Mickey Zucker Reichert - Shadows Realm (13 page)

Rascal stared at the assortment of Northern coins without moving. “We can’t take all that.” He said nothing further, but his tone implied he would refuse to leave Cullinsberg as well.

Taziar pried Rascal’s fingers from his sleeve, slapped the coins into the youth’s palm, and curled the grip closed. “I owe you that and more. Take it.” He released Rascal’s hand, stuffing the empty pouch back into his pocket. “Believe me, Rascal. I understand how difficult it is deserting the only home you’ve ever known.” Taziar recalled how his own loyalty to the city of his birth kept him from moving to the farm of an uncle after his parents’ deaths. “There’s a world outside Cullinsberg. It’s a lot less civilized but definitely worth seeing.” He broke off there, too familiar with street mentality to lecture.
Sometimes even certain death seems easier to face than the unknown.

“I’m sorry about what happened, Taz,” Rascal said softly, though whether he referred to the incident in the alleyway or his refusal to abandon Cullinsberg was unclear.

“I’m the one who should apologize. I never meant you any trouble.” Taziar’s hands balled to fists, and, though he addressed himself, he expressed the words aloud. “No more innocent deaths; I can’t allow it. The baron’s gallows will lie idle if I have to unravel every rope in Cullinsberg with my own hands.” He turned to leave amid a tense stillness, the promise a burden that lay, aching, within him. And he had no idea whether he could keep it.

A man cannot be too careful in the choice of his enemies.

—Oscar Wilde
The Picture of Dorian Gray

Al Larson crouched in the deepest corner of the third-story inn room, his spine pressed to the wall. The last dim glare of the day trickled through the single window, casting a watery sheen over the only piece of furniture. A table stood in the center of the room, carved into lopsided patterns by an unskilled craftsman. Atop it, a pewter pitcher and a stack of wooden bowls stood in stately array. A fire burned in the hearth. Earlier, sunlight through the open window had eclipsed the hearth fire to a nicker of gold and red. Now, the flames cast fluttering patterns on the wall, plainly illuminating Astryd and Silme where they perched on the stacked logs, but knifing Larson’s half of the room into shadow.

Larson flicked open his left cuff and glanced at his naked wrist. In the last four months, since the god, Freyr, had torn him from certain death in Vietnam and placed him in the body of an elf, Larson had spent nearly all his nights in evergreen forests. The inn did not seem much different.
It’s not as if we’ll find mints on our pillows; there aren’t any pillows. Sleeping on floorboards and spare clothes can’t be much better than sleeping on pine needles and spare clothes. There’s the fire, of course. But if I don’t shutter the window, it won’t provide any more warmth than a campfire in a drafty wood.

The thought turned Larson’s attention to the only window, cut in the southern wall and directly opposite the door. From his hunkered position in the southeastern corner, he gleaned a slanted impression of mortared stone buildings on the other side of the thoroughfare. Rambling, narrow, and discolored by mud, moss, and dying vines, they reminded Larson of row houses in New York City, with the graffiti conspicuously absent. From a more detailed study a few hours earlier, he knew ashes, rotted vegetables, and broken wood littered the dirt floor. Now, he heard the crunch of bones as a cat or rat feasted on the garbage. Every other side of the inn overlooked a cobbled roadway, and Larson could not fathom why Taziar had suggested this particular room.
Whatever his reason, it wasn’t for the view.

Astryd tapped the brass-bound base of her staff on the stacked logs. Metal thumped against wood. “Allerum, why do you keep staring at the back of your hand? Are you hurt?”

Self-consciously, Larson rubbed his wrist, unaware that concern over Taziar’s absence had driven him to consult his nonexistent watch often enough for his companions to notice. Explaining the conventions of his era always seemed more trouble than it was worth. Freyr had bridged time in order to fetch a man from a century without magic or its accompanying natural mental defenses to serve as a means of telepathic communication for a god trapped within the forged steel of a sword. Once, while Silme attempted to contact the imprisoned god through Larson’s mind, a wayward memory had pulled them all into the deadly light show of the Vietnam war. Since then, Silme never doubted Larson came from another place and time. But unfamiliar with faery folk and never having accessed his thoughts, Astryd and Taziar attributed Larson’s peculiarities to the fact that he was an elf.

“Old habit,” Larson replied simply, surprised by the surliness that entered his tone. Though inadvertent, Astryd’s curiosity had returned his contemplations to the one topic he wished to avoid: Taziar’s absence. The conversation in Cullinsberg’s alley returned in detail, replaying through his mind for what seemed like the twentieth time. In Vietnam, a competent, reliable companion was forgiven even the most callous insults once the fire action started. Yet Larson could not forget his own unyielding manner, cruel words, and the stricken look on Taziar’s face when the Climber found his loyalties torn.
I shouldn’t have called those street kids “scum.” Shadow’s sensitive, and he identifies with them. The punks may be thieves and hoods, but buddies do for each other. I owe it to the little slimeball to watch his back. He’d do the same for me.

