At the end of the hall, the man in the cloak, eyes still hidden behind his hood, pulled a small lever beside a closed door. Xemion heard the sound of a distant bell. Soon a little window in the door slid open and the prettier side of Glittervein’s face peered out. He opened the door, and with the semblance of a friendly smile, his deep, booming voice rumbled, “Ah, yes, Xemion.”
“Yes, sir. What is it, sir?” Xemion asked nervously.
“Nothing to worry about. I just wanted to clear up some questions that have arisen.” Glittervein’s words had a command hard to resist.
“Sir, I have to leave for Tiri Lighthammer’s camp in the morning. I—”
“Yes, yes, I am aware. That is why I called you in tonight. This must be done before you go.”
“But—”
“Come along now. This won’t take long. Lethir, bring along a torch for light.”
14
Examinations
Lethir had to hunch over as he lit their way through a low-ceilinged subterranean passage that led to an underground chamber hewn out of the solid rock of Phaer Point. Glittervein gestured to a stone chair and told Xemion to sit. It was shaped like any simple chair, all straight lines and right angles, unadorned except for the small crescent-shaped depression cut into the top of its high stone back. Xemion felt the bite of its coldness as he sat. Lethir placed the torch into a bracket on the wall and stood in front of Xemion with his arms folded across his chest. Beyond him, the light flickered against the darkness, causing shadows at its perimeter to dance and disappear. How far that darkness might extend was hinted at by the echo of each sound. Xemion had a strong sense that, somewhere in that darkness, someone was watching.
“Now don’t be alarmed. This won’t take long, I promise you.” Glittervein was clearly doing his best to subdue the more grating tones in his voice. “I have been hearing lately about your … voice.” As he said this, Glittervein kept the undamaged side of his face toward Xemion and allowed his long hair to hang over that mess of scarred ridges on the other side.
“My voice?”
“Yes. To be specific, your reading. I am told that you read aloud in quite a compelling manner.”
Xemion shrugged noncommittally.
“That is very unusual in our era. As you know, it is actually illegal.”
“Yes, but since we’re not observing the Pathan laws here, I thought it would be dishonest to hide it,” Xemion answered curtly.
“I see. And who, may I ask, taught you?”
“My guardian. Her name was Anya Kuzelnika.”
“Who were your real parents?”
“Sir, I don’t know.”
“How can you not know?”
“Anya said she found me living among the monkeys in the forest.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“That’s the only story she would ever tell me. I used to ask her about it all the time, but she never gave me any other answer than that.”
“And why do you think she taught you to read?”
“She was a very old woman and her eyesight had failed her, and one day we found an old copy of the Phaer Tales.” Without even thinking about it, Xemion had nervously omitted any mention of the locket or the size of the books. “She said she wanted to hear them all one more time before she died, so she taught me to read.”
“But she put you at such great risk.”
“Sir, I knew that. But she was old and sick and not entirely in her right mind … and … I couldn’t refuse her.”
“How often did you read to her?”
“Every night.”
“You must read very well.”
Xemion shrugged. “She always complained about my enunciation.”
“Well, I am a lover of poetry. Perhaps I can get you to read for me.”
Xemion nodded and Glittervein produced a large, gilt-edged volume of the Phaer Tales and held it open before the light, pointing to a text. Despite his growing suspicion of Vallaine, Xemion did not disregard his advice. He began to recite in as toneless a voice as possible:
Their horses’ hooves come hammering down
On roads not of this Earth.
Nor do they know the pain of love,
Nor loss or savage birth.
They ride the wind ten million strong,
And longing is the spur
That pricks their flesh — Ride on! Ride on!
The Knights who never were.
When he finished, Glittervein eyed him skeptically. “Really, Xemion. Is this the best you can do?”
“Did I enunciate poorly?”
“Your enunciation is perfect. But are you reading now exactly the way you read to Mr. Sarabin’s class?”
“Yes, the way I always read.”
