Storm Over Warlock

by Andre Norton

  12. THE VEIL OF ILLUSION

  Perhaps his status was that of a prisoner, but Shann was too tired topress for an explanation. He was content to be left alone in the unusualcircular, but roofless, room of the structure to which they had broughthim. There was a thick mat-like pallet in one corner, short for thelength of his body, but softer than any bed he had rested on since hehad left the Terran camp before the coming of the Throgs. Above himglimmered those patches of light symbolizing the lost stars. He blinkedat them until they all ran together in bands like the jeweled coils onWarlockian bodies; then he slept--dreamlessly.

  The Terran awoke with all his senses alert; some silent alarm might havetriggered that instant awareness of himself and his surroundings. Therehad been no change in the star pattern still overhead; no one hadentered the round chamber. Shann rolled over on his mat bed, consciousthat all his aches had vanished. Just as his mind was clearly active, sodid his body also respond effortlessly to his demands. He was not awareof any hunger or thirst, though a considerable length of time must havepassed since he had made his mysteriously contrived exit from the outerworld.

  In spite of the humidity of the air, his ragged garments had dried onhis body. Shann got to his feet, trying to order the sorry remnants ofhis uniform, eager to be on the move. Though to where and for whatpurpose he could not have answered.

  The door through which he had entered remained closed, refusing toyield to his push. Shann stepped back, eyeing the distance to the top ofthe partition between the roofless rooms. The walls were smooth with thegloss of a sea shell's interior, but the exuberant confidence which hadbeen with him since his awakening refused to accept such a minorobstacle.

  He made two test leaps, both times his fingers striking the wall wellbelow the top of the partition. Shann gathered himself together as mighta cat and tried the third time, putting into that effort every lastounce of strength, determination and will. He made it, though his armsjerked as the weight of his body hung from his hands. Then a scramble, aknee hooked over the top, and he was perched on the wall, able to studythe rest of the building.

  In shape, the structure was unlike anything he had seen on his homeworld or reproduced in any of the tri-dee records of Survey accessibleto him. The rooms were either circular or oval, each separated from thenext by a short passage, so that the overall impression was that of tenstrings of beads radiating from a central knot of one large chamber, allwith the uniform nacre walls and a limited amount of furnishings.

  As he balanced on the narrow perch, Shann could sight no other movementin the nearest line of rooms, those connected by corridors with his own.He got to his feet to walk the tightrope of the upper walls toward thatinner chamber which was the heart of the Warlockian--palace? town?apartment dwelling? At least it was the only structure on the island,for he could see the outer rim of that smooth soft sand ringing itabout. The island itself was curiously symmetrical, a perfect oval, tooperfect to be a natural outcrop of sand and rock.

  There was no day or night here in the cavern. The light from the roofpatches remained constantly the same, and that flow was abetted withinthe building by a soft radiation from the walls. Shann reached the nextroom in line, hunkering down to see within it. To all appearances thechamber was exactly the same as the one he had just left; there were thesame unadorned walls, a thick mat bed against the far side, and noindication whether it was in use or had not been entered for days.

  He was on the next section of corridor wall when he caught that fainttaint in the air, the very familiar scent of wolverines. Now it providedShann with a guide as well as a promise of allies.

  The next bead-room gave him what he wanted. Below him Taggi and Togipaced back and forth. They had already torn to bits the sleeping matwhich had been the chamber's single furnishing, and their temper wasnone too certain. As Shann squatted well above their range of vision,Taggi reared against the opposite wall, his claws finding no hold on thesmooth coating of its surface. They were as competently imprisoned as ifthey had been dropped into a huge fishbowl, and they were not taking toit kindly.

  How had the animals been brought here? Down that water tunnel by thesame unknown method he himself had been transported until that almostdisastrous awakening in the center of the flood? The Terran did notdoubt that the doors of the room were as securely fastened as those ofhis own further down the corridor. For the moment the wolverines weresafe; he could not free them. And he was growing increasingly certainthat if he found any of his native jailers, it would be at the center ofthat wheel of rooms and corridors.

