Dominion

by Fred Saberhagen

  The telling was finished before the elevator reached its highest level and eased to a stop. They got out of it and Vivian guided Simon along a short, stone-vaulted corridor and through a door. He realized that they were entering the tower; what must be its highest flight of stairs curved up before them. A wavering, eerie glow from somewhere above let Simon see the stairs clearly as they climbed.

  The highest round of the stair was thickly littered with loose stones, fragments of mortar, singed bits of wood, unidentifiable debris. Cool night air, carrying misty rain along with a whiff of acrid smoke, was blowing in through a jagged hole in the tower wall. Up here the walls were much thinner than those of the lower levels of the castle, and the hole was big enough for a man to climb through. Above it, the normal door at the head of the stairs was closed.

  When Simon reached the hole, he found himself looking out with his eyes at the level of the flat roof. Solid, physical forms were moving on the roof, people were at work in the near-darkness of the eerie outdoor light. There was the shift and thud of heavy weights being moved.

  Vivian gestured, and Simon climbed out ahead of her, bracing a foot on an ancient, newly-exposed timber that hissed and smoldered in the light rain. The smell of bitter smoke was stronger now, mingled with the dankness of old wood and old stonework freshly wet. Gregory, hatless, but still in his medieval servant’s garb, was working in the rain, heaving chunks of stone away from the place where the new hole went down into the interior of the building. Working with Gregory at his command were the twins from the antique shop. The girl looked at Simon helplessly when he caught her eye—it was the same look he’d seen on her face in that bedroom scene that he’d thought was a dream. In a moment she had moved away. She and her brother were scrambling about, taking Gregory’s orders, helping him shift debris, as if in a panic of fear. Illuminating the scene was an unearthly glow clinging to the top of the tower. St. Elmo’s fire, thought Simon, he’d heard of it; it sometimes accompanied lightning, but he’d never seen it before.

  Climbing up after Simon through the blasted hole, Vivian took Gregory by the arm; now for a moment it was Gregory who looked frightened. “Have you seen Carados?” she demanded of her servant, while Simon, not knowing the name, looked puzzled. Then Vivian added another question in another language. Simon thought that it was French or Latin, but he could extract no meaning though he had a smattering of both.

  Gregory shook his head, and in the same tongue began what might have been an explanation. Meanwhile the two young people continued to work as if the penalty for slacking might be death, turning back torn edges of roof, lifting stones away, exposing more of the smoldering fire to the rain that would not let it grow.

  “Simon.” Vivian had him by the arm again. “An enemy of ours has been here. He may still be here, nearby, on the castle grounds somewhere. He is a very unusual man, and he is calling himself Talisman. I met him once, a very long time ago… I should have remembered. I shudder to think of what might happen to Margie if he should find her. He likes to drink girls’ blood.”

  “Talisman. I don’t know that name.”

  “Rather tall, on the thin side… Dark. Age uncertain. If you can see him anywhere, anywhere at all, it’s important that you tell me.”

  Somewhere out there a presence moved. In the rainy woods around the castle, pitch-black now except for passing smears of lightning? No, farther away, much farther. Simon wasn’t going to try to determine where. To be able to withhold the sight of it from Vivian was a small victory.

  He said: “Your house seems to be on fire.”

  “The fire itself is nothing. Gregory will manage it. But come, we should reassure the others.” Then she guided Simon back over wreckage into the tower again, as if he might be incapable of making his own way. The power of her touch burned at him, sapping his will. Her own physical movements were as certain as her will, her plans. “Now you’ve seen where the lightning struck, Simon. Now tell me, where is the thing that drew it down?”

  He could have protested that there was no way for him to have that knowledge; but somehow he knew that Vivian knew better than that. There was an answer to her question; he didn’t want to look for it.

  “It’s very important, Simon. More important even than Talisman. Never mind if you can’t find it for me just yet. I’ll have a way soon to make it easier.” Vivian was smiling at him, talking to him in the tones of love. Her small hand, irresistible, drew him back down the littered stair, along the passage to the waiting elevator. “But right now you can tell me this much at least: you saw him?”

