The Ruined City

by Brandon, Paula

  “Please just do as I ask. Believe me, it’s for your own good.”

  “Stay out.”

  He dragged himself to his feet, glassy eyes fixed on the empty air, and she saw that he was not speaking to her. In fact he appeared unconscious of her presence. Ignoring her outstretched hand, he turned wavering footsteps away from the campsite.

  Sonnetia issued a quiet command to the nearest Corvestri servant. Vinzille was promptly seized and bundled off to the carriage. The boy offered no resistance; indeed, seemed largely unaware. She followed to see him comfortably installed upon the cushioned seat, assigned watch duty to the servant, then hurried off in search of her husband.

  Vinz Corvestri whipped his will as best he could. He stood alone in a small grove at some slight remove from the camp. He was perfectly still, face expressionless, and nothing in his outward aspect suggested mental turmoil. Inwardly, he struggled for control; or rather, he struggled for the courage to relinquish some control and admit entry of the Overmind. Only a very little, to be sure; just enough to permit the possibility of communication. It was the reasonable and necessary course, but difficult.

  Instinct reinforced by years of training and experience bade him resist the invader. He had successfully done so for days on end, and might continue indefinitely. Harder by far to open the gates and bid the enemy welcome. That It was his enemy he did not doubt, despite Innesq Belandor’s belief in Its essential lack of malice. His own perceptions told him that gigantic purpose composed Its very essence. Nothing would turn It from Its goal while awareness existed. Still, It was doubtless an intelligent entity, and the possibility of communication, however remote, demanded investigation.

  Accordingly Vinz lowered his mental defenses to a very small degree, as much as he could bring himself to sacrifice, and the results were immediate.

  It was there with him and in him. He could feel the exploratory pressure of Its huge presence, and he sensed Its interest and Its sense of purpose.

  Push It out. Shut the gate and lock it. Vinz fought the natural impulse. Marshaling his will, he compelled himself to yield a little more, a very little, and his sense of Its vastness intensified at once. It was as great and as old as the world. In effect, It was the world, the living awareness of the totality.

  This last impression he recognized as an echo of the Other’s sense of Itself. Excitement sparked across his mind. For the first time, he had glimpsed something more or less recognizable. Perhaps by dint of combined patience and courage, he might see more. Perhaps he might even initiate a conversation, thus revealing himself to the Other as something more than empty vitality awaiting occupation by Itself. He might glean insight exceeding anything so far discovered by any of the others, even Innesq.

  He dared to relax his mental resistance a very little further, and even as the Other’s power pressed upon the apparent weakness, he advanced his mind to meet It. For a moment he believed that his overture had caught Its notice, but then the potential connection snapped, and he became aware of motion and noise—a voice, a summons, a demand.

  Vinz blinked, and the world refocused. He felt a little sick and dizzy. His head hurt. The Other had withdrawn, leaving him free but disoriented. His wife stood beside him. She was shaking his arm and calling his name. She did not know what she had interrupted, she had no idea what had been lost. Typical. She did not understand, and more to the point, she did not care. She never had.

  “Stop. Enough.” The words were indistinct. His tongue seemed thick and stiff.

  “Magnifico, a word. A moment of your time.”

  He winced. Her voice, while low and beautifully modulated as ever, somehow clanged like a bell.

  “Not now.”

  “Please. It’s about Vinzille. He’s ill.”

  “What’s the matter with him?” Confusion receded. She had caught his attention.

  “He’s running a fever. He seems delirious. When I told him to go to the carriage, he started to wander off in the opposite direction, as if he didn’t know where he was going.”

  “He was on his feet and walking? Then he isn’t as sick as all that.”

  She paused a moment as if to control a spontaneous response, then replied evenly, “I’ve never before seen him in such a state. I am troubled.”

  “How long has he been ailing?”

  “He’s not been himself for days. This afternoon is the first I’ve seen of definite illness, though.” No immediate reply was forthcoming, and she prompted, “Surely your skills will serve to restore him.”

