The Door Into Fire

THE DOOR INTO FIRE

Diane Duane

Errantry Press

County Wicklow, Ireland

Copyright
©
2010, Diane Duane

Other books by Diane Duane:

The Tale of the Five

(also sometimes known as the Middle Kingdoms Sequence):

book 2:
The Door Into Shadow

book 3:
The Door into Sunset

The Young Wizards novels:

So You Want to Be a Wizard

Deep Wizardry

High Wizardry

A Wizard Abroad

The Wizard’s Dilemma

A Wizard Alone

Wizard’s Holiday

Wizards at War

A Wizard of Mars

For more information on this series, please visit

www.YoungWizards.com

Works in the Star Trek
^TM
universe:

The Wounded Sky

My Enemy, My Ally

Swordhunt

Honor Blade

The Empty Chair

Spock’s World

Doctor’s Orders

Intellivore

Dark Mirror

For info on other books, please visit

www.DianeDuane.com

Edition note:

The Door into Fire
was first published by Dell SF in 1979, and again by Bluejay Books in 1984, at which time some minor emendations and additions were made to the original novel. This ebook follows the 1984 version of the text, which also appeared in
Fire’s
most recent print publication by Meisha Merlin Books in 2001.

Cover design is by the author. The sword is from the collection of Peter Morwood: an Oakeshott Type XIIIa “Great War Sword” (cross style 1, pommel type H) forged for Mr. Morwood by Fulvio Del Tin of
Del Tin Armi Antiche
, Maniago, Italy.
 

Smiths and sorcerers come both from the same nest.
Chronicle of the White Eagle
, XII, 54

Herewiss sat cross-legged on the parquet floor, his back braced against the wall, his eyes closed, and concentrated.

Part of the problem was that he couldn’t stop thinking of the thing resting across his upturned hands as a sword; a noisy feeling of weaponness trickled through him from it.
It
knew that it was a sword—that was the problem. It was good Darthene steel, folded on itself in its forging the required sixty times, and sealed with the Mastersmith’s hallmark down on the rough tang of the metal. It knew that it was destined to be a killing weapon, an elegant, finely polished thing, soft of back, hard of edge, with the Mastersmith’s distinctive forging pattern embedded like waves in water within its silver blade. It knew what it was for: woundings and death, the abrupt soft parting of flesh beneath its stroke, the sudden crunch into cloven bone…the taste of pain, like wine. It lay there across his hands, waiting to be presented with slayings as a banqueter waits eagerly for the first course.

No, dammit,
Herewiss said to himself, and pulled away from the perception.
Sometimes I wish I weren’t so sensitive. How the Dark can something dead know so well what it’s for?

—
This is ridiculous. I should be able to impose my will on a piece of steel, for Goddess’s sake. Maybe this way.

He took a moment to clear his mind, and then concentrated on seeing the thing in his hands not as a sword, but as a great number of particles of metal that just happened to be arranged in the long, rough bar shape he held. If it was filed down, it would be just so much steel-dust.
See it that way,
he told himself
. A thousand thousand glittering points of steel, bound together only loosely—soft, porous enough for a sorcery to pass through them—
It took him a while, but he achieved the perception.

The metal fought him, trying again and again to become a killing instrument. It knew what it was for, and Herewiss couldn’t say as much; but he was alive and concentrating, and that gave him a slight edge. Finally the blank presented itself the way he wanted to see it, as countless tiny brilliances, sparkling metallically as they danced about one another, shining like dust in sunlight.

All right. Now, then—

Holding the image in mind, he began to construct the sorcery he had planned. It was an old formula, one of the very few sorceries that had any power over life at all—a binding used to temporarily prevent the dying soul from leaving the body. However, Herewiss had made certain changes in the formula, since the soul he planned to slip among the glittering points of metal was nowhere near death. The words of the spell were hard and dull like black iron in the back of his mind as he linked them one through another like chain mail, the stress on the last syllable of each word sealing each ring closed. He sang the poem softly over and over inside him, adding link to link, until the spell surrounded the bright bar of metal like a wide sheath.

Herewiss had some trouble finishing the spell, welding the two sides of it together—like most circular spells, it wanted only to go on and on, building itself back inward until it had trapped the sorcerer inside its own coils and choked the life out of him. But he prevailed, and sealed the spell shut, and pulled himself away from it, inspecting it for flaws and undone links. There were none.

Now for the interesting part,
he thought.

