know you borrowed all that from her Academy?”
“Er, no, and getting it back is going to be hard.”
“Oh no, let me do it. It’s my turn to see her furious. Laron, do you have any idea how much etheric energy is needed to keep a link open to another moonworld’s creature?”
“By the tone of your voice,
quite a lot,” the youth replied.
“The figure is truly immense. The Toreans also used to drain power down out of thunderstorms to achieve it; in fact, that is why their Concentricaren Arena was sited in an area notorious for thunderstorms. This is different, however. Ninth is linked to something that is not from the moonworlds.” Wensomer pointed through the window and up into the night sky, out of which the rain was still pouring. “I say she is linked to the stars.”
“So, you now believe me? Elltee and I are from the same world.”
“Laron, I don’t believe that! She is from some glittering paradise of scholarship and power. You were from a society on a level barely above the hairy-arsed, illiterate pig molesters of Bantriok Island.”
“Now, just a moment—”
“Unless, of course, your world changed fantastically over the past seven centuries. I know systematic knowledge when I hear it, even if I cannot grasp all the concepts. So, there is a link between Ninth’s oracle sphere and one in another world, a world so distant that we do not even have names for the immense figures needed to describe the number of miles involved. One thing I do know is that if Silverdeath were to be put onto her, her oracle sphere would soak up etheric energy on a scale not seen since Torea burned. Remember what those who witnessed the fire-circle castings reported? Silverdeath said, ‘This is at the limit of my powers,’ or words to that effect. Put it onto Ninth, and I would bet my seat on the High Circle that it will fade and vanish.”
“‘Fade and vanish’?” Laron scoffed. “The thing survived heat that melted a continent and you say that Ninth, an auton girl, can destroy it?”
“Not destroy it, jam it. Silverdeath does not quite exist, Laron. It is just energy and organization, fashioned by ancient etheric sorcerers who obviously went to a far better academy than I did. Jamming Silverdeath would be like scratching a channel at the top if an immense earthwork dam. Water would begin to trickle out, washing away a little earth in the process, and widening the channel. Come back in a day or two and you would find no lake and no dam.”
“This sounds too easy, too convenient,” said Laron, who was suspicious of any solution to anything that did not involve a lot of suffering.
Voyage of the Shadowmoon Page 48