  Irritation popped, and it took Vinz a moment to identify the cause. His wife spoke with her customary courtesy and decorum. She addressed him with every outward sign of respect, yet something in her manner, her stance, her eyes, subtly suggested reproach—as if it were his fault that Vinzille had taken a chill or a minor ague. His fault, she silently seemed to accuse, for dragging an adolescent just barely past childhood off into the wilderness on a mission rightfully the province of seasoned arcanists; for exposing the boy to danger both mundane and supranormal, for failing in his duty to protect his son. Or perhaps she implied none of these things, perhaps it was his own conscience that chafed him. Either way, self-respect dictated self-justification. Vinz drew himself up.

  “My skills, Magnifica, are a commodity to be carefully conserved at present,” he reminded her. “The success of our endeavor depends upon it.”

  “Yes, I know that. But surely the protection of your son’s health represents a legitimate and necessary expenditure.”

  “Necessary? That is the question. There’s little sense in taking alarm and resorting to extreme measures every time Vinzille sniffles. He’s a strong and healthy lad. He’ll be well again within hours without benefit of arcane intervention. It’s better that way.”

  “I should like to believe that, but I can’t—and neither will you, once you see him. Trust me when I tell you that this is no ordinary malady. In fact, I think it must be arcane in origin.”

  “And what makes you think so, exactly?”

  “It isn’t easy to explain. The way he looks, the sound of his voice, his expressions, the way that he moves—all seem foreign and unnatural. But you must see for yourself. Will you come to him?”

  Her manner was perfectly correct as ever, but Vinz’s sense of guilt and uneasiness sharpened. What right had she to blame him? He was not accountable to her; it was supposed to be the other way around. She should be made to understand that, here and now.

  Crafting a tolerant smile, he spoke in kindly reassuring tones. “Magnifica, it’s only natural for a mother to fear for her son, and nobody can blame you for it. In this case, however, your maternal instincts have overridden reason. You perceive arcane influence, or you think you do, when in fact you are hardly qualified to judge. Come, now. You speak of ‘foreign and unnatural’ appearances, and it’s all very vague, very emotional, very imaginative. There’s no real evidence here of anything beyond ordinary physical affliction viewed through the lens of your fears. You see that for yourself, don’t you?”

  He paused. She said nothing, and her expression came close to curdling his smile, but he soldiered on. “I hope that your own good sense will teach you the absurdity of your terrors. But I truly wish to offer you all the support that a constant wife and mother deserves, and therefore I tender my promise—if our son’s hot humor fails to correct itself naturally within the next four and twenty hours, then I shall examine him and administer such arcane assistance as circumstance warrants. There, will that content you?”

  At this point she should have assented, but she was silent. She was staring at him as if he were some sort of insect caught clinging to her skirts. At last she inquired simply, “You won’t use your powers to help our son?”

  “When I’m certain that he needs my help, but not before. Consider the task at hand and try to think of the greater good. Forget personal concerns if you can—”

  “Enough. Stop there.”

  She had not raised her voice, but
he muted himself at once, without thought. He had never seen such a look on her face before—eyes narrowed, jaw hard—and it was as if he faced a stranger.

  “Listen to me, and listen well.” Her voice was still low and quiet, but cold as the end of time and space. “Some arcane force has taken hold of Vinzille. I feel it, I see it, and it is entirely real. He needs your help and he needs it now. Don’t speak to me of conservation, don’t prate of the greater good. Just do what you must to shield him. If you are his father, you’ll protect him. Now, will you go to him?”

  He controlled his own impulse to yield. He had yielded to her too often—it was downright unmanly. Moreover, she was wrong about Vinzille; the boy was in no real danger. Affecting an air of patience, he replied, “I’ve already promised to examine him twenty-four hours hence, but I doubt that it will be necessary—he’ll have recovered before then. In the meantime, madam, try to control your hysteria.”

  “I am far from hysterical, but you are making me very angry.” She took a deep breath. “Listen. I know next to nothing of arcane matters, but it doesn’t take a trained adept to see that this Overmind you seek to thwart has become a real presence in our midst. I know that Vinzille is under Its influence now.”