“Perhaps you wouldn’t mind reciting the poem again.”
“Certainly.”
“But this time I want you to take a big breath and speak louder and put some feeling into it. Gesture with your arms.”
Xemion breathed in deeply and, in an appreciably louder and more baritone voice, repeated the poem in exactly the same clipped, deadpan manner as before.
“And you are suggesting to me that this is you at your most eloquent?”
“Sir,” Xemion said with the same degree of earnestness he had often used when deliberately misinforming Anya about some of his more dangerous activities in the forest. “Sir, I think some of the Thralls who heard me read in Captain Sarabin’s class may have attributed qualities to my voice that are actually qualities of the Phaer Tales themselves. They are so complete that I have never had any urge except to speak them clearly and without effect.”
“I see. Well, please, indulge me one more time?”
Xemion shrugged.
“But this time, fight that urge. Be more like an actor, if you will.”
“I will, but I warn you the story always ends the same way.” He grinned, trying to look at ease. Joking. In an even louder tone he repeated the verses, this time with numerous stiff gestures and barely less of a monotone than before.
“I see. Well, I do hope you’re not hiding the fullness of your voice from me.”
“Of course not.”
“Because there’s nothing to fear here. No one is going to punish you if it turns out that you can recite much more eloquently than that.”
“Sir, I’ve never really liked reading aloud. I only did it to please my guardian. I’m not hiding anything.”
Just then a scraping sounded from somewhere at the back of the chamber. Xemion squinted into the darkness and felt a surge of fear.
“May I?” asked a voice like ground glass. The coldness in the room, heightened by the dampness of the fog, began to penetrate.
“Most assuredly,” Glittervein answered. “I wish you would.”
Whoever had uttered that cold question now slid slowly forward and stepped into the circle of light. He was of medium size, head and body covered in a hooded grey cloak, face hidden behind a shining black oval with two slits for eyes.
“Greetings, Vihata,” Glittervein purred. For Xemion’s benefit, he added, “a colleague of mine.” Glittervein removed a sizable pipe from his cloak and clacked it against his lower teeth as he prepared to light it.
“Greetings,” said Vihata, bending forward to look at Xemion more closely. Through the slits in the obsidian mask, Xemion caught the glint of two dark eyes and turned away.
“Look at me,” the crystalline voice commanded.
Despite himself, Xemion obeyed. Vihata extracted a large lens from his cloak, lifted his visor, and looked directly into Xemion’s left eye. Xemion felt the magnified gaze go deep into him and became aware of a quaking feeling in his stomach. Vihata extended his index finger and lifted Xemion’s eyelid a little higher. His finger was so cold it almost burned. He applied a little pressure on the orb of Xemion’s eye. So much so that Xemion feared for a moment he might pop it out of his head.
“Hey!” he complained, lifting his arm to push Vihata’s hand away.
At this Lethir rushed forward and grabbed his wrist in a grip of iron. In the process his hood was swept back onto his shoulders. For the first time Xemion saw the upper portion of his face and understood the source of his uncanny strength. At the centre of a thin band of brow, one large, round, aggressive eye looked back at him. He was a Cyclops. Xemion tried to twist his wrist out of Lethir’s grip but the mighty hand just grasped it harder.
“Please remain still,” Vihata said sternly.
“What is this Cyclops doing here in Ulde?” Xemion shouted angrily.
“All will be answered in good time.” Glittervein said in his sweetest voice, pressing his own hands gently but firmly on Xemion’s shoulders as he puffed on his pipe. “Now, may I ask you to please rest your arms with your palms down on the arms of the chair?”
Xemion tried to stand but Lethir pushed him roughly back down and pinned one wrist to the flat top of the armrest while Glittervein clicked a lever at the back of the chair. With that a metal loop slid into place over Xemion’s wrist. Moving quickly, the Cyclops snagged Xemion’s other flailing arm out of the air and likewise pinned it down so that soon both wrists were bound.
