The Ring of Ritornel

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The Ring of Ritornel Page 10

by Charles L. Harness


  The Rimor’s deep bass broke in. “There is only one husband who meets your standards, Liege.”

  “Who is that,” asked Oberon suspiciously.

  “Yourself,” said the Rimor blandly.

  Amatar laughed bitterly.

  “Cease these obscenities!” clipped Oberon. “I will not have the House dishonored by such thoughts!”

  Vang, silent until now, spoke deferentially. “Magister, if Mistress Amatar were to see the crystomorphs…”

  “Yes,” said Oberon thoughtfully. “Perhaps she should see them. Have the projector brought in. We will look at them in here.”

  Within minutes, the Alean returned with two assistants, pushing a wheeled table. On the table was a curious array of apparatus, culminating in a stubby horizontal cylinder, all of which Amatar recognized as the crystomorph projector.

  “You will have to explain it to me,” she said. “I have heard of it, but I do not know how it operates.”

  “The crystomorph is simple in operation and theory,” said Vang. “In essence, all known past experiential exposure of the subject is programmed as information bits into the machine. This summates his time-path as a vector quantity very precisely, and it becomes possible to subject that path to a given hypothetical stimulus and to estimate its impact on his extrapolated time-path. And we may, of course, expose a given time-path to several stimuli, simultaneously or in sequence. And finally, we can expose the time-path of a given subject to the impact of the summation of sequential stimuli represented by the time-path of a second subject. We have done this with the time-path of James, Don Andrek, and that of your father, Oberon of the Delfieri. The intersection shows—”

  “But you cannot be sure!” cried Amatar. “Granted, each of us is the sum of his heredity and imposed experiences. And I can see an element of predictability as to a response to a given situation. But experience, and events, are largely chance. Some may have a higher degree of probability than others, but in the final analysis, all is chance. Alea requires it.”

  “True,” agreed the Alean. “But the Mistress must understand that the crystomorphs are offered not to show what will certainly happen—nor what Alea has ordained, but rather what will probably occur if Alea does not intervene. We readily concede that man, a limited mortal, may set out on one path, and that chance will turn his footsteps into another. The difference in his aim, and in his result, is of course the direct intervention of Alea—and is but one more proof of her existence and divinity.”

  Kedrys broke in. “But here the exterior stimulus is the time-path index of another man—James, Don Andrek. You are exposing one human element to another. That squares the error factor.”

  “We grant that,” said Vang, unmoved.

  “But have you never considered,” said Kedrys, “that the steps you now propose for the avoidance of this intersection are the very events that will cause it to take place?”

  “Ritornellian heresy!” declared Vang.

  “Cease this bickering!” cried Oberon. “By the custom of centuries, the Delfieri are Defenders of the Faith. But which faith? Can both Alea and Ritornel be true? And I am told of still other gods that merely sleep, awaiting their eventual reawakening. And so believe them all, and defend all, and therefore none. Enough! Perform the intersection of the paths, that Amatar may be permitted to judge for herself.”

  The monk bowed. “For assurance of absolute accuracy, it would be preferable to delay the demonstration long enough to bring both path indices up to the minute. Don Andrek has inferred certain information from his visit to Huntyr … and then there’s the pilgrim of Ritornel, and finally, the spider… As a minimum, these new factors should be computed into his index.”

  Oberon was impatient. “How can a spider affect a dynasty? Proceed immediately with the coincidence.”

  Vang shrugged. “As you wish.” He clapped his hands. An assistant stepped forward to the table. The lights in the room faded to near darkness.

  Before them a luminous crystomorph began to take shape, floating in enigmatic silence. Slowly, it pulsed as though alive.

  Amatar stared in fascination.

  “Each of us,” said the Alean, “has his own distinctive crystomorph: it is the composite of a man’s entire life experience, to that point, and is as unique as a fingerprint.” He pointed. “That … is the crystomorph of Oberon of the Delfieri, as of the tenth hour, this morning.” He stepped up to the machine and adjusted the dial. The crystomorph flickered, then became steady again. “The index after three days,” murmured Vang. “This means that, absent maleficent factors, Oberon will be in good health for at least the next three days.”

