Second Kiss

by Robert Priest

  Good, he thought.

  He increased the pressure, finally causing Xemion to groan.

  “Now stay with me,” he shouted. “Stay with me!”

  Xemion grunted, his spirit like a moth struggling in thick black tar.

  “Wake up,” Vallaine shouted, gripping him tight. “If you sink back into it, you will die!”

  Xemion clenched his teeth and took another searing breath. In that instant, like someone waking from a nightmare, the memory of his life flooded back in on him. It seemed but seconds ago when he had fallen, less than a minute since the Pathan had poured that concoction down his throat. With great effort he lifted his eyelids and saw Vallaine illuminated by the bright light still radiating from the Nexis. Vallaine’s usual projection of mirthful charm had been replaced by an expression of grave concern. He reached out his red hand to take Xemion’s, and as it touched him Xemion remembered his suspicion.

  “I have to get you out of here or you will die of spell-shock,” Vallaine said. “Can you stand?”

  Xemion tried to move his arms and legs but couldn’t, so Vallaine picked the boy up, cradling him in his arms as he ascended the seven steps back into the viewing chamber. He put him down long enough to close the black hatch, then, scooping him back up into his arms, he carried him to the main stairway and began to climb the Great Kone. It was so narrow here that each step was high while the staircase itself spiralled within a small circumference. Round and round he climbed.

  “Are you keeping alert, Xemion?” he asked, seeing the glazed look returning to his eyes. Xemion just barely managed a nod.

  “What were you doing down there?” Vallaine asked sharply.

  Xemion had a vision of infinite versions of himself drawn from infinite universes: side-selves, under-selves, over-selves, all drawn down as one into the Nexis to chant those strange sounds — and he knew now what those sounds were. They were the words Musea had made him memorize. He felt them spring up again, great echoing helixes of conjury.

  “Xemion, are you listening?”

  Xemion lifted his eyes again and tried to speak, but he only achieved a muffled groan that hurt his throat.

  “Did the old woman plant a spell on you?”

  Xemion focused hard. He gave the smallest of nods. The apparent circling of the Great Kone above him was so nauseating he had to close his eyes again. But Vallaine wouldn’t allow it. He pinched him hard till he groaned.

  “What spell was it?”

  Xemion’s stomach heaved but it was empty. That larger sense of self he’d experienced in the Nexis was fading away.

  “Was it a turn spell, do you think?”

  Xemion kept retching and retching. Vallaine answered his own question. “I think it was. I think she planted a spell on you in hopes of somehow getting the Great Kone to turn again. Do you remember any of it?”

  Xemion’s eyes flickered as he shook his head just a little in answer.

  “Well, try,” Vallaine said, his voice urgent. “I need to know.”

  Xemion turned away but he couldn’t hide that flicker again and Vallaine saw it.

  “What? You mistrust me?” Vallaine asked, startled. “At the very moment I am saving your life?” Xemion did not meet his eye. “When have I ever done anything to earn such mistrust?”

  Xemion managed to get the words out in a dry croak. “Last night.”

  Vallaine blinked in confusion.

  “Glittervein,” Xemion added, his voice raw, the anger welling.

  Vallaine actually paused in mid-step. A look of understanding entered his eyes. “Are you telling me that Glittervein took you in for examination?”

  “And a Pathan.”

  “And a Pathan?” This latest piece of information seemed to leave him quite shocked. “Inside Ulde?”

  Xemion nodded, the lines in his brow deepening accusingly.

  “Look, Xemion,” Vallaine said angrily. “This is very serious. It wasn’t last night you gave the locket to me. It was a fortnight ago. I haven’t even seen Glittervein yet. I still have the locket at home in my tower. I thought you had gone on to the camp in the mountains.”

  Xemion showed no reaction. He was trying to move his legs.

  “What would I gain from selling you into Pathar?” Vallaine persisted angrily. The power from the light below was flooding through him now and he was full of that strange strength it gave him. “Do you really believe I could do such a thing?”