Sorcerers and Rodmistresses had been speculating for as long as anyone could remember on the question of why the Science and the Art killed their practitioners so young. Many people believed that sorcery chipped away slowly at the soul, so that when the soul became too small to support the body, the body died; and the blue Flame, of course, since it had power over both the giving and taking of life, as mere sorcery did not, had the same effect but more quickly. Herewiss’s mother had been a Rodmistress, and he could remember hearing her laugh about the idea some years before. “Your soul is as big as you can make it,” she had said to him as she walked through the Woodward’s chicken yard, scattering grain for the hens, “and the only thing that can diminish its size is your decision to do so. Belief’s a powerful influence, too—it’s quite possible to talk yourself into an early grave, and climb in when the time comes.” She had died three years later, at the age of twenty-eight.

Herewiss felt around inside himself, looking for his soul. He found it where it usually was, an amorphous silvery mass tucked down just a bit below his breastbone, snuggled up against the spine. The blue Fire was threaded all through it, a faint half-seen tracery like the lines of veins beneath the skin, glowing a pale blue-white.
Hold on,
he told the Flame, affectionate;
hold on for a while longer. It won’t be too long now. This should work.

He reached out and teased loose a strand of his soul-stuff; it stretched easily outward as he pulled at it. A faint trace of Flame came with it, twisting around its length, graining the strand with spiraling light like a unicorn’s horn. Gently, for he didn’t want to break the thread until he was ready, he eased it on outward and toward the dancing sparks of steel, into them, through them, and out again, and back in—winding the soul-stuff through the structure, beckoning it in and around, luring it onward with promises of Power about to be achieved. The Flame followed after, hopeful. Herewiss tangled the bit of himself like a bright cord, weaving it through itself again and again, drawing it finer and finer, silver wire thinning out to silver web, and always followed by that faint blue flow of Fire. Finally the steeldust glitter could hardly be seen at all for the sorcerer’s weave stranded through it.

Herewiss stood back, then cut the web’s attachment to him with one sharp word.

It hurt. he had expected it to, but he had no time now to deal with the ache. The entangled soul would start undoing itself almost immediately if he didn’t bind it. He spoke in his mind the word that would activate the binding sorcery, and it heard him and responded on the instant, the hard dark links of restraint drawing in close around the shining bar, snicking in cold and tight like a sudden scabbard, prisoning the soul-stuff within.

He stepped back to make sure that the sorcery would hold without his immediate supervision. It did. He poked at it once, experimentally; it resisted him.

Satisfied, he broke trance and opened his eyes.

Herewiss had to blink for a few moments, his eyes watering with the seeming brightness of the tower room. The place was full of smith’s furnishings; the middle of the room was taken up by the forge, a wide brick pit with a downhanging bellows, and a pedal-powered grindstone stood in one corner. Anvils, ingots, and scraps of metal were everywhere. A number of blanks of the Darthene steel were leaned up in a row against one wall, like so many barrel-staves.

The fire in the forge was out, and the tools were racked up on the walls. Halwerd, his son, was also sitting on the floor, over against the other paneled wall beside the window; he had taken off his apron, and was doing an elaborate cat’s cradle with a piece of string. Herewiss never tired of the joys of having a smaller version of himself around, and spent a few minutes just watching the child.

Halwerd sat there in his greasy green tunic, all dark curly hair and fierce concentration. He flipped his hands, and the cat’s cradle turned suddenly into a mess. “Dark!” he said.

“You’re too young to be swearing,” Herewiss said with affection.

“I’m nine,” Halwerd said, as if that should have been enough. “Did it work?”

“Yes.”

“It doesn’t look any different.” The boy gazed across the room, and Herewiss looked down at the piece of metal he held.

“No, it doesn’t. Well, we’ll see if it holds up tonight. It’s Full Moon; this is a good day for it. Though I could wait for the Maiden’s Day Moon. What do you think?”

Halwerd considered gravely. “Do it tonight.”

“All right.”

Herewiss got up, wobbling from the backlash of the sorcery. “Oh my,” he said. “I must be getting better at this…the backlash is hitting me faster than it used to.”

“How many is this now?” Halwerd asked, starting the cat’s cradle over again.

“Swords? Twenty-three. No, twenty-four. Cheer up, Hal, maybe this’ll be the last one.” Herewiss tossed the sword blank clanging onto the worktable and looked around him as he stretched. He was a tall, slender man, lean and lithe and dark-haired, with a finely featured face and a mouth that smiled a great deal. His arms and shoulders were well muscled from much work at the forge, but not yet overly so. At first glance he gave an impression of spare, restrained power, the taut strength of youth. But his deep blue eyes were beginning to look weary, and his face was gradually acquiring frown lines. “Be nice to turn this back into a bedroom,” he said, “and get all this mess out of here, Dark eat it—”

“Grampa would say,” Halwerd said, “‘you’re not a good example. Watch your mouth.’”