  He couldn’t pretend not to know who she was talking about. Not Talisman. “Yes. He tried to get in, through the passage. But he couldn’t.”

  There was a soft intensity now in Vivian’s voice that Simon had never been able to imagine there, not even in daydreams when he’d made her image speak to him. She said now: “His name is Falerin. His real name, just as your real name is Simon Colline… oh, I know, of course I know that too. He is a real magician, more than you are, more even than I am. I learned from him, you know. He is going to come to our world, and he will be the king of the world someday. Oh yes, oh yes, with his power, and the power that we can develop for him here. The science we can add now. One day the whole earth will be his domain, and mine. And yours too, Simon, if you help us… of course you’ll help us.” Simon had never seen Vivian so happy. She went on: “That’s what this is all about. He couldn’t live through all the centuries between his time and now. But I have, for this one purpose, to bring him here. He was about to come through, but the Sword blocked him and he had to retreat. It’s hidden here in the castle somewhere, or nearby. And you are going to find it for me, Simon. Then he’ll be back, he’ll come again.”

  Downstairs in the great hall, Hildy’s husband was calmly refilling his wife’s little crystal cup with wine. She picked up the cup, and drained it, and put it down again, and sat there looking steadily at Saul. In keeping with the other strange things of this strange night, the wine, which was like no wine that Hildy had ever tasted before, had the effect of making her thoughts clearer instead of clouding them. Problems to be solved were not blurred but sharply delineated. Hildy was no longer hysterical. She was not even much afraid now, in any physical, immediate sense. And now while she was alone with her husband she meant to get some explanations from him.

  Emily Wallis had had to be helped away, her husband going with her. No one else was left at table. The dinner had never been cleared away; the remaining servants, so efficient earlier, had obviously been ordered to tasks judged more important.

  Saul was smiling faintly at his wife. But then, as if bothered by her close, silent scrutiny, he turned away from the table and moved a few steps to stand near the fireplace. The flames, though unattended for some time now, were prospering cheerfully.

  “Where are all the servants, Saul?”

  He turned from gazing at the fire to regard her mildly. “I don’t really know, m’dear.”

  “The truth is that they’re not really our servants at all, are they? They don’t really work for us.”

  “Afraid I don’t quite…”

  “I mean they belong to Vivian. Don’t they?” Hildy paused. Her husband was waiting. She pressed on: “Like everything else here, no matter what it says on the legal papers about who owns this place.” Saul considered that in his calm way. “Vivian is the leader of the family, yes.”

  “Why does that have to be? You’re older than she is.”

  Saul was going to answer, then decided against it. He waited calmly.

  “Saul, you’ve been lying to me about a lot of things, right from the start. Haven’t you?”

  He turned away again, picking up a long poker, stabbing experimentally with it at one of the burning logs. “I’m sorry you look at it in that way, Hil. I’ve been meaning to sit down with you sometime, and try to explain it all.”

  What was really chilling was that he wasn’t even trying to deny her accusation. Hildy dis
covered that perhaps her hysteria wasn’t as thoroughly exorcised as she had thought. She definitely wanted to scream again. But she was still able to hold her voice calm. “I’d like to hear the explanation now.”

  “To begin with, you’re quite right, of course. We’re not an ordinary family.”

  “Is that how you describe this… what’s going on? Are you trying to be funny?”

  “I’m sorry. No, I’m not trying to be funny at all.” Saul put down the poker, but continued to stare into the flames. Hildy rose from her seat at the table and gradually moved toward him, as he went on: “Let me try again. To begin with, as you’ve noticed by now, I’m sure, there are a number of interrelated families living here in the area of Frenchman’s Bend. There are other members of those families living in other places around the country, around the world, but this locale is a sort of—focal point. The Littlewoods, of course. The Wedderburns, Collines, Picards. They have a continuous connection that not only extends back over generations, but maintains and renews itself.”

