by Lyndon Hardy
"The first scene is morning in Plowblade Pass," Jemidon called back. "From the west come the lightning flashes of a storm."
"Ah, opening with a riveting display," someone said. "Eye-burning bolts of yellow, claps of thunder that hurt the ears. It seems that Farnel has come around at last."
Jemidon tried a final time to recall the glamour, but it was totally gone. There was no point in trying further. His mind was blank.
"Come, come, the lightning," the voice persisted.
"No, that is not the main effect," Jemidon called up. "You see, master Farnel intended to focus on the commanders." Quickly he shuffled through the easel sheets. "Here, I will show you the outline. It begins in the second scene."
"But the thrill of the storm."
"It is not directly in view." Jemidon raced up the stairs in a flapping of papers. "Just muted rolls and brief flashes at the periphery of vision. More of an ominous foreboding, to set the mood. It is later that the principle theme is brought forth."
"The prince will not sit still for such empty art!" Gerilac exclaimed. "There are three or four here with much more interest and impact."
"If you could see the effects and how they mix together, you would better understand," Jemidon said weakly.
"Understand, understand!" Gerilac shot back. "It is for you to understand, tyro. We pick the four to present to the prince on the merit of what we see here and now. No credit is given for hasty preparation and promise of improvement later on."
Jemidon looked down the row of solemn masters, their faces all stern and one or two nodding agreement. "Master Gerilac is right," one of them said. "It would be unfair to the others to judge on scribbled notes alone. At the very least, there should be some Power of Suggestion. Why, even a tyro of a week should know it well. Return with your master. There is nothing more here that you can do."
Farnel pushed forward, but then staggered, clutching his stomach. For a moment, he strained to launch a protest of his own, but no words could he force out. No one spoke. After a long silence, the master's shoulders slumped. With a deep sigh, he grabbed Jemidon's arm and turned for the stage door, a look of bitter disappointment clouding his face. Jemidon pulled himself free but did not protest further. In a daze, he slowly followed the master out of the hall.
Like a drowning man, he reached out for the blur of explanations whirling in his mind, trying to grab a reason as it spun past, a reason besides the one he shunned for why he had failed again.
He had been rushed, or perhaps he had not studied as diligently as he should have. The chanting well was unfamiliar and threw off his composure. Farnel had said to use the Power of Suggestion when, deep inside, he had thought Shimmering Mirrors would have been better. Or maybe it merely was a matter of luck. Even the best of the masters did not complete every charm they attempted. A single slip of the tongue in the beginning was all that it would take. A random slur, or a moment's forgetfulness, and the spell would be broken.
For a long while, the two walked the path of white stones in silence, Jemidon's thoughts tumbling, and Farnel with his hands clamped in a tight knot behind his back.
"Gerilac and the supreme accolade," the master whispered as they finally approached the hut, the deepness of his voice beginning to return. "Again it is a possibility."
He grabbed at a branch that poked onto the trailway and snapped it in two with a savage twist, hurling the free piece up the hillside. "Gerilac knew the prince would come today and acted accordingly. And incapacitating my voice for a few hours was enough. I should have been more alert during the instruction. The signs were there, but I was distracted by the preparations. You absorb a lot quickly, Jemidon, but not once did I see you try even the simplest of charms. Yes, your mind is quick, but somehow, deep inside, you rebelled against sorcery."
"No!" Jemidon exclaimed, breaking out of his reverie. "I will do better. We have an agreement. My help in a production in exchange for your instruction." He felt drained from the disappointment in the hall and did not like where Farnel's thoughts were leading.
"The opportunity of this year's production has been lost." Farnel shrugged grimly. "It again will be Gerilac or some other bragging at the feasting when it is done. But that is not any different from what it has been so many years before. Somehow I shall find the will to endure it. I will go and raise my tankard with the rest and look them all in the eye, if they dare to return my stare."
