Majestrum

by Matthew Hughes

  "The details are different," I said, "but it matches the reconstruction."

  "Indeed," said my other self, "now let's take a look around. And I'll need full command of our body; I may have to do something quickly."

  "What kind of something?"

  "I don't know. I'll probably have to improvise."

  I wanted to resist, but I was not sure that I could. He seemed much more present here. I could not quite define it, because I had never achieved a satisfactory description of what it was like to have another person sharing my existence, but it was as if he had taken on greater weight and stature.

  I ceded control of our body to him, thinking that this is what it would be like when the great change finally came. He would step into the front parlor, rearrange its furniture to suit his needs and moods, while I would traipse, ghost-like, down a back corridor to a small bare room, there to eke out my diminished existence.

  A path led inland from the cliff's edge. "This way," he said.

  I did not ask him how he knew because there was no point. Our eyes were under his control so I looked where he looked and saw what he saw: fractured and friable rock, shattered and crystallized by the energies that Majestrum and his nameless rival had flung at each other in their duel. And here was the hollow into which the Authority had thrust the blue wizard, drenching him with foulness.

  "It still reeks," I said.

  "Time does not move here," he said, "or not as we know it. There is no entropy. Conditions remain the same until someone wills them to change."

  I knew who that someone would be. "Are we safe here?" I said.

  "I wouldn't think so. But, as someone once told me, 'Discrimination, at the level we practice it, is not for the timid.'"

  "Nor is it child's play," I said. "We do not don paper hats and flourish wooden swords and go charging off to confront ogres. Not when the ogres are all too real."

  "Reality is what one makes of it," he said. "Especially in a place like--"

  He broke off as the path took us over a slight rise and brought us in sight of a black tower that rose from the center of a wide, bowl-shaped depression. He squatted and our eyes flicked from detail to detail, taking in the windowless walls, the massive door of squared timbers bound in lusterless black metal, the scum-flecked moat that ringed the great dark blocks of the tower's base. "That'll be it," he said.

  We descended to the bottom of the basin, our feet scraping on the rough rock. I saw that a collapsible iron bridge extended from the moat's outer rim to the doorway, and that the door stood ajar. Without hesitation, he strode us toward it.

  "Wait," I said. I needed no intuition to tell me what we would find in the tower. "We should at least work out a strategy."

  "I think not," he said, stepping across the bridge. Our feet made a tch, tch, tch sound as we ascended the three steps of black rock to the doorway. "It's more important to hurry."

  Within, we found a rising staircase that circled the inner wall of the tower, the walls damp and slimy with mold, lit by guttering torches set in sconces.

  "He has a flair for atmosphere, wouldn't you say?" my other self said as we climbed.

  "I don't have a good feeling about this," I said.

  "Leave the feelings to me," he said. "Why don't you calculate something?"

  The steps circled up to the top of the tower, bringing us to a round chamber, floored in squared flags. Heavy beams criss-crossed from one side to another just below the ceiling. From the wood dangled a selection of metal cages, most of them shaped so as to compress and contort whoever might be so unlucky as to be confined within them.

  Only one was occupied. It was parenthetically shaped, so that the thin, pale body of the man constricted by it was bent painfully backwards. I saw that, beyond the discomfort of his position, the cage was also designed so as to expose his tenderest parts to the attentions of a sinewy, leather-skinned beast that, at the moment, sat a small distance away, licking its conical teeth with a red, bifurcated tongue.

  Parts of the man had been gnawed away. Blood dripped to the stone floor, and the beast flicked out its tongue to a surprising length to lick at the pooling gore. But it did not approach the man in the cage; instead it watched the other man in the chamber, who sat on a substantial chair of black metal, one elbow on an armrest and the fingers of that arm's hand holding an oblong of gray metal as he regarded the prisoner.

  He had been speaking in a sibilant voice but too softly for me to hear, but as we came to the top of the stairs he paused. The beast hissed as the man in the chair languidly turned his head in our direction. His perfect face regarded us with mild surprise that gave way to amusement. It was only then that I noticed that he was slightly transparent, like smoked glass.

  My other self had made the same observation. "Good," he said, "he's taken time away from his strengthening to come here. He couldn't resist a gloat."

  The man in the cage was also looking our way, his features completely without animation. I noticed that most of his face and what else I could see of his body through the cage was covered in scars, some of them old and puckered, others new and pink.

  The man in the chair caught the direction of our gaze and quickly snapped his head around to regard the prisoner, who now returned his captor a look of blank unexpectation. Then the dark one looked back to us and rose from his seat, turning toward us. Full face on, he was the most beautiful person of either sex I had ever seen, his features precise and delicate, yet strong, his eyes dark and large, his mouth exquisitely formed. But his was a cruel beauty, a cold perfection. The feel of his eyes on us made me shudder.

  "I know you," he said, the voice soft but carrying a chill, as if his words entered our ears borne on a flow of ice-cold oil. "From my dreams. Henghis Hapthorn, the discriminator."

  As he said my name, I felt a chill run through me -- through not my body, but through the me that was my part of our shared mind -- as if I had been stroked by a single talon of a great, fierce bird carved from ice. I had thought my strength diminished before; now I felt it fail completely. I was no more than some small creature, naked and newborn, eyed by a predator.