  “You know nothing of the sort. In one breath you rightly concede your own ignorance, then you turn around and—”

  “I also know that you can shield him against that influence, should you so choose.”

  “Even if that were true, I’m not certain it would be the wisest course.”

  “Protecting your son would be unwise?”

  “There is such a thing as overprotection. Would you lock the boy in a box, for his own good? Vinzille is destined for great things, but he’ll never reach his full potential unless he’s given a chance to confront and experience arcane force in the real world. Reading the scrolls and chronicles, memorizing and performing exercises, practicing in his father’s workroom—these activities teach and prepare him, but they’re not sufficient. You ask me to shield our son from the force of the Overmind? If anything, I’d increase his exposure—it will serve to strengthen him. He’ll be the better arcanist for it.”

  Vinz was starting to feel better. With a few well-chosen words, he had simultaneously asserted and justified himself. He was no erring father, careless of his son’s safety. Rather, he was a wise guardian and instructor, guiding his talented boy to brilliant maturity. His aims were high and his judgment sound. He would have been downright pleased with himself, but for the look on his wife’s face. It was an expression he had often almost unconsciously looked for, even expected to find there—a glaze of chill contempt.

  “No,” said Sonnetia.

  Vinz felt the color flood his own face, and sought relief in anger. How dare she look at him and speak to him like that? Forcing himself to meet her eyes, he replied steadily enough, “Magnifica, you will accept my decision.”

  “No,” she repeated. “Vinzille needs help. I intend to get it for him. If you won’t oblige, then I must seek elsewhere.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I should think it’s clear enough. There are other arcanists here, with skills to equal yours. I’ll go to one of them. Innesq Belandor seems fond of Vinzille. He’ll not refuse me.”

  “You stay away from Innesq!”

  “The Taerleezis then. Pridisso and Zovaccio. Or even that odd girl Nissi. One or another of them will help.”

  “You deceive yourself. They are my colleagues—my allies and peers, not yours. Do you seriously believe that any one of them would cross me in order to oblige you?”

  “Yes, Magnifico. That is exactly what I believe. But we’ll soon know. I’m about to put it to the test.”

  “I absolutely forbid it. You will not humiliate me, madam!”

  “I’ve no desire to humiliate you. I only mean to help my son.”

  Incredible. She was openly and brazenly defying him. She was turning her back on him and walking away.

  “Stay where you are,” he commanded.

  She ignored him.

  Vinz’s dismay was tinged with desperation. He did not know what to do, but one thing was clear—he could not countenance flagrant disobedience. She would never respect him if he allowed it; he had to act. His desperation boiled. Grasping her arm, he spun her around to face him. He did not hurt her, but certainly he had never in all their years together handled her so peremptorily, and he experienced a thrill of mixed trepidation and exhilaration.

  “I told you to stay where you are,” he repeated, and his voice was excellent, convincingly assured and masterful.

  “Take your hand off me.” Sonnetia’s voice remained quiet and well controlled. But her eyes—green speckled with brown like a forest brook, ordinarily cool and gracious as a forest brook—had caught fire.

  It was astonishing. He had never seen her look like that, never dreamed that the calmly unreadable eyes could blaze with such unequivocal anger, and he checked the impulse to take a step backward. For a moment he wondered, almost fearfully, what she might do. Some part of him had always wondered what would happen should her habitual self-control flag. But then, in truth, what could she do? He was not a large man, but he was certainly heavier and stronger than she. Moreover, as her husband, he had every legal and moral right to rule her. No, more than the right, it was his duty. Timidity and self-doubt had caused him to neglect his duty for years, but the time had come to correct that error.

  “Silence,” Vinz Corvestri commanded. “You’ll listen and obey, else know my displeasure. You will curb your tongue and spare my colleagues your complaints. They’ve serious concerns to occupy their minds, they’ve no time for your vapors. As for my son, he’s well enough. He suffers from nothing more than a passing arcane incursion, too minor to address. I understand your fears, but you’ve reached the limit of my indulgence, and it’s time for you to accept reality. No more of tantrums and troubles. Hold your tongue, bide your time, and all will be well. Do you understand me?”