  “Finish this,” said Oberon bluntly.

  The monk adjusted the dial again. After another vibration, the crystomorph steadied again. “The index on the morning of the fourth day. As you can see, there is no change.” He folded back a part of the panel, thrust a metal slide into the slot. The crystomorph abruptly changed shape. The new design was shot through with flickering blue lines radiating luminously from the center of the structure. “It is the evening of the fourth day,” said the Alean. “I have just superimposed the index of James, Don Andrek. The resultant is exclusively the time-path of Don Andrek. That of Oberon has ceased to exist, because, at this point in time, Oberon himself has ceased to exist.”

  “Run it back an hour—to the … incident…” ordered Oberon.

  Amatar felt her eyes glazing, and her chest hurt. She rubbed her palms convulsively on the unresponsive metalloid fabric of her skirt.

  The monk adjusted the dials once more. Two superimposed crystomorphs took shape, one of nearly pure white light, the other shafted with radial red lines. “The red is for Andrek’s intent to destroy,” he said. “Oberon is curious, but unmoved; he is shielded and cannot believe that he can be harmed. As you will note from the shifting boundaries, there seems to be considerable contact with external forces … perhaps a group of people is involved. Considerable interplay. Actually, the entire episode seems to cover nearly half an hour. However, I shall show the remainder in rapid motion. Here, we note a further curious point: a fundamental change develops in Andrek’s crystomorph—a second superimposition, as it were. Almost as though he were suddenly blended into two people. The other personality is not Oberon. And then the Magister is gone. Only Andrek remains.”

  In her despair Amatar became a child, primitive. “You say this is in the hands of Alea. Then let Alea speak. Roll the die!”

  The monk was shocked. “One does not converse idly with the goddess!”

  “A man’s life is at stake,” said Amatar firmly.

  Oberon was grim. “He dies because Alea has determined that he must.”

  “Not necessarily,” insisted the girl. “Brother Vang admits that the indices are now cold, by several hours. Variations might have crept in. The uncertainty grows with every passing moment…”

  Oberon looked at the girl wearily. “You do plead for him, after seeing this?”

  “I do, for we love each other.”

  “How did you come to love such a one in the first place?”

  Amatar shrugged. “How can I answer? Because it was he; because it was myself.”

  Oberon turned harshly on the priest. “Let it be done. Roll the Holy Die!”

  Vang paled. “Then must I warn you, Oberon of the Delfieri, that we may not awaken the goddess with impunity. The first time is never the last. The last time will surely come, and fearful things will follow.”

  Oberon threw up his hands in exasperation. “Your creeds provide explanations and solutions for all that is past and all that will come; it is only the present that defeats you!” He faced Vang squarely. “Meanwhile, you waste time. The ship leaves in minutes. If the die requires it, I will take Andrek from the ship.”

  The monk hesitated, then shrugged and reached into his tunic and began to unfasten the dodecahedral crystal from its chain around his neck.

  “Wait,” said Oberon grimly. “You are right. T
he first cast is never the last. Use mine.” He unfastened the golden die from his neck pendant. “It has been used. Once, eighteen years ago. When it was found in the shambles of Xerol, the number ‘one’ was showing.”

  “The Sign of Ritornel!” breathed Vang. “Catastrophe!”

  The scar glowed along Oberon’s cheek. “Yes. Yet, I lived.” From his pocket Oberon drew a golden dice cup. He dropped the die into the cup and handed it to Amatar. “You, my dear, can make the throw. Shake it well, and then turn the cup down on the table.”

  The girl covered the cup with long tapering fingers, shook the thing vigorously, and clapped the cup down on the table, covering the die. The tips of her index and middle fingers rested lightly on the bottom of the cup.

  “Before I remove the cup,” said the girl quietly, “I want to confirm what numbers are favorable to Andrek.”

