The Wanderers

by Paula Brandon

  Her father would scarcely understand, but Nalio knew that he was right.

  TWELVE

  The springtime air was mild, but dim and cool as always, for the perpetual mists of the northern Wraithlands diminished the light and warmth of the sun. The moist grey veiling obscured sky, hills, trails, and landmarks of every kind. There was little to see, but even so, the smudged vista offered relief from the monotony of his small underground dwelling place. Here at the surface level, Grix Orlazzu could forget the closeness of a windowless cylindrical space; feel the touch of a fresh breeze upon his bearded cheek; swing his arms freely, and walk as far as he pleased, in any direction that he chose.

  Today, however, neither the appetite for fresh air nor the longing for wholesome exercise had drawn him from his refuge. Curiosity had lured him. He had sensed the pressure upon his thoughts, and this time its origin was not the Overmind. The intelligence impinging upon his own was human in nature, arcane in quality, and not unfamiliar.

  They had attempted contact in the past, this little group of anxious arcanists now rapping so insistently upon the portal of his mind. They had launched their sendings from the city of Vitrisi, at the beginning. Since then, there had been several attempted incursions, and he had steadfastly excluded all of them. It would not do to let them in, to listen to their pleas and arguments, to find himself drawn back into the affairs of mankind. He was better off outside of it all.

  Nevertheless, there was something in the quality of this latest psychic assault that caught his attention. It conveyed a certain intensity of emotion difficult to ignore; moreover, its authors were surprisingly near at hand—far closer than ever before.

  The urge to investigate was irresistible. And so he had emerged from his lair, determined to glean such clues as might be found infusing the atmosphere, coloring the daylight, vibrating through the rocks and soil, occupying the vegetation. It would not do, however, to neglect caution. Before assuming the vulnerable state of trance-like mental focus supporting an arcane investigation, he would survey the immediate area for intruders, visitants, disruptions, malign vortices, and the like. Such precautions were more than a matter of form. The territory that he currently called home glowed almost visibly with the power of the Source. Perhaps for that reason, the place was a magnet to Wanderers.

  He did not know where they all came from—those undead men, women, children, animals. Once or twice he had even spied decomposing Sishmindris shambling about. There must have been some obscure village or hamlet in the vicinity—some insignificant settlement overlooked by kings and conquerors, unvisited by tax collectors and cartographers—but not overlooked by the Overmind, and not unvisited by the plague. Now the victims roamed far and wide, carrying ruination with them.

  There also remained the problem of GrixPerfect, who haunted the general area like some robotic specter. The automaton had not as yet discovered the exact location of Orlazzu’s refuge, but clearly divined its proximity. The stocky figure, so similar to Orlazzu’s own, could often be spied marching up and down the hills, beeping and clicking to itself, glass eyes scanning ceaselessly. He did not wish to encounter his simulacrum. Above all, he did not wish GrixPerfect to discover the camouflaged doorway, and the precious hidden space that lay beneath. Should that misfortune occur, it would become necessary to relocate. Again.

  Orlazzu sent his awareness reconnoitering, and encountered nothing exceptionally untoward. The grasses and rock-clutchers seemed to display a certain slow, writhing animation more typical of fauna than flora, but here in this place, this was scarcely remarkable. More to the point, he caught no echo of the Wandering dead, nor of the relentless automaton. For the moment, his surroundings offered no obvious threat.

  To work, then.

  He prepared himself as necessary. When ready, he spoke, both audibly and in silence. His mind ignited, took flight, and the hopes of his petitioners clarified.

  There was little change in content. They still sought his help in their great project, whose nature he inferred, but declined to contemplate. They still beckoned and exhorted. The only real change seemed to reside in the growing note of desperation. The message came largely in images and impressions. Even without words, however, he caught their clear need of his assistance.

