Denner_s Wreck

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  Still reluctant, but unwilling to admit it, Bredon stepped forward. The platform's top hung at roughly the height of his knees. He hesitated, then put one foot up, expecting it to give beneath his weight.

  It did not yield at all. It was as solid as a stone ledge, firmer than the floor of his parents’ house.

  Startled, he picked up his other foot and nearly lost his balance when the platform still remained absolutely motionless. He knew it was floating unsupported on air, despite what his first step had told him, and he had unconsciously adjusted for a sinking, like that of a small boat or a well-sprung wagon, that never came.

  He recovered quickly, and found himself standing on the platform beside the Trickster. His breath caught as he found himself looking down at a Power, mere centimeters away. The top of Geste's head was even with his own jaw.

  From this angle it was easier than ever to think of Geste as a man, not an invulnerable, supernatural being.

  But that was wrong, he reminded himself. Geste was not a mortal man, but one of the Powers that ruled the world. He could be anything he chose; that he chose to look harmless simply meant he was not to be trusted.

  “Here, let me show you,” Geste said, reaching for something.

  Startled, Bredon looked down and discovered that the mysterious packet was still clutched tightly in his right hand. He had completely forgotten it, absorbed as he was in boarding the flying platform and seeing Geste close up.

  He held it out. Geste took it and neatly tore open one end.

  Steam swirled out, though the packet had felt cool in his hand, and a rich, savory odor filled Bredon's nostrils. Geste handed the packet back to him; he stared at it in wonder, then cautiously lifted it to his face.

  The smell was irresistable. He took a bite of the brown gel inside the foil.

  He had never tasted anything even remotely like it. He had no words to describe the taste, nothing he could compare it to. It was warm, spicy, meaty, with an oily texture that seemed to vanish into dry crumbliness in his mouth.

  It was absolutely delicious, and only after he had devoured every last trace did he pause to ask, “What did I just eat?"

  Geste glanced at the empty wrapper before tossing it up into the air, where it vanished with a brief flicker of white light.

  “Michaud's Delectation #3, Burgundy style,” he said.

  “What's Mish… Misho's Delegation #3?"

  “What you just ate."

  Bredon was not satisfied by this answer, but before he could ask anything more, Geste said, “I'll take care of those injuries, if you like."

  “Injuries?” Bredon was sincerely startled; he had already forgotten the various scrapes and bruises, which were far less serious than he could expect to receive any time he went after big game.

  “Yes, the bruises on your nose, and those cuts, and that shoulder looks stiff, the way you're holding it. Here, take my hand."

  Cautiously, Bredon reached out and took Geste's right hand in his own.

  A strange tingling sensation brushed lightly across his palm, and then vanished.

  “There,” Geste said, smiling. “That should take care of it; I've put a whole microscopic repair crew in your bloodstream."

  Bredon had no idea what he was talking about, but thought better of inquiring.

  For one thing, he had just noticed that the platform had not remained still while he ate, and while Geste did whatever it was he had done to Bredon's hand.

  He had felt no motion, no acceleration, but when Bredon looked down he saw that they were flying over the grasslands, a dozen meters above the ground, so fast that the land beneath was a blur.

  They were streaking westward, toward the mountains, and moving so swiftly that the mountains were growing perceptibly larger with each passing instant.

  Not only that, but the soreness in his shoulder was dissolving, and his nose had suddenly stopped hurting; he had no longer been consciously aware of any pain, but its abrupt cessation certainly registered. A tentative touch found no tenderness at all, in either his nose or his shoulder. He glanced at his left arm where he had scraped it on a root and saw the red marks fading away, as were all his other injuries, major or minor.

  He blinked, blinked again, and then turned away and simply watched the scenery flying by; he was too frightened to ask any more questions.

  Besides, he knew that if he did ask, his voice would tremble, and he refused to give Geste the satisfaction of knowing how frightened he was.

  Chapter Six

  “The Lady of the Seasons spends every year in search of her lover-though who that lover might be differs depending on who tells the tale, I fear, for the facts are not known to those of us condemned to someday die. Some say that it's Geste the Trickster, whose wandering soul cannot be held even by the love of a Power greater than himself. Others maintain that it's Rawl the Adjuster, and that his sense of justice drives him forth for three seasons each year, to correct the wrongs of mankind and to return only during those bright wakes of spring when all's right with the world. Still others say that it's not one lover she wants, but many, and mortal-that each year she picks anew, but that those she chooses cannot survive her attentions for long.

  "Whatever the truth is, in the summer she dwells in the north, holding back the cold and wind, waiting patiently for her love to return. When he comes not, and she grows angry at his dawdling, she moves to her western home, and her rage blasts the leaves from the trees, withers the crops, and drives the sun away, bringing autumn upon us.

  "When her fury can no longer be sustained she yields to despair and flees to the south, where she can weep unseen, and the whole world lies cold and dead beneath unchecked winter.

