The twilit world was with him again. He sat on the ground beside the fire. The air was cool, but his brow was beaded with sweat. His breath was ragged, and his heart raced. He did not know how much time had passed, but sensed that the struggle had been prolonged, dramatic, and no doubt startling to its witnesses. He cast a glance around him, curious to note his companions’ reaction.
There was no reaction. There was, in fact, no sign of awareness. Innesq still sat a few feet distant, his two pupils on the ground before him. Ojem Pridisso was haranguing his silent countryman Littri Zovaccio about something or other, his resounding voice muted to a discreet rumble. Sonnetia Corvestri had her head bent over some bit of needlework. Only Yvenza Belandor noted the Magnifico Aureste. She alone was staring straight at him, but nothing resembling wonder, alarm, or even curiosity animated her face. She was altogether expressionless, her features still as firelit granite. Something in her aspect sent his mind winging back to Ironheart, and he remembered all that he had wrought there. Perhaps the same memories filled her head, but what of it? The beldam’s grievances meant nothing.
The quality of the dying light told him that minimal time had elapsed. It had seemed like hours, and it had been no more than seconds. The incident had passed unobserved. This group of supposedly brilliant arcanists had noticed nothing.
Nor would he himself notice, should one of his companions suffer a similar assault. It could be happening this very moment, and he would not know. His eyes traveled from face to face, and discovered nothing amiss. The menace was undetectable.
So he imagined.
The night passed, the journey resumed, and the land flowed by. The hills rose stark and stately, while the tremors rocking the ground waxed in frequency and intensity. There was no ignoring them now. The shivering of the rock and soil underfoot threw all into disarray, halting progress, tossing and flexing the arcane roadway and, upon two separate occasions, overturning the wheeled chair, to spill Innesq Belandor out onto the ground.
Each time this had happened, Aureste had contained his impulse to maul the negligent imbecile he deemed responsible—whoever happened to be pushing the chair at the moment of mishap. Only Innesq’s unruffled, apparently amused good humor had served to maintain peace. Then came the day that Aureste himself propelled his brother’s chair, and found himself helpless to control the wild pitching and bucking of the wheeled contraption when an emphatic quake set the little stretch of roadway fluttering like a pennant. Thereafter, he viewed the region they traveled with markedly greater respect.
Another wearisome stretch of progress over shuddering land, and when they paused to rest and eat at midday, there was little talk. Innesq, for once, sat apart from Vinzille and Nissi, his instructive discourse silenced for the moment. Ojem Pridisso, ordinarily so loquacious, had nothing to say. It seemed that the conversational urge had flagged for the moment, and Aureste was content to have it so. He ate without tasting what went into his mouth, and missed little; the provisions furnished of necessity by arcane means to replace stolen supplies lacked the savor of natural foodstuffs. He chewed mechanically, while his thoughts ranged far and wide. At length, however, he resumed awareness so far as to note Sonnetia Corvestri’s absence. At once his attention was engaged. He cast a sharp glance about him. She was nowhere to be seen.
There was nothing particularly alarming in this. It was broad daylight, and the land was uninhabited by man or predatory beast. It was commonplace and indeed inevitable that members of the group would wander off for brief periods. Certainly Sonnetia did so often enough, and it had never crossed his mind to follow or pursue her. But it crossed his mind now.
The impulse was curious. She was hardly apt to welcome an intrusion upon her solitude, certainly not by him. Following the death of her husband, the two of them had not exchanged a single word. Often he had wished to approach her, but hardly knew what to say. An apology would seem at once inadequate and inappropriate.
Magnifica, it is unlucky beyond measure that I found myself obliged to kill your husband, but I did so in self-defense, and in any event, if truth be told, are you not somewhat gratified to find yourself finally free of that ass?
No, not suitable.
At least she did not appear to hate him. She displayed no anger or animosity; in fact, she displayed nothing at all. Most of the time, she appeared unaware of his existence. Her gaze passed over or through him as if he were made of empty air, and the face that he had once thought uncommonly expressive now told him nothing.
