The Witches of Ne'arth (The Star Wizards Trilogy Book 2) (2 page)

For a while she was frozen with terror.  Was this a dream?  Was she mad?  Was he dead? 

She foresaw accusations of murder – trial for witchery – irons about her wrists – rope about her neck.    

She recovered and shifted.  She heard no noise from outside, either from the office or the garden.  It was just her and the inert body of the Captain.

Slowly, she eased off the couch and knelt at his side.  She timidly leaned over his face, and then, faintly, felt his breath against her cheek.  Yes, his chest was moving.  He was still alive.  At least she wouldn't be accused of killing him. 

“Sir?” She nudged his shoulder.  “Sir, are you all right?”

His chest twitched.  He snored.

Indeed, so loudly that she flinched.  Catching her breath, she sprang to her feet.  The door key was on the table, and she fumbled it into the lock.  She adjusted her clothing, stole out of the room, through the office, into the hall – and ran straight into Horbin.

The secretary clamped her shoulders.  “What are you doing out here?  You're to be with the Captain!”

Her mind spun with excuses, but what blurted from her lips was the mere truth: “He fell asleep.”

Horbin looked toward the office, then scowled and released her.  “Drunk, probably.  Return to the dormitory – and if you know what's good for you, don't gossip.”

She scurried away.  Outside, she allowed herself to breathe again.  As she headed for the orphanage compound in the twilight under the flickering glow of the waking lumen trees, she pondered Horbin's words.  She didn't see how the Captain could have gotten himself drunk.  He'd less to drink than she, and her sips hadn't impaired her at all. 

In the dormitory she changed to her regular smock.  The supper bell rang and she filed along with the other girls into the dining hall.  One of the girls – Dina – noticed how she picked at her food.

“I'd heard you'd gone to the Residence,” Dina said.

“Yes,” Lachela labored to reply.   

“You weren't there long.  Did he reject you?  You mustn't feel badly.  Every man has his preferences.”

How could she even think that I'd want
– Lachela silently fought tears.  After meal, she went to the Superior, and with eyes averted asked, “May I skip clean-up and go to bed early?  I'm not feeling well.”

How many times had the Superior heard that from girls who had been summoned to the Residence?  The Superior stared at the bite mark on Lachela's shoulder and said, “All right.”

Lachela went to the sleeping room and lay on her cot.  She stared at the ceiling, waiting for the guards to come and haul her to the Archbishop's office, where an angry Captain would accuse her of assault. 

Assault
, she thought.  She remembered the Voice using that word. 

But whose 'voice' was the Voice?  Who was the mysterious intruder, and where had he been hiding?  She had seen no one.  Perhaps he had been behind the curtains.  Perhaps he was the one who had attacked and thus incapacitated the Captain.  And in all the confusion, she had not seen him, and yet she would likely receive the blame.   

As time passed into evening, no guards came and she decided that the matter must have been covered up to conceal the Captain's embarrassment.  Nonetheless she cried in her own humiliation until she was too drained to cry more.  In the long silence that followed, she lay still and stared at the ceiling, thinking nothing. 

Moonlight poured through the windows.  Voices murmured in the other rooms for a time, and then the girls came and took their cots.  Lachela pretended to sleep, but doubted anyone would have spoken to her anyway.  Few wanted much to do with a girl recently returned from the Residence. 

The room became quiet and Lachela, wide awake, opened her eyes.  She saw the other girls in slumber.  Work in the Abbey was hard and if there was one blessing to life as a ward of the cursed place, it was that sleep came easy.  But not for her, not tonight.   

Certain that she would be awake all night, Lachela whispered to herself, “I wish I too could sleep.”

And instantly the girls and the cots and the room and the moonlight were gone. 

Lachela floated in darkness with a peace she hadn't felt since the approach of her twentieth birthday.  The weariness of the day's labor dissolved away, and all her cares seemed to have been put in a tiny sack that had been displaced.  Despite her dream state, she became aware that for once she felt . . .
good.
  Relaxed.  Rested.  No stiffness, no soreness. 

She almost smiled.  She almost laughed.

She began to dream.  The dreams were of what she usually dreamt:  bits and pieces of the day.  In one segment, she found herself in that room again, staring at the Captain's body, and in her dream logic, she asked the Voice, “Can you show yourself?”

The room faded into swirling gray mist.  Out of the mist came the figure of a man.  He wore clothing that differed from the Captain's only in color, black pants and a white shirt.  A strip of fabric, in swirling bright colors, hung vertically over his chest.  His eyes were full of infinite, unconditional loyalty.

I must be dreaming
, Lachela thought, unaware that she was. 

“Who are you?” she asked.    

“My full name is Ivan Four,” he replied, as calmly as all the other times his voice had spoken.  “You may informally call me Ivan.”

Thinking that he might be an angel, she asked, “What are you?”

“I am a neural implant matrix.”

“What is that?”

“A quasi-organic computer designed to interface with the human brain.”

“What does that mean?”

“I'm sorry, which part of my statement would you like clarified?”

“All of it.”

“A computer is a digital computation device.  A quasi-organic computer is one that is designed to interface and interact with living cellular tissue.  A brain is a bodily organ utilized by biological organisms for the process of thought.“

If she had been awake, his 'explanation' would have prompted more questions than it answered.  As it was, she nodded knowingly.  Well, at least
he
knew what he was. 

“Where do you come from?”

“I come from the planet Earth.”

“What do you mean, planet?”

