Madwand (Illustrated) (5 page)

“If you really wish to protect me from something, you might do well to tell me somewhat about it.”

“I do not deem that the most fitting course of action. First, nothing may happen to you, in which case I would have exposed you to information I’d rather not. Second, ignorance on your part may actually benefit me.”

“Mister, someone’s already gotten my number. I don’t like the notion of being suddenly engaged in another sorcerous duel.”

“Oh, they’re all right if you win. That was the nature of the assassination attempt?”

“Yes.”

“Well, you’re still intact.”

“Just barely.”

“Good enough, my boy. Keeps you alert. Now, perhaps we’d best coarsen your features a bit and lighten your eyes a trifle. Shall we have a wart beside your nose? No? An interesting scar on your cheek then? Yes, that should do it . . . ”

“And you won’t give me your name?”

“It would mean nothing to you, but your knowledge of it might trouble me later.”

Pol willed the dragonmark to life, hoping his disguised arm would mask this from the other’s second sight. The man voiced no reaction as the throbbing began. Pol sent the force up and down his right arm, freeing it from the paralysis. Then his neck. He had to be able to turn his head a bit . . . Best to leave the rest as it was for the moment. Catalepsy, he knew, is hard to fake.

The hands continued to move over his face. The other’s face remained out of his field of vision. Pol summoned a tough, gray strand and felt its ghostly presence across his fingertips.

“Now they’ll all think you’ve been to

III.

It was more than a little traumatic at the beginning: the sights and sounds—all of the new things we encountered beyond Rondoval. I hovered close to Pol for the first several days, drifting along, sensing everything within range, familiarizing myself with the laws governing new groups of phenomena. Travel, I discovered, is broadening, for I found myself spreading over a larger area as time went on. My little joke. I realized that my expansion was at least partly attributable to the increased number of things whose essences I absorbed as we traveled along—plants as well as animals, though the latter were more to my liking—and partly in accord with Boyle’s and Charles’ laws, which I’d picked out of Pol’s mind one evening when he returned in memory to his university days. I cannot, in all honesty, consider myself a gas. Though I am anchored to the physical plane, I am not entirely manifested here and can withdraw partly with ease, entirely with more difficulty. I confine myself to a given area and move about by means of my will. I am not certain how that works either. I was aware, however, that my total volume was increasing and that my ability to do physical things was improving—like the rabbits. I had decided to look upon the entire journey as an educational experience. Any new thing that I learned might ultimately have some bearing upon my quest for identity and purpose.

And I was learning new things, some of them most peculiar. For instance, when that cloaked and muffled man entered the compound, I had felt a rippling as of a gentle breeze, only it was not physical; I had heard something like a low note and seen a mass of swimming colors. Then everyone, including the camp watchman, was asleep. There followed more movements and colors and sounds. Having recently learned the meaning of “subjective,” I can safely say that that is what they were, rather than tangible. Then I observed with interest as he altered the sleepers’, memories concerning Pol, realizing from the sensations I had experienced and from my memory of those back at Rondoval during Pol’s duel with the sorcerer in brown that I was extremely sensitive to magical emanations. I felt as if I could easily have altered these workings. I saw no reason to do so, however, so I merely observed. From my small knowledge of such affairs, it seemed that this one had an unusual style in the way he shifted forces among the planes. Yes. Sudden memories of a violent occasion reinforced this impression. He was peculiar, but I could see how he did everything that he did.

Then he stood beside Pol for a long while and I could not tell what he was about. He was employing some power different from that which he had used minutes before, and I did not understand it. Something within me jerked spasmodically when he reached out and laid a hand upon Pol’s shoulder. Why, I did not know, but I moved nearer. I witnessed the entire conversation and the transformation of Pol’s appearance. When the man covered the dragon-mark I found myself wanting to cry out, “No!” But, of course, I had no voice. It irritated me considerably to see it done, though I knew that it remained intact beneath the spell—and I was aware that Pol could undo the spell whenever he chose. What this reaction told me about myself, I could not say.