Farnel paused for a moment in thought. His eyes narrowed as he studied Jemidon before him. "But as for you, trust the experience of the master. The end-of-season celebration should be avoided. Aye, not for you the celebration, and perhaps not even sorcery. I think, Jemidon, that one of the other arts might be better to your liking."
"I know something of them all," Jemidon said. "But now sorcery is my only choice."
Farnel's brows contracted, and Jemidon rushed on before the sorcerer could speak.
"Yes, I know of thaumaturgy with not one law but two: the Principle of Sympathy, or 'like produces like'; and the Principle of Contagion, 'once together, always together.' The craft is much used to fertilize the crops and increase the yields in the wheatlands where I was born.
"And I know some of alchemy with its Doctrine of Signatures: how 'the attributes without mirror the powers within' to guide the formula maker concocting his potions, salves, and the sweetbalms which close the deepest wounds.
"And I also know of magic and the Maxim of Persistence, which states that 'perfection is eternal.' Even you must have some notion of the craft. The indestructible tokens of Pluton come from the guild there that performs its rituals for the trading houses and monetary exchanges.
"And finally, I know of wizardry with two laws of its own: the Law of Ubiquity, which states that 'flame permeates all' and is the channel to the domains of the demons, entire worlds totally different from our own and filled with the likes of great djinns, flittering imps, rockbubblers, and ticklesprites; and the Law of Dichotomy,'dominance or submission,' which tells that one must totally control the devil he calls or submit to its will instead.
"Yes, I know all the laws which define and guide the arts-the principles from which all else follows."
"Then select one and gain its mastery," Farnel said. "Sorcery is but one of many from which to choose."
"I have chosen!" Jemidon exclaimed. "I have chosen them all! There are none left to sample. Why do you think I come to you at such an age? Because I have struggled with each of the other arts for several years before. And for each, the result has been the same. Somehow, somehow when it has come to the first test, the first chance to prove my worth, I have failed. I have failed at them all-thaumaturgy, alchemy, magic, and the lore of the wizard. For them all have I labored to no avail. Sorcery is my last chance to become a master."
"I should have known all of this before we made our agreement," Farnel said.
"Evidently a few months were not enough," Jemidon protested. "I guess I did not concentrate on the fundamentals." He licked his lips, straining for the right words. "But now we have a whole year. And we will be on guard for petty tricks besides. Yes, the next year will be different, and I will be well on my way to becoming a master."
"And does the robe mean so very much?" Farnel asked.
"So very much?" Jemidon choked. "So very much?" The vision of his dying sister, the look he saw in the eyes of others when Milton passed by, the riches, the power, the prestige, all danced in his thoughts. "There is no question of how much," he said. "It means everything. Everything! Besides the robe of the master, there is nothing else at all."
For a moment, Farnel did not speak. Finally he turned back in the direction of his hut. "You can stay until after the end-of-season festivities in a week," he said. "With you still about, Gerilac might wonder if there is some scheme of my own that is hatching. The uncertainty is the least I can repay." He glanced a final time at Jemidon. "And after that, we will see, we will see if there is any profit in instructing you further."
CHAPTER
THREE
Stormflight
JEMIDON pulled his arms tighter around his knees to shut out the onshore breeze. The wind whipping up and over the granite cliff seemed to whisper dark secrets as it sped by. The moon was full, shining in a gap in a cloud-filled sky. Its cold and sterile light cast pale shadows among the dark buildings of the harbor below. The lights were all out; the ships of the prince had left hours before.
Only in the presentation hall, Jemidon knew, was there any activity. The masters and tyros celebrated the end of the season with an all-night revelry that lasted until the award of the supreme accolade at Canthor's keep the next day. Even Farnel was attending the festivities. He would not sulk and planned to be as merry as the others to prove that he did not really care. But he had sent Jemidon away. After a few bottles of ale, the sorcerer could no longer count on eyes sharp enough to keep his tyro from trouble with Erid and the others. And after what had happened at the preliminary selection, it was doubtful that Jemidon could hold his own.
