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

by Joseph Schembrie

  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.”

  “What is the 'template?'” she asked.

  “The template is the one whom you refer to as the Star Child.”

  Lachela bolted awake.

  The morning was bright and the dream was a fading memory, one that she
did not want to remember. She got out of bed, changed into her ordinary work dress, and got in line for pre-breakfast chore assignment. She was sent to the well. She pumped water into the bucket until the bucket was full, and carried the bucket up the hill to the orphanage.

  Arms straining, she frowned at the bucket and thought, I wish it wasn't so heavy.

  A moment later, she stopped and looked down at the bucket. It was still full of water, yet it felt empty.

  She resumed walking. At the orphanage gate, a breeze picked up, chilling her through the thin smock. She shivered and thought, I wish it wasn't so cold.

  Two steps later, she halted and gaped at a bush. The branches were waving furiously in the breeze, yet she felt as warm as she did on mornings when the air was becalmed.

  Inside the dining hall, as she ate breakfast alone, she noticed that the other girls were staring at her. She assumed that it was because news had spread that she had been sent to the Residence the night before.

  She took a spoonful of porridge and swallowed. I wish it tasted better. And then it did.

  Lachela paused, thoughtful. She looked at the girls and thought, I wish they would stop staring. But they continued to do so.

  The Power only controls my attitudes, she thought.

  The priests and nuns had often taught that one was as happy as one made one's mind to be. Lachela had never found that to be true . . . until now.

  After breakfast, she went to the washroom. She dipped her hands in the washbowl, and noticed the scar on her thumb that she'd borne for ages was missing. The Captain's bite on her shoulder was completely healed also.

  She raised her eyes to the mirror – and met the face of a stranger. Only, it was her.

  Only, it was not.

  The wart on her nose was gone. Her skin had always been rough and blemished, but now it was smooth and clear. The mottling on her cheek . . . it was as if she'd never had the pox.

  Then she remembered the strange sensation that she'd felt while chewing breakfast, yet had dismissed as only her imagination. On suspicion, she opened her mouth. Her front teeth, which she had lost last year in a beating by a priest, had grown back. Overnight. All her teeth were straight and unstained.

  Lachela became aware that the girls were yet stealing glances. Now she understood why. She had always been plain, but the young woman in the mirror was – pretty.

  Am I still in dream? Lachela had little time to contemplate. With every day there were chores, always more chores, and then at the end of the day came chapel.

  The priest presiding the chapel service for vespers was Father Brinteth. He was among the oldest priests at the monastery and one of the most soft-spoken, who was known among the orphans for his kindness. Even so, after service Lachela hesitated in coming to him. He was halfway across the graveyard before she intercepted him alone.

  “Father, may I have your advice on a matter?”

  “Yes, my child.” He rubbed his thick spectacles. “Your name is Lakila, isn't it?”

  Lachela let it pass. “I remember a lesson taught in sermon, about spirits that speak to men. I – I know of a girl, who . . . who . . . . “

  “. . . Who is having a spirit speak to her?” Father Brinteth's expression darkened. “Oh dear. I hope it is only her imagination.”

  “It is . . . sinful?”

  “Worse than sinful. Demonic. You see, if she indeed is in communication with a spirit, it is likely to be a demon, a vile supernatural entity known as a 'mentor,' who intends nothing but evil for your friend.”

  “But she says it is not doing her any harm. It is helping her in fact.”

  “That is only a trick to gain her confidence. Tell your friend not to address the spirit, and above all not to engage it in conversation.” He shook his head emphatically. “Otherwise, if she listens, the demon will utilize his enticements to persuade her in false teaching which most certainly would endanger her soul.”

  “I see,” she said, taking care to keep her voice as flat as possible.

  The priest patted her shoulder and ambled off. Lachela stood in the dusk for long minutes, then returned to the dormitory. She went to the washroom and stared at the mirror, realizing for the first time that her vision had become perfect.

  Demon trickery, she thought. But what if she tricked back, by pretending to fall for the demon's tricks?

  She knew she was at the most important decision point in her brief life. Either heed Father Brinteth, and resume her life as a drudge at the Abbey. Or interact with the demon, and risk Perdition. She had no idea what Perdition was like, except that it sounded more interesting than the Abbey.

  It would have come as a surprise to most people, but still she chose the Abbey. For she remembered from Scripture Class: as the priests had instructed in their allegorical lessons, the Road to Perdition was a smooth path ending in a pit of flames. With that vivid vision in mind, a life of scrubbing certainly seemed better than eternal torment.

