But tradition was about to alter.
Through the maze-like depths of the multiple cellars layered one upon another below the building, and through the highest, most distant reaches of the attic spaces, stole the Sishmindris of the Cityheart, each walking alone. From time to time one would pause at a locked closet, a storeroom, a cupboard, or clothespress, releasing therefrom the human occupants. These trespassers, all of them armed men of the Faerlonnish resistance, had been discreetly admitted and conveyed to the various hideaways of the great building by Sishmindri agency over the course of the past forty-eight hours. These same amphibians had fed and protected the illicit occupants, while concealing all trace of their presence.
Now it was coming to fruition. The plan, so carefully devised by minds both mammalian and amphibian, so lovingly memorized and rehearsed, was going forward.
The liberated humans emerged from hiding, and—guided through the palace by their Sishmindri allies—converged upon a quartet of designated meeting places, there to form themselves into squads. In stealth the squads ranged through the building, almost noiselessly killing every sentry stationed at every door. The outer doors were then barred.
This done, the lead squad marched straight into the acting governor’s private living quarters unopposed. The human servants encountered en route wisely fled. One, attempting to shout out a warning, was cut down.
Their luck held. When the Acting Governor Hecti Gorza awoke with a knife blade at his throat, to learn that he, his wife, his children, and a number of his personal servants had all been taken hostage, he offered no resistance, and it was not necessary to damage him.
Dawn broke over Vitrisi, and the news rushed through the streets that the Cityheart had been taken by a joint force comprising Faerlonnish resistance and rebel Sishmindris.
SIXTEEN
They had left the defile and its luminous mists behind. The land they now traveled was silent, seemingly serene, and draped in light but lightless fog suitable to the season and the locale. As they went, the intoxicating effects of the glow had faded, and sober, adult judgment had resumed its rightful sway. Animosities were sensibly suppressed. Tongues were responsibly governed. Hours passed without incident.
Sober, adult judgment. In one sense, the Magnifico Aureste welcomed its return. It was good to be himself again; quick of mind and reflex, rational, and controlled. He need no longer fear the upsurge of some lunatic impulse thundering through blood and brain to drive him where it would. He was once again himself—but then, so too was everyone else. So was Sonnetia.
Now that she had regained her customary level head, she was bound to regret the words that had passed between them. She would do her best to forget that she had allowed him to kiss her; that she had, in fact, kissed him back. Her icy armor would refreeze, and it would seem as if that moment of warmth had never been.
But she surprised him. As the mists receded and their effects did the same, she did not distance herself, but walked on at his side. The glances, smiles, and occasional remarks addressed to him were as warm as they had been hours earlier. And if she worried about the reactions of the loathsome Vinzille, her concern was not evident.
It was as if the lost Sonnetia Steffa of his youth had returned to life. By some miracle, he had been given a second chance, and he did not intend to waste it. He would avoid the mistakes of the past, and finally all things would be as they were meant to be. The thought was like some lozenge that an arcanist might swallow to open his mind to the Source; almost it seemed that the luminous mists still fired his blood. He could hardly believe his own good fortune.
Lost in his dreams of future fulfillment, the Magnifico Aureste paid scant heed to his immediate surroundings. About him rose and fell the same rolling, fog-choked hills and hollows that he had been looking at for days. Before him, the hills steepened and thrust skyward, their slopes dark with conifers. The daylight bathing the rugged terrain was perpetually soft, diffuse, and muted. Here, in the absence of direct sunlight, there was no sign of sharp contrast, deep shadow, or brilliant color. Insofar as he considered it at all, he was tired of unchanging, misty surroundings.
Yet a change of sorts had occurred, undetected by the Magnifico Aureste, but very apparent to the arcanists of the group.
“I’d say we’re nigh on top of it,” Ojem Pridisso observed, apparently in full confidence of his colleagues’ understanding.
“Another day or two of travel, I think,” returned Innesq.
