He had pushed on into the trackless hills, and the alien consciousness had soon returned. Nothing timid about it now; its inquisitive attention had pressed with increasing insistence, and he had soon come to recognize this bodiless entity’s gigantic size and power. That it was aware he did not doubt, but its thoughts and intentions were closed to him, with one exception. It wanted to absorb him unto Itself; it wanted to own all that he was. This was unmistakable.
He might have turned back, he might have sought a safer path. But the Wraithlands almost vibrated with the energy of the Source, energy that he was determined to tap. And so he had traveled on into the charged mists in search of the ideal locale, and as he went the attempted mental incursions waxed in power and frequency. His arcane mastery enabled him to repel them all, but the task demanded constant vigilance.
And he was vigilant now, as he stood at the crest of the rise in the rain. He could see very little of his surroundings, but his mind quested, probing the fog in all directions. He caught no sense of the vast Other’s proximity, but sensed something like a small echo of its existence. He also recognized that he was not alone, but strain his eyes, ears, and mind though he might, he discovered no recognizable sentience.
On he went, his path descending now, and as he went the mists began to darken about him, for the short winter day was drawing to a close. In all likelihood he would have to sleep out in the open again this night—a prospect that held no terror, for the intense energy of these lands willingly expressed itself in the form of big campfires capable of burning throughout the night untended.
But he did not need to stop just yet, there was still some daylight left. He could hike on for a while longer in search of the right spot, which he would know on sight, on instinct.
He was certainly not alone. The pressure of hidden regard was all but palpable. Orlazzu wheeled suddenly and the mystery was solved. Only a few feet distant, an animal sat watching him. It was small, not much larger than a house cat—long, lithe, and low, with a blunt little muzzle, round blue eyes, and heavy front claws designed for digging. Its grey coat faded almost invisibly into the grey fog. Orlazzu smiled. He confronted an ordinary meecher, a commonplace burrowing creature found throughout the Veiled Isles.
“You’re a bold one,” he observed aloud.
The meecher did not move. Its blue gaze, fixed on his face, did not waver. Orlazzu’s smile vanished. This creature of the wild should have fled at sound of a human voice. He took a long step toward it, and then another. Two more, and he stood within touching distance, but the meecher never stirred. Its blue eyes were filmed, and it was terribly emaciated. A light froth whitened its muzzle. Rabid?
No. Worse. Occupied.
Some sudden reckless impulse impelled him to ask aloud, “Can you speak?” And perhaps he was a fool to stand there out in the middle of nowhere, addressing the dumb brute in absurd expectation of a spoken reply, but he did not feel like a fool. He felt afraid.
No reply was forthcoming, but he saw comprehension in the filmy eyes, he was sure of it. The meecher sat motionless as a dead thing. Orlazzu backed away step by step. The blue regard never wavered. There was no overt menace. Just as he started to turn away, the meecher rose and advanced several unhurried paces, reducing the separation between them to a distance of some ten feet, whereupon it halted, watching him steadily. He took another step backward and again the meecher advanced, maintaining that ten feet of separation.
“Useless. I am not easily disconcerted,” he warned. There was no answer. Turning his back with apparent finality, he resumed his trek. But as he went, from time to time he cast quick glances back over his shoulder to behold the meecher following a constant ten feet behind. The minutes passed, the mists darkened, and the grey animal all but disappeared from view, but its silent presence was unmistakable, the weight of its stare heavy on his back, heavier than ever, in fact, almost as if the creature were somehow growing—
He looked back and his brows arched at sight of two meechers, walking side by side ten paces behind him. The animals were almost indistinguishable in appearance, both skeletal and film-eyed. Meechers, he recalled, were habitually solitary creatures, eschewing packs, tribes, or colonies. Even in the aftermath of mating, they did not live or walk in pairs. He quickened his footsteps. The meechers kept pace. They were silent, but impossible to ignore. Minutes later, when he could no longer forbear stealing another look, he spied three of them close on his trail. And now he felt a distinct sense of invasive mental pressure, a distant reverberation characteristic of the unseen Other.