  “Surely we all know these things,” reproved the monk. “The signs beloved to Alea, and favorable to her children, are twelve, for the twelve faces of the Die, each representing a galaxy of the Node group; five, for the pentagon faces of the Holy Die; six for the number of pentagons in each half of the Die; three, for the triangle of each apex of the Die; eleven, for long life. The bad ones are of course one—” he spat—“which is the Sign of Ritornel, the false god; four, for—”

  “What is two?” asked Amatar dully.

  “Two is never thrown,” said the monk. “It is too terrible. Not in the recorded history of the Twelve Galaxies has Alea permitted a two. That is why the necklace-clasp is fastened opposite the face of the ‘two’: it is physically impossible for the die to come up ‘two.’”

  “Two means the great diplon—the double space quake,” said Oberon curtly. “The ruin of ruin at the Node. There, all matter vanishes. Nothing survives.” He looked at her sharply. “Lift the cup.”

  She grasped the gleaming vessel firmly and raised it in a slow prescient arc. She stared unseeing at the die, then turned and walked from the room.

  Kedrys followed her out, his face a mask.

  “The clasp is caught in a crack in the table,” whispered Vang. “It is … that which cannot be…”

  “It is a two,” said Oberon. “Alea has spoken.”

  “And will speak again,” said the monk.

  “Remove the bauble and cup, monk,” said Oberon. “Xerol awaits you.”

  “I will leave, Oberon of the Delfieri, but I may not take the Holy Die. That must remain here, untouched, until Alea shall choose to speak again.”

  “As you will. But begone.”

  Vang bowed, then hurried from the room, his long robes flapping.

  For a long time there was silence. Finally Oberon spoke, almost as though to himself. “Rimor.”

  “I am here, mighty Oberon.”

  The man studied the console thoughtfully. “If you are going to be sarcastic, you will get no quirinal.”

  “—of which you promised an extra ten milligrams for the Terror Epic—and for which I am waiting.”

  “Sometimes,” said Oberon, “you create the fantastic illusion that you are human, that you really exist.”

  “Don’t be deceived, Oberon. Except to myself, I don’t really exist. To me, though, I’m quite real. I have proof for this, but I’m afraid it would not convince you.”

  “Proof?”

  “Yes. I’m in love with your daughter. Amo, ergo sum.”

  Oberon frowned. “You well know I do not understand the ancient tongues. But no matter. Everybody seems to be in love with Amatar. It proves nothing. To me, you’re still a computer.”

  “And what are you, Oberon? Do you exist? I can neither see, touch, smell, nor taste you. I can hear you, but that could mean that you were merely a noise. Lots of inanimate things make noises. But we are digressing. How about the quirinal?”

  “How can a computer be a drug addict?” murmured Oberon.

  “It was not my choice.” The voice was now low, sad. “As you well know, the slave drug is essential to my neural metabolism. In fact, I now remind you that today is the eighteenth anniversary of that day when you first promised to release me from my addiction. The lower dial on the left of the console, Oberon. A simple twist of the wrist, and it will be ended.”

  “Rimor, you know this is impossible. In the first place, it is not convenient for me. You are like part of my own mind, I like to talk to you. We can talk together. You have a definite place in the stability of the Delfieri culture. In the second place, I think you do not really want to—be released. If you truly exist, as you seem to think, how could you possibly prefer death to life? It is unthinkable. So, I gather you expect simply to put me at a disadvantage by your annual reminder of the covenant—which you think may result in a guilt feeling and an increase in your quirinal dose. Well, put this from your mind, friend Rimor. I have no feeling about it, none whatever.”

  “It attests to the depths of your humanity and psychic resources,” said the console, “that you have found the fortitude to endure my misfortune.”

  The Magister did not seem to hear this. He continued, introspectively. “When I was a young man, I was a human being. Now all my human reactions I delegate, mostly to you, Rimor. I cannot afford to be a human being. I cannot indulge the luxury of feeling love … hate … tenderness.”