  "We should hide," I whispered to my other self. "Somewhere safe."

  "It will be all right," he told me.

  "No," I said. "He has real power. You have only inklings."

  "I know how this will go."

  "You are overconfident." I was suddenly tempted to blurt out the dark man's name, rendering my other self unconscious, then turn and run down the steps, out into the rocks, find a place to hide. . ."

  "No," said my sharer. "Don't even think it. Leave this to me."

  "I am frightened," I said. "You are so new."

  "Move over," he said.

  It had seemed to me that he had been growing larger in our shared space. Now it was as if I was nudged into a corner while he filled our common parlor.

  Through all of this he had stepped deeper into the chamber. I could feel a small smile on our lips as he addressed the adversary. "Hapthorn?" he said. "He is not your problem. I am."

  It must have been a long time since anyone had given Majestrum pause to think, but he clearly remembered how to do it. He looked us up and down, threw a quick glance to the prisoner, then came back to us. A thin line appeared between the perfectly formed brows of his semi-transparent face.

  "I see," he said. "How imaginative. And from which strain do you come? Are you a Hammis? A Botch? Surely, not a Hemister?" He named the other four, and I knew he was like a man striking a selection of bells, waiting to hear the note he needed.

  But the note did not sound. Now the corners of that flawless mouth turned down, and those perfect eyes narrowed to a less pleasing shape.

  "You know what they say," my other self said, "'No name, no handle; no handle, no grip.'"

  "But they also say, 'No name, no power,'" said Majestrum, and his head indicated the emaciated man in the cage. He lifted the true key and I saw that the fingers that clasped it were become almost solid. "I ha
d the power to take this wretch's name. I will soon have the power to make you divulge yours."

  "Which means that you don't have that power now."

  "Soon." The tone was that of a caress and a threat.

  But what if I don't have a name?" my alter ego said.

  The dark face smiled, and there was a horrid beauty in that smile. "Then I'll give you one. So I can take it away, piece by piece."

  Despite my terror I sensed a flood of triumph from the other side of our shared space. "Never mind," our voice was saying, "If names can be given, that means they can also be taken. I happen to have one in mind." We threw a glance toward the man in the cage, who now appeared to be holding his breath, then we stepped closer to the dark man, theatrically pulling at our chin with our thumb and forefinger, regarding Majestrum with our head cocked to one side. Then my sharer said to him, "And I name myself. . . Osk Rievor."

  A third presence instantly filled our already crowded mental parlor, this one so immense that it pressed my inner companion into the same corner where I -- I admit it -- had been cowering. "What have you done?" I said.

  "It will be fine," my sharer said.

  I felt like a small and timorous beast trapped in an enclosed pen with a full-grown bull garoon. "How do you know that?"

  "Watch."

  I had been watching through our eyes as Majestrum reacted. At the instant of the inrush into our shared mental space the bent-back cage had become empty. The sudden loss of weight attendant upon the prisoner's disappearance caused the restraint to swing and the swing caused a discreet clank. The dark man's exquisite head swung toward the sound then came back to us, the line between his brows now deepening to a chasm and rage taking charge of the irreproachable features. The hand that held the key lifted and his lips parted to frame a word.

  But "Too late," said our voice, though neither the tone nor timbre were ours. Both of our hands were already extended, the digits of one bent at the joints in a particular arrangement, as if we were stroking the strings of an instrument. Now the other hand executed a precise flick of fingers and thumb into a snap as loud as a breaking bone.

  The key leapt from Majestrum's smoky grasp into ours.

  With a snarl, the dark man brought up both hands, the palms edged like knives. He opened his mouth to speak but our voice was already saying two syllables that, although I heard them clearly, my mind could not hold. The words struck Majestrum like quick, successive blows, thrusting him back across the room, while the roof of the tower blew off in a welter of splintered timbers and shattered slates, taking the torture cages with them. The murky sky ceased to move and cleared to become a dome of lustrous black, in which great blue stars were bursting into light. Clean, cold air rushed into the chamber, scouring away the stench of blood and mold.

  Pressed back against the wall, Majestrum spread his fingers and brought his hands forward. He snarled something and four multi-limbed beasts, fangs bared, coalesced from the surrounding shadows to fling themselves at us from four directions. But our hand that held the key sketched a quick figure in the air and the four monstrosities froze in mid-flight, became puffs of foul smelling dust, swirled away on the cleansing wind.

  Now that hand that did not hold the key stretched out, fingers forming a new pattern. A rictus of horror seized control of Majestrum's face. He stooped and scooped up the split-tongued tormentor from the floor beside him, flung it at our head then scuttled, bent-backed, from the chamber.

  Our new tenant simply inclined our neck to one side and the beast flew harmlessly by to strike the wall behind and fall whimpering to the floor. Meanwhile, we strode to the top of the steps, to hear sounds of hurried flight coming up the circular staircase.

