One Realm Beyond (2 page)

“I know she thinks
you
think you are ready to be out on your own.”

“Now, see, Tom, that’s what I don’t understand. How do you know what she’s thinking? I have no idea whether I’m going to be blessed apprentice or cursed knave each day.” He snorted. “Each moment.”

The dog considered the young man for a minute before answering. “Ahma blames her rheumatism. But I think it has more to do with how the planes are shifting. When too many of them slide in the same direction, she feels off-kilter.”

Cantor nodded, observing clouds drifting in from the western horizon. “She knows things before they happen. How is that? She won’t teach me the skill.”

Tom responded with a bark of laughter. “She’s been a realm walker a very long time. I think you must grow old to acquire that skill.”

“Too bad not many realm walkers grow old. Odem and Ahma are the oldest, aren’t they?”

“Some on the guild council claim to be older than Odem and Ahma, but there is no way to prove that.”

They climbed a steep hill and paused at the rise to catch their breath. Cantor looked over at Tom and noticed his tongue hanging out as he panted.

“What are you grinning about, boy?”

“Your long, wet, dangling, very pink tongue. Poor Tom. It must be deeply humiliating to lose your dignity whenever you’re hot.”

“I don’t keep my dignity on my face, but in my heart. Why is it you allow years of instruction given to you by Ahma and myself to drift from your mind like a dandelion seed on a breeze?”

Cantor shrugged, which reminded him of the big fish on the long stick over his shoulder. “Let’s go give this to Ahma.”

He started down the hill with Tom trotting beside him, head held high and tail swaying behind. A squirrel ran for the nearest tree and scrambled to a safe branch. Its indignant chatter railed them as they passed. Tom lifted his chin, gave the small animal a direct look, and let out a bark. The squirrel stopped its noise long enough to scamper up to a higher limb, then resumed its scold.

“Before you lose your words altogether,” said Cantor, “tell me why you think Ahma is on the verge of letting me go.”

“Because Odem is there. They have their heads together and are sniggering over some scheme. Woof . . .. . . . . . bother! When they last parted, Odem said he woof — blast! — would return for your initiation.”

“So you think that’s now?” Cantor couldn’t help the enthusiasm taking over his voice.

Tom’s yes sounded more like a yap, but it was good enough for Cantor.

INITIATION

O
dem’s donkey, Nahzy, dozed in the shade of the blackamore tree. Tom deserted Cantor to wake his old mor dragon friend. He tore down the hill, displaying dog-like enthusiasm. As a dragon, Tom exhibited more decorum. Cantor waved a greeting as Nahzy lifted his head and let out a lazy bray with a yawn.

The door to the cabin stood open. Two calico kittens, one black-and-white and one tabby, basked in the sun on the worn stoop. Cantor stopped at the well, drew up the bucket, and splashed his face, rubbed his hands a bit in the water, and then rinsed the dirt off his fish.

He glanced over his shoulder, wondering if Tom were right. Could Ahma and Odem be plotting his initiation? Cantor didn’t even know what the initiation involved. As long as he didn’t have to write a report, he’d be okay.

Oral questions didn’t bother him. Ahma said he’d been gifted with a tinker’s tongue and fingers. Sometimes that was
a compliment and sometimes . . . it was not. He explained things well, could persuade all but Ahma and Odem to let him have his way.

The physical performance tasks didn’t challenge him either. For intricate movement, his nimble fingers could twist and poke and maneuver almost any gadget into working properly. As for agility in games and athletic skills, he could outrun, outjump, outflip, twist, or tumble any animal he’d ever met.

He’d do all right as long as he didn’t have to pick up a pen. The skinny little implements made him nervous. If he walked into a room, he knew where pens and pencils hid in drawers or behind cupboard doors. A bit of charcoal from the fire didn’t bother him unless someone had made a mark with the black lump. And a paintbrush was just a paintbrush unless someone had strayed from merely whitewashing walls and wrote on the faded siding.

