Now Rhea had awakened stiff and aching, only to be confronted by her unusually lucid husband and a suddenly cheerful Galen who was anxious to drag them all in what Rhea thought to be an entirely senseless direction.
“He’ll meet us there—with Berkita,” Galen said earnestly. “Then he’ll provide us with whatever papers we need to get back to Benyn: Absolution, Pardon of the Election, Reinstatement of Marriage . . .”
“Meet him?” Rhea squawked. “But why Mnumanthas?”
“I don’t know.” Galen shrugged, then turned to Maddoc. “Is it far from here?”
Maddoc pondered for a moment. “Several days’ journey, I should think, at least. It is on the northern slopes of the Ghnemoth Peaks.”
Rhea considered for a moment what she knew of the area from what she remembered of Maddoc’s old maps. “That’s miles away from any Pir settlement, actually from any settlement of any kind. It also takes us farther from home, not closer.”
“Tragget says it’s the safest place for us to meet,” Galen rejoined.
“Galen, I just don’t trust the man.” Rhea leaned forward, clasping her hands nervously. “Why should he do it? Why risk everything . . . his position, his life, his entire faith—”
“Because he is one of us, Rhea,” Galen interrupted. “Think of it! The Inquisitor of the Pir Drakonis being as mad as any of the Elect he is charged with destroying.”
“It’s not a madness, Galen,” Rhea said, shaking her head. “It’s . . . it’s something bigger than us . . . bigger than our minds can understand. Dahlia tried to explain it to me once and I didn’t understand her then. She said it is something so powerful, so incredible and magnificent, that it drives those few upon whom it calls into madness.”
“It is the power of the Mad Emperors.” Maddoc spoke in rapturous tones. “They had mystics whose dark powers were crushed by the Dragonkings anciently. The Deep Magic it was called. The Deep Magic of Rhamas brought madness to the Emperors and caused them to be cruel and unjust. It was to protect humanity from themselves and their own Deep Magic that the Dragonkings fought the Mad Emperors and brought humanity under their protective eye.”
“Then this is the Deep Magic that we have?” Galen was astonished. “The power that destroyed the rule of men in all Rhamas?”
Maddoc considered for a moment, then looked Galen straight in the eye. “Perhaps. It would explain a great deal. Still, we know so little of that time, and everything that we do know comes from the records passed to us by the Pir.”
“Well, now I’ve heard entirely too much about what it might be,” Galen said, crossing his arms impatiently over his chest. He was anxious that they get on their way. “Could you possibly tell us anything about the madness that is certain?”
“It is certainly a power—how great a power we cannot possibly tell,” Rhea said, standing. She began to pace despite the aching in her bones. It was an old habit whenever she was thinking through a problem. “I wish Dahlia were here. She understood all this so much better than I do. She tried to explain it to me but I just don’t think I’m any good at this. She was always telling me to organize what I knew and look for the pattern in it.” She stopped and looked squarely at Galen. “This place that you go . . . where you meet each other . . . is something beyond dreams. You communicate through it with each other as well as with creatures that you do not even recognize.”
Galen nodded. “Yes, that’s how we got this message from Tragget.”
“Yes,” Rhea agreed quickly. “A message that comes to you from a man who is over fifty miles from where you sleep. But you do more there than just speak. The warriors of the brotherhood; their swords are real and they came from the dream. You said yourself that it was the winged woman from the dream that set you free from the torusk cage. And what about that sphere that blinds the dragonstaffs? The things that you experience in the dream are somehow coming into the waking world, too.”
“I think you’ve got that backward, my dear,” Maddoc softly corrected her.
“What?”
“The experiences in this illusion we now are sharing find their manifestation in the reality of the other world,” Maddoc said. “It’s all a matter of perspective. Being dead, I would not expect you to understand. Still, you are right in that what happens in one world affects the other. They are linked sympathetically, you see. The symbols in the illusion being a metaphor for the reality of another.”
“What is he talking about?” Galen said, shaking his head in frustration.
“Wait a moment, Galen,” Rhea said, her eyes narrowing as she watched her husband. “What are you saying, Maddoc? How is the Deep Magic a metaphor?”
