“Even if it is a poisoned world. Yes, I understand you. It’s springtime. The air softens and warms, life renews itself all around us, there’s beauty everywhere. Even here, even now.”
Especially here, especially now, thought Aureste. Where you are, there is beauty. Aloud, he replied simply, “Very much so.”
Perhaps his meaning revealed itself in his eyes, for the color in her face deepened, and she observed, “The deafness is galling, but we must bear it, for now. I hope you won’t be reckless.”
The statement was open to interpretation.
“Recklessness was never my vice,” he countered.
“No, it wasn’t. You were always controlled, rational, and very—purposeful.”
“Was that so bad?”
“Depends on the purpose.”
“Reparation of past errors. Surely a laudable purpose, by any and all standards.”
“Sometimes it may be best to bury the past and let it rest in peace.”
“The ugly past, the painful past—yes, by all means, let it rest. But what of the joys and treasures of bygone days? Must they too be consigned to the grave? Only a moment ago, you yourself spoke of springtime, the renewal of life—in short, of new beginnings. You see it in the world all around you, and yet you allow yourself no hope?”
“We’ve all of us seen reanimated corpses, Aureste. Would you raise another Wanderer?”
“Who suggests raising the dead? I speak of springtime awakening. I speak of life and happiness.”
“Happiness? An illusion of youth, I suspect.”
“The Sonnetia Steffa of old dared higher expectations.”
“She’s long gone.”
“Not so. She has merely slept through a long winter. Now her eyes open.”
Sonnetia had no reply. The replacement of her earplugs concluded the exchange, leaving the Magnifico Aureste well pleased. But his satisfaction faded as he turned to encounter the attentive regard of Yvenza Belandor. She was hiking along briskly, no more than a scant step or two behind him. The arrangement of her hair concealed her ears, which may or may not have been plugged. He could not gauge how much, if anything, she had overheard. His eyes narrowed, and she smiled at him.
In the late afternoon, they reached a region so low and soggy that the tracks of Innesq’s chair filled with water within moments of their creation. Presently the tracks and puddles merged into standing water, above which rose a scattering of reedy tussocks. Here the arcanists expended an extra measure of force to support the progress of the chair, and a succession of small, short-lived bridges of loosely solidified epiatmosphere jutted from tussock to tussock.
For a while they progressed without incident. The chair glided smoothly, and the bridges dissolved behind it. Then, when the afternoon began to dwindle into evening, and the wispy mists started to gather themselves into brooding clouds, the local population disclosed itself. Quite suddenly, the neighboring tussocks were occupied.
Aureste blinked. They seemed to have sprung out of nowhere—a troupe of motionless figures, grey and seemingly insubstantial as the fog. They were human in conformation, but oddly short in stature. Dwarfs? Midgets?
No. Children. Dozens of them, standing three or four to the tussock, sometimes ankle-deep in water. Aureste’s breath caught. Squinting through the gloom, he made out gaunt little bodies clothed in disintegrating flesh; shrunken faces, sunken cheeks, and hollow, milky eyes whose gaze he could hardly sustain. They were unmistakably undead, and they were by far the youngest Wanderers he had ever seen. The oldest among them were barely adolescent, and several of the smallest could not have been above two or three years of age.
It would be dangerous, as well as distasteful, to beat forcibly through those doubtless contagious juvenile ranks. Aureste’s practiced eye scanned the scene and picked out a clear path. Parts of the way were submerged, but the skills of the arcanists would carry them on. He glanced at his companions. The faces around him reflected varying degrees of horror and pity. Even the Dowager Magnifica Yvenza was visibly taken aback. Understandable, but this was no time for sentiment.
Brusquely shouldering Ojem Pridisso aside, Aureste laid hands upon his brother’s wheeled chair. His eyes met Innesq’s, and he snaked a gesture sketching their path. Innesq nodded. Aureste pushed, the chair rolled, and the others fell into line behind them.