  "No point," our voice said, "in dragging this out." Fingers still in their new orientation, our hand extended down the stairwell and our voice said a word that, again, my mind lost as soon as I heard it. A ball of brilliant light, white tinged with electric blue, sprang from our fingertips and shot away, disappearing down and around the curve of the wall. Moments later, a great shout came from below, a howl of unrestrained rage and despair, that rose to a shriek and then became a moaning cry that was abruptly cut off.

  We went down the stairs and found him just inside the heavy timber and iron door. Or what was left of him. Our hands performed motions and a sweeper-collector appeared in them. We bent and gathered the remnants then stepped outside and cast them into the brisk cold air. They blew away, dispersing, toward the ridge that led to the chasm.

  Overhead the sky was drawing in, the stars winking out. Darkness crept toward us from all points. "This place is shrinking," I said. "What will become of us?"

  "We'll be fine," said my other self.

  "Thank you," said the third person in our head. "I was never quite sure that anyone would come, or at least not in time. In some ways the uncertainty was worse than the attentions of the beasts."

  "I don't understand," I said. "What happened?"

  "It was about names," my sharer told me, then addressed the other, "that was how it went, wasn't it?"

  "Yes. When Majestrum and I fought each other, I did not know that he had found my true name. It gave him power over me, and he used that power to sequester me here. He would visit from time to time to put me in a different cage and change the type of tormentor he created to worry me.

  "Meanwhile, he subordinated our former colleagues and pressed them into building his capacitor. Then, just after he had put me into that back-bending frame and set his gnawing beast to work, he ceased to come."

  My other self said, "Phaladrine Baudrel led a conspiracy. The seven adulterated the control key so that when he tried to initiate the device it would destroy him. But it only smashed the hard flesh he had acquired in another realm, while the essence of him escaped to the other side of the interplanar barrier."

  "Yes, very good, that was what I learned," said the presence I now knew must be the blue wizard.

  "How did you learn of this," I said, "while hanging in a cage and being chewed on incessantly?"

  "My tormentor would grow bored. I engaged it in various contests. Sometimes it would spend a long time puzzling over a riddle. That gave me opportunities to recover my strength, though very slowly."

  "So you projected yourself into our realm," my other self said.

  "Yes. Since Majestrum had my name, I was connected to the fragment of him that had taken refuge in the realm connected to our old universe by the interplanar device. He, in turn, could connect with the fragments of his flesh that had survived. Over the eons, he exerted himself to bring descendants of the seven plotters within range of the pieces. Then he would use the residual power in his fragments to strike at them, to steal from them their flesh and bone."

  "And their eyes," my sharer said.

  "Especially their eyes. He was assembling a creature that could read the book. He had ordained that each of the seven creators could read only his own part. The part of him that survived had enough power to alter that ordinance so that it would apply to their descendants."

  "It seems," I said, "a very roundabout way of achieving his ends. No wonder it took him aeons."

  "Who is this poor fellow?" the blue wizard asked. And when my other self explained our relationship, he said, "Ah, one of those unfortunates who are trapped in linear rationalism."

  I bridled at the condescension. "It is no trap. It is a glorious instrument for apprehending reality."

  "As long as reality agrees to cooperate," the thaumaturge said. "I remember an expression from one of your eras: 'putting the cart before the horse.' You do still have carts and horses, don't you?"

  "They are not common," I said, "but they can be found in some bucolic districts."

  "Well, the expression falls down when the cart is the true motive force and the horse is merely pushed along, don't you see?"

  "But how could that be?"

  "It must be, if the cart possesses more will than the horse."

  "Again, how could that be?"<
br />
  "Someone who possesses a great deal of will might lend it to the cart. That is what much of what you call magic is about."

  My other self spoke up, sounding very like a tutor's overly bright favorite pupil. "So Majestrum retained plenty of will, even though he had lost much of his power."

  "Indeed," said the blue wizard in an indulgent tone. "Much of his power was resident in his shattered flesh, but his will was the essence of him. And will, in normal realms, is paramount."

  His use of the word "normal" rankled. My other self caught my reaction and reminded me that our universe was distinct from all others by our peculiar separation of the abstract and the concrete, the symbol and the thing symbolized, the map and the territory.

  I was forming a dignified response but he had already re-engaged the third presence in our parlor in further discourse. "So, Majestrum's will affected his experience of time while he worked at his plan?"

  "And of space, of course," said the other voice. Then in a tone that sounded as if he were speaking to the intellectually deprived he said to me, "Just as gravity bends space and velocity affects time in your little realm, will is a prime determinant everywhere else."

  "So Majestrum's confinement seemed to him no more than the span of an afternoon?" I said.

  "If that's the best you can do," the wizard said, "I suppose it will have to suffice." Then his tone took on a brisker note. "Now, this place is ending and I must rattle off to find where he hid my name. Can you find your way home?"

  "I'm not sure," said my other self.

  "Just do this," came the response, and I felt our fingers executing a sequence of motions, "and say. . ." But again I could not retain the words, although my other self said, "I have it."

  "Wait," I said, "is your name not Osk Rievor?"

  "Not really," the voice said. "It is no one's name. It was a name I held out, like a cup to catch rain, so that the right fellow would come along and fill it."

  "A name without a referent," my other self said, "waiting for a referent without a name."