On through the mists, and the pressure increased. There were four of them behind him now, and Orlazzu began to consider emergency measures. Not that he couldn’t hold his own, but the prospect of a night spent out of doors, the sleepless hours given over to constant watchfulness and arcane exertion, lacked appeal. Certainly it lay within his power to kill the meechers—they looked half dead already—but the thought of destroying the ordinarily harmless small creatures was repugnant.
Darkness deepened around him, and now five meechers trooped quietly in his wake. He would have to kill them—a regrettable necessity. But even as he slipped a faintly iridescent pale pastille into his mouth, even as he readied his mind for lethal action, the mists parted and a small structure stood revealed.
It was narrow and low, with walls of sod, stone chimney, and a thatched roof. Too insignificant to be called a cottage, it was not much more than a glorified hut. There was no immediately apparent explanation for its existence in that isolated spot. The land had never been farmed, and did not seem to lend itself to any conventional human endeavor. In all probability the shelter housed some misanthropic hermit seeking refuge from the bustle of humanity—a desire entirely comprehensible to Grix Orlazzu. But the hermit, if such there was, did not appear to be in residence. No light glowed within, and no smoke rose from the chimney.
Orlazzu marched to the door, the meechers padding close behind him. A crow swooped down out of the mists to perch on the roof, scarcely an arm’s length above him. The bird appeared to be molting. Its plumage was dull and its eyes were filmed. When he exclaimed sharply and waved his arm, the crow remained motionless, its eyes fixed on him. The hairs stirred at the back of his neck, and he knocked on the door with more than necessary force. There was no response from within. After a moment, he opened the door and stepped inside. There remained enough feeble daylight to tell him at once that the little dwelling was empty and probably had been for some time. A layer of dust and grime overspread all, and the few articles of unfinished wooden furniture sported luxuriant growths of mold. Still, the place was habitable. Its walls and roof could support intangible reinforcement sufficient to thwart invasion and repel arcane assault. More to the point, the ground below and around the building all but sang with power. Surely at some point along the course of its vast underground circuit, the Source must pass directly beneath this spot. And the place was even furnished. Its true owner might always return, at which point he would have to surrender the new domain, but in the meantime—
“Home?” Grix Orlazzu murmured, half in statement, half in inquiry.
He shut the door in the faces of the attendant meechers, and the room sank into near darkness. An almost effortless flex of his mind kindled fire on the hearth and lit an oil lamp on the table. It was easy, so easy in this place. The Source seemed almost urgent in its willingness to bestow its bounty. Upon this ground, a skilled arcanist might hope to transcend the limits of a lifetime.
Thus it was the matter of mere moments for Grix Orlazzu to imbue the surrounding walls, roof, and clay floor underfoot with sufficient protective force to ensure his safety for months or years to come. This accomplished, he felt none of the sick exhaustion so often blighting the conclusion of significant arcane endeavor. Quite the contrary, he was alert, optimistic, and—hungry. At other times, in other places, he would not have been able to hold food down, following such a feat as he had just performed, but here and now he was qui
te hungry indeed.
Orlazzu’s sack yielded bread, cheese, wine, and dried fruit. Seating himself at the table, he ate and drank moderately, then brought forth his copy of The Drowned Chronicle and read for hours by the light of the oil lamp. During this time he never sensed the slightest invasive touch of the Other’s presence, nor did the hapless beasts absorbed into a greater consciousness disturb his new sanctum. The barriers were holding.
When his lids began to droop, he set the chronicle aside, banked the fire, extinguished the lamp, and took himself to bed, wrapped in his own blanket, spread out atop the previous owner’s begrimed coverlet. In the morning he would give the hut and its furnishings a good cleaning; for now, he wanted sleep.