  Yet . . . as she started to turn away in her imagination, she noticed that the Road to Perdition was not quite as smooth as she had initially visualized. There were dark spots on its pavement.

  This too was in the lessons. The spots were various temptations. A priest had once shown her Scripture Class a wall-chart-sized illustration upon which the temptations were labeled: greed, lust, envy . . . revenge.

  Revenge, she thought, savoring the imagery of a world turned upside down.

  Revenge! Now there was a lover to whom she would freely give her all! Even as she burned in Hell, she would be comforted with the knowledge of victory over her oppressors. Reflecting upon the humiliations of her life, she felt the conviction that even eternal torment would not take away the sweet taste of eternal satisfaction acquired through Revenge.

  As she recalled from the Scripture Class illustration, the spot labeled Revenge wasn't that far down the road. With proper care, she might reach it, indulge a time in effect scrubbing it – and return safely, with barely a singe. And why not enjoy herself along the way?

  She didn't have to hurt anybody. She just had to live well. She knew her oppressors enough to know that their greatest torment would be to see her content and immune to their power to make life miserable.

  Really, wasn't it the Wizard's Will? Surely He did not want to make a young girl suffer misery. Surely He understood justice. And would He have allowed the demon to come to her and become her servant, if He had not chosen her as His instrument of justice?

  Her gaze drifted. She stroked her frizzed hair absent-mindedly. She lifted a few strands before her eyes.

  I wish . . . I wish it were straighter.

  2.

  Archimedes awoke in darkness and shivered. So cold, he thought, tucking the blankets to his cot. Never been this cold in Rome this time of year. He would have to talk to that new assistant – Matt, wasn't it? – about speeding up work on the rooftop weather reporting station.

  His eyes fluttered open. Through the window he viewed a dark sky with a pale band meandering across it. He immediately sensed something was not right. He groped for his glasses on the bed stand and scrutinized the sky.

  Just as he'd thought! The translucent snake was the Milky Way. But one could not see the Milky Way from his bedroom window, so had the planet's axis tilted while he had slept? And because of the torch lights that burned all through the night, the city of Rome did not allow one to see the Milky Way at all. Perhaps with the tilting of the planet, there had been an earthquake that doused the torches . . . .

  He decided he would have to go to the roof and investigate. First, though . . . tea.

  “Gwinol!” he called. “Make me some tea!” There was no answer, so he called again: “Gwinol!”

  Then he caught himself. What am I doing? He had no business waking the servants at this time of night just for tea. Maybe he was old, but he wasn't infirm, he would make it himself . . . .

  In the darkness, he felt against the wall, locating the staff. He hobbled into the hallway – and found h
imself under open sky. Rome had disappeared, replaced by huts and forest beyond.

  “What the – “ Archimedes began. And then he fully awoke and remembered.

  You are no longer in Rome. That life is over.

  Breathless and aching, he leaned against the staff. He reflected that he had made the staff as a weapon-in-disguise. More and more often these days, he was genuinely using it to prop himself up.

  Shivering and coughing, he returned to the tiny hut at Ravencall Base that was his home in West Britan. He sat on the cot and regained his breath. In the darkness he perceived the stove and thought about making a fire. It seemed a lot of effort. He threw a blanket over his shoulder and hobbled outside.

  By then the sun was lighting the eastern sky. Silhouettes of workmen greeted: “Morning, Archimedes.” “Morning, Arch.” Archimedes remembered when work crews addressed him as 'Chief Scientist.' But that was his old life.

  “Morning,” he mumbled, unable to remember their names.

  As his eyes surveyed the work shops and supply huts, his memory of recent events returned with clarity. Matt and Carrot. Valarion, chasing them out of Rome. The airship, which had bombed the Roman fleet and brought them to Britan. And then . . . subsequent weeks in which he had become increasingly marginalized.

  Archimedes followed the crowd to the meal hut and accepted the rationed dollop of porridge. At the meal tables he was given respectful glances and nods, and then the workers chatted among themselves as if he wasn't there.

  They think of me as Roman, he thought, appreciating the irony.

  He churned the oats in the bowl. Every morning it's porridge. He'd had porridge every morning in Rome too, but it had tasted better when he had a choice.

  With breakfast half-eaten, he headed north across the grounds in what was now a bright though cool morning. The airship hangar loomed at the edge of the clearing, above the treetops. From within came the sounds of tools, hammers clanging and saws zzz-zing. He halted at the door, where on Steam Island the facility supervisor would have announced his presence with an urgent bark and workers would have bowed in greeting. Now he was all but invisible.