He did not know what to say to her, and surely had no cause to seek her out now. But a strong sense of apprehension drove him, and somehow he found himself on his feet.
She had not gone far. He found her standing alone on the far side of a slight rise, ankle-deep in the new spring meecherhaven. He saw her in profile, and it seemed that she studied the prospect of angular hills and misty distance. She was well enough, probably enjoying the vista and the brief time to herself. Best to leave her in peace. But the apprehension pressed harder than ever, pushing him across the distance that separated them, and forcing him to speak.
“Magnifica. Forgive my intrusion, but …” He stopped. She did not seem to hear him. In fact, she appeared quite unconscious of the intrusion for which he apologized. The wide eyes aimed at the horizon were blind.
He knew then what ailed her. The Overmind had slipped through her defenses—it could happen in a single unguarded instant—and now the alien voice filled her. Well, she would hear another voice. Placing a hand lightly upon her shoulder, he spoke calmly.
“Magnifica.” No response, and his hand tightened on her. “Sonnetia.” Still no sign that she heard, and he raised his voice. “Sonnetia Steffa. Remember who you are.” He shook her slightly. “Hear me.” She blinked, and he shook hard, shook her until her hair came loose and tumbled about her shoulders.
She gasped and wrenched herself free. Her eyes focused, and she stood staring at him.
“Is It gone now?” he asked.
“It’s never really gone, is It?”
“I know.”
“But It’s outside, again. I am Sonnetia Steffa. Corvestri,” she corrected herself.
“You must never let down your guard.”
“I thought I knew how to resist It, but I never expected anything so sudden and strong. Now I’ve learned, and I won’t be caught unawares again. I don’t know what would have happened had you not found me.”
“Nothing irrevocable, I trust. You’re swamped in arcanists. One or another of them would have contrived to set matters right.”
“Ah, but they must conserve their powers for the sake of things more important.”
“There are no things more important.”
She colored. “I am indebted to you, Magnifico.”
“I am honored to assist you, madam.” He was more than honored. He was glad. A ridiculous sense of satisfaction filled him. She was looking up at him with appreciation, approval, even warmth; expressions he had never expected to encounter. The look in her eyes carried him back twenty-five years to a time when all things had seemed possible.
He let himself bask briefly, then escorted her back. She walked beside him silent and evidently thoughtful. Their return drew a few inquisitive glances, and a dark glower from Sonnetia’s annoying son. Aureste noticed but disregarded the boy’s reaction. Evidently Vinzille Corvestri’s adolescent dissatisfaction was destined to remain an unpleasant constant throughout the journey.
His comfortable indifference was shaken at the end of the day, when Vinzille approached and addressed him directly.
“Magnifico Belandor. A word with you.”
Aureste turned without haste to survey the speaker. He beheld a pale-faced, weedy youth, precociously self-possessed, resolute jaw set. The little wretch sought some sort of confrontation, so much was clear at a glance. Tiresome.
“Yes?” he returned without interest.
“In private, if you will.”
Best to consent and have done
with it, else the pest would badger him relentlessly for days to come. Aureste inclined his head, and the two of them retired a few paces from the light of the cookfire. When they stood beyond earshot of the others, they halted and faced each other.
“I am listening,” Aureste announced forbiddingly.
“Do so. Earlier in the day, I saw you in the company of my mother, the Dowager Magnifica Sonnetia. Together you had walked beyond of sight and hearing of all.”
“Correct.”
“I’ll speak plainly. You must stay away from my mother.”
“Must?”
“If the smallest particle of decency remains alive within you, you’ll spare the magnifica your company.”
“I see. And does the magnifica herself have any say in the matter?”
“I’d rather not trouble her.”
“I am certain of that. Tell me, boy—whatever gives you the impression that you’ve any right to attempt meddling in the affairs of adults? Obviously you know that your mother would chide your impertinence if she heard, else you wouldn’t be sneaking around behind her back.”