  Well, they would have to do without it. Quite abruptly, Grix Orlazzu shut the arcane sending from his mind. Once disengaged, he was free to consider the attempted communication at leisure. The plea to his emotions—the sense of urgent need—had been specious. Doubtless they wished to make use of his talents, but they did not literally need him. Surely so accomplished a group could not have set forth from Vitrisi without sufficient numbers and strength to achieve their purpose. They would not have come so far, at such cost of effort and time, without expectation of ultimate success.

  And why would they have come so far? Presumably, for reasons resembling his own. Like himself, they searched for what the Sishmindris termed “ground of virtue”: ground whereon the rampant energy of the Source fueled the most ambitious arcane endeavor.

  Orlazzu’s brows knit. If they sought ground of virtue, they might well find their way to this particular location, just as he had. They were approaching, and they could be upon him in a matter of days—even hours, should they employ arcane methods of transportation.

  Strangers. Interlopers, intruding upon his precious place. There were several of them, all gifted and skilled. He could not expect to stand against such force, and there was nothing he could do to keep them out. He had no right, in any case; certainly he possessed no legitimate claim to ownership of the land.

  Well, they might invade, but that did not mean that he need accept them, join them, or even meet them. They would never discover the entrance to his underground home. Certainly he possessed the ability to disguise its very existence, even from fellow arcanists. They could search for days, and launch their nagging sendings by the gross, but they would never find him.

  “He’s ignoring us.” Ojem Pridisso scowled. “He catches our sending—I’ll take my oath on it—and he shuts us out as if we were pesky tradesmen at his door. I can’t understand that attitude. I say it’s sheer meanness.”

  “It seems that Master Orlazzu fails to grasp the urgency of our need,” Innesq Belandor mused. “I suspect that he does not permit himself to understand.”

  “Why shouldn’t he?” Pridisso’s jaw jutted. “Are you making him out as some kind of loony?”

  “By no means. I make him out as an individual solitary by nature or by circumstance, perhaps somewhat embittered, and reluctant to disrupt a way of life to which he has grown accustomed.”

  “Well, he’ll just have to bear it for a while, won’t he?”

  “It is our task to persuade him. He cannot be forced.”

  “He shouldn’t have to be persuaded, much less forced. He should be boiling with eagerness to help in any way he can, if he’s any sort of a decent human being. I must say, I never dreamed I’d come all this way from home to be tripped up by some foot-dragging, nose-in-the-air Faerlonnishman who won’t deign to pull his own weight when he’s needed. I guess people are just different, where I come from.”

  Nobody ventured to contradict. Pridisso’s colleagues sat still and silent for a time; perhaps recovering from the exertion of their joint sending, perhaps lost in thought, perhaps still hoping for a reply from the elusive, uncooperative Grix Orlazzu.

  The three nonarcanist members of the party also sat idle. The Magnifico Aureste disliked waiting upon the will of others, especially such others as these: his own younger brother, a Taerleezi boor, an insolent boy, a fey and possibly backward moonchild. Just now, however, there was no help for it.

  Aureste allowed his eyes to roam. Behind him, to the south, rose a bristling of stone spires, dark spikes against the pearlescent sky—the last remnant of the Desert of Trees. The party had finally emerged from the stone forest, or cemetery, or whatever it was, some hours earlier, and now traveled a less noteworthy and more natural region.
The rugged land was clothed in hardy grasses of a dozen different varieties, displaying a dozen different shades of green, ranging from unabashed almost-yellow, through deep emerald, to a curious dusky hue verging on teal. Rich patches of ground cover bunched amid the grasses, their curly stems studded with blossoms white and translucent as fine porcelain. Here and there stood groves of gnarled trees, crowned with leaves of silver-green. The hills before them rose in silent dignity, their summits lost in mist. The prospect was uncommonly pleasing, wanting only a ray of sunlight to invest it with real glory.

  Still, it was a sight to gladden the heart, and his eyes automatically sought the face of Sonnetia, who sat nearby upon an oilcloth mat spread on the ground. She was studying the scenery with wide-open eyes, and lips slightly parted; a sight more beautiful to Aureste than anything the landscape had to offer.