“It’s a language—actually a translation of a language, to be more precise,” Maddoc explained, at once the picture of his old scholarly self. Rhea remembered him suddenly as he had been before, excited to teach something new. “Everything in that world is connected to this one and vice versa. They are linked as symbols for each other, each having alternate meanings in the other incarnation of our world.”
“The black sphere that closed the eye of the dragonstaffs,” Rhea said slowly, trying to understand the implications of what her husband was saying. “Galen . . . didn’t you tell me that you got that from the winged woman in one of your dreams?”
Galen nodded. “Yes. In my dream she reached into the sky and pulled it from the sun and handed it to me.”
“The sun.” Maddoc smiled. “The eye of the day. The eye of light. The eye of the dragon. That’s it, Galen!”
“What?” Galen shook his head. “What are you talking about?”
“The power . . . there is a direct connection between your powers in this world and the other,” Maddoc said quickly, his words tumbling out in his excitement. “Whether it is a dream or a real or magical place, I don’t know. What I do know is that what happens there translates somehow symbolically into mystic power here . . . and possibly the other way as well.”
Rhea nodded enthusiastically. “It is like a language then, an incredible, complex language that we have lost or forgotten. It is like your winged woman who speaks and you cannot understand what she says.”
Galen shook his head. “I hardly see how a language we do not understand is of any use to us.”
Maddoc turned casually toward Galen and then pointed at the charred logs within the ring of stones nearby. The embers had gone cold under the dim twilight. “Son, does that remind you of anything?”
“It’s a dead fire, Maddoc,” Galen returned.
“Yes, but look at it; consider it.”
Galen stopped, sighed, and then looked at the log. As he did his face became thoughtful. He shifted his weight slightly and brought his hand up in front of him.
“Can you feel the connection?” Maddoc smiled as he quietly spoke. “Your body conforms to the Deep Magic. Your mind senses the connection between them. Your words utter the sounds that are in sympathy with the true reality.”
Rhea held her breath.
“It reminds me of the fire in the dream,” Galen murmured, shifting as he considered the ring of stones. He gestured toward the dead fire, his eyes focused on the ashes. “There was some pointy-eared demon creature that handed me a blue lantern—”
Brilliant blue flame erupted from the log, a keening chorus of high-pitched sound reverberating through the air. The flame shot skyward, towered directly overhead to the height of the trees. Rhea had to look away from its intensity, her arm rising instinctively to shield her. The glade shone under the severe illumination. No heat came from the mystic flame. No smoke curled into the sky. There was only the screaming wail of the flame and the unbearably bright luminance radiating over the glade and shining against the waterfall beyond.
“Maddoc!” Rhea called out. She could not see him in the brilliance. “Maddoc! Galen!” Blinking furiously, she tried to see into the unnatural flame. There were shapes in the vivid light and they appeared to be dancing.
Then, just as suddenly, the light vanished
.
A thunderclap shook the air around them, cascading leaves from the trees at the edge of the glade. For several moments the three of them stood around the ring of cold stones, listening as the thunder reverberated down the walls of the canyon.
“What was that?” Galen gasped when the words at last came to him.
Maddoc looked up at Galen sharply. “It is a language; a language you have to learn.”
Galen shook his head. “No. It’s the language of madmen.”
“It’s the language of the Deep Magic, Galen!” Rhea said.
“Is that what Tragget wants?” Galen said sourly. “Then he is welcome to it. Let him fight the Dragonkings if he wants. It isn’t my fight; I want nothing to do with it!”
“You have to learn it, Galen!” Rhea snapped.
“Why?” Galen said, stepping threateningly toward her. In a moment his face was inches away from hers, looking down into her eyes with fierce determination. “Why do I have to master the one thing that has destroyed my life?”
“Because it is the only thing you have to bargain with,” Rhea said, holding her ground, staring right back into Galen’s eyes. “Tragget thinks you can teach him what he needs to know. That knowledge is the only thing you have to purchase your life back—to purchase your wife back. When Tragget comes to collect, you had better have something to offer him that is worthy of his price!”