  Xemion tried to shrug but his shoulders didn’t quite obey him.

  Vallaine was offended. The pitch of his voice rose slightly and he spoke quickly as he climbed. “There is something very wrong going on and there’s too much at stake here to—” He took a deep breath, and when he exhaled he let the feelings go. “Listen,” he continued in a softer voice, not yet breathing heavily from his exertions. “You will recover from your spell-shock before long and regain your strength, and when you do I’m going to need you. Suddenly we have a Pathan trader in the very heart of the Phaer capital trying to steal our young away from us. But it’s worse than that. Your friend Saheli is in grave danger.”

  This information hit Xemion with a jolt. If she was in danger then she was not dead. The flame of hope was rekindled in Xemion’s heart.

  “Yes. But to save her you’re going to have to trust me. So I’m going to tell you something you may have figured out for yourself. I was born a middle mage. I told you before what a middle mage is. In the time before the spell kones we were carriers of spells. We had no spellcraft of our own but we could absorb the natural magic from others and transfer it. When the spell kones came, people thought there was no need for us, so we did other things. We were carriers of water. We delivered messages. We carried and exchanged currencies. Wherever some kind of transfer was needed through a middle ground, it was to us they came. Some of us were diplomats and advisers. My great skill is that I have a certain amount of foresight. It comes to me naturally with my middle nature.”

  Perhaps it was the quickness of the pace he was keeping that caused Vallaine to speak so fast, but the words had now begun to pour out of him at great speed. Farther and farther below them the light from the Nexis was slowly beginning to dim.

  “When I first met you and Saheli, I saw a great destiny in you — in both of you — and I knew it was tied up with the destiny of our whole rebellion. But today when I awoke I sensed something terrible was about to happen. And that is why I came to the Great Kone. Not to rescue you. I had no idea that you were even here. I came because it strengthens me and because the foretelling is clearest here.”

  Vallaine continued quickly striding up the widening loops of the stairway, each step slightly lower than the one before. “But as I descended, many of the possibilities that seemed so imminent just weeks ago were suddenly … gone. And the deeper I descended the narrower and narrower grew the range of possibilities. When I stood directly over the Nexis light at the bottom of the Kone I felt ahead of us only two possible futures, and in only one of them could our Phaer culture survive. And that depended on one thing: Saheli’s survival. There was no other way in any world that I could see. And yet in every world but one I saw her pierced through the breast, pinned to the ground by a sword through her chest. I saw her life ended and the Phaer purpose swept away.”

  “No!” Now that Vallaine had expressed it, Xemion saw it, too, and in that moment he knew that Vallaine wasn’t lying. He strained against his immobility as though against a chain, but his arms and legs were still all but paralyzed.

  “Yes. And that is why I need you. You and I must stop it from happening. We must guard her and, if necessary, we will fight for her. I have long training with the sword, but you, too, are crucial to this somehow. I warn you, though; there is some spell cross at work on the two of you. I can’t read it clearly. It must originate from some ancient spoken spell that my own small magic is not powerful enough to penetrate.”

  “You said you had no magic,” Xemion croaked.

  “I said I have no spellc
raft, and that is true. But all Freemen have a certain amount of natural magic that wells up in them over time. And when it is ripe, a middler like me can come along, and, by shaking hands repeatedly with, let’s say, a whole village of fisher people, bring their common magic together in one hand and then let it go into one place or purpose. But it has to be their purpose, not mine. This is a simple and natural thing. It has nothing to do with spellcraft; in fact, it pre-dates spellcraft by thousands of years. This is the way our ancestors did it. Whatever energy I can gather into me will all go to protect her. But I fear the time for that is coming very soon. We have to hurry.”

  They both looked up and the light filtering down from the top of the Great Kone was still so far above them that it might have been the last thin rim of moonlight before a total eclipse.

  “The equinox,” Xemion croaked.