  She must have felt his gaze upon her, for she turned abruptly to face him. She had caught him fairly, staring at her, and now would no doubt coolly avert her face.

  But she did not. A nearly invisible smile touched her lips, and she held his eyes. Her own were brilliant, glowing with life. The years fell away in an instant, and she was the Sonnetia Steffa of the past, his Sonnetia. At this moment, they were as close in mind and heart as they had ever been. Had they been alone, he knew in a flash that he could have taken her in his arms, and she would not have resisted.

  They were not alone though, and past might live on, but the present could hardly be banished. He saw her eyes slide away, and followed them to her abominable son, who would no doubt be discovered glowering at the two of them.

  But Vinzille’s attention was otherwise engaged. For the moment he appeared unaware, and for once they were free of his hostile regard. Yet still they did not go unobserved. The third ungifted and unoccupied member of the expedition, Yvenza Belandor, sat nearby, studying Aureste with analytical attentiveness. She was quite motionless, and utterly expressionless, her eyes as dead as any Wanderer’s. Certainly she communicated no overt threat. She communicated nothing at all, yet Aureste found himself inexplicably chilled, and his pleasure in the moment was spoiled.

  The arcanists revived, and the group moved on. Throughout the rest of the day they walked north toward the hills, and Aureste did not waste breath asking exactly what it was that they sought, or how they would recognize it when they found it. The answers to such questions were invariably vague. He could only choose to believe that the highly educated, finely tuned senses of Innesq and the others would function as needed when the time and place were right.

  In the meantime, they enjoyed a perceptible diminution of invasive mental pressure. Beneath the stone boughs, deep in the Desert of Trees, the Overmind’s assaults had been continual and relentless. Out here in the open, where the claims upon Its attention were numerous and varied, Its will was comparatively diffuse. Still perilous, though; and still maddening. Aureste felt it every moment of the day. His resistance had grown powerful and adroit, but perpetual vigilance was burdensome. Even in sleep, some portion of his mind was obliged to keep watch. There was no such thing as true repose.

  One consolation existed, however, and it was considerable. The undeniable reality of the danger surrounding them continued to justify his close attendance upon Sonnetia Corvestri. He was, after all, only guarding and protecting her; services that her whippersnapper son was hardly qualified to perform. Thus, he walked beside her throughout the day; sat beside her at mealtimes; conversed with her when conversation was appropriate; performed a hundred small favors designed to cheer her, or to ease her way as needed.

  It would have been easy enough for her to put a stop to it. A sharp or chilly word, an unequivocal rebuff, even a frown of displeasure—any of these things would have driven him off. But Sonnetia offered none. Her manner was unexceptionably decorous, but he sensed that she enjoyed his companionship, and he found encouragement there.

  Vinzille’s impressions must have been similar, for the boy’s hostility, now undisguised, intensified by the hour. He was forever watching, always radiating waves of disapproval, contempt, and general loathing. Aureste would turn his head, to encounter Vinzille’s baleful stare; look up from eating, to discover Vinzille’s eyes attempting to bore holes into his flesh; push Innesq’s chair along the reinstated stretch of arcane pathway and feel the weight of Vinzille’s detestation pressing his back. He would have found it amusing, but for Sonnetia’s pained reaction. She said nothing, but distress revealed itself in the persistent compression of her lips.

  The unspeakable little pismire was making his mother unhappy. He deserved a sound beating, at the very least.

  But that would make his mother even more unhappy.

  The day drew to its close. The natural landscape they now traversed offered fuel, and it was once again possible to kindle cookfires. They prepared and consumed a simple but pleasingly warm evening meal, cleaned up, and shortly thereafter composed themselves for slumber.