“What is this?” Xemion shouted, struggling against the bonds as Lethir’s one big eye blinked impassively back at him.
“I’m sorry,” Glittervein chuckled. “It’s a necessary precaution during examinations.”
“What do you mean examinations?” Xemion shouted.
“If you had come in by the western gate as you were told,” Glittervein assured him, “you would have been examined then and we could have avoided this. Now please co-operate, and let’s get this over with.” Glittervein punctuated his exasperation by expelling a quick burst of smoke.
“Mr. Glittervein,” Xemion protested. “If I am to be questioned like this, why is Veneetha Azucena not here?”
“It will be over soon, I promise you,” Glittervein purred. He exhaled another long stream of grey smoke, which disappeared into the darkness.
“Show me your throat,” Vihata demanded. When Xemion didn’t respond, he moved the lens out of the way so that Xemion could at last see his naked, unmagnified features. Xemion gasped despite himself. The face was Pathan, almost lizard-like in shape and appearance, but instead of scales the flesh was a multiplicity of facets as though entirely made of tiny shattered green diamonds. The brightest were the thin flat-line stars in the centre of the lozenge-shaped eyes, which now held his. The Pathan managed a small, tight smile, revealing a row of pointed teeth.
“I said show me your throat,” he ordered.
Xemion felt a surge of rage. “Glittervein,” he insisted loudly, “I am not sworn to obey Pathan masters. I am under instruction from Veneetha Azucena herself, and she said to say so. Now let me go.”
“Mr. Vihata may be a Pathan, but he’s on our side and he is our expert when it comes to detecting spellbinders,” Glittervein replied sweetly.
“I am not a spellbinder!”
“Well you may not know what you are or what you may be. It is more your capabilities — your tendencies — that we are trying to determine here. So let’s not delay this any longer. I know you need to get away in the morning.”
Thus persuaded, Xemion reluctantly opened his mouth. The Pathan brought the lens back into place and through it peered into Xemion’s throat.
“He certainly has the vocal cords and palate of a spellbinder,” Vihata said. “But I can’t be sure.”
“But it is obvious,” Glittervein shot back at him, obviously frustrated. “I could see it from the moment I set eyes on him.” He puffed furiously on his pipe, sending billows of grey smoke in Lethir’s direction, causing his eye to blink with irritation.
“Of course you could,” Vihata said testily, “but it’s not your money that’s being spent, is it?”
Glittervein nodded and sucked so hard at his pipe the embers glowed and sputtered. “Of course.”
“I want to hear him read. Really read.”
“I can’t help it if he resists!”
“I did not resist!” Xemion shouted.
“Well, I have something to fix that,” Vihata said, ignoring Xemion.
Glittervein shrugged. “By all means then.”
“A little libation, shall we say, that lets out whatever is held in.” Vihata’s glass face shifted its facets into the Pathan version of a smile.
“Mr. Glittervein,” Xemion bellowed, “I insist I be released.”
“I will just need a little blood,” Vihata said. In a flash he drew a small blade and brought it to the middle of Xemion’s forehead, where he made an incision. Xemion screamed, more in rage than pain, and yanked at his bonds so fiercely that they cut into his wrists. Behind him, Lethir bore down on his shoulders while Glittervein stood before him, ready to intervene if necessary. Smiling, the Pathan held a tiny golden cube against Xemion’s forehead and allowed several drops of blood to absorb into it.
“Why the blood?” Glittervein asked.
“It helps the action of the potion. Something we learned in Arthenow.”
That chill that had bitten into Xemion’s blood at the first sight of the Pathan’s face was now burrowing down into his marrow as though desperately trying to hide. Blood and Arthenow meant only one thing — necromancy.