Even in the shadows of twilight, the rush of color to Vinzille’s face was visible. His expression did not alter, however, and his voice remained even as he replied, “I have already said that I don’t want her troubled. As for my right, you’ll recall that I am the Magnifico Corvestri. Indeed, you should recall it, as the title came to me through your agency—”
“Do you mean to thank me?” Aureste discovered that he could not seem to resist baiting the boy. Beneath his affectation of mildly amused contempt simmered intense hostility. He could gladly have strangled Vinz Corvestri’s son.
“And the welfare of all my House concerns me,” Vinzille concluded with exemplary self-control. “As for my mother, you’ve already murdered her husband. You’ll not murder her good name as well.”
“The matter of your father’s death was resolved days ago, and I would counsel you to resign yourself to the outcome. Between the two of us, the fool got exactly what he deserved, and I scarcely regret my deed. I don’t really imagine that your mother much regrets it, either. In my opinion, she’s well rid of him.”
“That’s enough!” The youth’s composure broke, and his eyes blazed. “You swine, you boot-licking kneeser, you won’t speak of them! And you won’t go near my mother again, or I’ll—”
“What, exactly, little lad?”
“I’m an arcanist. Never forget what that means.”
“Your father was likewise an arcanist, considerably more experienced and accomplished than you. Didn’t seem to do him much good. Now here’s a piece of sound advice for you. Hold your tongue, mind your manners, and behave yourself, else you’ll be sent to bed without your supper, or worse. Personally, I think a good hiding would improve your character, and if I encounter any more of your insolence and disrespect, we may perhaps put that theory to the test.”
“If you ever lay a hand on me, then I swear by the blood of my father that I will kill you. I will bring the sum of my arcane skills to bear upon you, and you will die in pain. Nor will all your wealth and influence, or even your brother’s knowledge, be enough to save your life. How is that for insolence and disrespect, Magnifico?”
The boy was white to the lips, eyes afire, but he kept his voice low and controlled. He had only recently begun to lengthen, and he still stood half a head shorter than Aureste Belandor, yet managed to project resolution too concentrated to ignore.
“Drama worthy of a strolling player.” Aureste arched a sardonic brow. “And too absurd to merit reply. You should not have been permitted to stray from home. You’re fit for the nursery, nothing more.” Turning on his heel, he sauntered away, leaving Vinzille to seethe in the shadows.
But as he went, it came to him that he had been wrong, even foolish, in willfully taunting and infuriating Vinzille Corvestri. An attack upon the son was sure to offend the mother. On the other hand, his anger had demanded outlet. He could still feel the last of it boiling along his veins. The intensity of emotion was noticeably disproportionate to the significance of the object. Why should he so detest a youth scarcely past childhood?
Perhaps because that youth was the one mortal in the world owning sufficient influence to turn Sonnetia Corvestri against him, once and for all? Well, and what if little Vinzille succeeded in doing exactly that? Was it so great a matter? Sonnetia had been lost to him half a lifetime ago, and he had done well enough without her. It was not as if he harbored any hope of reclaiming her now—or indeed, any ambition that the boy’s interference might undermine.
For the first time in decades, she was a widow, free of vows and obligations, free to do as she would.
Immaterial. The barriers were insurmountable. The thing was impossible.
But to a man blessed with the resources and ingenuity of the Magnifico Aureste, the term “impossible” held little meaning. And he was doubtless more than capable of outmaneuvering Vinz Corvestri’s abominable offspring.
The next day they followed a trail so steep and shaky that the propulsion of Innesq’s chair demanded an additional expenditure of arcane force. Nobody demurred. They now climbed the highest hill at the heart of the Quivers. When they reached its summit, the power of the Source would be plentiful and readily available.
In the afternoon they reached a broad, flat shelf abutting a sheer wall of granite. The path continued on through a narrow cleft in the wall, but the way was guarded. No less than a dozen large Sishmindris stood blocking the cleft. All were unclothed, all mature and powerfully built. More significant, all were armed with spiked clubs or sharpened wooden stakes.
