The Lawrence Watt-Evans Fantasy

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  She ached at the realization that she was beginning to not really like Reuel.

  But what choice did she have? Reuel was the one who had come to her.

  She could no longer see anything but cool darkness, but she could hear, faintly, as Reuel called out to someone, inviting him in. The two of them spoke for a time, and then light filtered in—the curtain had been opened again. Reuel began chanting nonsense—not true incantations that made the stone hum and the air tingle, like those the wizard had used, but childish babbling.

  “Arkazam noggle-torp wicko da wicko pung dorpander…”

  Utter nonsense, she thought. She could do better herself. But then, she had spent years as a wizard’s companion, while her conversations with Reuel led her to suspect that he had never met a true magician.

  “By the Unholy Powers I command you! Spirits, come forth!”

  Reluctantly, she rose to the surface and looked out at the chamber that had once been the wizard’s.

  Reuel knelt on the carpet before her, arms spread wide, head bowed; behind him stood a well-dressed young man, staring wide-eyed over Reuel’s head at her.

  She had seen the stranger’s face before, she was certain. “I know you,” she said, before she remembered Reuel’s instructions. Then she lowered her gaze and recalled what she was supposed to do.

  She raised her own arms high over her head, then spread them wide in what she hoped was a mystical gesture. Then she silently mouthed, “Reuel is deceiving you, young man.”

  Reuel looked up at her face.

  “The spirit speaks!” he said.

  “Why do I know your face?” she asked silently, lowering her hands. “Were you one of the thieves?”

  “She knows your heart, knows your future,” Reuel proclaimed.

  She shook her head; she knew him now. “No, not the thieves,” she mouthed. “You were here with the priest, when my master was taken from me and all his precious belongings destroyed.”

  “She tells me that you are destined for greatness, Alberch, son of Alberin—you are to be a leader of men, a wise counselor to a score of followers.”

  “You are a hypocrite, Alberch, son of Alberin,” she said inaudibly. “You destroyed a wizard because the priest told you his magic was unholy, yet here you are, seeking counsel from unholy spirits.”

  “She says you must leave your home soon, to seek out the destiny that awaits you.”

  “Then I…my destiny isn’t here?” Alberch asked.

  Reuel shook his head, and looked up at her, but she merely looked back, meeting his gaze. She had no more to say.

  “No,” Reuel said. “Your destiny is too great for a town of this size; you must find it elsewhere, in richer lands than this, in greater towns than this.”

  “But…”

  She looked directly at Alberch, met his gaze, then slowly shook her head, left to right to left. She meant him to understand that he was not to believe Reuel’s lies, but she knew he would probably not interpret her gesture so.

  “I will have no more to do with this,” she mouthed. Reuel was a scoundrel, deceiving this man—but Alberch was no better, coming here seeking magic when he had aided in destroying the town’s real magic months before. She wanted nothing more to do with either of them just now. She sank back into the wall, vanishing from their sight.

  “The spirits depart!” Reuel announced, as if Alberch could not see that for himself.

  She stayed down in the darkness for a long time, refusing to listen as Reuel and Alberch spoke for a time, then fell silent. At last, though, she grew bored and curious, and returned to the wall’s surface.

  Reuel was sitting cross-legged on his red-and-gold silk prayer rug, gnawing at a hambone. He looked up.

  “There you are!” he said. “Have you had enough of sulking, then?”

  “I did as you asked,” she said.

  “You disappeared before I commanded you to begone,” he said.

  “I am not yours to command,” she said. “You are in my home.”

  He grinned at her. “It’s my home now, as well. We can live together in peace and cooperate with one another, or you can be difficult; the choice is yours.”

  She stared at him for a moment, then asked, “Why did you tell Alberch to leave the village?”

  He shrugged. “It does a man good to travel.”

  “And he shan’t tell anyone you’ve lied to him, if he is not here.”

  “That, too. But he doesn’t know I’ve lied to him; I confess, you played your part well.”

  She had no answer to that.

  “Do the same a few more times, and I can make a tidy sum.”

  “As you will,” she said resignedly.

  He smiled broadly. “That’s my girl!” he said. “And I’ll do my part in return. Have I told you yet about the day I came to the banks of the River Oullen, and wished to cross?”

  She listened as he told his tale, and much as she hated Reuel’s deceptions, and what she was beginning to see as mistreatment of her, she enjoyed the flow of words, the images they conjured in her mind. The man could speak and speak well.

  How odd, she thought, to take such pleasure in his talents while she was coming to despise him.

  In the days that followed Reuel would leave each morning. Sometimes he would return by midday, accompanied by some trusting soul come to have his or her fortune told. Sometimes it would not be until late afternoon, and on those days Reuel was irritable and impatient. Whenever he brought a customer he would go through the ritual of calling upon the spirits, and she would appear, to mouth silent insults at him and his client that he interpreted as prophecies of happiness and good fortune.

  And on some days he did not return until after dark, and he returned alone. On those days he staggered and shouted and fell asleep early, without his evening’s full share of conversation. He was drunk, she knew, when he did this, and when he was drunk he boasted openly of his quick wit and his prowess at all the manly arts.