  "And there, at last, her love finds her again, and takes her to their bower in the east, where their love brings springtime back to the land…"

  – from the tales of Kithen the Storyteller

  ****

  “Where are we?” Bredon asked shakily as the platform finally slowed and began its descent. They had soared up across the mountains, across peaks wrapped in snow despite the lingering summer, across heights Bredon had never imagined and drops-into canyons, over cliffs, down rubble-strewn slopes-that he had only considered in his worst nightmares. He had lived his entire life on the plains; to be able to look down at treetops, without so much as a railing between himself and kilometers of empty space, was terrifying-but oddly exhilarating, as well.

  Most strange and wonderful of all, he had felt not the slightest gust of wind or change in temperature the entire time. This dealing with Powers was an awesome thing.

  “That's Autumn House ahead,” Geste said, pointing. “It's just about the time of year when Sheila opens it for the season, and I thought Sunlight might have come to help. She often does. And if she hasn't, Sheila still might know where Sunlight is. If Sheila's here, that is."

  Bredon followed the pointing finger and saw a rambling structure that straggled down from a hilltop in a succession of wings and terraces. Autumn House was larger than his entire village. Even if Lady Sunlight were somewhere in it, he thought, it might take hours to find her.

  The prospect of seeing Lady Sunlight again, of perhaps speaking to her, was, like the ride through the air, both frightening and exhilarating. His memory of her beauty stirred his lust for her anew, and he forced himself to stay calm and think of other things. “Who is Sheila?” he asked, his voice a little steadier this time.

  “I believe you call her the Lady of the Seasons,” Geste replied.

  “Ah.” Even Bredon had, of course, heard of her. She was a major Power, who lived in the east in the spring, the north in summer, the west in autumn, and the south in winter. She was said to control the weather, among other things; the spring rains did not come until she had moved from south to east, the grass did not turn brown until she had gone from north to west, and so forth.

  Bredon had always considered this to be unlikely, but he had never argued the matter or come up with a better explanatio
n for the turning seasons. He had accepted the Lady of the Seasons as a metaphor or a symbol, and had left the question of her existence open.

  It had never occurred to him that she might not only exist, but would have a name, as well as a title, and he would certainly never have guessed she might bear so simple a name as Sheila.

  Of course, that name might just be a nickname Geste used.

  It had also never occurred to Bredon that he might someday meet her.

  He was reminded again that he was here, in mid-air, dealing with the Powers directly and familiarly-not just people with mysterious powers, but the Powers. This was not just an immense mansion, it was the supposed home of autumn itself. He stared at Autumn House for a moment longer, then stole a glance at Geste.

  Geste was whispering, though there was no one on the platform save the two of them. Bredon thought for an instant that Geste was talking to him, then that Geste was talking to himself, and finally decided that he was talking to someone or something that mere mortals could not see or hear, a familiar or spirit of some sort.

  “We could call ahead now and tell Sheila we're coming,” Geste said aloud. “And if Sunlight is here she wouldn't be able to slip away without our seeing her-at least, not easily-but I think it should be fun to surprise them. I've arranged for our approach to be silent and unheralded, no courtesy announcements or alarms or anything. I haven't done anything very fancy, so I suppose the guards will spot us, but they know me, and we shouldn't have any trouble in just walking in."

  Bredon nodded. It was all the same to him, however they approached. He had no idea what the proper protocol might be, or what might best win Lady Sunlight's favor; he was simply following Geste's lead. He was trusting the Trickster with his life-but then, could the Lady of the Season's guards be more dangerous than flying through the air on an open platform? He had already trusted himself to that.

  Well, yes, he supposed they could be more dangerous, but he was resolved to trust Geste.

  The platform passed smoothly over the roof of Autumn House and settled gently onto a broad stone-paved terrace, a few meters away from a wide-open doorway. Bredon saw no guards, nor any sign of life whatsoever. On two sides, the north and south, he saw forested mountains in the distance and nothing else. To the west he had a magnificent view of foothills tumbling downward, row after row, and sinking at last into a vast, desolate plain-not a grass-covered prairie like his home to the east, but a golden expanse of wasteland. He was too far up to make out any details.

  On the fourth side, the east, stood the stone and timber walls of Autumn House, broken by several large openings into the dim interior.

  The air around them, which had been utterly still, was suddenly moving across them in a cool breeze.

  “Come on,” Geste said, stepping off the platform and beckoning.

  Bredon, breathing deeply of the fresh mountain air, followed the Trickster across the terrace and through an open doorway into the largest, most luxurious room he had ever seen.

  The houses in his native village were walled with various kinds of brick or woven grasses and roofed with thatch over timber. Timber was scarce and expensive in the grasslands. A room more than four meters across was a rare extravagance; his parents’ home had none over three.

  This room was easily ten meters across and twenty meters long. Wide windows took up most of three walls, using as much glass as half his village-the openings he had seen from the terrace, save for the single doorway they had entered through, were all such windows, and Bredon marvelled that they could be made so large and yet not have the glass collapse of its own weight.

  The floor was stone, matching the terrace, but much of it was hidden beneath fur rugs. Looking at the rugs Bredon could not identify what creature had provided the fur for any of them. A faint scent of cinnamon and woodsmoke reached him.