But then, when Pol rose and there was a brief and rapid exchange of forces between the men, I rushed to settle upon Pol and permeate his form, inspecting it for damage. I could discover nothing which seemed permanently debilitating to his kind, and since they generally render themselves unconscious during the night I made no effort to interfere with this state.

Withdrawing, I then set out to locate the other man. I was not certain why, nor what I would do should I succeed in finding him. But he had departed quickly and there was no trace of him about, so the questions remained academic.

That was when I came across the rabbits and terminated them, as well as the bush where they crouched. I felt immediately stronger. I puzzled over all my reactions and the more basic questions which lay behind them—wondering, too, whether I was really made for such a fruitless function as introspection.

No one in the company, Ibal included, seemed to take note of Pol’s altered appearance. And none addressed him by name. It was as if each of them had forgotten it and was embarrassed to reveal the feet to the others. Eventually, those who spoke with him settled upon “Madwand” as a term of address, and Pol did not even get to use the other name he had ready. Conceding the possibility of its protective benefit, he was nevertheless irritated that his new identity had caused Ibal to forget whatever it was that he had intended telling him about Rondoval. Not knowing how strong the stranger’s memory-clouding spell might be, he was loath to associate himself with Rondoval in his companions’ minds by broaching the subject himself.

It was two nights later, as they sat to dinner, that Ibal raised a matter almost as interesting.

“So, Madwand, tell me of your plans,” he said, spooning something soft and mushy between what remained of his teeth. “What do you propose doing at the fest?”

“Learning,” Pol replied. “I would like to meet some fellow practitioners, and I would like to become more proficient in the Art.”

Ibal chuckled moistly.

“Why don’t you just come out and say that you’re looking for a sponsor for initiation?” he asked.

“Would I be eligible?” Pol inquired.

“If a master would back you.”

“What would the benefits be?”

Ibal shook his head.

“I find it hard to believe you are that naive. Where did you grow up?”

“In a place where the question never arose.”

“I suppose I can believe that if I try, since you
are
a Madwand. All right. I occasionally find ignorance very refreshing. Proper experience of the rituals involved in initiation will result in an ordering of your lights. This will allow you to handle greater quantities of the energy that moves through all things. It will permit you to grow in power, a thing which might not happen otherwise.”

“Will initiations actually be conducted at Belken this time, during the course of the gathering?”

“Yes. I plan on having Nupf initiated there—though Suhuy, I feel, is not ready.”

He gestured toward the larger of his apprentices, the youth with dark eyes and pale hair. Suhuy frowned and looked away.

“Once an apprentice has been initiated he is on his own, so to speak?” Pol asked.

“Yes, though a man will occasionally remain with his master for a period of time afterwards to learn certain fine points of the Art which might have been neglected while he was studying the basics.”

“Well, if I can’t locate a sponsor I guess that I’ll just have to muddle through life on my own.”

“If you are aware of the dangers of initiation . . . ”

“I’m not.”

“Death and madness are the main ones. Every now and then they claim a few who were not quite ready.”

“Could I get some coaching so as not to be unready?”

“That could be arranged.”

“Then I’d be willing.”

“In that case, I will sponsor you in return for future goodwill. It’s always nice to have a few friends in the trade.”

The dreams of the Gate and the peculiar land beyond them did not return that night, nor on any succeeding night until their arrival at the festival. The days passed uneventfully, routinely, as they hiked along, until only the feel of his changed appearance assured Pol that something unusual had actually occurred. The terrain had altered as they headed upward, though the ascent here was more gradual than the descent from the mountains about Rondoval. Belken itself was a great, black, fang-like peak, dotted with numerous depressions, bare of trees. The evening they first caught sight of it, it seemed outlined by a faint white light. Mouseglove drew Pol aside and they halted to regard it.

“Are you sure you know what you’re getting into?” he asked him.