“A planet is a mass greater than one thousand kilometers radius, consisting of various atomic elements, typically derived from a solar accretion disk, in independent orbit about a stellar – “

Understanding nothing, she impatiently demanded, “Where is this Earth?”

“It is approximately two hundred trillion kilometers away in that direction.”  He pointed. 

“What kind of kilometer is a 'trillion' kilometer?  Is it like an 'as-a-bird-flies' kilometer?”

“I'm sorry.  I do not understand.  Could you clarify your question?”

She couldn't, because she was dreaming and had already forgotten her question.  Instead she asked, “What is Earth like?”

“Would you like me to show you?”

“Yes.”

The gray mist cleared and Lachela stood on the street of a city.  The buildings were made of stone and glass and far larger than those of the village where she had come from, or even those she had once glimpsed briefly in Balti while being brought from the docks to the Abbey.  The impossibly straight sides of the dream-buildings ascended higher than any tree. 
A city of cathedrals
, she thought.  Since Lachela was dreaming, she took it in stride. 

Ivan was standing nearby, his expression one of infinite patience. 

“How did you get here?” she asked. 

She meant, 'to Klun,' and expected an answer of  'on foot' or 'by boat,' but Ivan replied,“My software and data were transmitted by tightbeam laser.  My hardware was transported by proton-beam catapult array.”

“What is that?”

“Would you like me to show you?”

“Yes.”

Suddenly the buildings disappeared and the sky turned pure black.  The stars gleamed and among them was a great flat sheet and alongside it a tiny speck.  Somehow her view shifted, and she saw the speck grow into a container that resembled a coffin in size and shape.  Somehow she perceived that there were invisibly tiny threads that connected the container to the sheet, a sheet which – somehow – she knew was larger than all the forest that could be seen from the window of the office of the Archbishop.  

“I don't understand,” she said.  She repeated, “How did you get here?” 

“Would you prefer that I provide a summary of recent telemetry from host point of view?”

“All right.”

Her surroundings shifted again, but this time Lachela herself felt transformed as well.  She sensed herself taller, stronger, older – and male.  Even in dream-state, Lachela considered this remarkable. 

She stood in a forest.  It was night and a campfire in the background provided minimal light.  Around her was a circle of several men, each man bearing a long metal stick.  They pointed the sticks at the shade between the tree trunks and the tips of the sticks flashed and made a thundering noise.  Something in the surrounding darkness cried like a man in sudden pain. 

One of her/his companions shouted to Lachela, “Matt!  They have us surrounded!  What do we do?”

Matt
, she thought, but lots of men were named Matt these days, and she thought no more of it. 

“I'll lead them off,” she heard herself saying in a man's voice.  “The rest of you – scatter!”

“But if they capture you, all is lost!”

“No,” she replied, the lips of her face moving on their own.  “If they capture me, they capture nothing.”

She clamped her hands – the hands of a man – onto the other man's head.  As she gazed at the features of the other man, she felt a confused sense of recognition.  It was as if she had seen him every day, while at the same time she knew they had never met. 

The view went blank, and next she knew, she was looking up at another man – who was withdrawing
his
hands from
her
head.

This other man spoke, in the same voice that she had spoken with only a moment before:  “Stoker, take care.  Now, if they capture
you
, they capture everything!  You must break through at all costs!” 

Stoker
, she thought, but lots of men were named Stoker these days, and she thought no more of it.  

“Wizard!” she cried, but now she was speaking in the voice of the one named Stoker. 

“No, Stoker.  Now
you
are the Wizard!  Get away – and move and hide Granny elsewhere.  Quickly!”

“If we both survive, let us meet at – “

“No!  Don't say anything!  They'll force it out of me if you do.  Just – go!”

She stared at his sad smile, then at the bright blue garment that covered from neck to ankles.  And then, up welled the memories of countless paintings and stained glass windows.  Slowly a certainty dawned.  The man referred to as 'Matt' did not merely look like the Wizard, did not merely have the Wizard's name. 
He is the Wizard!

Before she could digest that thought, on their own her legs ran into the darkness of the forest, away from the flashes and booms. 

And the dream became stranger still:  a series of faces, male and female, young and old.  She felt their bodies, spoke their words, experienced their lives.  She hurled through scenes in flickers and blurs. 

The strangest dream
, she thought.  And yet for all the vivid chaos, it was not unpleasant. 

She found herself in Archbishop's robes – issuing commands to subordinates, dressing down Horbin himself, inspecting the grounds, relishing a cigar and glass of liquor. 

And then she saw herself, and with the Archbishop's hand reached out and touched her – and then abruptly was her own self once more. 

She was once more in the room off the Archbishop's office, watching the Captain sink unconscious.  She relived the confrontation with Horbin, walking to the orphanage and sitting at supper and sobbing upon her cot.

And then she was back where the dream began, floating in darkness.  Out of the swirling gray mist came the man who was named . . .  she had forgotten. 

“What is the meaning of all this?” she asked.

“I have traveled through many bodies in search of Matt,” the curious young man replied.  “I have found him in the dungeon here.  Many years ago I came to the Archbishop and requested that he free Matt.”

Matt
, she thought.  He meant the man who looked just like the Wizard.  Whom she somehow knew
was
the Wizard. 
He calls him, Matt.  Not The Matt.  Just Matt.  As if they were friends. 

He continued, “The Archbishop promised to help me many times, but he has always lied.  Many years ago I suspended communication with him, so that he would believe that I was no longer inside of him, though I continued to keep his body in health.  Then today he stated his resolve that he will take the template as prisoner too.  And so I transferred to you, in hope you would help me to protect the template.”