  The sweeping emptiness of the room was broken up by half a dozen scattered couches and an assortment of small tables. The wall that held no windows consisted in large part of an immense alcove that Bredon realized was a fireplace only after he had spotted both the ash in the bottom and the flue at the back.

  Tiny spots of color flitted about the room, and Bredon recognized them as the same creatures that had surrounded Lady Sunlight. She had come here. He felt the muscles of his throat and chest tightening in anticipation.

  “Hello!” Geste called as they stepped inside.

  “Hello, Mr. Geste,” a smooth, masculine voice replied from the empty air. Bredon looked for its source, but saw nothing. “I regret to say that Lady Sheila is not at home just now, but we expect her back shortly. Is there anything I can do for you? Would you like to wait?"

  “Is Lady Sunlight here? I see some of her flutterbugs."

  “I'm sorry, sir, but she went with Lady Sheila. The flutterbugs were a housewarming gift."

  Bredon felt harsh disappointment welling within him.

  “Damn,” Geste muttered under his breath. “Missed her!” Aloud, he asked, “But she was here?"

  “Yes, sir, Lady Sunlight arrived a few hours ago. I understand she will be staying for several sleeps."

  “You expect her back?"

  “Oh, yes, sir."

  “When?"

  “I don't know, sir."

  “Where did they go? Did they say?"

  “Yes, sir. Lady Sheila, Lady Sunlight, and Rawl the Adjuster have gone to the High Castle. I believe they felt called upon to settle a disagreement between Brenner of the Mountains and Thaddeus the Black."

  Bredon had observed this exchange without comment. He had determined to his own satisfaction that the voice was not coming from any of the walls, nor the floor, nor the ceiling. It was coming from empty air, in the center of the room, which was impossible. He also did not really know what a castle was, though he had heard the word in childhood stories. More specifically, he did not know what the High Castle was, or why so many of the Powers should be gathering there. The mention of Rawl the Adjuster, the legendary incarnation of justice and mercy, impressed him, even here in the home of the Lady of the Seasons, with the notorious Trickster at his side. He told himself that he should be becoming accustomed to these casual references to the figures of legend, particularly since he had yet to actually meet any but the Trickster, but the name still carried an impact, and it added further to his mounting burden of curiosity, so that he could hold back no longer. “Who are you talking to?” he demanded. “What's going on?"

  “I'm talking to Sheila's housekeeper,” Geste replied, a trifle impatiently.

  “Why can't I see him?"

  “Because it's invisible."

  Bredon started to protest that that was impossible, but thought better of it. Among the Powers he had no way of knowing what, if anything, might be impossible. Instead, he asked, “What's the High Castle?"

  “That's the stronghold of Brenner of the Mountains, about a hundred kilometers southwest of here. And I think that's where we're headed.” He spun on his heel and marched back out onto the terrace.

  Bredon hurriedly followed; behind them the housekeeper's voice called, “Safe journey, sir; I'll tell Lady Sheila you were here."

  Bredon heard no command, saw no gesture, but the platform glided smoothly over to meet them.

  Chapter Seven

  "'…a strong head indeed, for a mortal,’ said Brenner, as he calmly stood up.

  "Mighty Konnel looked up at him in shock, still just barely sober enough to realize that although the whole world seemed to be spinning, Brenner was standing straight and steady. Yet he had seen the Power down two drinks to each of his own, and all poured from the same bottles!

  "'I don't understand it,’ he said, the liquor loosening his tongue, ‘I just don't understand it. I've drunk men twice your size under the table, and now I can't move, while you aren't even staggered!'

  "'Ah,’ Brenner said, ‘but you can never drink one of us under the table, for we are never drunker than we choose to be. Listen, man, they call you the mighty Konnel, and y
ou're as mighty a mortal as I've ever met, but when you match yourself against an immortal you have no chance. When we matched arms, I drew on the strength of steel as well as bone; when we tested our eyes I saw the target with more than mortal sight, and threw with the aid of demons; when we drank, a spirit in my body took the alcohol when I had had enough. Here, take my hand, and the spirit will draw the drunkenness from you, as well.'

  "Konnel managed to bring a hand up where Brenner could grasp it, and suddenly the fog vanished from his head and the strength returned to his limbs, so that he felt better than he ever had before, as if the strength of the mountains themselves was pouring into him. He stood and laughed in amazement and joy.

  "'There!’ Brenner said. ‘Now, go back to your village and tell them that you did as you swore to do, and that I had to cheat to best you, and you caught me at it-that's close enough to the truth, and I've no need to shame you. You're a good man, mighty Konnel, and I'd be glad of your company should you ever care to return. In your honor I swear that I shall never again send the lightning to burn your village, so long as you live there-but that your people, all save yourself, must still stay away from my mountain. And take this as proof.’ And he handed Konnel a crystal cup that shone with a light of its own and spoke when questioned.

  "And the mighty Konnel thanked him loudly, and they shook hands and parted as friends…"

  – from the tales of Atheron the Storyteller

  ****