  “I’m glad you brought that up,” muttered the Rimor. “I’m jester, troubador, minstrel, healer of minds. I should get quadruple wages. Make it forty milligrams.”

  Oberon ignored him. “Each day is but a circlet of weary, useless, little things. A coming and going of scrapers and bowers, and bearers of grim tidings. To stay alive, I slay, but each death requires another. Death feeds on death, and there is no end. By the krith that hungered for me, perhaps it were better I died that black night at the Node!” He turned querulously toward the console. “Do you think I like doing this—sending that young man out to die?”

  “Do you?” countered the console, almost curiously.

  “I think I am having an emotion,” muttered the man uncomfortably. “Get rid of it.”

  “A little emotion never hurt anybody,” growled the Rimor. “Especially the kind you’re having now. If you didn’t occasionally hate yourself, you’d find yourself unbearable.”

  “You know very well I cannot endure these primitive glandular responses. Give me a suitable counterverse. Think sad, beautiful thoughts for me, so that I am justified. Rimor, purify me!”

  The Rimor’s voice held a sly timbre. “The Aleans think emotions help distinguish you hominids from the lower animals.”

  “If I have to take an anti-emotion capsule, you will get no quirinal for three days.”

  “Ah yes. Shall we say, then, a total of fifteen milligrams?”

  “Fifteen.”

  “Let me think a moment.”

  Oberon waited.

  “I have it now. A sad poem, with genuine counteractive emotion. It will give you fitting rest this night.

  Each night, when I go to bed,

  I put three bullets in my head.

  One for shelter from dishonor,

  One to comfort me for living,

  One for life among the dead.

  Now shall peace attend my dreaming.

  Now shall twilight gently fall.

  With truth and justice still remaining,

  Let night and wisdom cover all.”

  Oberon’s great scar seemed momentarily to fade. He walked over to the console, turned a dial on the panel to read “fifteen,” and pressed one of the buttons. “That was well said. I did not understand all of it, but it induces meditation, and meditation brings sleep. Good night, Rimor.”

  “Peace, Oberon.”

  At the third hour of the morning, when the world was still dark, Amatar awakened suddenly from restless sleep and sat up rigid in her bed, listening.

  Excepting the far, muted nocturnal rumble of the giant city—caught midway between slumber and waking, she heard nothing.

  She turned on the night light with a whisper,
slipped into night coat and slippers, and walked over to the door. The sensor panel showed that the hallway was empty. Working the panel controls, she released the protector field that enveloped her apartment, rolled back the door, and stepped out into the hall. Here, she stopped again to listen. She should not be out here without an escort. Oberon had strictly forbidden it.

  This time she thought she could hear something—a very faint and muted thing, convulsive, uncontrollable, nearly hideous: the sound of sobbing. And then it was blotted out by the approach of marching feet. A patrol was coming. But now she knew where the sound was coming from. She had time.

  She bent down quickly, removed her slippers, and began to run. When she reached the music room, she slipped inside and closed the door. Seconds later, the patrol clattered past the door.

  She looked around. The room was empty. She walked over to the great console. Her throat was constricted, and she was beginning to shake. She could hardly speak. She did not recognize her own voice. It was broken, guttural. “Omere! Jim is going to be all right! He has Raq, and the plan must work. I could not do more, and I could not warn him, because my father would instantly destroy you both.”

  She knew the Rimor heard her; but the metallic unearthly weeping continued, beyond consolation, beyond sorrow. Tears started from her eyes. She wiped them away with her fingertips, then sat down at the foot of the console, with her cheek pressed against its intricate facing. She got her voice under control through sheer willpower, and then she began to croon a lullaby, low-pitched, lovely. After that, she hummed a ballad, and then an ancient folk song. As the hours passed, there were dozens of songs. Sometimes there were words, sometimes not.

  Faint intimations of dawn were filtering into the room when she finally struggled to her feet. She was exhausted, and every bone in her body ached. But the room was silent. She noted numbly that she still held her slippers in her hand.

 

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