He did sleep, soundly and dreamlessly, until the dawn sent baby fingers of weak light poking in through the chinks in the closed shutters, and a tremendous assault upon the door commenced. Orlazzu sat up, wide awake. Someone was pounding loudly and imperiously. Emotion drove those blows. There was nothing uncanny or Otherly about them. There could be but one explanation: The hut’s rightful owner had returned to find himself locked out of his own property. No wonder he was incensed.
Bad luck. Orlazzu muttered a curse. This hut had almost seemed made for him, waiting for him. He should have known that it was too good to be true. Now he would have to leave. And apologize—though it slid along the edge of his mind then that he need do neither. His powers more than equipped him to keep the hut if he wanted it—but he pushed the thought away at once, as he had pushed such thoughts away throughout his lifetime. It was natural and inevitable that an accomplished arcanist would upon occasion be tempted to employ his powers destructively, for the sake of personal gain or personal malice. But Grix Orlazzu had made the decision, many years earlier, to resist all such impulses. He had kept that vow and would continue to keep it. Therefore, with a sad imprecation, he rose and opened the door.
He found himself confronting a familiar chunky figure wrapped in an oilcloth cloak and hood. He saw a wiry black beard, beaky nose, heavy black brows above eyes of amber glass, and a swarthy square face, identical in feature to his own, but neatly upholstered in the finest glove leather.
A whirring of internal gears heralded mechanical utterance.
“Leftover, once known as Grix Orlazzu, I have overtaken you at last. Admit me, if you please,” the automaton directed.
“What are you doing here, Junior?” Orlazzu’s sturdy frame blocked the doorway.
“I have decided to rejoin you. And do not call me Junior.”
“What shall I call you then? Inescapable? Unavoidable? Unmentionable?”
“You already know, Leftover. Do not pretend that you have forgotten. My name is Grix Orlazzu. I am the improved and perfected version of the Grix Orlazzu design. You may address me as GrixPerfect, or, as we are intimate, you may simply call me Grix.”
“Very well. Grix. Why have you followed me? I left you with the cabin and all that it contained, everything that you could need, nearly everything that I had. Wasn’t that enough?”
“Ah, how like an organic to think solely in terms of material possessions! You gave me things and thought they would suffice. Did you for one moment consider my feelings, my inner self, my needs, or the destructive effect on my personal development when you went off and abandoned me? Did you think of anyone beside yourself, Leftover? And are you going to let me in?”
“What for? You don’t need a meal or a place to sleep. What do you seek here?”
“What do you seek here?”
“Enlightenment. Fulfillment. A place to work, so long as I can; to practice, and to develop my abilities to their fullest potential.”
“That is what I want also.”
“Very good. Seek elsewhere.”
“I will not. My inner yearnings drew me north to these hills in search of a perfect locale. I was drawn to this spot, so humble in aspect yet so rich in promise. It seems that you were similarly drawn, and how should it be otherwise, when your mind is a primitive, incompletely realized first draft of my own? Are you going to let me in?”
“No, I’m not. This place is taken. You must find another for yourself.”
“Impossible. No other will suit me so well. I’ve searched through these foggy hills filled with impertinent wildlife, and this is the one that I want. What right have you to keep me out?”
“I was here first.”
“Immaterial. Listen, Leftover. You built me—or so you claim, although it hardly seems possible—but if it’s true, then you are responsible. You cannot simply turn your back on me and walk away—I will not be treated so. You will do your duty by me, you will minister to my needs. I demand it. Do you understand me, Leftover?”
“No, I don’t. What exactly do you want from me?”
“Consideration. Respect. Concern. Companionship.”
“Come again?”
“Also, you will teach me to read.”
“You were to teach yourself, as I recall.”
“In the absence of all moral support—cast adrift, as it were—I lacked incentive. You will teach me; it is your obligation.”
“Sorry, Grix. You must shift for yourself now.” Orlazzu began to close the door.
Instantly the automaton advanced its foot over the threshold, at the same time shoving the door with steel-jointed strength. Orlazzu was thrust backward from the entrance, and his simulacrum stepped into the hut.