The humans halted at a careful distance. Warm-blooded and cold-blooded beings studied each other in silence.
The servants had deserted days earlier, carrying off most of the weapons. The humans were outnumbered, but the Magnifico Aureste retained full confidence.
“We advance,” he declared. “We inform the creatures through words or gestures that we make for the summit. Should they oppose us, I trust that the sum of arcane power within this group will serve to blast them out of existence, particularly if we exploit the element of surprise.”
“Better by far to avoid conflict,” Innesq opined. “I know something of Sishmindri ways. I will speak with them.”
Infuriating, but he should have expected as much. His brother’s idle sentiments—affection for the amphibians, aversion to violence—were as unshakable as they were unreasonable. Aureste knew the futility of argument. “I’ll accompany you, then,” he countered at once.
“Really, I hardly think—”
“I insist.”
Innesq, too, appeared to recognize inevitability, for he inclined his head with an air of resignation. “Provided I have your word that you will initiate no hostilities, by word, deed, or even look.”
“I am the most peaceable of mortals.” Aureste neatly sidestepped Ojem Pridisso’s large form to assume management of his brother’s chair.
Pridisso frowned, shifted his weight, and objected, “A greater diversity of elements better suits this business. A Taerleezi presence—”
“Master Pridisso, less is wisest, for now,” Innesq advised mildly. “The Sishmindris will best hear the quietest voice. Trust me.”
And the Taerleezi oaf did trust, or at least accept, Aureste observed, impressed but not astonished. It had always been thus. People of every description listened to Innesq and believed. He possessed some sort of magical credibility that Aureste himself would gladly have imitated or appropriated unto himself, had he only known how.
Forward across the last yards separating humans and Sishmindris went the Belandor brothers alone, the others waiting behind them, Innesq’s chair gliding along the unnaturally smooth, temporary path. As they advanced, Aureste did not permit his pace to slacken. He was armed with nothing more than sword and dagger. Innesq was not armed at all, but possessed ample power to disable or destroy the entire pop-eyed greenish gang at will; power that he incom
prehensibly declined to employ. These club-wielding frogs might easily kill them both before anyone could move to intervene. In all likelihood, this possibility simply had not occurred to Innesq, but it did not escape the Magnifico Aureste.
They halted at a respectful distance.
“Good day.” Innesq spoke courteously, as if addressing equals. “I am called Innesq Belandor. My brother is named Aureste. We and our companions are peaceful travelers. We seek the summit of the Quivers.”
“Forbidden.” One of the Sishmindris, a big one with bulging muscles and a broad face further widened by distended air sacs, stepped forward to speak for the group. “Ours. Our ground. No men. You go away.”
Unbelievable. This animal was actually claiming ownership of Faerlonnish land, and such presumption screamed for the whip. Mordant syllables rose to Aureste’s lips, and he swallowed them with an effort. He had promised his brother to hold his peace.
“This place possesses special virtue,” observed Innesq.
“Ground of virtue.” The Sishmindri speaker stretched his lipless mouth in what might have been the equivalent of a human nod. “Ground of power. Ours.”
“Yes.” Innesq inclined his head. “And we have need of that virtue, and need of that power, in order to hold off the great change that is almost upon our world. Do you and your people know of the change?”
The Sishmindri stretched his mouth again. “We know, we feel. The land and all its creatures become unreal. Sishmindris, men, and beasts, like cold mists, with no home in the world. Except here. Ground of virtue, ground of power protects us. Here our people gather. Many here. Our ground keeps us real. The men will pass. Sishmindris remain.”
Once again, Aureste exercised stringent self-control and maintained silence.
“No. The land alone cannot protect you.” Innesq shook his head. “But we have come to offer help. Five of us are arcanists, humans of some learning. At the summit of the Quivers, where the Source nears the surface and its energy infuses all things, we arcanists will find the power to perform a cleansing. The reversal will not occur. The world and its creatures—men, Sishmindris, and all others—will live on. For this, we ask your leave to climb to the summit.”
The Wanderers Page 6