The Wizard at Mecq

by Rick Shelley

  The demons moved closer. This time Silvas was sure that they were approaching, not merely expanding... thought they also seemed to be getting larger. The demons slavered blood and continued to laugh, a triumphal sound now. They seemed oblivious to the wind swirling behind them.

  "We've come for your soul, you pathetic insect," they screamed in unison. Blood sprayed from their mouths. Their teeth clashed, grinding against each other as they sharpened themselves with every motion.

  The laughter of the demons became a physical force that Silvas could feel trying to dislodge him, trying to push him from the protection of his pentagram. The laughter pulsed and swayed, forcing Silvas to lean against it as he might lean into a gale. The laughter hid the sounds of the warm wind contracting around the pentagram, curling in toward Silvas in ever tightening coils, urging the demons forward, edging them closer without their awareness.

  At the instant that the demons were pushed within the outer precincts of the pentagram, Silvas erupted into action, chanting words of power that burst the ice from around his feet and legs. He scraped the silver ferrule of his staff across the crystal lines of the pentagram, then picked it up and swung it so rapidly that the line of the staff blurred into a plane. It appeared to catch fire as it passed through both demons, severing their exaggerated heads from their bodies. The outlined figures fell and flamed as they touched the crystal lines of the pentagram. The lines that had formed their figures danced a final agony like fat in a skillet, and shriveled into lines of ash. But their final screams persisted for many seconds after they vanished.

  Then there was peace in the conjuring chamber.

  Silence.

  The strobing of light and dark ended.

  The pearly glow returned.

  —|—

  Silvas took a deep breath and let his eyes drop shut for an instant. Only for an instant. But a force too powerful to resist grabbed him. Silvas felt himself being tossed head over heels, spinning into nothingness. He opened his eyes and saw crowds of flaming rainbows spinning in contrary orbits around him. Silvas extended his arms, hoping to slow his spinning and bring some order to... to whatever was happening to him. He noticed that he no longer held his staff. He chanted, but his spells sounded hollow, without the power they should possess. The words were empty, meaningless sounds without their magic.

  Is this defeat? Have I fallen to destruction? Silvas turned the questions over in his mind, surprised that he could accept the possibility so easily. That brought a smile to his mind, if not to his face. There doesn't seem to be much I can do about it.

  Slowly, though, fear did rise in him. The spinning journey through a kaleidoscopic sky seemed to continue for an eternity. Silvas fought his way through the fear when it started to press against him.

  This doesn't feel like death. It doesn't feel like the tortures of hell. The muscles of his face tightened up. Whatever those might feel like. The only vague ideas he had of what those might feel like were those of the Church... and his magic had carried him too close to the center of all power for him to take the public teachings of the material church literally.

  Every effort Silvas made to free himself from the trap failed. Worse, his failures were so complete that they offered not the slightest hope that he might be able to extricate himself. He tumbled and twisted, carried by a power he couldn't even touch to gauge. Time lost all meaning. Silvas watched, and delved within himself to search for any piece of knowledge that might give him a little leverage. Time had to pass, but soon Silvas had no idea how much time might be involved. There was nothing to mark it against.

  What of Carillia and the others? he wondered. If he had earned this—punishment?—then what of the others?

  He shouted and his words echoed, hollow, mocking. His voice was distorted beyond recognition. His spells and charms were stripped of force and hurled back in his face, as unsettling as the mocking laughter of the demons he had vanquished in his conjuring chamber.

  Or did I really vanquish them? Silvas wondered. It had certainly looked as if they were destroyed. Or did they merely disappear because their work was finished, because they had trapped me? He worried at those questions for another time and a half without finding any answer he could have confidence in. It felt like victory when my staff severed their heads. His power had worked then, and that power was reliable.

  ...At least, it had always been reliable before.