But necromancy should have no power on this side of the western ocean. Still, he couldn’t help but fear it. He watched in horror as the Pathan produced a small corked bottle from his cloak and dropped the bloodied cube into it. There followed some hissing and a plume of dark red steam. The Pathan held the goblet under his nostrils and took a quick sniff. He nodded to Lethir and suddenly Xemion felt himself grabbed from behind by the hair and tugged back so that his neck was wedged into that crescent-shaped groove in the back of the chair.
“Now open your mouth,” the Pathan roared. With all his will Xemion tried to weld his mouth shut, but Lethir pushed his thumbs into Xemion’s jaw muscles and Glittervein tugged his chin down. Once this was done, Vihata began to pour whatever liquid was in the bottle into Xemion’s mouth. He spat and choked but they held his nose closed and when his mouth was full Lethir pressed his jaw shut, preventing Xemion from breathing until he swallowed. A great gulp of something thick and fungal and bloody made its way down his throat and into his stomach. With a gagging groan he almost vomited it right back up, but Lethir clamped his mouth shut until he kept it down.
“I’m sorry,” said Glittervein, trying not to laugh. “It had to be done.”
Xemion spat at him and howled in rage. “You bastard!” In response, Glittervein opened his mouth in an oval shape and with three small pumps of his down-curled tongue, propelled smoke rings directly into Xemion’s face.
“Now, listen to me,” the Pathan said. “You will soon feel the effects of what I’ve given you. It is not unpleasant. Some people take it for their own enjoyment. I have given you quite a lot of it, but should it become necessary I have more — and you, of course, have lots more blood.”
Even as he said this, a dark, tired feeling began to wash over Xemion. Everything was taking on a slow, red tinge. The Pathan pulled a book with a red cover from the pocket of his ragged robe. He opened it and held it before Xemion. “Look.”
Xemion’s gaze shifted down to the dark, blood-red text that was printed on a slightly less red page that appeared to have been woven from some kind of crystalline fibre. A strange warm crimson sensation began to wind its way into his bones.
“It’s an invocation,” Vihata said in a glass-splintering tone, perhaps meant to be reassuring.
“But—”
“Read.”
Xemion felt one more surge of extreme rage but with his next breath it melted away. He began by reciting as tonelessly as his trembling voice would allow.
“Resist me not,” he began. “With brittle thought. With bitter lot, scar or blot. Through tie and tangle, tear and knot. Resist me not.”
“Now read it with feeling,” the Pathan ordered.
; “Resist me not. With magic mind. With twisted tongue, root or rind. Unvein me now, unskin my thought. Resist me not.”
“You are resisting it. Stop resisting it. Again!”
Xemion began again but the Pathan shouted him down. “Do not resist it, I warn you. Again!”
Xemion gritted his teeth. His nostrils flared as he took a deep breath and started over.
“Resist me not. With brittle thought—”
“Louder!” the Pathan shrieked.
“With bitter lot, scar or blot. Through tie and tangle, tear and knot. Resist me not.”
“Louder!” He poked a sharp, cold finger into Xemion’s ribs and Xemion felt the blood welling again in his forehead. He was now yelling the words, still trying desperately to keep his voice expressionless. But the taste of blood was thick on his tongue and something was uncoiling deep in his cells.
“Resist me not.”
“Sing it,” the Pathan roared.
“Resist me not.”
“Chant it!”
Something like a knot slipped out of itself in Xemion’s stomach and suddenly the voice in his belly was unleashed and that tone he had used when reading to the class, that spellbinding tone Anya had tried to stifle in him all the days of his life, sprang free for a moment, ringing out with the full glory of the Elphaerean tongue.
“Resist me not.”
“Go on!” the Pathan roared.
“With magic mind,” Xemion sang. “With twisted tongue, root or rind. Unvein me now, unskin my thought. Resist me not.”
That last loud not echoed in the dark space and then there was silence. The Pathan slammed the book shut resoundingly and nodded, smiling slightly. Glittervein grinned with pride and, after tapping his pipe upside down against the chair, put it away in his pocket.
Second Kiss Page 10