The week after the failure in the chanting well had been a total numbness. Farnel had said no more about the future. It was clear enough that Jemidon would have to prove he could at least cast simple charms if he were to stay. And since Farnel was no longer preparing a presentation, there had been ample opportunity to try. But each time Jemidon had found an excuse and shrunk away from the test. The possibility that the master was right and he had no skill was too frightening to face. And he had acted like a child as it was, pouring out his past in a babble and pleading for another chance. How could the master give him even the smallest portion of the respect he hoped to have when he finally won the right to wear a robe?
Jemidon looked down to the beach at the base of the cliff. He had had no interest in watching the flurry of tent striking during the afternoon as the hawkers hurried to depart for the next market. With the sailing of the nobility, Morgana was transformed in a single day to a moribund isolation that would not be shaken until the beginning of the season the next year.
Jemidon shrugged and hurled a small stone into the air, trying to follow its descent into the gently lapping water below, his eyes sweeping over the deserted bazaar. All but a few of the attractions were furled and stowed away on ships bound for other islands. As the rock fell, a spark of light grabbed his attention. He looked closer, to see Drandor's oddly shaped tent still standing in almost perfect isolation on the sandy beach.
As Jemidon watched, a sudden movement focused his attention more. He saw the trader pull a heavy roll of fabric from the opening and drag it with short jerks across the sand to a scaffolding newly erected nearby. Drandor grabbed one corner and stepped on a short stool, uncoiling what looked like some sort of rug or tapestry. Then he paused, uncertain, and looked back in the direction of the tent. One of the flaps was rolled up, and Jemidon thought he saw fleeting motions in the dimness within. The gusty breeze carried hints of garbled whispers, lilting phrases that he could not quite understand.
Drandor appeared to be listening as well. Several moments passed before he turned his attention back to his burden. Then, straining to full height, he looped one corner onto the edge of the framework and moved to the other end to do the same. After some struggle, a large panorama, five times the length of a man and easily as tall, was boldly displayed to the grounds of the bazaar.
Drandor brushed his hands and started for his tent, when a sudden gust of wind toppled the scaffolding onto its side. Faint curses drifted up to Jemidon on the cliff. A cloud dimmed the moon and a few warning drops started to fall.
Jemidon pulled his cape around him and started for cover. But then he stopped as he wondered why Drandor did not do the same. In the quickening wind, the trader struggled to right the tapestry and ignored the coming storm. With ropes anchored to some large boulders, he steadied the mural in the proper position and, with two quick incisions, created rifts to spill the wind.
A gentle sprinkle began to fall as Drandor pulled a large oil lamp, backed by a reflector, from the tent. For several minutes, he struggled to get it lighted. Finally a circle of light beamed to the tapestry flapping in the wind. The scene was an unfamiliar one, a rock-strewn foreground set against a reddish sky. Strange beasts grazed and hunted in splayed grasses and tangled briars.
Drandor lugged forward a large box and pried off the lid, just as the first sheet of heavy rain crashed from the sky. Jemidon felt the water quickly soak through his clothing, but he wiped his face dry and followed the action below. Again Drandor appeared uncertain and looked to the tent. Finally he nodded and reached into the box, pulling out a panel of paper stretched across a light frame. He held it up for inspection, but the falling rain immediately shredded it to ribbons. Shrugging, the trader brought forth a second. Careful to keep it vertical, he placed it in front of the lantern. The lamplight shone through the paper onto the mural and another beast appeared, grazing among the others. Drandor quickly threw the panel aside and reached for a third. The same beast was projected again, although in a slightly different orientation than before. Quickly the trader ran through a fourth, a fifth, and then many more. Jemidon saw that the set of figures was in a sequence, each one showing the next posture as the animal extended his neck to reach for a fruit dangling from a low branch.