They advanced, threading a passage among small Wanderers, who never offered the smallest opposition. Aureste could not resist glancing sidelong at them as he went. He avoided the blindly staring white eyes, but saw much of decay and decomposition. The stench of rotting flesh assailed his nostrils, and he took to breathing through his mouth. A pair of tiny undead moppets standing hand in hand caught his attention. They looked to be about three or four years old, and each of them still clutched the barely identifiable remains of a rag doll. They were exactly alike in size and shape, and the two empty faces were each framed in curling strands of reddish hair. Twins.
Aureste did not allow himself to shudder. He noticed then that the lips of the twins were moving. The plugs in his ears deadened their utterance, if such there was. A swift survey informed him that the lips of all the juvenile Wanderers were similarly active. No matter. The putrescent urchins might squawk away to their hearts’ content, and welcome. The living in their midst were well protected.
But matters were scarcely so simple and definite.
They pushed on at their best pace, and the undead voices were inaudible to securely plugged living ears. Yet there was something amiss. Aureste felt rather than heard it; felt something alien and imperative thrilling along his nerves to push at the bottom of his brain. A sense of pressure might best have described it—an intimation of something striving to rise from the depths into the light of consciousness. The sensation was oddly alluring.
Some part of him wanted to hear more.
It had to do with those moldering brats, obviously. Somehow the Overmind was using their voices to focus Its will upon potentially receptive minds, and—but for Innesq’s contribution of the earplugs—the ploy might have proved devastating. No matter. The Magnifico Aureste would carry on, as would his fellow travelers.
Or would they?
He scanned the nearest faces. All seemed reasonably composed and resolute, if something troubled. The boy Vinzille looked down in the mouth, as usual. The girl Nissi was incalculably odd, as usual. The others were well enough, with the possible exception of Littri Zovaccio, who appeared to suffer a severe headache, a disruption of vision, or perhaps an acute pruritus.
Zovaccio’s bony hands were raised to his bone-white face. He was kneading and massaging, patting his own cheeks, and sometimes knuckling his eyes. Aureste looked on, contemptuous but interested. Zovaccio had not offended him in any way, but the fellow was weak. Moreover, the spectacle of Taerleezi misery never failed to please.
But pleasure gave way to alarm when Zovaccio abruptly plucked the plugs from his ears.
Littri Zovaccio halted. Something like wonder or astonishment rounded his eyes, to be followed by a kind of agonized rapture as he stood listening.
The Taerleezi appeared to have lost his wits. Aureste suppressed a curse.
Zovaccio took a wavering footstep toward the nearest of the young Wanderers. Then another. One shaky hand rose, reaching out to them.
The idiot would be the ruin of them all. Loosing his hold on Innesq’s chair, Aureste started for Zovaccio, but the Taerleezi’s own compatriot was already there.
Ojem Pridisso laid a hand on Zovaccio’s shoulder and shook gently; then harder. There was no response, and Pridisso spoke; his words at that moment intelligible to Zovaccio alone, unless the Overmind was listening.
Zovaccio’s lips moved in concert with the lips of the undead. Pridisso frowned and struck the other’s face, open-palmed, back and forth. Zovaccio stared at him, dumbfounded. One hand rose to his reddening cheek. Tears spilled from his eyes. Pridisso gestured and appeared to utter a command. Zovaccio seemed uncomprehending, whereupo
n his countryman tapped the hand still clasping the forgotten earplugs. Zovaccio nodded unwillingly, and slid the plugs back into his ears. His mouth contorted, and his shoulders shook. Dropping to his knees in the mud, he crouched there, weeping uncontrollably.
Aureste looked on, torn between embarrassment and disgust. It was upon the heaving shoulders of such a creature as this blubbering Taerleezi that the fate of the Veiled Isles depended? The enterprise was surely doomed. He looked down, hoping to catch fellow feeling in his brother’s eyes. But Innesq’s face was turned away, his grave gaze fixed on his distraught colleague.
Aureste’s own gaze swept the immediate vicinity. The undead children stood ranged about the neighboring tussocks, the movement of their lips perfectly synchronized. He heard nothing, but the sense of pressure at the base of his brain was intensifying. This was no place to loiter. A broad sweep of his upraised arm caught the attention of all. A sharp gesture communicated a command to resume progress. He noted but did not acknowledge Ojem Pridisso’s affronted scowl at the silent presumption of authority. Grasping Innesq’s chair, he commenced pushing. The others fell in behind him, with Pridisso assisting a limp and wobbly Zovaccio.