  “I told you to take your hand off me.” Sonnetia’s voice was very quiet, but easily heard. “I also told you, not long ago, that I won’t tolerate abuse. If you’ve forgotten, I take the opportunity to remind you.”

  Alarm shot through Vinz. He had seriously overstepped his bounds, and he should apologize at once. She was always magnanimous, and a display of sincere contrition was certain to purchase her forgiveness. But then, he had treated her with regard bordering upon reverence throughout the course of their marriage, and where was the good of it? Did she love him, admire him, or even respect him? She respected strength, and he had plenty. He would show her.

  “Abuse?” His hand stayed where it was. “Woman, you don’t know the meaning of the word.”

  “Do you propose to teach me?”

  It was a direct challenge, the first he had ever received from her. Her tone was perceptibly scornful, and his alarm grew. This exchange with his wife, which had begun with her simple request for his help, had swiftly swollen into something larger and uglier than he had ever expected or intended. All he really wanted was to go back, start over, and do it differently, turn it into something controllable. But there was no going back, not without major self-abasement. If he backed down now, he was granting her the upper hand for all time to come, and she would despise him for it. The whole world would look down on him.

  “Don’t provoke me.” Vinz took a deep breath, and the answer was clear before him. It had been there all along, had he only allowed himself to see it. “You will behave as a dutiful wife, discreet and sedate. You’ll not go pestering my colleagues. You’ll keep your idle imaginings to yourself.”

  “If you wish to conduct a civilized discussion, you’ll release my arm. I won’t ask again.”

  “Disobey me—spread rumor, sow doubt and fear—and you will be confined to the carriage. Moreover, you are apt to find your powers of speech suddenly curtailed, along with your ability to write. Do you hear me, madam?”

  “I hear, but surely I mist
ake your meaning. You are not threatening to stop my voice with an arcane gag?”

  The objectionable hand seemed to have been forgotten for the moment. She was still staring at him, but her expression had altered, disdain yielding to shocked incredulity. It was almost as if she were seeing him for the first time, and some sort of guilty compunction stirred inside him, but Vinz pushed it away, for this was exactly the desired effect. More than time for her to see him at last for what he truly was—a personage of consequence, a magnifico of the Six, an arcanist of power and skill, and, above all, her rightful lord.

  “I am telling you that I won’t tolerate defiance,” Vinz returned.

  “Do you know what you are doing, Magnifico? Do you realize that you are contemplating a form of betrayal that I would never forgive?”

  There it was, the threat that he most dreaded, spoken aloud and out in the open. There was still time to apologize, but Vinz managed to conquer his weakness.

  “Nobody is asking your forgiveness. There is nothing to forgive.” He released her arm. “I assume that you comprehend and will respect my wishes. Now leave me.”

  For a moment she stood surveying him, then her jaw set and she retired without another word.

  He had emerged as clear victor. Indeed, within the confines of their marriage all genuine power belonged to him, and always had. He had simply lacked the courage to use it, until now. Self-assertion, however, seemed to exact a curious price in depletion, much like the exercise of arcane skill. He found himself drained and oddly depressed. No matter. The unpleasant sensation was certain to pass quickly, and would no doubt lessen as he grew more accustomed to ruling his household.

  But time passed, and his discomfort persisted. He saw nothing more of his wife. She did not share the evening meal with him, and he did not know where she was. Off somewhere sulking, probably. Trying to make him feel guilty, trying to make him feel small. She wouldn’t succeed.

  The darkness deepened as the campfires sank. The travelers took themselves to their respective places of rest; well-appointed tents for the quality, bedrolls spread on the ground for the servants. Sonnetia was nowhere in evidence. Probably she had repaired to the Corvestri carriage to sleep, her refusal to share her husband’s tent a deliberate communication of her discontent. Well, she could nurse her ill humor for as long as she liked, and welcome.