Galen’s face softened as he took a step back.
“If Tragget can be trusted,” Rhea said, shivering in the morning cold, “you can be sure he will want to be paid . . . and your wife will come at a dear price.”
High in the tower, a hundred feet above the courts below, Berkita stood on the balcony of the Temple of Vasska and gazed out over the brightening morning.
The light of dawn was rising over the grasslands to the south. The Temple and its city remained in the shadow of the Lords of Mithlan and would not receive the warmth for another hour. But the wide plains to the south were already bathed in bright light, the dawn having crested the Rheshathei Mountains that lay in purple shadow.
Berkita gazed on that southern horizon. It was the last direction she knew her husband had taken. Somewhere in that broad expanse, he walked the ground. Somewhere in the breaking day he arose and was looking for his way home. Somewhere, she knew, he sought her as she sought him.
“What to see er is?” the gruff voice rumbled behind her.
“The dawn, Cephas,” Berkita replied distractedly. “The hope of a new day.”
“Nay, lass; in the darkness hope er is.” The dwarf stumped toward her, adjusting his blindfold. “Light brings no need for hope. What look ye for in the light?”
“He is out there, Cephas,” Berkita said quietly. “Somewhere he is out there.”
“Aye, out there Galen er is.” The dwarf sniffed loudly. “And we in here er is!”
Berkita turned from the balcony and came back into the sitting room. “At least it is a lot nicer than every other place we’ve stayed since we crossed the sea.”
“Nicer?” Cephas spat on the floor, wetting the delicately woven rug. “Soft er is! Frilly drapery! Plump beds—aye, soft er is! Hate it, Cephas does!”
“Well, at least I’ve been comfortable,” Berkita said with the slightest disdain.
“Comfortable for the lady er is . . . but Cephas can smell a cage, decorated or no.” He stomped about the room listlessly. “It a lovely prison be . . . but prison still!”
“But Lord Tragget said that—”
“Lord Tragget, my ax!” the blind dwarf bellowed. “There be false pyrite as er is! Cephas would trust Lord Tragget nor further than—”
The door from the staircase suddenly opened.
“Just how far would that be again,” Lord Tragget said as he stepped quickly into the room. “Forgive me for overhearing you, Cephas, it could not be helped. Your voice does carry quite some way.” He turned toward Berkita and bowed. “Miss Kadish.”
“Arvad,” Berkita replied stiffly. “Lady Arvad.”
“My apologies,” Tragget said smoothly. “Although technically Kadish—your maiden name—would be correct. But, then, we are going to remedy all of that . . . and sooner than I had hoped. I have news which— Are you all right, m’lady?”
“I’m sorry,” Berkita said, feeling suddenly tired. Tragget quickly reached out and guided her to a large chair. “I haven’t slept well lately.”
“Your troubles, no doubt, or the weariness of the road,” Tragget replied comfortingly. He knelt down before her chair, looking into her pale face. “Are you sure I cannot summon someone to help you?”
“It will pass, Lord,” Berkita said uneasily. “You said you bear news?”
“Yes, great news indeed,” Tragget said quietly. “It is about your Galen.”
“Galen!” Berkita held tightly to the arms of the chair. “Is he well? Do you know where he is?”
Cephas stepped impatiently forward. “Speak, Tragget! What news?”
“Calm yourselves and be at ease,” Tragget said, his voice still low. “He is, indeed, fit and well . . . as you yourselves shall soon see.”
Berkita closed her eyes, a grateful prayer to Vasska on her lips.
“I do not know where he is,” Tragget continued, his voice quiet, his words quick, “but I know where he will be. We will go to meet him.”
“When?” Berkita said, tears of joy welling up in her large violet eyes.
“Soon,” Tragget said. “It will take a few days to prepare everything, but I need you to be ready to depart in an hour’s notice—both of you.”
“Where?” Cephas growled.
The Inquisitor turned to the dwarf. “Excuse me?”
“Where er we meet Galen?” Cephas said flatly.
