by Robert Beers
Milward wiped his beard with the back of his sleeve. “Ahhh. That is a worthy brew, Innkeeper.”
Westcott nodded his acceptance of Milward's compliment. “What do you think of our Thaylli taking on your apprentice, Wizard? Is her decision a wise one?”
Milward looked at Westcott over the rim of his mug. “You mean, by that the tale of Wizards being bachelors by nature?”
“I do.”
“You're very well read for an Innkeeper in Access, my friend.”
Westcott smiled. “I was born in Grisham. Access is my adopted home. I've never regretted it.”
The front door to the Inn opened, letting in a man and a woman along with a flurry of snow.
Westcott looked up at the sound. “I'd better put another kettle on. You were answering my question?”
Milward sipped some more ale. “I don't think we can judge Adam by the histories. He a nexus, not a participant.”
Westcott's eyes widened. “The prophecies?”
Milward turned to look out the window. The snow was falling harder. “He's the spoon, my friend. It's us who will be stirred.”
* * * *
The Librarian held the parchment open in the light of the room's only window. Dust danced in the sunbeam that shone onto the smudged brownish letters.
“Felsten.” He called for his assistant again as his ancient eyes passed over the familiar lines of the prophecy. He reached the bottom and found something he'd read niggling at the back of his mind. He started at the top and proceeded through the prophecy again, one slow line at a time, and there it was.
“...Guide to Eleven Chance, master of warriors, Ducal doom. Through these you will know her.”
The line... Ducal doom...should he alert Bilardi? Bardoc knows, the man did little enough to provide for eternity, that is, unless flames were involved.
He heard footsteps behind him and turned to see their cause. “Ah, Felsten. Come here, boy, I've something to show you.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Gilgafed woke with a start. The dream fled from his memory, leaving only the disturbing feeling that he was threatened from something ... from the south.
“Cobain!” He yelled for his servant as he pulled on his robe. The fool was probably still sleeping.
He remembered the Seeker's touch. It sat upon him like a sickness that only time and the full restoration of his power would remedy.
“Cobain!” He yelled for his servant again. If that idiot was sleeping when he couldn't...
“Master?” Cobain stumbled into Gilgafed's bedroom, still pulling on a slipper, as predicted.
Gilgafed felt a small mollification at his successful surmise. He let his servant's tardiness off with a scowl. “Ready my scrying chamber; something is happening, and I mean to know what and where.”
Cobain turned on his heel and scuttled back into the hallway.
He poured himself a glass of wine and sipped it while he allowed his mind to consider what had awakened him. Dreams could sometimes be prophetic, had this one been such?
The thought threw him into action and he stalked the hallways of his palace to the Scrying chamber. Cobain was lighting the final candle as Gilgafed entered the room.
“The chamber is ready, Master.”
Gilgafed nodded to his servant and stood before the mirror. He sent a twisting tendril of power into the silvered surface, and the mists appeared.
He cast his perceptions into the mists, spreading them as widely as possible. The small lives of common folk appeared as brief flashes of light that flickered and faded as he passed them by. He ignored them as inconsequential, and continued his search, sending the shaping ever wider.
Near the end of his range, the shaping passed over the city of Grisham and brushed past ... something. He worked at narrowing the search passing through the Lowers, over the merchant quarter and the docks to ... the Castle.
He began forcing the power of his shaping to clarify what he was sensing, but all he could do was ascertain that whatever had disturbed his sleep lay within Grisham's castle walls.
He ended the shaping with a twist of his mind, and began another.
“Milord Sorcerer. It has been a long time.” The voice was female, but with a flat quality that destroyed the libido before it was born.
“Indeed it has, but I have a use for you now.”
The mists swirled. “As you wish, Milord. What would you have me do?”
* * * *
“Cold one tonight.” The portly guard's breath puffed in the afternoon air. He was wishing he'd worn the second under-tunic like his wife had suggested. The heavy gloves kept his fingers from freezing, but the wind cut like blades against his chest.
“You've got the right of it, Merril.” His partner stamped his feet to warm them while keeping his hands tucked into his armpits. “Makes a witche's tit seem balmy.”
Merril looked down the road from their station alongside Grisham's main entry gate and straightened. He nudged his partner with the butt of his halberd, “'Ere, Dunkin. What'chu make o’ that?”
Dunkin opened his eyes and looked in the direction of Merril's pointed thumb. “Damnfino,” he muttered. “Never seen th’ like. Should we stop ‘em?”
Merril shrugged and hitched up his sagging winter hose. “Why th’ flick not? Day's been a complete balls up, so far.”
He slouched his way over to a position that put him directly in front of the partially open double-doored gate and held up his hand. “'Old up there, now.”
The rider slowed its mount with apparently no command being issued.
Merril stayed where he stood. He'd never seen such a large dog. Its head was the size of a steer's, in fact; the whole flickin’ thing was at least as large as a steer, maybe even an ox. The rider was slim, possibly female, but it was hard to tell with all those furs. She, possibly, was dressed head to toe in black, both cloth and fur. The cloth portion was a flat, dead black without sheen or richness. The fur, in contrast, looked like it was dipped in black glass. Waves of glisten flowed across the garments with each passing breeze.