  —|—

  The rainbows started to pulse, growing and shrinking in size and intensity, giving Silvas some measure of elapsing time. He couldn't be certain of the scale he needed to compare it to, but the pulses did seem closely timed to his heartbeat... or his heartbeat was being tuned to the rainbows.

  "It doesn't feel like demonic force," he said, but his words still sounded hollow, alien.

  Silvas's tight cartwheels muted into long, rolling tumbles. The rainbows that flashed past his eyes blurred into huge swatches of blues and greens that slowly developed textures and came into focus, if only momentarily. Silvas felt dizzy for the first time. His eyes could hold no target. As his spinning slowed, his stomach felt more ready to rebel than it had when the motion was at its most frantic. He closed his eyes again for a moment, fighting to control the nausea, and he fell.

  Up and down had returned, and Silvas knew that he was falling. Before he could open his eyes, he struck the ground—feet first, sending an agonizing shock up his legs and spine, and then he tumbled. His knees went limp and he rolled, ending up on his back, the wind knocked out of him.

  Silvas had no choice but to lie still while he caught his breath. There was a brilliant blue sky above him, a clear, sunlit sky. He gradually became aware of a gentle, spring-like breeze, full of the scents of blooming flowers and growing plants. Still his first thought was to conjure his way home... but his chants remained empty, devoid of power. He reached for his belt, for his dagger, but even the knife was gone.

  The dizziness was slow to recede. Silvas pushed himself to a kneeling position and had to rest before he could get to his feet. He was at the edge of a forest clearing, looking along the arc where the pine trees ended. He turned, half a step at a time, fighting to keep his balance.

  He jumped when he saw an old man sitting in the center of the clearing.

  Silvas faced him. The man was fifty yards away, sitting motionless on a rock that seemed to mark the exact center of the clearing. An old man was Silvas's first impression, but he could find no way to justify it. He stared, trying to focus on the man so he could see him more clearly, but even the gift of telesight was gone. There appeared to be something fuzzy about the stranger's appearance. Silvas could make out no real details about him—not hair color or how lined and wrinkled his skin might be.

  But Silvas retained the impression that the man was old.

  The stranger raised a hand and beckoned. The gesture was slow but not tentative. Silvas looked around quickly. There was no one else in sight. The wizard walked out into the clearing, slowly, hesitating often.

  The old man, if he was indeed old, let his arm drop to his lap. He wore an undyed robe, too loose to show whether he was stout or thin. Silvas saw no weapon, but the stranger didn't come into better focus as Silvas approached. His face, his outline remained blurred, as if there were layers of fine gauze between him and Silvas.

  "Who are you?" Silvas asked, stopping ten feet from the old man.

  "I am me." The voice was as featureless as the face, leaving no hint of accent or mood. "As you are you, Henry, son of William."

  Silvas felt a chill strangling his spine. He had shared his true name with no one since childhood, had not even spoken it aloud in all the years that had passed since he first entered the Glade. The last mortal to know his true name was Auroreus, and he was long dead.

  "Where am I?" Silvas asked.

  "Why, here with me, of course," the stranger said. "Come closer. I mean you no harm."

  "Why am I here?" Silvas asked, taking only one step closer.

  "You ar
e here because I have a story you need to hear," the stranger said. "Come sit by me."

  "If you mean me no harm, why have you tried to strip me of my power?" Silvas took one more step, debating what he should do. The stranger could not be powerless, not the way his form remained so indistinct. But could Silvas overpower him physically?

  The stranger laughed.

  "Tried?" He laughed again. "I have done nothing to your power. But power such as yours simply does not work in this place." He gestured to the grass next to him. Silvas took a deep breath, then sat where the stranger had indicated.

  "What kind of story?" Silvas asked. He felt the urge to do something, but there seemed to be no alternative. He didn't know where he was or who the stranger might be. His power didn't work. He could do nothing but listen and hope that the stranger would send him home when the tale was ended.

  "Would it sound too incredible if I started this with 'Once upon a time?'—No? Good, because that is how this story should start." The stranger gave Silvas no chance to offer his opinion.