“So he would. Listen, Hal—”

A pigeon landed on the windowsill with a clapping of wings. It strutted there, fluffing its gray-and-white feathers and looking confused. Herewiss looked at it, momentarily startled, and then unease began to trickle coldly down his back. It was one of the homing pigeons that he had given Freelorn for use in emergencies.

“Hold still, Hal.” He walked smoothly around the forge to the window. In one quick motion he grabbed the pigeon before it had a chance to shy away. Stripping off the steel message-case, he threw the bird out the window, and fumbled at the little capsule with suddenly sweaty hands.

The stiff hinge cracked open, and the expected roll of parchment fell out on the floor. Herewiss picked it up, unrolling it, and the throbbing in his head quickened pace. The message said:

AM HOLED UP IN OLD KEEP THREE LEAGUES SOUTH OF MADEIL. A FEW HUNDRED STELDENE REGULARS AND ABOUT SEVEN HUNDRED CONSCRIPTS BESIEGING ME AND THE GROUP. I NEED A COMPETENT SORCERER TO COME GET ME OUT OF THIS RABBIT-HOLE. HAVE ENOUGH FOOD TO LAST US A FEW WEEKS, BUT MUCH LONGER THAN THAT AND IT WILL BE BOOT-CHEWING TIME. GET ME THE DARK OUT OF HERE AND I’LL BE YOUR BEST FRIEND. THE GODDESS SMILE ON YOU. FREELORN AS’T’RAID ARLENI.

“‘High Lord of all Lords of Arlen’, my—! You know, I
am
a bad example, Hal. Listen, did you see where your grandfather was?”

“He was down in the writing room a while ago,” Halwerd said. “What happened?”

“Your Uncle Freelorn may be back for a visit in a month or so,” Herewiss said, heading for the door, “but I have to go and get him first. Forget it, Hal, go get yourself some nunch.”

“All right.”

Herewiss loped down the long paneled stairway that curled around the inner wall of the tower, and hit the bottom of the stairs running. He went down the south corridor at full speed, ignoring the surprised looks of household people and relatives, and ducked into the sixth room to his left. It was a bright, warm place, full of the rich carving work typical of the Woodward. The fireplace was framed in the wings of carven sphinxes, and two-bodied dogs guarded the corners where the moldings met. Over one closet was carven in slightly frantic figures the history of the sixteenth Lord of the Brightwood, who had married a mermaid. The sunlight gleamed from the woodwork, and from the great brassbound table which stood on eagle-claw feet in the middle of the room; but its surface was bare, and no one had been working there for some time.

I hope he didn’t go out,
Herewiss thought.
Damn!
He ran out of the room again, turned left and headed to the end of the south corridor. A stair led down from it to the central hail of the Woodward, where the Rooftree grew. He had no patience for the stairs, but hopped up onto the central banister, which had been polished smooth first by its craftsmen and then by the backsides of generations of the children of the Ward. At the bottom of the stairs he took a bare moment to nod courtesy to the Tree before he loped off across the tapestried hall, and out into the sunlight of the outer courtyard.

His father was there, kneeling in a newly dug flowerbed and setting in seedlings. Hearn Halmer’s son was an average-looking man, a little on the lean side, dark-haired except for the places where he was going gray on the sides. He had the usual lazy, sleepy expression of the males of the Brightwood ruling line, the usual blue eyes, and the large hands that could be so very delicate. Those hands had been mighty in war, so that Hearn had led his people through two battles with the Reavers and one border skirmish with only a cut or two. This had prompted some to suggest that he had pacted with the Shadow, and had brought his relieved family to refer to him as “Old Ironass.” Now, though, he no longer rode to the wars, and it was often hard for visitors to the Woodward to reconcile the conquering Lord of the Brightwood with the quiet, gentle man who could usually be found training ivy up the Ward’s outer wall.

“Father,” Herewiss yelled, “he’s doing it again!”

Hearn sat back on his heels in the loose dirt, brushing off his hands, and looked over at his son. 
“Who?”

“Here,” said Herewiss, coming up and holding out the parchment, “read it!”

“My hands are dirty,” Hearn said as Herewiss knelt down beside him. “Hold it for me.”

“Dirty? It hardly matters if it gets dirty—” But Herewiss held it out. His father rested hands quietly on knees and read it through. After a moment he snorted. “As’t’raid Arléni, my ass!”