  “That’s right,” Vallaine answered.

  “Montither,” Xemion growled. The very word brought the taste of blood back into his mouth. It was the taste of hatred.

  “Yes,” Vallaine said. “And we still have a day’s climbing left in front of us.” It had now grown considerably darker in the Kone, not just because they had travelled some distance from the light at the bottom, but because that light was slowly dimming. And with it, unknown to him, so was the depth of the red in Vallaine’s hand. “So now will you tell me what you remember of the words you spoke below?”

  Xemion nodded, a look of contrition on his face. “Turnspell,” he said, his voice still ragged from its long overuse.

  Vallaine said nothing, but the light filtering down from the top of the Kone eerily outlined the dark lines of worry in his face as he picked up the pace. He was beginning to feel the strain of his exertions.

  “But I’m not a spellbinder,” Xemion added.

  Vallaine shrugged. “Who knows what you might be. You have a rich voice. Many people have rich voices and yet they are not spellbinders. So many children have lost their lives so needlessly for the simple sin of having a good voice. That’s probably why you were raised in such a remote location. But there’s only one way to tell if someone is a spellbinder and that is if they bind a spell and it works.”

  “So …”

  “So it is highly unlikely that without training anyone could manifest even a small spell, let alone bring about the turning of the Great Kone.”

  “Which is not turning,” Xemion rasped, nodding his head toward the monumental curve of reed paper beside them. No trace of revolution was detectable.

  “It’s too soon to tell,” Vallaine said. “But if it does turn, then it will be a different world in a different situation and we will have to find a way to deal with that. But right now in this world it is your skill and your sword and your friendship I will need. And whomever else we can trust to help us keep her safe. I don’t know where she is or what she’s doing. But this is a most crucial time for her. I believe, however, if you and I can get her through the next few days, the worst will be over.”

  Xemion nodded uncertainly. His heart had begun to beat rapidly with the thought that she was indeed alive. He was now able to move his toes a little, and the tips of his fingers.

  “Why will it be a different world if the Great Kone turns?” he asked.

  “It won’t turn.”

  After that there was silence between them for a long time while Vallaine climbed. Xemion, with his head hung back over the crook of Vallaine’s elbow, watched the slow backward revolution of the words on the Great Kone as he passed them by. Finally, Vallaine said, “There are different beliefs about the Great Kone, Xemion. I believe the Great Kone remakes the world every instant. Since it stopped turning it has been only the forces of nature and our own actions in it that have moved the world. If it should start to turn again, which it won’t, I suspect it would just take the world the way it is now and work with it magically from there, transforming it perhaps suddenly, perhaps violently, in accordance with the strictures written down upon it. It might arouse a new golden age for the Phaer people. It might empower us once again to raise a wise and just civilization that will be a light to the ages. Or it might take us and break us again because we are foolish enough to think that we can control it by naming it. In any case, as I’ve said, we’re not likely to find out.”

  Vallaine was breathing heavier now. He had been climbing all day, and now that night had fallen there was no light at all filtering down from above. He slowed as it grew colder; the only light now the faint green luminescence of the kone itself. Slowly his steps grew more and more laboured until he was gasping for breath. And always there were more steps, wider spirals.

  “Xemion, I must put you down and rest awhile.” He stopped and lay Xemion gently down on the staircase. “I just need a moment to catch my breath.” Vallaine slumped down on a step, his head hung over into his hands, his elbows supported by his knees. Xemion tried to rise from the cold stone, but his limbs were still too numb and unresponsive. He tried again and was able to raise his left hand just a little. And then his arm.

  Waving the hand, he showed Vallaine. “Look!”

  Vallaine nodded. He waved back, and when he saw his own hand he was shocked. It was bleached white as bone.

  “No!” Even in the dim light, Xemion saw the look of pain in Vallaine’s features. “Xemion, take my hand. Take my hand before I disappear.”

  Xemion could barely move his own arm, yet but he managed to do so enough to grab hold of the cold white hand.