He hurried them forward at the best pace they could muster, and presently the juvenile Wanderers fell away behind them. The waters receded, the ground resumed indifferent solidity, and the epiatmospheric bridges were no longer necessary. Aureste surveyed the familiar vista of damp soil and rock, dark water, and heavy vegetation, all dulled with perpetual mist. Once again, the world seemed innocently empty. It would have been easy to fancy themselves alone.
But Littri Zovaccio clearly fancied no such thing. His face was colorless, his eyes haunted. He was wringing his hands unconsciously as he walked, and gnawing his lower lip bloody. From time to time he would stop dead in the middle of the trail, head cocked in a listening attitude, and so he would remain until the firm thrust of Pridisso’s hand upon his shoulder propelled him on his way.
The fellow’s present and future arcane usefulness was very much open to question.
And the Magnifico Aureste himself? He noticed to his relief that the pressure at the dark depths of his mind had decreased. But it was not gone.
In the midst of a silent wilderness, the earplugs could be set aside. At the close of the day, when the Magnifica Yvenza sought out young Vinzille Corvestri, she knew that he would hear her every word.
The boy was busy chopping firewood, and did not note her approach.
“Magnifico Corvestri,” Yvenza essayed.
He looked up, startled by her nearness, and by the form of address that had not yet grown familiar. “Madam?”
“A word with you, sir.” She took care to address him as if he were an adult. “In private, if you will, upon a matter of some urgency and delicacy.”
“What matter?”
“It isn’t readily introduced, for I fear that you are already burdened beyond your years. You are, to begin with, one of the elite—one of the few individuals of rare gifts, knowledge, and power, upon whose talents our collective fate depends. That is a vast responsibility in and of itself, but there’s more. You’ve witnessed the murder of a beloved parent, and you are left to mourn his loss, while the insolent killer goes unpunished. Beyond that, you’ve inherited the title of Magnifico Corvestri. You are now master of one of the Six, head of a great household, and heir to countless obligations. It is a heavy load for any young man to carry. I don’t like to trouble you further, and perhaps it isn’t my place. Yet my friendship and esteem for your father were such that I risk exceeding the bounds of propriety in my eagerness to assist his son. Thus I venture to approach the new Magnifico Corvestri, whose right it is, no less than his duty, to know all that pertains to House Corvestri.”
“Then tell me what it is.” Vinzille’s face reflected a mixture of curiosity, some trepidation, and a subtle susceptibility to her flattery.
“In brief, I fear for the safety of your lady mother.”
“You mean, you think that swine Aureste means her harm?”
“Ah. You are quick. Those young eyes of yours are sharp.” Yvenza permitted herself a small smile. “It would seem that Aureste’s attentions to the Magnifica Sonnetia have not escaped your notice.”
“I’d have to be blind not to notice. I’ve already told him to stay away from her.”
“Did you, now? That was courageous. I’m impressed. But was he? Impressed, I mean.”
Vinzille shook his head.
“Magnifico, we both know Aureste Belandor. Both of us have suffered outrages at his hands. We two know who he is and what he is. And we know that his interest—friendship—society—call it what you will—can only inflict misery or worse upon any decent woman.”
“My mother is no fool. She’ll see through him easily enough. She isn’t likely to forget what he’s done.”
“Your mother is a woman of wit, spirit, and large nobility. She is generous, quick to forgive faults, slow to suspect treachery or ill intent. These traits are admirable, yet she now confronts a serpent capable of twisting such virtues to his own purposes. He will contrive to turn her own goodness against her.”
“How? What do you mean?”
“Oh, he might, for example, convince her of his genuine repentance, his true desire to atone for his crimes. He would come in the guise of a troubled spirit seeking her counsel, and he would encourage her to view herself as the sole instrument of his salvation.”
“She’d never swallow such swill.”