  Shann made no attempt to attract the animals' attention, but kept onalong his tightrope path. He passed two more rooms, both empty, bothdiffering in no way from those he had already inspected; and then hecame to the central chamber, four times as big as any of the rest andwith a much brighter wall light.

  The Terran crouched, one hand on the surface of the partition top as anadditional balance, the other gripping his stunner. For some reason hiscaptors had not disarmed him. Perhaps they believed they had nonecessity to fear his off-world weapon.

  "Have you grown wings?"

  The words formed in his brain, bringing with them a sense of calmamusement to reduce all his bold exploration to the level of a child'sfirst staggering steps. Shann fought his first answering flare of pureirritation. To lose even a fraction of control was to open a door forthem. He remained where he was as if he had never "heard" that question,surveying the room below with all the impassiveness he could summon.

  Here the walls were no smooth barrier, but honeycombed with niches in aregular pattern. And in each of the niches rested a polished skull, anonhuman skull. Only the outlines of those ranked bones were familiar;for just so had looked the great purple-red rock where the wheelingflyers issued from the eye sockets. A rock island had been fashionedinto a skull--by design or nature?

  And upon closer observation the Terran could see that there was adifference among these ranked skulls, a mutation of coloring from row torow, a softening of outline, perhaps by the wearing of time.

  There was also a table of dull black, rising from the flooring on legswhich were not more than a very few inches high, so that from hispresent perch the board appeared to rest on the pavement itself. Behindthe table in a row, as shopkeepers might await a customer, three of theWarlockians, seated cross-legged on mats, their hands folded primlybefore them. And at the side a fourth, the one whom he had trapped onthe island.

  Not one of those spiked heads rose to view him. But they knew that hewas there; perhaps they had known the very instant he had left the roomor cell in which they had shut him. And they were so very sure ofthemselves.... Once again Shann subdued a spark of anger. That samepatience with its core of stubborn determination which had brought himto Warlock backed his moves now. The Terran swung down, landing lightlyon his feet, facing the three behind the table, towering well over themas he stood erect, yet gaining no sense of satisfaction from that merelyphysical fact.

  "You have come." The words sounded as if they might be a part of somepolite formula. So he replied in kind and aloud.

  "I have come." Without waiting for their bidding, he dropped into thesame cross-legged pose, fronting them now on a more equal level acrosstheir dead black table.

  "And why have you come, star voyager?" That thought seemed to be aconcentrated effort from all three rather than any individualquestioning.

  "And why did you bring me?" He hesitated, trying to think of some politeform of address. Those he knew which were appropriate to their sex onother worlds seemed incongruous when applied to the bizarre figures nowfacing him. "Wise ones," he finally chose.

  Those unblinking yellow eyes conveyed no emotion; certainly his humangaze could detect no change of expression on their nonhuman faces.

  "You are a male."

  "I am," he agreed, not seeing just what that fact had to do with eitherdiplomatic fencing or his experiences of the immediate past.

  "Where then is your thoughtguider?"

 
; Shann puzzled over that conception, guessed at its meaning.

  "I am my own thoughtguider," he returned stoutly, with all theconviction he could manage to put into that reply.

  Again he met a yellow-green stare, but he sensed a change in them. Someof their complacency had ebbed; his reply had been as a stone droppedinto a quiet pool, sending ripples out afar to disturb the customarymirror surface of smooth serenity.

  "The star-born one speaks the truth!" That came from the Warlockian whohad been his first contact.

  "It would appear that he does." The agreement was measured, and Shannknew that he was meant to "overhear" that.

  "It would seem, Readers-of-the-rods"--the middle one of the triumvirateat the table spoke now--"that all living things do not follow ourpattern of life. But that is possible. A male who thinks for himself ...unguided, who dreams perhaps! Or who can understand the truth ofdreaming! Strange indeed must be his people. Sharers-of-my-visions, letus consult the Old Ones concerning this." For the first time one ofthose crested heads moved, the gaze shifted from Shann to the ranks ofthe skulls, pausing at one.