“That’s what I make out, too,” Vinzille agreed. “To bring us to the real center.”
Loath to confess his incomprehension aloud, Aureste shot his brother a questioning look.
“We have come to a place of power,” Innesq informed the three uninitiates of the party. “This region is heavily infused with the energy of the Source—more so than any ground we have trodden since leaving the Quivers. It is in the soil, the air, the rocks, the vegetation—everywhere. If you but open your mind and senses, perhaps you will feel the tingle of it.”
Aureste doubted it. The surrounding landscape—dim and drab to the point of monotony—hardly appeared to promise tingles. Of course, Innesq and the others all seemed to agree that they had not yet come to the region of highest force. Perhaps, in another day or two, he would be able to catch some hint of the phenomenon they described. And then? When they finally reached that perfect “place of power” they had sought for so long—what would they do? There were only the four of them—not enough to accomplish their task. Their efforts to locate the absent and invisible Grix Orlazzu had lapsed in the defile. Now clear of those mischievous mists, they could attempt another sending. And if Orlazzu remained elusive? The Magnifico Aureste rejected the unacceptable possibility. Failure was a concept he did not choose to recognize.
His eyes traveled to Sonnetia’s face, as they often did; sometimes to note her reactions, sometimes simply to drink in the sight of her. She was standing motionless, white-faced, staring eyes fixed on a point somewhere behind him. He turned and followed her gaze to a pair of wraiths hovering but a few yards distant. These two were vaguely bestial in form, with long bodies, limb-like appendages, and trailing streamers suggestive of tails. The heads, however—if heads they were—deviated from recognizable type. Each was vast, roughly globular, and crowned with branching elaborations that might have represented antlers or trees.
They had not been much in evidence in very recent days, but now They were back again, and Aureste’s initial reaction was one of annoyance. He was quite certain of his own ability to resist the influence of the plague-wraiths. It was simply a matter of vigilance and determination, which came naturally to him. He could resist them for days, weeks, months, if need be—but he should not be obliged to do so. They were beaten—did They not understand? Why couldn’t They accept Their defeat with good grace and retire?
A second glance into Sonnetia’s face, however, shook his assurance. Her eyes were blank, the pupils enormous. Her lips moved. He leaned close to hear her words, but caught only a rhythmic stream of meaningless syllables; meaningless, at least, to him. They had her. A single unguarded instant had been enough, and They had slipped past her mental defenses. But he knew how to call her back, he had done it before. Grasping her arm, he spoke firmly.
“Sonnetia.” There was no change in her face, and his voice sharpened. “Hear me. Sonnetia!”
Still nothing, and now the alarm began to flare inside, but he did not give way to it. She was deeper in Their thrall than he had ever before seen her, and it had happened with such frightening speed and suddenness, but he would bring her back; They could not have her. “Remember yourself.”
“Take your hand off her. Get away from her.” Vinzille Corvestri’s low voice carried a note of adult steel. His face seemed to have aged years.
“Back off, boy,” Aureste snapped. “Keep out of my way.”
“Take your hand off her, or I swear by my murdered father’s name that I will call forth the power of the Source to burn the fles
h from that hand, then cause the bones to grind themselves to powder before your very eyes.”
“Aureste. Please.” The calm voice of Innesq Belandor forestalled his brother’s annihilating response. “Allow the four of us to assist the lady. Trust me, we are qualified to do so.”
They were qualified. The truth of it was clean and bitter—these arcanists could do what he could not. He admired and hated them for it. He nodded and stepped aside.
The four of them did not need much time. Linking their hands and bowing their heads, imposing perfect order upon their own minds, they went to work. For a while Aureste watched them, until it came to seem at once too slow and too confusing to follow, and it was then that he recognized the power to which Sonnetia Corvestri had fallen victim.
The Overmind was back in force—stronger, larger, more overwhelming than ever before. He did not understand why and how Its power had grown so dramatically. Perhaps it had something to do with the energy infusing the atmosphere, or perhaps something to do with the ominously changing nature of the Source itself. Whatever the explanation, it was clear that the threat to mental integrity had intensified.