“Genuine kindness, which the Magnifica Sonnetia possesses, can be a considerable handicap. An old campaigner like Aureste will know how to exploit it to the fullest, and he has a thousand stratagems at his command.”
“Then it’s up to me to warn her.”
“By no means. You’ll oblige her to stand up for him, and play straight into his hands.”
“You wouldn’t be talking to me now if you didn’t think that something must be done.”
“Indeed, something must be done. The Magnifica Sonnetia is too elevated of mind to recognize the peril of her own situation. She doesn’t know it, and might not believe it, but she stands much in need of protection. It’s up to the Magnifico Corvestri to defend his mother.”
“How can I do that, if she won’t listen?”
“A magnifico of the Six does not wait upon the whims of his household members. He takes action, he assumes command. A young man of high station and high courage finds a way to keep his mother safe from harm. He does what he must, and therein lies the measure of his future greatness.”
“Does what he must? Are you saying that you think I shouldn’t hold back?”
“I am saying, Magnifico, that you possess formidable resources. Whether you choose to employ them in defense of your mother’s safety and honor, or not, is entirely up to you.”
Vinzille eyed her for a long and considering moment. Then, without reply, he scooped up his armful of firewood, and walked away.
Yvenza stood watching him go, her expression expressing a succession of emotions, not the least of which was enjoyment. Presently a soft rustle reached her ears, and she turned to discover Nissi, only a few feet behind her, but curiously difficult to see.
“Well. Heard all of that, did you?” Yvenza inquired.
Nissi nodded.
“Big ears are like to find themselves cropped.” There was no reply, and she pressed, “What did you make of it, then?”
“You want Vinzille to use his arcane skills against Aureste Belandor.”
“You disapprove?”
Nissi’s slight shoulders flexed an almost invisible shrug.
“Speak up, girl. What do you think?”
“I think … that Master Innesq will not allow his brother to be harmed.”
“Ah, perhaps he won’t, if he’s watching. But you’re not to go carrying tales to Master Innesq Belandor. This is no concern of his, or of yours. I won’t tolerate meddling. You understand me?”
“I understand you.�
��
“Keep it in mind.” Yvenza encountered a wide, attentive gaze, colorless and elemental as rain. “And stop looking at me.”
The next morning, Aureste resumed his position at Sonnetia’s side, and remained there throughout the day, except when called upon to propel his brother’s chair. She did not feign unawareness of his closeness. She displayed nothing of uneasiness, artificiality, or constraint. If he had been asked, he would have described her demeanor as easy and natural. Sometimes their glances crossed, their eyes met and held, longer than necessity demanded. Sometimes there were brief verbal exchanges. This fulfilled his best immediate hopes.
He was aware, certainly, of young Vinzille Corvestri’s hostile regard. The boy was continually watching and glowering. It was impossible to overlook Vinzille, but easy to disregard him. There were matters of far greater import and interest to consider; specifically, the state of the party’s collective mental defenses.
They had passed beyond the realm of the oppressively vocal Wanderers. The unbearable voices had faded away, and with them went the need to exclude sound. The earplugs could be dispensed with, for the moment, but nobody discarded them. They might well be wanted again.
The voices were gone, but the silent, internal pressure remained. Aureste could still muffle and suppress it, but the effort, energy, and attention required to do so seemed to increase by the hour.
How fared the others? Covertly, he observed them. All but one appeared composed and resolute.
The sole clear signals of distress came from Littri Zovaccio. The drooping Taerleezi could often be seen twisting his hands, grimacing, and sometimes weeping. Of late, he had taken to silent mumbling. His lips moved, framing syllables, but no sound emerged. The fellow appeared unstable or perhaps unhinged. Aureste considered directing the matter to Innesq’s attention, but chose to refrain. There was nothing he had seen that Innesq would not already know.
Another day’s progress, and the sense of invasive presence continued to grow. Invisible regard pressed with an almost tangible weight. As he walked, Aureste’s searching gaze stabbed this way and that, always in search of mutable entities marked with fathomless dark pits that might have passed as eyes. He knew They were near, but never glimpsed Them.
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