  Shann, ready for any wonder, did not betray his amazement when the ivoryinhabitant of that particular niche moved, lifted from its smallcompartment, and drifted buoyantly through the air to settle at theright-hand corner of the table. Only when it had safely grounded did theeyes of the Warlockian move to another niche on the other side of thecurving room, this time bringing up from close to floor level atime-darkened skull to occupy the left corner of the table.

  There was a third shifting from the weird storehouse, a last skull toplace between the other two. And now the youngest native arose from hermat to bring a bowl of green crystal. One of her seniors took it in bothhands, making a gesture of offering it to all three skulls, and thengazed over its rim at the Terran.

  "We shall cast the rods, man-who-thinks-without-a-guide. Perhaps then weshall see how strong _your_ dreams are--to be bent to your using, or tobreak you for your impudence."

  Her hands swayed the bowl from side to side, and there was an answeringwhisper from its interior as if the contents slid loosely there. Thenone of her companions reached forward and gave a quick tap to the bottomof that container, spilling out upon the table a shower of brightlycolored slivers each an inch or so long.

  Shann, staring at the display in bewilderment, saw that in spite of theseeming carelessness of that toss the small needles had spread out onthe blank surface to form a design in arrangement and color. And hewondered how that skillful trick had been accomplished.

  All three of the Warlockians bent their heads to study the grouping ofthe tiny sticks, their young subordinate leaning forward also, hereagerness less well controlled than her elders'. And now it was as if acurtain had fallen between the Terran and the aliens, all sense ofcommunication which had been with him since he had entered theskull-lined chamber was summarily cut off.

  A hand moved, making the jeweled pattern--braceleting wrist andextending up the arm--flash subdued fire. Fingers swept the sticks backinto the bowl; four pairs of yellow eyes raised to regard Shann oncemore, but the blanket of their withdrawal still held.

  The youngest Warlockian took the bowl from the elder who held it, stoodfor a long moment with it resting between her palms, fixing Shann withan unreadable stare. Then she came toward him. One of those at the tableput out a restraining hand.

  This time Shann did _not_ master his start as he heard the first audiblevoice which had not been his own. The skull at the left hand on thetable, by its yellowed color the oldest of those summoned from theniches, was moving, moving because its jaws gaped and then snapped,emitting a faint bleat which might have been a word or two.

  She who would have halted the young Warlockian's advance, withdrew herhand. Then her fingers curled in an unmistakable beckoning gesture.Shann came to the table, but he could not quite force himself near thatchattering skull, even though it had stopped its jig of speech.

  The bowl of sticks was offered to him. Still no message from mind tomind, but he could guess at what they wanted of him. The crystalsubstance was not cool to the touch as he had expected; rather it waswarm, as living flesh might feel. And the colored sticks filled abouttwo thirds of the interior, lying all mixed together without any order.

  Shann concentrated on recalling the ceremony the Warlockian had usedbefore the first toss. She had offered the bowl to the skulls in turn.The skulls! But he was no consulter of skulls. Still holding the bowlclose to his chest, Shann looked up over the roofless walls at the starmap on the roof of the cavern. There, that was Rama; and to its left,just a little above, was Tyr's system where swung the stark world of hisbirth, and of which he had only few good memories, but of which he was apart. The Terran raised the bowl to that spot of light which markedTyr's pale sun.

  Smiling with a wry twist, he lowered the bowl, and on impulse of puredefiance he offered it to the skull that had chattered. Immediately herealized that the move had had an electric effect upon the aliens.Slowly at first, and then faster, he began to swing the bowl from sideto side, the needles slipping, mixing within. And as he swung it, Shannheld it out over the expanse of the table.

  The Warlockian who had given him the bowl was the one who struck it onthe bottom, causing a rain of splinters. To Shann's astonishment, mixedas they had been in the container, they once more formed a pattern, andnot the same pattern the Warlockians had consulted earlier. Thedampening curtain between them vanished; he was in touch mind to mindonce again.

