by Jean Lorrah
Reading Wulfston’s grief, Lenardo tried a turn of subject. “You said Adepts don’t use their own strength-?”
“Not when they can guide the power of nature or put another person’s energy to work for himself.” Apparently relieved, Wulfston began to deliver a familiar lecture to an interested audience. “Healing is the easiest of an Adept’s tasks. Once he starts the process back to health, the patient’s body takes over. Other things��� the rain the night you escaped, for example. The natural movement of the weather here is from west to east. All we had to do was guide the clouds slightly and encourage them to drop their moisture over the area that needed it.”
“What if there were a drought and no convenient clouds?”
“We study nature for that very reason. There was such a drought here, eight years ago. I worked with Nerius and Aradia-the first time I was admitted as a full Adept to their circle. It was very difficult to create the conditions for rain, working against nature. Aradia thinks it might be the way Nerius expended his strength then that caused his illness.”
Back to Nerius. Clearly the health of Aradia’s father weighed heavily on Wulfston’s mind. “You have an irrigation system now,” Lenardo prompted.
“Yes, built since the drought-or repaired, rather. An old Aventine aqueduct. In case of drought, there would be enough water to raise moderate crops. We wouldn’t starve. But an aqueduct is such an easy target for one’s enemies.”
“I suppose it wouldn’t take much power to shift a support,” Lenardo mused, “to cut off the water supply. But tell me, Wulfston-what kind of power would it take to cause an earthquake?”
The young Adept pushed up Lenardo’s right sleeve and traced the dragon’s-head brand with one finger. “Impossible power,” he said. “Even a large body of the strongest Adepts could not produce such energy, unless-”
“Unless?”
“You did come from ‘Drakonius’ lands,” said Wulfston, “yet the brand on your arm was so new that it festered. I have seen many infections-I know it was not an old wound. If you had escaped Drakonius-”
“Only in the sense that I wandered from his lands into Aradia’s.”
“Drakonius claimed to have a Reader to guide him. Aradia did not believe him��� or did not want to. She does not want to leave her father so ill, and she has little interest in making war on the Aventine empire. She challenged Drakonius to produce his Reader, but Drakonius refused.”
Lenardo remembered that he truly did not know what Galen had done. “I do not think any Reader, no matter how unjustly exiled, would guide savage Adepts against the empire.” He looked straight into Wulfston’s eyes. “And no, I am not the Reader Drakonius had, if he had one,” I wish I knew a way to ask directly where Drakonius would keep Galen.
“They succeeded in causing an earthquake,” Wulfston mused, “but it brought an avalanche that destroyed their own army.”
“Wulfston, if they had captured a Reader and forced him to do their bidding by chaining his mind as you did mine-”
The black man nodded grimly. “A perfect revenge. You broke the command we placed in your mind-so could he. He could pretend to obey, then cause them to destroy themselves. In which case he is surely dead by now.” He looked at Lenardo. “You are even more dangerous than I thought. What are we going to do with you?”
“Let me go.”
“You belong to Aradia. Plead your case with her.” After a time, Wulfston released the fever. Lenardo broke into sweat and felt his temperature drop to normal. The nagging aches in his head and shoulders disappeared, and he sat up without vertigo. Soon he felt himself again.
It was evening by the time they could see Aradia’s castle in the distance. Wulfston urged his horse to a faster pace, eager to be home.
Suddenly, without warning, Lenardo’s horse screamed, reared, and collapsed, throwing him clear. He scrambled up, expecting to have to dodge flying hoofs, automatically Reading-but the animal had gone limp.
“What happened?” demanded Wulfston, fighting his own plunging mount.
“By the gods-he’s dead! His brain is shattered!”
“An attack!” exclaimed Wulfston, as in the distance there rose shouting, accompanied by various bangs and crashes. He reached down a hand, and Lenardo vaulted up behind him on his horse as they galloped for the castle. “We thought Drakonius would be too busy rebuilding his army to attack us!”
They were approaching the castle from the front now. A number of houses clustered near the gate, and as Wulfston and Lenardo flashed by, one suddenly burst into flame, showering them with sparks.