  “Go on.”

  “There’s a certain—well, purpose, that unites these families, as well as ties of blood and marriage. There are connections that don’t appear on the surface. That go much deeper than outsiders realize.”

  Hildy was standing close beside her husband now, looking up at him, confronting him. “All right. Go on. Tell me all about it.”

  “Well, I will.” The look Saul gave her was judicial, but there was something else in it too, something that Hildy could still hope was love. “I just can’t explain the whole thing all at once.”

  “Then you should have started explaining it before now. Long before. You would have, if you really loved me.”

  Saul’s eyes were wistful. Was there anything left of him now, Hildy wondered, but this sad observer, who puttered around keeping himself occupied with his airplane and with business that didn’t really matter? It struck Hildy that the man she’d married had been going downhill pretty steadily ever since that first wonderful day when she had met him. Very slowly, but steadily. It wasn’t something that she wanted to let herself realize, but she no longer had any choice.

  Saul said: “I do love you, Hil. At least as I understand the term. I love you the only way I can. The word means different things to different people, you know.”

  “It means a lot to me.”

  “And I can’t always be eloquent, or whatever, as I was on that first day. I’d like to be that way always, for you, Hildy. But I can’t.”

  She could feel how close she was to breaking down again. “I understand.”

  “No, I don’t think you do understand. Not yet. You can’t. But you will in time. I want to tell you everything as gently as I can, so you’ll see it isn’t so bad.”

  “Tell me what, Saul? What isn’t so bad?”

  “I’ve grown up with this. But when people marry into it, as you have—well, it’s just not something that you’re able to grasp fully all at once.”

  Hildy couldn’t speak. She was afraid that if she tried, nothing but screams would come from her throat, ever again.

  Saul went on: “I do love you, Hil, as I’ve said so often. But the truth is that our marriage was in part arranged.”

  “Arranged? How? What does that mean?”

  “Vivian always has an interest in bringing new people into the family. Selected people, with something to contribute, like special abilities. It generally works to the person’s advantage, of course, very much to their advantage in fact. But it’s not something that can be explained to them ahead of time.”

  Hildy was shaking her head, unable to find words. A horrible truth was right in front of her but she couldn’t see its whole shape yet. Dimly she was aware that on the other side of the great hall the elevator was returning from upstairs, its door was opening. She looked that way as Simon the Great emerged from the elevator. He appeared to be in a daze, a trance. Vivian had him by the arm, she was guiding him, manipulating him. Another slave, another toy for Vivian.

  Hildy said: “Saul, at least tell me one thing right now.”

  “If I can. What is it?”

  “Just now, right after everything seemed to blow up, I saw this young man. I don’t mean the magician, someone else. That wall blew open and there was a doorway, an opening, with light streaming out… and he was there, and he was very handsome, and at the same time his face was the—the most hideous thing I’ve ever seen in my life, I don’t know why—”

  “Shh!” Saul hissed it fiercely, at the same time darting a glance toward Vivian. But Vivian was fully occupied with whatever she was doing with Simon, leading him toward the door of the once-secret passage, and whispering in his ear meanwhile.

  Hildy would not be put off. “I want an answer, Saul. Who was he? He was trying to come through that doorway, and then something stopped him. It was an object like a cross, I couldn’t see how it was being held. Except that it wasn’t a regular cross, it was more like the hilt of a sword. Who was he, Saul?”

  “Hildy, I said there was a purpose uniting the family, remember? I’m afraid he’s what this is all about.”

  Her lips soundlessly formed questioning words.

  With gentle seriousness her husband said: “He’s Vivian’s lover. He has been, for more than a thousand years.”

  NINETEEN

  Being out on the street wearing jail issue was better than walking around town in that damned flowered gown; but it really wasn’t, when you came right down to it, a whole hell of a lot better. In the shadowed mouth of an alley, Hawk leaned against a dingy brick wall, considering things.