  "Once upon a time there was a loving couple. First love, lasting love. They were so wrapped up in making each other happy that little else ever intruded on their thoughts. Now, you might think that this would make for an ideal life. And it did seem ideal to them too, for the longest time. They were happy and aware of their bliss. Joy radiated in all directions, making life so much more pleasant for everyone who was touched by that happiness. But."

  There had to be a "but," Silvas thought.

  The stranger spoke slowly, softly. Silvas, with nothing better to do, tried to focus on the voice, but the words and intonation were as hazy as the man's appearance. What manner of power do you control? Silvas wondered. The answer had to lie in the story. Silvas blinked. Staring at the stranger was hard on the eyes.

  "This couple had many children over time," the stranger continued. "Their love was exceptionally fertile. Unfortunately—and here is the tragedy of this love story—they were so consumed by their passion for each other that they had little time for the children their love created. Those children grew up neglected and feeling that their parents did not care for them at all." He paused. "That was not far from the mark, but it was not a hostile disregard. The parents simply did not make room in their love for the score of children they conceived.

  "An even score. Twenty. This parental neglect colored the outlook of the children. In some cases it warped them totally. They were forced upon their own resources much too young. Some of them grew up bitter, filled with a hatred that started with their parents and expanded to take in most of creation.

  "Not all were that bitter, but none escaped completely. They were all jealous of each other, interested mostly—or only—in sating their own appetites for pleasure. The children were rivals in everything, trying to prove themselves—to themselves and to the parents who spared them so little thought through the years.

  "No matter what the children did, no matter how outrageous or epic their actions, their parents seemed to pay too little attention. The appearance was not deceiving."

  The stranger paused and moved a hand to his face. Silvas couldn't be certain, there was still the haze obscuring the man's face, but he thought that the stranger might be wiping a tear from his eye.

  What is this all about? Silvas asked himself. He could find no point to the story.

  "When the parents finally did begin to notice the competitions among their children, they were so disgusted with what they saw that they withdrew even further, relying only on each other, doing everything but openly disown the children. They were too ashamed to take that step, blaming themselves—with appropriate but belated vision—for the way their sons and daughters had turned out. And the children competed all the more fiercely, until competition became the paramount fact of their existence."

  The stranger paused again and stared at Silvas. The wizard had a fleeting impression of blazing eyes and deep sadness before the veils fell into place again and the stranger resumed his narrative.

  "Until death was less to be feared than defeat. By that time the parents could do nothing but stand by while their children fought one another. And once the dying started..." The stranger shook his head slowly.

  Silvas squinted. Somehow he's talking about the gods. But what is the point? What am I supposed to learn from it? Silvas understood that the lesson had to be vital, something that would bear directly on what he was going to face in Mecq.

  It did give him some confidence that the old man would return him to Mecq, though.

  I have to puzzle this out quickly, Silvas thought. But when he raised his head to ask a question, the old man was gone. There was no trace of him.

  Then the green of the forest and the blue of the sky started to spin around Silvas, faster and faster. He felt himself caught up in the whirlwind of nature and there was an instant—or an eternity—of nothingness, and when he opened his eyes again, he was lying in the center of the pentagram in his conjuring chamber.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The first sound Silvas uttered was a rumbling groan of pain. Consciousness meant feeling streaks of burning agony and the bruises from his falls. The fleeting thought of escaping pain by retreating into the dark was too weak to match the pain. Pain was reality, as hard as the marble floor Silvas's face pressed against. Movement sent needles of fire deeper into his body. His head throbbed so badly that decapitation might not seem too great a price to pay for relief. Even breathing brought pain. He started to draw his arms up under him so he could rise.

  "Don't move, my heart," Carillia said, her voice so close that Silvas knew she had come into the pentagram. As always, her voice was a balm. And the cool touch of her hands on Silvas's shoulders was like a dose of healing lotion. Silvas was content to follow her instructions.