“Wulfston!” Lenardo shouted above the noise, “the attack is coming from inside the castle!”
“Nerius? No-oh, no, not at such a distance! He’ll kill himself this time!”
They leaped off the horse in the courtyard and ran into the great hall. Lenardo Read the frail old man now, convulsing in synchrony with each blow, Aradia already at his side, blank to Reading in her concentration.
Wulfston dashed up the wide stone stairs, Lenardo on his heels, down the hallway toward the entry to the tower stairs, past a display of spears.
Behind them, a spear suddenly lifted from its brackets and sailed toward them with a force far greater than if a human arm had thrown it. Lenardo, breathless, could do no more than leap on Wulfston in a flying tackle, bringing both men to the floor in a tangle as the spear sailed over their heads to shatter against the stone wall at the end of the corridor.
Wulfston was gasping angrily, already gathering to strike back at Lenardo when the sound of the spear hitting the wall made him realize what had happened. He glanced at it, then turned back to Lenardo. “Thanks,” he said, with a quick grip of the Reader’s shoulder. Then he was up and bolting for the stairs.
They came out into a scene of frozen calm-the calm of death. The old woman who cared for Nerius lay on the floor, her staring eyes already glazing over. Aradia still stood beside the bed, head bent in concentration. The old man was unconscious, even more emaciated than when Lenardo had Read him a few days before, his skin chalk white, lips blue.
To appearances, Nerius was dead too, but Lenardo Read a lingering spark of life in that frail frame. His heart beat sluggishly, and his breathing was slow and shallow. Somehow, he clung to life.
Aradia raised her eyes, her grief a palpable presence as she sought her father’s pulse.
“He’s alive,” Lenardo supplied. “He’s very weak.”
Tear-filled violet eyes turned to him. “Thank you,” Aradia whispered and bent her head again.
“Aradia-don’t!” said Wulfston.
She blinked at him, as if hardly seeing him. “Our father-”
“He’s dying, Aradia. Let him sleep away in peace.”
“No!”
Wulfston took her shoulders, turning her to look at the old woman’s body. “It’s not just himself he’s hurting any more. Nerius is killing now.”
“No,” she repeated.
“Yes. Look. Vinga is dead. He’s striking living things, Aradia. He killed Lenardo’s horse, and he almost killed me.”
She looked up at him. “What?”
Wulfston nodded grimly. “Nerius hurled one of the spears in the lower hall. If Lenardo hadn’t been Reading���”
“What am I to do?” Aradia asked sadly.
“You know what you must do,” Wulfston replied with gentle firmness.
Reluctantly, Aradia nodded. “He must never regain consciousness.” Tears flowed down her pale cheeks.
Wulfston drew her against him, stroking her hair. “He’s not really conscious. You know Nerius would never hurt Vinga or me. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, Aradia.”
“I know,” she said, pushing away from him and turning deliberately to look at her father. Then she went to kneel beside the body of the old woman, closing her eyes. “Poor Vinga. No, Father would never turn on you. He knew how you loved him.”
“I’ll carry her down,” said Wulfston, “and send someo
ne up to watch Nerius. Go and rest.”
Aradia rose and saw Lenardo by the door. “You,” she said flatly. “Now what am I going to do with you?”
It was the wrong time to ask to be let go, so Lenardo stood silently, feeling the false strength of excitement deserting him, wondering if his knees would give way before the pressure of her emotionless gaze.
“He needs to sleep,” said Wulfston. “So do I.”
“You saved Wulfston’s life?”
“I knocked him out of the way of the spear.”
A tired smile barely curved her lips. “Wulfston is very precious to me. He is my brother. Lenardo, need I send for the carpenter to bar your door, or will you give me your word not to leave your room until someone comes for you?”
He realized it was a major concession, made in a moment of emotional exhaustion. If he hesitated, she would think again and bar the door or set a guard. He was too tired to try to move tonight anyway.
“You have my word.”