“Ibal has outlined the initiation procedures for me,” Pol replied, “and he’s given me an idea of what to expect at the various stations.”

“That is not exactly what I had in mind,” Mouseglove said.

“What, then?”

“A sorcerer tried to kill you back at Rondoval. Another came by, apparently to help you, last week. I get the impression that you are in the middle of something nasty and magical—and here you go, walking right into a den of magicians and about to attempt something dangerous without the normal preparations.”

“On the other hand,” Pol replied, “it is probably the best place for me to discover what is going on. And I’m sure I will find uses for any additional insight and strength the initiation provides.”

“Do you really trust Ibal?”

Pol shrugged.

“It seems that I have to, up to a point.”

“Unless you decide to quit the whole game right now.”

“That would put me right back where I started. No thanks.”

“It would give you time to think things over more, perhaps find a different line of investigation to follow.”

“Yes,” Pol answered, “I wish that I could. But time, I feel, is something I cannot afford to spend so freely.”

Mouseglove sighed and turned away.

“That mountain looks sinister,” he said.

“I have to agree with you.”

The following morning, proceeding among the foothills, they reached the top of a low ridge and the group halted. Spread out before the eastern base of the mountain was something out of dreamland or fairy tale: a sparkling collection of creamy towers and golden spires amid buildings which looked as if they had been carved out of massive gemstones; there were bright arches over glistening roadways, columns of jet, rainbow-hung fountains . . . 

“Gods!” Pol said. “I’d no idea it was anything like that!”

He heard Ibal chuckle.

“What’s funny?” Pol asked.

“One is only young once. Let it be a surprise,” the old sorcerer replied.

Puzzled, Pol continued on. As the day advanced, the dream-city lost some of its glamour. First went the sparkling and the rainbows; then the colors began to fade. A haziness came over the buildings, and within it a uniform grayness settled upon the entire prospect. The structures seemed to diminish in size, and some of the spires and higher columns vanished altogether. Glassy walls grew opaque and took on motion, a gentle, flapping movement. Then the fountains and the archways were gone. It was as if he now looked upon the place through a dimming and distorting glass.

When they sat to lunch, Pol addressed Ibal:

“All right, I’m surprised and I’m several hours older now. What’s become of the city?”

Ibal nearly choked on his mush.

“No, no,” he finally said. “Wait until dinnertime. Watch the show.”

And so he did. As the sun moved westward and the shadow of the peak fell over the hazy outlines of the structures at its base, the flapping movement ceased and the walls began to acquire something of their former sheen. Pol and Mouseglove continued to stare as they approached. As the shadows lengthened, the place seemed to grow, slowly at first, more rapidly as the afternoon faded toward evening. The haze itself seemed to be dimming and the outline of higher structures again became visible within it. Drawing nearer to it, they became aware of the spurting of fountains. The colors gradually reappeared within the still-firming outlines of the buildings. The towers, columns and arches took on a greater solidity.

By dinnertime they were very near, and the city was much closer to its early morning appearance. The haze continued to dissipate as they sat watching it, taking their meal.

“Well, have you guessed?” Ibal asked, spooning in a dark broth.

“It appears to be different things at different times,” Pol said. “So obviously it is not what it seems and must represent some sort of enchantment. I’ve no idea what’s really there, or why it changes.”

“What is really there is a group of caves, shacks and tents,” Ibal explained. “Each time, by lot, various practitioners acquire the responsibility for putting the place into order for the gathering. What they normally do is send their apprentices and some servants on ahead. These clean and repair the structures, raise the tents and set up the various facilities. Then the apprentices usually vie in working out spells to give it a pleasing appearance. However, apprentices vary in ability, and since the thing is only to be temporary first class spells are seldom employed. Consequently, it is beautiful from evening through dawn. As the day progresses, however, it begins to waver. Things are weakest at noon, and then you catch glimpses of what is really behind it all.”

“Do the spells hold on the inside as well as the outside?”