“You are inhospitable,” it complained.
“You are not invited and you are not welcome,” Orlazzu scowled. “I am asking you to leave.”
“I refuse.” The automaton folded its arms. “I will not be slighted. I will have all that’s owed me.”
“Owed you? Insufferable junkheap!”
“You will act as a proper creator,” the automaton insisted. “You will give me the attention, education, and affection to which I am entitled. Make no mistake about it, Leftover once known as Grix Orlazzu. I am here to stay.”
* * *
Evening had come and the lamps were aglow when one of the servants came to Aureste Belandor, bearing news that his brother Innesq was awake and asking for him.
“If this intelligence proves false, I will have you flayed,” Aureste promised dispassionately.
The terrified servant hastened to reassure him. There could be no mistake. Master Innesq was conscious and clearheaded.
He scarcely dared to let himself hope. The news was too good; it was either an error or a brilliantly cruel lie. It took only a moment to traverse the few feet of corridor separating the room he had chosen for himself from the chamber in which Innesq lay. A guard stood watch at the door, a huge and broad figure that Aureste recognized readily. It was the youngster Drocco whose courage, discretion, and general good sense had shone during the recent action against Ironheart. The lad had distinguished himself, and for that reason he had been assigned a post of importance—protecting the life of Innesq Belandor. Yet Drocco did not appear to appreciate his own good fortune. Unkempt, uncombed, unshaven, and bleary-eyed, he was actually leaning against the door. As his master drew near, he straightened and attempted a salute, but the wavering gesture was sketchy at best. His manner and slovenly look suggested dissipated nights. At any other time Aureste would have reprimanded the drunkard, or even dismissed him on the spot. Just now he could not be bothered.
Casting a cold eye in passing upon the young offender—a look promising future retribution—Aureste entered his brother’s chamber. And it was true, he saw at a glance. Quite true. Innesq was sitting up in bed, still pale as a tombstone, but wide awake, eyes clear and focused, even spooning some soup proffered by a solicitous Sishmindri. He was himself again; he would recover. Aureste felt a tight constriction in his chest. Reprieved.
“Aureste.” Innesq managed a ghostly smile. His voice was faint but audible. “It is very good to see you again. Welcome back.”
“I might say the same to you. For a time we weren’t certain that you’d wake.”
“I am sorry for the concern I’ve caused, but it was necessary. I am sorry, too, for your disappointment regarding Jianna.”
“I came so close, Innesq! She was there, they admitted it freely. Had I arrived but a single day earlier—But wait, how did you know—ah, I see, the Sishmindris have already been filling your ears.”
“No, it was not the Sishmindris.” Innesq turned briefly to the amphibian at the bedside. “That will do, Ini. Thank you. You may go now.” Ini departed, bearing the tray and soup bowl, and Innesq resumed his interrupted train of thought. “It was the young girl who told me. She was confused and frightened, but she managed to communicate.”
“Young girl? One of the servants, you mean?”
“I think not. Her position in the household is ambiguous, I believe, and she speaks very little of herself. In fact, it was not until our last Distant Exchange that I learned she resides at Ironheart. She sees a good deal, however, and she let me know that Jianna had escaped.”
“Some girl has been in here chatting with you?” Aureste’s fears were resurrecting themselves. His brother seemed rational, but he was surely confused or worse. “Innesq, you’ve been unconscious for a long time. Frankly, we thought you were dying. Now you’re back with us and you are going to make a full recovery. But you must have dreamed while you slept, and right now I think you’re mistaking those dreams for reality. It’s understandable. They may have been very vivid, and—”
“Aureste, stop,” Innesq interrupted. “You do not understand. I am neither delirious nor delusional. Now listen to me closely. I’ve vital information and I want you to hear it all without digression and without interruption. To begin with, understand that my recent slumber was not the result of injury or illness. It was induced by arcane means—performed deliberately and voluntarily by me upon myself—because an astounding experience that befell me during the attack upon our home had convinced me of the need.
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