“It will take us several days’ journey to get there,” Tragget responded quickly.
“Bah!” Cephas spat again on the floor, then stomped his boot onto it: a sign of great dwarven displeasure. “Question simple er is! Where er we meet Galen?”
Tragget eyed him for a moment before he spoke. “It’s a little-known place far to the south. Its name would be useless to you.”
“Show me for ignorant, then,” Cephas persisted. “Name little-known place where Galen er is!”
“Mnumanthas,” Tragget said casually. “Does that name help you, Master Cephas?”
The dwarf stood as still as a statue for a time before he spoke. “Nay, Lord Tragget.”
“I am not surprised, Master Cephas,” Tragget replied, standing. “It is, however, vitally important that you keep this conversation a secret between us. There is considerable embarrassment surrounding Galen’s unfortunate Election. There are those among the Pir who would take terrible advantage of the knowledge of our plans. Indeed, they might destroy any hope of our success in restoring you to your former happiness should they discover us before we have completed our purpose.”
“Vasska forbid!” Berkita breathed.
“Indeed,” said Tragget, “Vasska forbid. So let us tell no one of our plans . . . no one at all regardless of their rank . . . or all may be lost. Do you understand?”
“Aye,” Cephas rumbled. “Cephas understand well.”
Berkita nodded. “Of course.”
“Then I shall leave you with this glad news.” The Inquisitor turned toward the door, opening it quickly. “Take heart . . . it is the will of Vasska that we shall repay you for all you have suffered.”
He slipped out of the room. Cephas and Berkita both waited quietly where he had left them, speaking not a word. The time stretched long between them as they remained in their places. At long last, Cephas turned toward Berkita, his voice speaking words like gravel.
“Cephas trusts no Inquisitor,” he grumbled. “Mnumanthas er no place to meet!”
“But Cephas, Galen may be out there right now—”
“Cephas knows Mnumanthas,” the dwarf continued. “Ruins of Rhamas er is! Far, too, from aid er is! Trap as er is could be.”
“Perhaps.” B
erkita blinked, suddenly unsure. “But even if you’re right, what can we do?”
“We do nothing! Cephas do all.” He turned quickly around and disappeared into his room. He reemerged almost at once, his traveling sack once more slung over his back, his large hat pressed onto his head. “Cephas go to Mnumanthas now. Beat Galen and Tragget both to ruins. Cephas make safe afore trap sprung, if er is.”
“Cephas! You’re leaving me? Here?”
The old dwarf clomped toward the chair where Berkita sat. He extended his large hand. She understood and took it in her own.
“Berkita safe here as er is,” Cephas murmured softly. “Where Cephas goes, dangerous for Berkita as er is. Tragget needs Berkita well, he harms you not.”
“But, the stairway outside,” Berkita replied. “You said yourself it leads only to three places: this room, Tragget’s audience hall, and the dungeons below. There’s no way to get out.”
“Nay, Lady Arvad. You say no way out er is. I say them dungeons below were dwarven built er long ago. Dark er is!” The dwarf tugged at his blindfold and smiled.
He laid an ear against the door and, hearing nothing, opened it. Then he turned back to Berkita and smiled. “We meet again er long, Berkita in Galen’s arms then er is. That day all right again er is.”
With that, the dwarf vanished down into the dark.
39
Farther to Fall
Mimic was in awe. He had never imagined the courts of the great goblin king Dong Mahaj-Megong. From what little he could observe from beneath Lirry’s cape, the court was more magnificent than anything he had ever seen.
The vice-chancellor himself had ushered them into the room. Mimic suspected he was feeling a little hurt over the loss of Gynik, especially since she was hanging on to Lirry’s arm when they showed up at court. There was no hope for it, however: the importance of Lirry’s Ticking Device had trumped even the pride of the vice-chancellor. Talk of the great working mechanism had spread throughout the kingdom. Goblins, gremlins, gnomes, and imps from one end of the empire to the other—some more than ten miles from the center of court itself—were already whispering the name of Lirry with jealousy and bitter envy. There were few higher positions to which a goblin could aspire.
Mystic Warrior Page 32