  She came to see that even the tales told when he was sober held hidden boasts. In his accounts of his travels he was never bested by anyone; when he was wronged he always triumphed in the end, and he never wronged another unless it was plainly deserved and just.

  Somehow, she doubted that he was such a paragon among men. Deceit came naturally to him.

  A day came when he did not return until the next morning, and would not explain his absence.

  “Were you lonely, then?” he demanded when she asked where he had been. “Well, so was I. Maybe it was a reminder of what you’ll have to live with if I ever leave. I saw what you said the other day—I recognized the movement of your lips. You called me a liar in front of a customer. You do as you’re told, and don’t defy me, or I’ll go.”

  She stared at him, but did not reply.

  She had not been lonely that night, when he was gone; she had been relieved.

  Still, she did not rebel openly. Instead, when he brought another customer, she simply recited over and over, silently, “I am no spirit. I am a woman. I am no spirit. I am a woman.”

  “That’s better,” he told her that night, when the two of them were once more alone.

  For three more days he brought clients to have their fortunes told, and then on the fourth day he returned late, alone and drunk.

  And on the fifth day he came back late in the afternoon, accompanied by a young woman. The wizard’s creation sank down into the wall, awaiting Reuel’s summons.

  It never came; instead she heard sounds she did not recognize, whisperings and high-pitched giggling and animal gruntings, and at last she could resist her curiosity no longer. She emerged far enough to peer around the closed curtain and observe Reuel and the woman coupling on the hearth, lit only by the fire. The sight fascinated and repulsed her.

  When they were done she heard Reuel say, “Now, wa
sn’t that better than that boy Alberch?”

  She did not wait for the woman’s reply, but sank back into the stone.

  There were no customers for several days after that, but the woman came and went frequently. The woman in the wall stayed out of sight much of the time.

  And then one day the girl was gone, and Reuel was gone for a day, and then Reuel was back, without her. After that he returned to the old pattern.

  And finally, one morning, she had had enough; as a plump old man stared goggle-eyed at her, instead of staying silent she said aloud, “I am no spirit summoned by this man; I am a woman, imprisoned here by the wizard who built this house. I do not prophesy; any words this man speaks to you are his own, not mine.”

  And with that she sank down out of sight, down into the stone, ignoring the old man’s querulous demands and Reuel’s desperate attempts at persuasion.

  Then the old man was gone, and Reuel screamed at the blank wall, “Bitch! You worthless bitch! You think I’ll stay here now? You think I’ll forgive you? Never! May you rot in Hell, you faithless abomination!”

  She let herself rest in the guarding darkness, drifting in and out of dreams, one part of her trying to forget that Reuel ever existed while another listened intently to the stamping of his angry footsteps as he stripped the chamber of everything of value and bundled it up, preparing to depart. And a third part, one surprisingly small and weak, screamed silently for Reuel to forgive her, to stay, not to leave her trapped and alone in the wall.

  She stayed dreaming in the dark for a long time.

  She was awakened at last by the sound of many voices, frightened and angry voices. She recognized one—the priest who had come for the wizard, so long ago.

  “We should never have let this evil place stand!” he cried. “We do now what should have been done long ago. Let not one stone remain upon another!”

  And then, before she could move from her resting place deep within the stones, she experienced something new, something she had never known before—a sensation, a pressure.

  A pain.

  And then another, and another, and she pressed toward the surface of the wall to look out and see what was happening, but the surface was already cracked and she could not see clearly, could not press herself too close.

  Still, she could see the men with great hammers, the handles as long as a man’s arm, the iron heads as big as a man’s thigh, black against the late afternoon sunlight as they swung blow after blow against the carved stone walls of the wizard’s house.

  She screamed, and saw the men shiver and hesitate—but not stop. A hammerblow struck over her belly, and the pain was intense, overwhelming; defeated, she let herself fall back into the stony depths.

  There was nothing she could do. The house would be destroyed, the wall would be destroyed—and surely, she would perish as well.

  She did not want to die, but what was the use in struggling? She had never been able to touch the outside world, to affect it, and nothing she could do would change that.

  Her tears slicked the stone, and splashed into nothingness as the hammers struck.

  Death might not be so very terrible, she told herself, as she struggled to swallow her pain. No one knew what lay beyond death—the wizard had told her that, and she believed it, for the wizard had never lied to her. Death would mean an end to loneliness, an end to betrayal and neglect, and an end to pain.

  She sank down into the stone and tried to return to her dreams, to die in peace, but the blows of the hammers rained down, breaking the wall down, and sending jabs of pain through her. She burrowed as deeply as she could, down to the very foundations of the wall, and crouched there, curled up within herself, waiting for it to all be over.

  And at last it was over, her consciousness gone—but after a time she became aware again, slowly, as if awakening from her dreams, and wondered. Was she dead?

  She tried to rise up through the stone, but nothing happened; her will did not propel her. Panicky, blind, she raised her head, uncurled, flung her arms wide.