  "So be it." The center Warlockian spread out her four-fingered thumblesshands above the scattered needles. "What is read, is read."

  Again a formula. He caught a chorus of answer from the others.

  "What is read, is read. To the dreamer the dream. Let the dream be knownfor what it is, and there is life. Let the dream encompass the dreamerfalsely, and all is lost."

  "Who can question the wisdom of the Old Ones?" asked their leader. "Weare those who read the messages they send, out of their mercy. This is astrange thing they bid us do, man--open for you our own initiates' roadto the veil of illusion. That way has never been for males, who dreamwithout set purpose and have not the ability to know true from false,have not the courage to face their dreams to the truth. Do so--if youcan!" There was a flash of mockery in that, combined with somethingelse--stronger than distaste, not as strong as hatred, but certainly notfriendly.

  She held out her hands and Shann saw now, lying on a slowly closingpalm, a disk such as the one Thorvald had shown him. The Terran had onlyone moment of fear and then came blackness, more absolute than the darkof any night he had ever known.

  Light once more, green light with an odd shimmering quality to it. Theskull-lined walls were gone; there were no walls, no building held him.Shann strode forward, and his boots sank in sand, that smooth, satinsand which had ringed the island in the cavern. But he was certain hewas no longer on that island, even within that cavern, though far abovehim there was still a dome of roof.

  The source of the green shimmer lay to his left. Somehow he foundhimself reluctant to turn and face it. That would commit him to action.But Shann turned.

  A veil, a veil of rippling green. Material? No, rather mist or light. Aveil depending from some source so far over his head that its origin washidden in the upper gloom, a veil which was a barrier he must cross.

  With every nerve protesting, Shann walked forward, unable to keep back.He flung up his arm to protect his face as he marched into that stuff.It was warm, and the gas--if gas it was--left no slick of moisture onhis skin in spite of its foggy consistency. And it was no veil orcurtain, for although he was already well into the murk, he saw no endto it. Blindly he trudged on, unable to sight anything but the rollingbillows of green, pausing now and again to go down on one knee and patthe sand underfoot, reassured at the reality of that footing.

  And when he met nothing menacing, Shann began to relax. His heart nolonger labored; he made no move to draw the stunner or knife. Where hewas and for what purpos
e, he had no idea. But there _was_ a purpose inthis and that the Warlockians were behind it, he did not doubt. The"initiates' road," the leader had said, and the conviction was steady inhis mind that he faced some test of alien devising.

  A cavern with a green veil--his memory awoke. Thorvald's dream! Shannpaused, trying to remember how the other had described this place. So hewas enacting Thorvald's dream! And could the Survey officer now becaught in Shann's dream in turn, climbing up somewhere into the noseslit of a skull-shaped mountain?

  Green fog without end, and Shann lost in it. How long had he been here?Shann tried to reckon time, the time since his coming into thewater-world of the starred cavern. He realized that he had not eaten,nor drank, nor desired to do so either--nor did he now. Yet he was notweak; in fact, he had never felt such tireless energy as possessed hisspare body.

  Was this _all_ a dream? His threatened drowning in the undergroundstream a nightmare? Yet there was a pattern in this, just as there hadbeen a pattern in the needles he had spilled across the table. One evenled to another with discernible logic; because he had tossed thatparticular pattern he had come here.

  According to the ambiguous instructions or warnings of the Warlockianwitch, his safety in this place would depend upon his ability to telltrue dreams from false. But how ... why? So far he had done nothingexcept walk through a green fog, and for all he knew, he might well betraveling in circles.

  Because there was nothing else to do, Shann walked on, his bootspressing sand, rising from each step with a small sucking sound. Then,as he stooped to search for some indication of a path or road whichmight guide him, his ears caught the slightest of noises--other smallsucking whispers. He was not the only wayfarer in this place!