  He’d had to wait around in his tiny VIP cell until nearly midnight, when things at headquarters started to get really busy, as he’d surmised they would. As soon as that happened, surveillance necessarily slackened. He had remembered to turn the lock in the cell door open before he left, which he thought would perhaps make his disappearance at least a little less memorable. There was still going to be trouble for the guards in charge of seeing to it that cell doors stayed locked, but Hawk wasn’t running any charitable organization. He hadn’t asked anyone to arrest him in the first place.

  He considered that he’d managed his departure very smoothly, for a magician long out of practice. He’d appeared on the street not many blocks from headquarters, got his bearings at once —Chicago was an easy city to do that in, with its logical grid of street numbers—and then he’d started walking, heading without any conscious plan back toward his old stamping grounds on Skid Row.

  If any of the passersby he encountered on the first leg of his hike had recognized his clothing as jail issue, they weren’t about to make an issue of it. HaHaa, A wise decision on their part.

  He couldn’t help noticing as he began to walk that physical movement was a lot easier for him now than it had been a few days ago, before Carados picked him up. Involuntary defensive powers, long dormant, had been mobilized. It would seem that Carados had actually done him a favor. He paused before a darkened plate glass window, to look at himself in the half-mirror inside its steel grill. Yes, his figure was straighter than it had been for some time—for a long time. His pants were zipped. Danger and abuse had served as tonics. It puzzled him that he had been so terrified a few days ago, cowering away from the hunters of helpless old men. He didn’t have to take that kind of crap. Not from the likes of them, at least.

  No good answer suggested itself. Next question, obviously: Where did he go from here? But he didn’t want to try to think that through just now.

  Hawk had walked on until he’d covered half a mile, then ducked into the mouth of this alley, as if to take a leak. Actually he just wanted to be able to close his eyes and concentrate for a minute or so. If he couldn’t answer questions at least maybe he could do something about his shirt. He figured that the shirt was the clothing item most conspicuously identifiable as jail issue; the shoes were plain, the pants could be any new workpants of medium blue.

  He spent a couple of minutes with eyes cl
osed, leaning against the dirty brick wall, mumbling. After a couple of tries (this kind of thing had never been his specialty) Hawk’s plain blue jail shirt was a muddy brown, crisscrossed by an ugly pattern of thin pink stripes. Not quite what he’d been aiming for. But, come to think of it, just the kind of inelegance that would fit in perfectly on Skid Row.

  Hawk left the alley and moved again along the midnight street, borne quickly by his new, healthy walk. The shirt was all right. Actually he felt a little proud of it; and anyway it felt good just to have done something again. Maybe later, if he felt like it, he could work on the colors a little more. Meanwhile…

  Meanwhile what was he going to do now? He had been putting off making a conscious decision, but the Street, Skid Row, was drawing near. It appeared that by default he was going back to his old haunts, but what was he going to do when he got there?

  …anyway if he made the shirt look too good, somebody would try to roll him, no, mug him was the proper word, now that he was standing up on his two feet again. By bloody hell, he wished they’d try. He wished he had that vampire, the stalking butcher, in front of him for just five seconds now. He wished he had that smirking, contemptuous kidnapper, Carados.

  Now if he were to go and collect Carados somehow, and deliver him to the cops, that would get the cops off his own tail. But Hawk didn’t really want to go after Carados, because…

  Because if he did…

  Because, because. He just got a train of thought going, starting to make sense, and then it stalled. Every time. There had to be, there had to be, a damned good reason.

  He had the feeling that his life was being steered, controlled, by some will not his own, to some hostile purpose. It was not a good feeling to have.

  At one o’clock in the morning, with his mental state increasingly perturbed, the man who now called himself Hawk (and how long would that name be usable?) was leaning against a streetlight not two blocks from where Carados had picked him up. He craved wine, there was no doubt of that. But somehow while he was off Skid Row the craving, like so much else, had altered. The animal urge to drunken oblivion had become entangled with older and nobler things—wine as symbol of elegance, wine as rare privilege, wine as a way to spiritual (no pun intended here) enjoyment.