  Stone cracked and split like an eggshell, and tumbled away. She heard the sharp rattle and felt the wafer-thin shards fall from her, a sensation like nothing she could remember. She looked up—and saw stars.

  She stared.

  She had seen stars before—a few at a time, glimpsed through the window. Now she saw thousands upon thousands of them, a glittering river across all the world, and she realized that the roof was gone, that she was seeing the entire sky for the first time.

  A cold wind blew across her back, and she shivered.

  She could feel the air and the stone, and realized that the wall that had always surrounded and protected her was gone. She was crouched in a hollow in the earth where the foundation of the wall had been, but the wall was gone; the men had smashed it all, broken away all the stone until only she was left, hidden in a thin shell, so thin she was able to break out of it, like a chick being born.

  She was not dead. She was not blind. She was alive, and gazing up at the night sky, and she was out of the wall.

  Carefully, she uncurled further and stood up, slowly and cautiously, sending a cascade of rocks and dirt from her back. She stood tall and straight and looked around, feeling the wind on her arms and face. Her hair, which had always draped elegantly across her shoulders, now snapped and writhed in the breeze, whipping across her face.

  The wizard’s house was gone—and the wall was gone. She was free, standing amid the scattered stones that had been her prison. The world was dark and colorless, lit only by the stars, but she could see more of it than she ever had before.

  She was free.

  She was cold and aching and alone, standing amid ruins in a thin, dusty dress on a cold night in early spring—but she was free. She could go where she pleased; she needed no longer wait for the world to come to her, for Reuel or the wizard to call upon her.

  Joy bubbled up within her.

  She was, she supposed, merely human now, subject to all the usual mortal ills—hunger and thirst, pain and disease, aging and death. The spell was broken.

  That was, she thought, a more than fair exchange.

  She looked around, at hills and trees and fields, and westward at the dim grey outlines of the village houses in the distance. She could find food and warmth there, she supposed—but she would also find far too many familiar faces.

  Reuel was a wanderer, and had told her how he had adventured across many lands. If he could do it, she thought, then so could she.

  She turned, and without another look back began walking to the east, toward where the sun would rise.

  THE FINAL CHALLENGE

  The royal funerary rites were long since finished and the crowd along the high street was thinning rapidly, but the last of the auxiliary troops were still straggling past when the old soldier ducked into the tavern. He grabbed himself a tankard of ale from a passing tray, turned to face the crowded room, and hoisted it in salute.

  “To the old king!” he cried. “We won’t see a man like him again!”

  Most of the tavern’s patrons smiled and murmured agreement, lifting their own drinks in reply.

  Not everyone did, though. “You old fool,” someone called back, “the old king’s dead, and now that he’s properly buried, let’s drink to his son, the new king!”

  The soldier hesitated, startled; for an instant his teeth bared in an angry grimace, but then he turned it into a rather stiff smile. “Fair enough,” he answered, “I’ll drink the new king’s health, for he’s a good man, too—but I’ll tell you, good as he is, he’s not his father’s equal.” He swigged ale.

  “And how is it you’re so certain of that, then?” the other man called belligerently.

  The soldier peered over his mug for the source of the voice, and spotted it—a strapping young man of twenty or so, wearing the livery of the crown prince’
s personal guard, a uniform that no longer had quite the meaning it had had three days before. He was sitting with three other young men, all three in the attire of other divisions of the royal service.

  That explained the fellow’s hostility. The soldier knew that this was a hard time for the prince’s men, as they sought to prove themselves—the relative roles of the Prince’s Guard and the King’s Chosen Regiment were not yet settled. Such uncertainty could make anyone surly; there was no point in arguing with the fellow about it.

  “Why, I’ve served with them both, boy,” the soldier called back to the guardsman, “and I’ll be glad to tell you all about it, if you’d like. I meant no disrespect to you, or to Prince…that is, King Philip.”

  “I don’t need to hear any tall tales, old man,” the guard answered.

  “If by that you mean the sort of lies men usually swap in taverns,” the soldier said, approaching the guard’s table, “why, I don’t mean to tell any—just a few memories about young King Philip, long may he reign, and old King Geoffrey, bless his memory, and every word the truth.”

  The guardsman hesitated; he glanced around at his companions, judging their reactions, then shrugged. “Talk if you want, old man,” he said, “but I don’t promise to listen.”

  “I’d never expected such a promise,” the soldier said, sinking into an empty chair across from the guardsman and setting his tankard on the table. He gazed around, as if thinking, and asked, “Ah, where to begin?”

  “You say King Philip’s no match for his father,” the guardsman said challengingly. “I say that’s crap. His Majesty’s a warrior and a match for any man.”

  “Oh, he knows how to wield a sword, I’ll give you that,” the older man agreed, “but a warrior? How’s anyone to say, when he’s never gone to war?”

  The guard’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve seen His Majesty fight, and to my eyes a finer swordsman never lived; certainly no bent old fossil like King Geoffrey could match him!”