“Oy!” Dunkin stepped into the gateway next to Merril. “E said stop, now that don't mean continue on but slower. It means stop.” He brought his halberd into a guard position; point up.
The rider stopped, again without any command being obvious to the two guards.
Merril felt it first. It began as an overall unease, and built into a creeping fear that danger was present, everywhere.
Dunkin began to sweat in spite of the cold. He glanced at his partner out of the corner of his eye. “Merril. Whut's goin’ on ‘ere? Whut's ‘appenin'?”
The fear built until it became a level of terror the two guards were powerless to ignore. Merril's bowels let go, and he collapsed, gibbering against the side of the gate as his fingers scrabbled at the wood.
Dunkin threw his halberd away, and fled, wailing, into the city, causing a number of its inhabitants to look apprehensively in the direction he ran from.
Years later, he would still be unable to approach the gate. Merril never regained his sanity.
The rider nodded once, and the great dog walked at a leisurely pace into the city of Grisham.
* * * *
The vellum fell from the Librarian's fingers as he clutched his chest.
“Master!” His apprentice rushed to his side. The boy's face was a mask of raw concern.
The old man waved his apprentice away. “No. It's all right, Felsten. Whatever it was, it wasn't my heart.”
“What did you feel?” Felsten wrung his hands. He dearly loved the old man.
The Librarian looked at his apprentice. The rheumy eyes went wide. “Fear. Raw, terrifying fear.”
“Of what?” Felsten looked around. All he saw was the now-familiar stacks of books and scrolls.
The Librarian rubbed his forehead with the tips of the fingers of his left hand. “I don't know, Felsten, but I aim to find out. Bring me that box of scrolls. No, not those, the old ones; yes, those
.”
He took the box of scrolls from his apprentice and began digging through them. They were of varying ages, from ancient to nearly prehistoric. He had a vague memory of reading in one of the old scrolls about that type of fear. Something was telling him it was imperative he find that scroll again.
* * * *
Adam knocked on the stout wooden door.
“Come in, Adam.” Milward's voice came through the door.
Adam had ceased long ago to be surprised at the Wizard's ability to know who was knocking at his door.
He opened the door onto what looked like the aftermath of a whirlwind in a library. “What happened here? And how do I get into the room without stepping on something?”
Milward looked up at him. The Wizard was wearing those little windows in front of his eyes again. He called them spec-tables or something close to it.
“What are you looking for?” He picked up one of the scraps of parchment. Small bits of its edge fluttered to the floor.
“I'll take that. Thank you.” Milward reached up and plucked the parchment from Adam's hand.
“What I am looking for is a mystery wrapped within the runes of the past. But I'm afraid it won't be found in this village's poor library.
“Westcott added a few of the copies he had of the old prophecies, but they gave me nothing new to what I've already read.”
“Can you tell me more than that?” Adam edged around the pile to the other side of the bed where there was room to sit.
The Wizard sighed and sat back on his haunches. “It's something that's been bothering me since that day in the Narrows.”
“The Chivvin?”
“Close guess, lad, but not on the mark. The how of the Chivvin, that is what has been niggling at me since we came across them. They weren't supposed to be there. Bardoc's beard! They weren't supposed to be in our dimension! Gilgafed may have done something we're all going to regret and I have to find out what can be done about it.”
He looked up at Adam, concern written all over his face. “The only place that will have the information I'm looking for is the Library at Grisham.”
Adam leaned back against the headboard and crossed his arms. “When do we go?”
“That's it?” Milward was astonished. He'd been young once, and still remembered his first romantic pairing.
“That's it.”
“No stamping your feet insisting you'll die without being near her? That you can still smell the musk of her hair in the gallery of your mind?”
Adam looked at Milward and arched an eyebrow. “What in the pit are you babbling about?”
Milward arched an eyebrow in return. “Have I been hallucinating these past weeks, or have you been keeping very close company with a certain young woman? Much to the heartbreak and chagrin of all the other single young women of Access, mind you.”
Adam shrugged. “She'll understand. This is much more important than holding hands.”
Milward's eyebrow climbed into his scalp line. “You're sure?”
“I'm sure.”
“You're going to do what!?”
Adam was completely unprepared for her outraged response to what he thought was a reasonable, well thought out, logical decision.
She paced the floor of the Inn's great room in front of him and gestured into the air with her hands as she spoke. “You're going off with that old fossil into Bardoc knows what sort of danger and you thought I'd understand?!!” The last word came out in a full-throated shout.
“Well, I thought...”
Thaylli planted herself right under Adam's nose and looked up into his face. “No, you didn't. If you had been thinking, you would have talked to me about this foolishness before you said yes. Did you think about how I would feel waking up and finding out from someone else that you'd gone? Did you think I would have understood your reasons for making up my mind for me?”
She abruptly turned on her heel and gave her back to him. “Go, then! If that's all you've come to care for me. Go and become the world's hero. Apparently that's your destiny.” She buried her face in her hands and began to cry.
Adam had absolutely no idea how to react. Emotions ran through him in a variety of different streams. He chose the closest one.