Frustrated by guilt, Larson slammed a fist into his palm.
Astryd was right. I should have gone with Shadow.
He knew his thought was foolish, but it would not be banished. An image filled his mind. As vividly as though it had happened yesterday, he recalled Taziar’s wiry frame, clothed in black linen and clinging, naturally as a squirrel, to the “unscalable” wall of the Dragonrank school, returning from an unannounced visit to its “impenetrable” grounds. Again, he glimpsed a flash of steel as Gaelinar, his ronin swordmaster, slashed for Taziar’s hands. And, though severely outmatched, Taziar had accepted the challenge, turning Gaeli-nar’s hatred and attempts at murder into a dangerous game of wits.
All it would take is one person to call something impossible, and that jackass, Cullinsbergen friend of mine would go off, half-cocked, to prove he could do it.

Larson sprang to his feet, his decision made. “I’m going after Shadow. He’s in trouble.”

“No.” Silme’s voice scarcely rose above the crackle of flame, but it held the inviolate authority of a general’s command. “Allerum, don’t be a fool. Shadow knows the city. You don’t. If he’s in trouble, you’re not going to find him. Your leaving can only divide us further and put us all in danger.”

Larson could not deny the sense of Silme’s logic, yet the thought of waiting in ignorance seemed equally distasteful. “Don’t you have some sort of magic that could tell us where he is?”

The women exchanged knowing looks; apparently they had already discussed this possibility. Astryd allowed her staff to slide gently to the floor. “I could cast a location triangle, but it’s not in my repertoire. It would cost a lot of life energy for little gain. I’d have to center it on Shadow. We’d get a glimpse of his surroundings, perhaps enough for him to know where he was, but not for people who don’t know the city.”

Silme elaborated. “If Shadow’s fine, we would have wasted Astryd’s efforts. If he’s in trouble, we won’t know where to go, and Astryd won’t have enough life force left to cast spells to help him.”

Larson lashed out in restless resentment. “Let me get this straight. You can conjure dragons from nothing.” He stabbed a gesture at Astryd, then made a similar motion to indicate Silme. “And I’ve seen you design defenses I couldn’t even see that were strong enough to burn a man’s hand. Both of you want me to believe neither of you could make Shadow unrecognizable to the guards or figure out where the hell he is? That makes no sense.”

Astryd’s brow knotted in surprise. “Why not?”

“Why not?” To Larson, Astryd’s confusion seemed ludicrous beyond words. “Because making disguises and finding people seem like they ought to be simple.” He raised his voice, waving his arms with the grandeur of a symphony conductor. “Calling dragons and split-second appearances are incredibly dramatic.” He dropped his hands to his side. “How come you can do the hard stuff and not the easy stuff?”

Idly, Silme rolled Astryd’s staff with her foot. “You’re just looking at it the wrong way. Dragonrank magic comes from summoning and shaping the chaos of life energy using mental discipline. By nature, it works best when used for or against users and products of magic.” She glanced up to determine whether Larson was following her explanation.

“So?” Larson prompted.

“So,” Silme continued. “Large volumes of masterless chaos take dragon form routinely; that’s why we’re called Dragonrank. Think of calling dragons as summoning the same chaos we need for any spell. How difficult can it be to work that force into its inherent shape? Then, think of a transport escape as moving a user of magic with magic.”

“O-kay.” Larson spoke carefully, still not certain where Silme was leading, but glad to find a topic other than Taziar. He spun a log from the stack with the upper surface of his boot and sat across from the women.

“But,” Silme said. “A disguising spell would require not just moving, but actually changing a human being. Location triangles have to be focused on a person, in this case, one who is not a sorcerer. Understand?”

Larson shrugged, not fully convinced. “And if you cast this location thing to find a sorcerer? It would be easier?”

“Much.” Astryd smiled pleasantly. “As long as I knew the sorcerer. If I only had a name and a detailed description, it would cost nearly all my energy. Anything less would prove impossible.” She added belatedly, “Yet.”

“Yet?” Larson echoed before he found time to consider. Magic made little sense to him. Despite the Connecticut Yankee, Larson doubted a lit match or a predicted eclipse would impress his Dragonrank friends, even if he held enough knowledge of their era to prophesy. One thing appeared certain.
Magic and technology are not the same here.

Larson did not expect an answer, but Silme gave one. “With enough life force, a Dragonmage could do virtually anything. The problem with creating new spells is that there’s no way to know how much energy it’ll cost in advance, and no one can have practiced it to divulge shortcuts. Once the spell is cast, it drains as much energy as it needs. If that’s more than the caster has, he dies.”

Astryd cut in. “You have to realize, Dragonrank mages don’t become more powerful by gaining life force. We’re born with all the life force we’ll ever have. We have to rehearse spells to improve at them. Even though Silme and I are nearly the same age, she discovered her dragonmark much younger. She’s had a lot more time to practice and more desperate opportunity.”

Larson nodded, having experienced much of that desperate opportunity.

Astryd reclaimed her staff, bracing it against the woodpile. “Magical skill is different than sword skill. You get better by making the physical patterns routine and learning to anticipate enemies. Sorcery is a fully mental discipline. We learn new spells by comparing them with old spells, if possible, and explanations from more experienced mages. Proficiency means using less life energy to cast the same spell. That can only come from mental ‘shortcuts,’ that is, looking at the techniques in my own unique way.”