No matter. He could keep Them out; he was the Magnifico Aureste. His eyes traveled, almost involuntarily, to the two hovering wraiths. They appeared to be formed of nearly weightless vapor, yet the breeze did not stir Them. There They still floated, as if fixed in position, yet not unchanged. The antlers or trees crowning Their oversized heads were expanding. Even as he watched, new branches appeared, divided, and multiplied. The significance, if any, of this sudden spurt was unknowable, but Aureste found himself observing the transformation in fascination. There was something pleasing about it, almost beautiful, suggestive of fresh life and new growth. The dark indentations in the huge heads mirrored his gaze. He could drown in those fathomless voids. He wanted to drown …
He tore his eyes away. He had almost forgotten how perilously seductive They could be.
The arcanists had completed their work. Sonnetia Corvestri was herself again, albeit pale and shaken. It had not taken long to restore her; presumably the Overmind’s very brief term of occupancy had failed to establish the deepest hold.
“I am sorry,” she murmured, when she could speak.
“Magnifica, your misfortune warns us all,” Innesq returned. “The power of the Overmind increases. We must remain vigilant always, and look after one another.”
“For the sake of everyone,” Pridisso added, darting a hard glance at Aureste.
The collective effort had been relatively minor, yet they elected to rest afterward. Sonnetia Corvestri sat on the ground, eyes closed, both hands pressed to her brow. Vinzille sat beside her. As Aureste took a step toward them, Vinzille’s head came up and his eyes narrowed. The challenge was clear. Should he approach Sonnetia, there would be some ridiculous confrontation with Mama’s little guard dog. Not the time for it, not now.
He returned to his contemplation of the plague-wraiths, who in turn contemplated him. Their regard pressed with a weight that was oddly agreeable. His own lack of alarm was alarming. And then, there was something more. In previous encounters, the application of arcane force had never failed to send the wraiths floating off about Their mysterious business; but not this time. This time, the two of Them remained. Their crowning antlers or arborization had climbed to lofty heights. The branches, infinitely flexible, lifted and stirred upon unknown currents. He averted his eyes with difficulty.
The attentive alien presence was impossible to ignore. The interval of rest was accordingly brief, and the journey resumed. They had not advanced more than a span or two of the artificial pathway before it became clear that the plague-wraiths did not intend to be left behind. They were drifting cloud-like alongside the human travelers, always maintaining an almost polite distance that never increased or diminished. They attempted neither attack nor overt intimidation.
The hours passed, the terrain roughened, and always the plague-wraiths kept silent pace. Aureste could feel Them pushing at the base of his mind, and a sense of desperation shook him. They were there deep inside, securely lodged as some exotic species of parasite. He shuddered and thought then of taking a knife, slicing himself open, groping within to seize and rip Them out. But no hand of flesh and blood could reach Them.
Was it the same with the others? The arcanists possessed their special skills, but even they must be hard-pressed to defend themselves. And how much worse for the two women? Sonnetia had already succumbed once, and he did not mean to let it happen again. Aureste looked over at her. She was walking along at her usual steady pace, no sign of fatigue or despondency evident in her carriage. But her face was white and strained, lips pinched tight. Upon impulse, he reached out and took her hand. She turned startled eyes upon him, then smiled a little, and let her hand rest in his.
And the other obvious target, Yvenza? Aureste did not waste a glance upon her. If the Overmind managed to gain a foothold in what passed for her mind, it was no concern of his. The plague-wraiths could take her, with his blessing.
But Yvenza was not quite ready to be taken. For hours she had walked, eyes fixed on the ground before her, never faltering and never breathing a word of complaint. To all outward appearances, she seemed enfolded deep within herself, invulnerable and unassailable. The only visible signs of trouble resided in the trenches marking her forehead, and the particularly harsh furrows bracketing her downturned lips. In the midafternoon, however, some internal barrier seemed suddenly to give way, freeing her to approach Ojem Pridisso.