Ahma said he was touched in the head. He laughed to himself. Sometimes she regarded his state of mind favorably, and sometimes, not.

Sitting on the stone wall of the well, he studied the house. He’d seen grander houses in the village, but Ahma always said grander houses required more work. He’d seen drawn pictures of cities and their impressive buildings. His life with Ahma had not included visits to very large cities, but he’d done realm walking with both Ahma and Odem to other planes and towns of various sizes.

The guild held council in Gilead, the largest city on Dairine. He would have liked to have some familiarity with that metropolis. He’d see it soon and on his own.

Would he approach the guild leaders before or after the
initiation? If he passed the initiation, would he go straight to Effram to seek out his dragon companion?

Ahma and Odem kept tight lips when it came to the guild. Every year they talked less about the people in charge of all realm walkers. At least, they didn’t
openly
discuss them. Cantor felt the tension rise when the topic skittered around the room and disappeared again.

He rubbed his palms over his trousers, picked up the fish, and headed toward the open door. In that humble abode lurked his future. Adventure. Excitement. He was ready, once he got past this initiation. Ignoring a prick of conscience, he paused just outside the doorway to listen, quietly standing and observing.

Ahma and Odem sat at the table. A large empty bowl sat to the side of Odem’s elbow. He tipped a tankard of melonwater to his lips, then set the beverage down.

Between the two old realm walkers, objects from the room floated. Cantor recognized the loose configuration of the nine planes represented by spoons, a couple of knotted napkins, a saltshaker, a ball of string, and woodchips from the kindling box. Of course, in reality, the planes looked more like floating pancakes, suspended over one another in a lopsided, shifting column.

Every planetary system in the galaxy was grouped in individual stacks. At times, columns came within pitching distance of one another. Well, not really. When Cantor was younger, he believed everything Odem told him, but he soon learned to discern when the man stretched a fact out of shape for a bit of fun.

The tales of two columns of planes being shuffled together like two halves of a deck of cards were just legends based
on imagination, not truth. The ancient myth of one plane sliding out of its column, traveling through space, and integrating with another was also suspect. The only reason anyone lent these tales credence was Primen. Everyone knew Primen could do impossible things. If He were involved, then mountains might pick up their skirts and dance to the seashore.

Some facts stood on their own: Each plane held a realm. Each realm operated independently of its neighbors. Gravity kept them from floating away from each other, but didn’t keep them at a predictable, precise distance.

Many years before, Cantor had seen the plane of Alius when his realm and the other had drifted dangerously close. The other realm looked like a pale, mottled yellow disk floating high in the blue sky.

Odem told him that once, in ancient times, Alius and Dairine had collided. They’d bounced, and each floated out of the other’s domain.

Odem had cleared his throat and looked Cantor in the eye, the signal that what he was about to say held great importance. “The terror in the minds of the people far outreached the authentic threat of the situation. Some of our people ran to the other side of the plane and jumped off.”

“Couldn’t the guild do something? Aren’t they in charge of organizing the powerful and defending the weak?”

At the time of the discussion, Odem had wagged his head in disgust as he tried to explain.

“The guild had less power back then. Chomountain the Wise
was
wise. He walked among the people on every plane. Then he disappeared with no one to replace him. He took over from Avamountain. The Age of Ava was tranquil.
Dargamountain passed his mantle down to Ava. And before Darga was Sentarmountain. The Age of Sentar was prosperous.

Cantor sought to impress his mentor. “What about Ladomountain? Didn’t he come before Darga?”

Odem scowled at Cantor. “Of course, he did. Between Darga and Sentar, I’m glad to see you’re paying attention. I wasn’t able to trick you.”

The old man rubbed his palms over the thick material of his trousers. “But we’re talking about power. Without the check of the right hand of Primen, the guild is powerful beyond common sense. If they’ve grabbed the power, they took it from someone. Who?”

He cocked an eyebrow in Cantor’s direction. “Is it coincidence that no action has been attributed to the old wizard for many, many years? Some say Chomountain is dying.”