“Thaylli, I'm sorry. It was very stupid of me to not ask how you'd feel about this.” He couldn't see the small smile of triumph that bloomed on her face as he spoke.
She turned, but not before making her expression severe. “Well, I'm glad to see there's some sense in that man-thick skull of yours. Now, all you have to do is go tell that old Wizard about your decision to stay here. I'm sure some men of the village will be able to keep him safe on his journey.”
“Thaylli.”
“Yes, Adam?”
“I didn't say I was staying here.”
She looked up at him, her eyes wide with disbelief. “What?!”
“I said, I didn't say I was staying here. All I said was that I should have considered your feelings before I told Milward yes.”
She couldn't believe her ears. “You mean you're going with that old fool?”
“I have to. I feel my destiny is wrapped up in it, and he's not an old fool.”
The sharpness of his tone stung her. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be rude, it's just ... just ... ooooh, men!” She turned on her heel and stalked out of the room.
Adam looked around the room. The other people in the Inn's great room were pointedly focusing on their plates, cups and tankards, all of them except Westcott, who was drying a tankard and grinning broadly.
“Something's funny?” Adam walked over to the counter where Westcott stood.
“Oh, yes. The memory of a youth nearly forgotten.”
“You've been through this?” Adam thought he saw a straw to grasp at.
Westcott placed the now dry tankard with others of its kind on the shelf and picked up another. “Oh, yes. Believe it or not, my young Wizard, your experience in this matter is not unique.”
“How did it happen with you? How did you solve it?” Adam leaned forward, resting his elbows on the bar.
Westcott looked at him out of the corner of his eye. “Solve it? You don't solve dealing with women, boy. You survive it.”
Adam looked puzzled. “I don't understand.”
Westcott sighed and put down the tankard he was polishing. “How many women have you been with, boy?”
“Huh?”
Westcott snorted. “I'll take that as an admission of novicehood. Look, Adam,” He leaned forward onto the bar. “Women have been playing men like an angler plays a fish since the beginning of time. They are the chief prizes in the grand hunt, and they allow us to chase them until they catch us. You, my poor innocent ox,” he pointed at Adam with a forefinger, “Have been tagged and harnessed. The only thing that remains is the hitching.”
“Huh?”
Westcott smiled and patted him on the shoulder. “It's OK, lad. Give it a few years, you'll understand eventually. Every man does.”
Adam's mouth suddenly felt very dry. “Can I have an ale?”
He found Milward in the midst of packing. The parchments and vellums that had been spread around before were gone.
The old Wizard looked up at his entrance and peered at him closely. “Hmmm, no bruises, no lacerations. You appear to be in decent health. It went better than I thought it would.”
Adam grimaced. “She accused me of not caring, shouted at me, and called you an old fool.”
Milward's eyebrows did their climbing act. “She did, did she?” He chuckled for a moment. “Well, maybe she is right, at that. Only an old fool would be doing this sort of thing. What do you suppose that makes you?”
Adam scowled. “I don't care what it makes me, it's something I've got to do. Besides, I've still got to learn how to use these powers of mine. I don't think Thaylli could teach me how to do that.”
Milward looked at him for a long moment. “No ... no, in that you're correct. At least as far as shaping is concerned.”
He thought the last to himself.
He clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “Well now, enough of that. How is your packing going?”
“I haven't started. Are we leaving today?” Adam suddenly felt things were moving much too quickly to suit him. Thaylli's importance had shifted a number of positions to the fore.
Milward looked up at Adam's tone, and then smiled. “No, not today. Nowsek wants to give us a send-off ceremony. Politicians love pomp and circumstance, and we may as well accommodate him anyway, it won't hurt us.”
“How much time do I ... uh, we have?”
The Wizard laughed and stood upright. He placed both hands on Adam's shoulders, and looked at him with a smile on his face. “You will have plenty of time for billing and cooing before we leave. Nowsek has to plan his ceremony. I still have a few things I want to get straight prior to leaving, and besides, the pass is still closed with snow.”
He turned and began fiddling with his pack again. “Run along, now. I'm sure your young lady will be happy to know she still has a few more days to set her hook.”
Adam left Milward with the thought that the Wizard was spending far too much time with Westcott across the Knights and Hounds game board, if it had gotten to the point where they were using the same euphemisms to describe his relationship with Thaylli.
Milward was right, however. Thaylli was delighted they weren't leaving Access immediately. She still pouted over knowing that he would eventually have to leave the village, but she did it so prettily that he couldn't bring himself to mind it when she did.
He still felt uneasy around her brothers, especially Merillat, the oldest. The big man would stare at him silently, as if measuring him for worthiness, and finding it wanting. Moen was all right, he guessed, but the fellow had a tendency to hover in a protective manner that left Adam feeling suffocated. Monier, the youngest, was a few years behind Thaylli in age, and he had an annoying habit of using Adam as the butt of the occasional practical joke. That evening when he found his boots filled with ox dung, he had nearly torn it, and he still wondered if using shaping to clean his boots hadn't been breaking some rule. Monier seemed to think so.