“Master Pridisso.” Yvenza fell into step beside him.
“Magnifica,” he returned, voice and expression civil, but devoid of encouragement.
“It’s gone on long enough,” Yvenza told him. “It’s time for you and the others to put a stop to it.”
“It?”
“To Them, then. Those things.” Her gesture encompassed the hovering plague-wraiths. “They’ve been following us for hours. They’re intrusive—unbearable. They never desist, and it’s gone on long enough. I don’t want Them there before my eyes any longer. I won’t have Them inside my head. Get rid of Them, Master Pridisso. Send Them away. You and the others have the power to do it.”
“Not easily, Magnifica,” Pridisso told her. “And to little purpose. Should we succeed in chasing that pair off, it wouldn’t be long before others arrive to take Their place. Until we finish what we’ve come here to do, we’ll just have to bear it.”
“You can’t be certain of that.” Yvenza spoke with stringent self-restraint.
“Oh, I’m sure enough. You can take my word for it.”
“You mean to say you won’t trouble to make an effort?
It’s easier to let Them riot through your mind and mine, at will?”
“Try to stay calm.”
“Calm? Here’s calm.” Stooping, Yvenza scooped up a couple of rocks and hurled them with furious force, one after the other. The missiles flew straight through the hovering plague-wraiths, who flickered infinitesimally, but otherwise appeared unaffected. Yvenza’s fist clenched, and her chest heaved.
“Here now, Magnifica, that will do no good,” Pridisso admonished. “No sense in stirring Them up, and you’ll only tire yourself out. Save your strength, I say.”
“As you save your own?” Yvenza grabbed another rock and threw it. Her aim was good, but the gesture wholly futile. A suppressed imprecation distorted her lips.
The wraiths widened, flattened, and sprouted new, writhing tentacles.
“This won’t do.” Frowning, Pridisso extended a restraining hand. “I have to insist—”
“Get Them out of my head!” Yvenza struck his hand aside. Her face was contorted, teeth bared. “You hear me, you Taerleezi half-wit?”
Pridisso shied away from her as if dodging the snap of a rabid dog. The look he bent upon her was astonished and injured. “Maybe you aren’t quite yourself,” he ventured.
“Noticed that, have you?”
“Magnifica …” A
n almost inaudible voice entered the discussion. Nissi approached with the cautious step of a ropewalker. “I … could …”
“What do you want?” Yvenza rounded on her, and Nissi withdrew a step like a feather driven by a sudden gust. “Well, what have you to say to me?”
“I could … help?”
“You? You wouldn’t help the last time I asked. You wish to make amends, then? You’ve remembered your debt? Very well. Use your talents to banish those things, drive Them out of my head, and you shall have my forgiveness.”
“I cannot.”
“No. You cannot. Always the same, with you. You can do nothing for me.”
“I could walk beside you. I could hold your hand.”
“Hold my hand? My hand?” Yvenza barked a discordant laugh. “What for?”
“For comfort. For … calmness.”
“You are a useless, worthless fool. An ingrate, a traitor, and a coward. Be off with you. Go walk with the murdering kneeser, you and he are two of a kind.”
Nissi retreated. Tears glistened on her lashes.
They walked on into the mists, and the two plague-wraiths kept pace. Presently a third wraith joined the procession. This one was exceptionally angular, its shape a ceaselessly shifting succession of tenuous polyhedra. The new arrival coincided with a perceptible increase in the power of the Overmind’s assault.
The Magnifica Yvenza’s drawn face took on the look of some ceremonial mask carved in the stylized likeness of a human visage. She took to muttering to herself as she walked. From time to time she struck her own face hard with an open palm, and the blow would crack with unnerving sharpness. Her eyes were wide open, glassy, and inanimate. Only occasionally they came alive, to fix upon Aureste Belandor with an expression of intense hatred.
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