That was the last time Odem talked openly about the guild. For the last several years, both Ahma and Odem had refused to talk of the guild or the missing wizard. As far as Cantor knew, kind and just Chomountain remained elusive. And from the worry etched on his mentors’ brows, he discerned that the guild became ever more a concern. When he asked questions now, Ahma warned him it was better not to talk about those who had the power to harm.

So here he stood, reduced to eavesdropping to glean information. Odem gestured at the model floating over the table. “Ahma, you can see, can you not, that Richra and Derson are edging too close?”

Ahma nodded.

Cantor watched, enrapt, as two spoons lost their bearings, slid sideways, and crashed together. They fell, knocking the saltshaker out of the way. Before the three planes stabilized,
the woodchip representing Alius began to spin. Slowly, then with more speed, the plane tilted one way and then to the opposite side.

Ahma gasped. “The worst I’ve ever seen, Odem. Can we alter the course of Richra and Derson?”

“Perhaps.” Odem allowed his replica of the planes to collapse. The items clattered as they fell onto the table.

Cantor took a step into the room. “Will I be allowed to help?”

Odem jerked around, then stood to come pound Cantor on the back. “There you are. Today’s the day. By the time you put your head on the pillow tonight, you’ll be an official initiate.”

“And then I’ll be eligible to help, right?”

Odem put his large hand on Cantor’s head and rubbed. Cantor tried to duck, but Odem snagged him in a headlock and continued to torture his scalp.

“Ahma! Pull this brute off of me.”

The old lady cackled and winked, causing Odem to release Cantor. The old man backed up until he was stuck to the wooden doorframe behind him. He gave Ahma an accusatory look. Cantor slid past and rested one hip against the table. Ahma picked up one of the forks and jabbed his side. “Move. No manners! Did Enid the Cow raise you?”

Cantor straightened and tossed his impudent grin at Ahma and then Odem, who still stood pinned to the entryway.

“Thank you, Ahma.” With a bow, Cantor presented the fish to the old lady who stood for grandmother, as well as mentor, in his life. “Our dinner.”

“And the only reason I helped you escape that old reprobate. Didn’t want you to drop our meal.” She nodded at Odem, and he stepped away from the door.

Odem shivered as if shaking his body free of the force that had bound him. Not by word or expression did he show any annoyance at Ahma’s prank. He sank into his wooden chair and fingered the utensils he’d used as a model for the problems he’d observed.

The kittens poured through the opening and circled Ahma’s legs. She shooed them away, then with the same dismissive voice she ordered Cantor to bathe.

“You smell like fish and sweat and river sludge. I’ll not have you at my table, reeking. Especially tonight.”

Cantor bobbed her another fancy bow and ran out the door.

Ahma followed and stopped in the entryway to holler. “Brainless boy, come back and get clean clothes!”

Cantor stopped in his tracks, then ran backward to the cabin. He kissed Ahma’s cheek as he passed her to enter, and then again, when he left with a wad of clean clothes under his arm.

“The soap!”

He backed up and grabbed a bar beside the front door where a bucket sat ready for washing hands. He winked at Ahma and cartwheeled, using the hand that did not hold soap and clothing.

She grinned. “He’ll never grow up.”

Cantor twirled in place to give his Ahma a jaunty bow.

“Right.” Odem’s chortle garbled the words, but Cantor understood him. “And that’s what will make him good at his job. Energy, pluck, quick on his feet and in his mind. He’ll lead the council in a merry jig.”

Cantor did a last cartwheel, but refrained from continuing. His feet now trod over slippery shale on the hill beside
the cabin. But he was pleased. He’d worked hard for Ahma’s smile. Playing the clown often pulled her out of grumpiness when nothing else would.

Odem was more amenable. But his approving words were a balm to Cantor’s doubts. Many times he thought that the ordinary existence he lived did little to guarantee success in his fated profession. But Odem thought highly of what few skills he had. Perhaps he would be an acclaimed realm walker. He’d see soon enough if he was fool or knight. One could not fake being a realm walker.