As the scenario unfolded, more figures came into view. Meteorlike rocks streaked across the sky. One swooped low, almost touching the plant tops, and men with grayish skin and wearing loincloths descended among the beasts. While some stalked the animals with nets, others used picks and shovels to pry into the boulder-strewn ground. The soaring stone that had dropped them to the surface reappeared over the horizon. Pieces of discovered crystal were dumped onto the net-ensnarled beasts, and then the tangles of rock, animals, men, and nets lifted back into the sky. Like swords drawn to a lodestone, they were attracted to the flying monolith as it sped away.
As he watched, Jemidon felt the numbness of the past week dissolve away. The trader's actions were somehow a tantalizing fascination that kept him watching, even though he was getting soaked to the skin. He felt buoyant, a sense of chains being snapped, of being cast adrift and sailing away. He listened harder to the wind whistling past his ears, ran his tongue over his lips to taste drops of rain, and rubbed the wet sharpness of the coin about his neck, using all his senses to experience what was happening. But the drifting was somehow internal as well, an irresistible tug that snapped anchorages hidden far away and started huge monoliths lumbering free to seek other resting places.
For a long moment, Jemidon puzzled about the strange feeling, but then a movement on the path that led up the face of the cliff distracted his attention. Golden curls, plastered down by the rain, bobbed above the edge. He recognized Delia struggling upward on the slippery stones, tripping over the tatters of her soaked gown.
"Jemidon!" she cried. "A stroke of luck in my favor! You must help me. Drandor is distracted, and now is my chance."
Jemidon's eyes ran over Delia's wet gown that followed closely the curves of her body, but she ignored the stare. She ran forward and grabbed his arm.
"Quickly," she said, "quickly, before he releases them to come after. I must get to the harbor. I plan to sail with the flotilla of the high prince."
"They left with the tide hours ago." Jemidon felt the sense of drifting fade and then vanish altogether. All was rock-solid, as it had always been before. Her closeness eclipsed the attraction that had pulled his attention to the trader. For the second time, she was asking for his help. To know her better might produce sweet rewards.
But she was indentured. Drandor probably could produce some document of sale. And Canthor would not care about the apprehension in her eyes. Maintaining the reputation of Morgana to the traveler would be his only concern. For Jemidon to get involved would mean risking expulsion, being forced to leave before Farnel could teach a single thing more.
"To gamble in the token markets of Pluton was foolish. Yes, I admit it," Delia filled the silence. "But many others have I seen rise f
rom the streets to manor houses on the seacliffs. And even those who lost and had to sell their freedom to pay their debts did not fare so badly, if their masters were kind.
"My first acted with discreetness." She lowered her eyes. "And the whip of the second was easy enough to avoid, if you made no errors in totaling the sums in his countinghouse. But when his own fortunes crashed and he could not choose to whom his properites would go, it was Drandor who carried me away.
"And from the first, he has licked his lips in anticipation. Nightly he heats his tongs and pinchers and oils his chains. He leaves crude sketches of my scarred face and maimed limbs for me to find in the morning.
"With him, it is a game. Evidently his partner, Melizar, prevents him from acting rashly with their joint property without due cause. And so he hints, threatens, and tells me his fantasy a bit at a time. Then he waits, waits for my reaction, for some protest, a falter in carrying out a command-any shadow of an excuse for him to justify feeding his desires."
Delia stopped and shuddered. "And by the laws, it has worked. I can stand it no longer. I must be away."
Jemidon reached for Delia's hand, but then dropped it as his thoughts tumbled. How could he help? Save for the harbor area, he was as defenseless on Morgana as she. To whom else could they turn? Farnel would not want to get involved with a complication that had nothing to do with his art. And any other master or tyro would be interested in them only as the recipients of some degrading spell.
"You are legally bound," he said, but then stopped when he heard a low growl that carried to the cliff top, despite the wind and rain.
"They are free for the hunt!" Delia exclaimed. "He has discovered my absence far sooner than I thought."
The short hairs on Jemidon's neck bristled. "Come," he said in sudden decision. "We will go down the slope, back the way I came."