  "I know you hurt, my heart," Carillia said. "I'm going to turn you over on your back. Let me do the work. Just don't resist." She waited for a moment. Silvas made no reply.

  "Okay, here we go, my heart." Carillia moved her hands. Silvas remained as limp as he could. Movement didn't hurt as much as he had anticipated. There was pain, but it was bearable.

  Silvas let his eyes slide open when he went over on his back. Carillia's face was close. That was almost enough to distract him from the new agony in his back and buttocks where the floor pressed against them. Breathing came a little easier. Silvas tried to speak, but nothing came out, and the room started to spin and fade above him.

  It's too much, Silvas thought. I can't make it. Slipping into the void would be so much simpler. An escape.

  Carillia leaned closer. Silvas was on the edge of unconsciousness again, scarcely breathing, when her lips touched his. It was only a kiss, but Silvas felt that she was breathing new life into him. He drew warmth from her lips. His breathing eased. He closed his eyes for a moment but didn't pass out. And the room didn't spin when he opened his eyes again. For a moment neither Silvas nor Carillia moved. Then Silvas tilted his head a little to look to either side. Satin and Velvet sat at the edge of the pentagram, staring at him. There was still darkness beyond the room's window. The interior of the conjuring chamber was lit by candles and torches, not by the glow of the stone.

  Silvas ran his tongue over his lips. "Tell me," he whispered.

  "When you destroyed the demons, you collapsed." Carillia held his hand firmly. "Your body is covered with hundreds of shallow cuts. It looks as if you were raked by cat claws over and over. I've stopped the bleeding with that salve you keep."

  "How long?" Silvas asked, his voice a little stronger. He could feel his body responding to the challenge now.

  "Since you collapsed? Not thirty minutes. Not an hour since the cats woke us."

  "Seems... longer." Those words were separated by a deep breath, an involuntary inhalation. Silvas's mind focused slowly, bringing him back from the twin confrontations, first with demons, then with the hazy man who was, in many ways, even more frightening.

  It's up to me now, Silvas thought. I have
to go on. If I can. But he needed to be in much better shape than he was at the moment.

  Ogru, belviu dekas Silvari, he chanted within his mind. Lord, heal the hurts of Silvas. Even that simple line took almost every ounce of energy he had, but his power—weak though it now was—had returned. He could feel it working within him. That was in itself enough to make him feel somewhat better, but it took long minutes before he had enough strength to actually voice the chants of healing aloud. Then he let the incantations reel themselves off his lips. His voice gained strength as the spells started to work. The crisis was past. There was much that he did not understand about the night's adventures, but it was too soon to worry about them. First he had to make himself whole again.

  As soon as Silvas started chanting, Carillia retreated out of the pentagram. The cats moved back at the same time, farther from their master, but they kept their eyes on him. Silvas's chanting brought the pentagram back to life. The crystal lines started to glow. The pentagram was but a tool, but it was a tool of considerable power. When Auroreus created this diagram, he had invested it with a portion of his own magical substance, and his link to the Unseen Lord had forced even more magical energy into the lattices of the crystal.

  Silvas's recovery was not immediate. The pain was slow to subside, and while it remained it blunted his concentration. Some of the spells had to be repeated.

  This was too close for a first encounter, Silvas thought as he weaved his spells. Two demons who didn't reach me until I was within my pentagram. They shouldn't have been able to touch me, shouldn't have been able to wound me so, not without a lot more force than I saw. Either my talent is fading or they had help I didn't suspect. And if the latter was true, then the former was also true. The stranger in the forest came immediately to mind.

  I had no injuries there, no pain. But Carillia had told Silvas that less than thirty minutes had passed between the destruction of the demons and his painful waking. He had already had the injuries that pained him so. The body he had worn in his oddly compressed excursion was only a body of mind, a memory of reality. That must be why my power did not work there.