  “I’m seven deep here,” Vallaine said desperately. “I’m not going to make it to the top of the kone and I’ve left something terrible undone. You will soon be stronger. You must climb. Nothing must stop you. Go to my tower on the eastern side of Ulde. It’s the tallest one there. Search for the book. The book from the locket you gave me. It is called The Thaumatalogical Lexicon. It is a book of spells. I managed to extract it just before I came here.” Vallaine’s voice was so quiet now that Xemion had to strain to hear him. “Take the book and hide it, or if there is no other way you must destroy it. But don’t let the Pathans get their hands on it. It is The Grimoire, the book of spells. Even Saheli’s leadership will make no difference if the Pathans, or worse yet, the Necromancer of Arthenow, should get a hold of it. Do you hear me? If you have to — if there is no other way — destroy it.” The light in Vallaine’s eyes was like a flame in a high wind swept back as he struggled to continue. “This is not dying. This is not death.”

  Vallaine’s face had taken on the same bleached translucence as his hand. “Do whatever will save her.” His voice was hardly more than a whisper. He could see the confusion and horror in Xemion’s eyes as he released his hand and fell back on the steps, his face wrenched with pain. There was a red incandescent flash that rose up from his feet and into his body. When it was done there was nothing left of Vallaine but his rope and his long camouflage cloak.

  17

  In the Cloak

  For a long time Xemion could do nothing but shake and retch as the cold from the stone steps seeped into his ribs. He could still only move his arms and legs very little and the final sleep was calling him. On his own account he would surely have died right then and there, thirsty and freezing. But there was so much more at stake now than just an end to his own misery. Still he hesitated before inching his hand over to Vallaine’s cloak. In some way it repulsed him. He looked up and thought it must be morning because there was a little crescent of light shining again at the top of the kone. It was still so high above him, though, that it might have been the flash of a distant scythe seen across a thousand fields. He felt defeated and betrayed. And poisoned. He felt broken and stupid with the thought that he’d been tricked by Musea into carrying a spell into the Nexis. The thought that he’d been taken over by a potion or that he himself might be a spellbinder terrified him. But all of this was secondary to the thought — or the image that had leapt from Vallaine’s mind into his own. Saheli lying dead, pierced through the chest by Montither’s sword. However many steps
there might be between here and the top of the kone, he would climb them. Nothing would stop him. He dragged the cloak toward him and draped it over one shoulder. With trembling hands he used all the reserves of energy he had within him and reached slowly up to the banister and dragged himself to his feet. Inch by inch he managed to get the cloak over his other shoulder and secure it in front. He slid his left hand farther along the banister until he was leaning forward, and then he dragged one foot up to the step above and straightened up. Hand over hand, step by step, groaning with agony, he began to climb. He had to put everything he had into every step, and each step seemed like it must be the last, but out of sheer will there was always one more. And all the while it grew steadily colder, so that even inside Vallaine’s cloak he shivered, his teeth chattering.

  Soon thirst began to assail him. Always he heard the sound of water dripping, but as he came around the curve of the ever-widening spiral steps, he never saw even the slightest stain where water might once have been. Parched and brittle and freezing, he somehow drove himself on, that arc of light still so far above him that it seemed like a horizon he would never reach. But he had to reach it! And soon. Tomorrow would be the equinox and he had to be there or Saheli would die.

  By early evening he was down on his hands and knees, crawling up the stairs. Just before he lost consciousness, he collapsed. It was still cold but the air was tinged now with a salt scent that told him he must be nearing the top. He tried again and again to rise. But he couldn’t. He slumped face down into the steps and stayed there, shivering. He was freezing and afraid, but not afraid for himself, afraid for her. He was the only thing between Saheli and death. For a second he wished he really was a spellbinder, or that there really was some kind of God such as the Thralls worshipped from whom he might now draw some extra strength, for he knew he had reached the very bottom of his own.