  Aureste lay wrapped in his blanket, head pillowed on a grassy mound, and found himself unexpectedly content. The Overmind pushed, as always, but the gates of his mind were firmly barred. For now, he was free to sleep in relative peace. He had spent most of the day walking beside Sonnetia, and once during a pause for rest, the two of them had stood near each other. They had not exchanged a word, but their eyes had met, and he had caught the expression in hers—at once humorous and questioning—that he remembered from long ago, and a deep happiness had welled inside him. The Desert of Trees lay behind them, the way had grown easier, and the worst was over. Innesq and his colleagues would succeed in their mission, and all would surely be well with the world. And then, home again, in Vitrisi …?

  The exertions of the day had fatigued him, and his thoughts quickly blurred. Before sleep claimed him, an observation found its way to his consciousness. Neither Yvenza Belandor nor Vinzille Corvestri was to be seen among the recumbent bodies surrounding the remains of the fire. Both were absent.

  Curious. Were they off somewhere together? Was that redoubtable beldam busy initiating pretty young Vinzille Corvestri into the mysteries of the flesh? At thought of Yvenza and little Vinzille locked in a carnal embrace, a sputter of laughter burst from Aureste, jolting him awake. For a few seconds his merriment bubbled freely, and then he brought it under control. He did not care to draw attention, and certainly did not wish to grieve Sonnetia, who would doubtless fear for the safety and virtue of her darling boy. In any case, the fantasy was too absurd—the rawboned, hard-bitten old woman, and the tender, self-righteous youth … A final laugh erupted, and closed in a great yawn. Fatigue reasserted itself, and the world slid away.

  The next day, the situation seemed less amusing. Aureste kept watch throughout the day, and twice saw Yvenza engage in conversation with Vinzille, out of earshot of all others. Once, she seemed to encounter him as if by accident while they gathered kindling. Hours later, she drew him aside and benevolently presented him with some sort of snack or tidbit, accompanied by words, whose nature was open to conjecture. She might have been saying anything in the world to him. She might have been discussing the scenery, the weather, or the state of her health. But he doubted it.

  Perhaps Sonnetia should have a word with her son—warn him that the Magnifica Yvenza’s company and conversation were sometimes less than wholesome. But no, that would hardly do any good; quite the contrary, in all likelihood. Perhaps Innesq could influence the boy, steer the gullible young fool in the right direction. That might be best.

  That afternoon, they walked a region of oddly symmetrical grassy mounds, the summit of each marked with an emphatic indentation, and every indentation lined with precisely positioned stones. They marched on, and the mounds gave way to outcroppings of reddish stone, robed in moss rich as velvet, intensely green beneath the brooding skies. Presently, a brook hurried athwart their path.

  A scattering of wide, flat stones rising above the water offered an easy crossing. Disdaining the usual arcane pathway, Aureste offered Sonnetia Co
rvestri his arm, and unnecessary assistance from stone to stone. There was no need for him to retain her hand on the far side of the brook, but he did so for several minutes, during which she did not seek to withdraw it. He relinquished her hand only when it came time for him to push his brother’s chair.

  Evening came. They halted, and the Magnifico Corvestri requested a word in private with the Magnifico Belandor. The two stepped into the shadows.

  It was obvious what was coming. The whelp was about to resume his tiresome complaints. This time, Aureste did not mean to humor him.

  “I don’t wish to quarrel with you,” Vinzille declared without preface. He was composed, tone carefully moderate. “At least, not before we’ve completed our mission.”

  Aureste waited.

  “But you continue to pursue and compromise my mother. As her son, and the head of her House, I can’t overlook that. Today, you even ventured to touch her.”

  “Yes. Helped her across the water, then dared to hold her hand for the space of—let me see, it must have been at least five minutes or so.”

  “Five seconds would be too long. You are not to touch her, not ever. I won’t allow it. I don’t think I can speak any more plainly.”

  “Probably not. Allow me to return the favor. I’ve told you this in the past, but you seem a trifle slow of understanding, so I’ll repeat it. ‘Magnifico Corvestri’ or no, you are nothing more than a boy. What passes between two adults is no concern of yours. Your mother and I will shape our friendship as we see fit, and you will abide by the decision of your elders.”