Perhaps it was that concession, along with the fact that Lenardo Read no second-thought guard outside his room in the morning, that made him less resentful toward Aradia the next day. Or perhaps it was the way sleeplessness had imprinted purplish bruises in the fair skin under her eyes. It was almost noon when she came to Lenardo’s room; the kitchen maid had brought his breakfast some hours before.
“Did you sleep well?” Aradia asked politely. “Indeed,” he replied truthfully, “but you did not get much rest, I see. How is your father?”
She glanced upward. “If you really cared, you could-”
“No, Aradia, I could not. That is, I would not Read your father merely to satisfy my curiosity. Readers respect the privacy of non-Readers.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know. My father is still alive, in the same state I put him into last night. I must leave him so, to die.” A tear escaped her control, sliding down her cheek. She made no move to wipe it away but set her chin determinedly to avoid further emotional display. “We must talk about��� you.”
“Aradia,” he said, “would you like me to Read your father?”
“Read him?”
“I can at least tell you if he is in pain; and sometimes knowing the cause of an illness allows one to find a cure. Please-don’t get your hopes up. I fear that all I shall find is a mind worn out with great age-”
“Age! Father is not yet sixty!”
“I’m sorry,” he fumbled. “He looks so very old-”
“His illness. Lenardo, do you think you can discover why my healing powers have no effect?”
“I can try. But from what I’ve seen of your powers, I doubt I’ll find any way to help that you haven’t tried.”
“Are you recovered enough?”
“For such Reading, yes. It won’t require great effort, or extreme precision.”
“Then come upstairs with me,” she said eagerly. Aradia dismissed the woman seated at Nerius’ bedside, telling her, “Go and rest, Yula, and come back in-half an hour.”
When they were alone, Lenardo stood beside the bed, closed his eyes, and began to Read. Nerius’ heartbeat and breathing were steadier than the night before. His mind was unReadable, but Lenardo feared it was that no thought or dream crossed it, rather than the fact that the man was an Adept.
Somehow, despite being bedridden for months-years? -Nerius’ body was functioning. Everything was precariously balanced, no single part allowed to atrophy so that the patient might die of failure of the kidneys, heart, lungs. He retained a grip on life so fragile that it seemed the least shock would cause all to collapse together. How had he survived yesterday’s convulsions?
Finally, Lenardo examined Nerius’ nervous system. In his present state, he could not reach the finest details, but he could get an overall picture-Then he found it.
Gross and ugly, hideously obvious the moment he began a superficial Reading of Nerius’ brain: a tumor. It was a massive growth, compressing the normal brain tissue within the confines of the skull, putting pressure on nerves-no wonder the man had convulsions!
Gratefully, he withdrew, only to find Aradia’s violet eyes fastened on his with intense hope. “What did you find?” she asked.
‘There is nothing to be done,” he replied. “I can tell you why your father is dying, but I know of no way to cure it.”
“Tell me!”
“There is a growth in his brain. I’ve never seen one so large, Aradia, but every one I’ve seen was a sentence of death.”
Her fair skin had gone transparent, and for a moment he feared she would faint. Her eyes were immense. “I made it grow! My efforts to strengthen his body were also strengthening that thing, feeding on him-!”
“No!” Lenardo said sharply. “Such tumors grow, no matter what we do. Only your efforts have kept your father alive this long, and if he has not suffered great pain, it can be due only to you. Aradia, nothing more could possibly be done for him.”
“His brain,” she murmured. “Oh, why there? Anyplace else���”
Anyplace else, and it could be cut away. Readers did such surgery in the empire, although Lenardo himself had only minimal training in surgical techniques.
Aradia stood silently for a time, until Yula returned. Then she turned and left, Lenardo following her down the stairs, uncertain of what to do or say to her.
In the hall below, they met Wulfston, just coming out of his room. “I overslept,” he said, although his face had the puffy look of someone wakened long before his need for sleep was satisfied.
“You didn’t get to bed till dawn,” said Aradia. “Have you appropriate clothing to lend Lenardo for Vinga’s funeral? Or,” she turned to the Reader, “would you rather not attend? You didn’t know her.”
“I should learn your customs, including those of sorrow.”
So Wulfston took Lenardo back to his room and rummaged through a chest, bringing out a long tunic in dark green and a shorter one in brown. “That should do. No display of vanity-we recognize ourselves to be a part of nature as we return Vinga to the elements.”
Lenardo noticed that for the first time Wulfston did not display the wolf’s-head pendant, although when he looked for it he could see the shape of it under his clothing. “Would you like a bath?” asked Wulfston. “I certainly would, but I don’t want to put anyone to the trouble.”
“If you don’t mind cold water, we won’t trouble anyone. I need it to wake me up. Come on.”
They went down only one flight, to a room just above the kitchen. “The cistern is full after the rain,” said Wulfston. “We have drain pipes to collect all the rain from the roof, for bathing and washing. Most of the time we don’t have to carry large amounts of water from the well.”
Lenardo was used to bathing daily in hot, warm, and finally cold water. I’ll just pretend the first two steps are done.
They doused themselves thoroughly, getting clean, but not wasting the water. There was a pile of linen towels-another small luxury like the mild and pleasant soap. The few luxuries he had seen here all had to do with personal comfort except for the beautifully embroidered tabard Aradia had given him. Except for the wolf’s-head pendants, he had seen no jewelry in Aradia’s lands.
It reminded him of life at the academy, where Readers owned nothing but their clothes and a few personal possessions. A Reader’s skills guaranteed him welcome anywhere, and in his age he would return to an academy, to pass his final years under the loving care of teachers and students.
But what did Adepts do? “Wulfston, you’ve said you’re Aradia’s apprentice. Is that the only way to learn to use your Adept powers-to be apprenticed to another Adept?”
“It’s the best way. I was partly trained by Nerius, before he fell ill, so I benefit from Aradia’s experience, Nerius’, and all that he knew, passed down through generations of Adepts. One Adept alone will not learn nearly so much through trial and error, although there are those who succeed well enough even though they cannot find a master who will tak
e them who is also a master they can trust.”
“Then there are no academies of Adepts? In the empire, every Reader is trained to the best of his abilities in one of the academies. He doesn’t have to go out and seek a teacher.”
Wulfston was adjusting the belt of his gray tunic. Now he looked up at Lenardo. “You know that all your secrets will be laid bare before the teachers at this academy-people you do not know? How can you turn yourself over to them that way?”
“The Reader’s Honor. Not that eight-or nine-year-old children could have many secrets, but the privacy of even the youngest and least trained is scrupulously maintained. As one grows older, one learns to protect one’s own thoughts.”
“Well, I’m glad Adepts can’t be Read. I remember very well, carrying you home that first night, how you blurted out everything on the minds of the men with me.”
Lenardo said guiltily, “I don’t remember it. I was delirious. It should not have happened and I must accept responsibility for violating the Code��� but the state of the body affects the mind.”
“Yes,” said Wulfston, “you’ve said that your abilities are impaired��� yet Reading does not tire you or aggravate your physical condition.”
“Of course not. I am far beyond the stage of the child who squints his eyes and grits his teeth when he attempts a new Reading. The body has nothing to do with it.”
“But you just said it has. When your body is afflicted, your Reading is impaired.”
“True-but it is not Reading that afflicts one’s body.”
“The effects are directly opposite!” said Wulfston. “No amount of physical deterioration affects an Adept’s powers -you’ve seen what Nerius can do, still-but Adept activity affects the body. That’s why I’m so tired today, after healing you yesterday and then not getting enough sleep. Aradia’s going on sheer nerve-I don’t think she even went to bed last night. Are you ready to go?”
Wulfston’s clothes fitted Lenardo loosely. The Reader was taller than the young Adept, so the undertunic came just to his ankles. His outfit was completed with a leather belt that hung loose on his hips and a pair of brown felt slippers that stretched enough to accommodate his larger feet. Although the clothes did not fit well, he felt less conspicuous and therefore more comfortable than in the outfit that had been designed for him.
