As he flashed through in the limitless backcloth, he wondered if any of the Lûk children would work it out.
One over ten was a tenth, one over a million was a millionth, but one over infinity was so small it was nothing at all. And so the template of his body, attempting to contain everything, ceased to exist. The whole spell was founded on a paradox, but if he thought about it too long and hard, he’d just lose time and get nowhere at all. The Transference spell rewarded leaps of thought.
He considered where he wanted to be.
Somewhere closer to the source of the singing than Koom, the closest place he could remember well enough. He chose the down of Rôgspar. He had seen it marked on the map, beneath Koom, at the southern limit of the Six-sided Land, on the northern edge of the wildfire wastes. He had been in the area before, but so many, many years ago. He hoped his visualisation was complete enough to take him there.
He returned from the crossing point of infinity. His body pushed the world aside.
At once he knew he had made a mistake, but a hasty departure meant a hasty arrival, and there was no time to adjust his position. He was in Rôgspar all right, literally. He had not expected the level of the cast to have risen so much. Successive generations of Lûk inhabitants had burrowed farther underground, and the earth had been ejected upon the conical mound. Although Zarost had chosen to arrive near the top of the cast, he was chest deep in the soil. He flapped his arms to free himself, but only managed to flatten the flowers on either side of his shoulders. He was stuck.
A sweet-scented blossom tickled his nose, another brushed against his beard. There were flowers everywhere, surrounding him at eye level, sweeping down the cast and spreading across the meadow in a hovering tapestry of colour beneath the open sky. Glistening insects buzzed from bloom to bloom, feasting in the many nectar cups. Vermilion butterflies flitted about, overwhelmed with choice.
Rôgspar had changed. This had used to be a hard Lûk outpost, a staging point for raids into the Huntersland, a base for collecting whatever the windrunners had mined within the wastes. The Lûk were made tough here by their work with the vicious garspider silk and cultivating the stinging strands of light-emitting bacteria. But Rôgspar had changed—instead of tough and embittered it felt young and joyous, full of life.
A Lûk maiden, kneeling in the field nearby, stared at him with wide eyes. She had frozen in the act of weaving a garland of flowers. He was about to call out a greeting to her when the Lifesong swept toward him a second time. This stanza was of an altogether higher order than the first had been, drowning his senses, filling him with rapture and ruling him with a single emotion—love, so pure he felt as if his heart would burst. The emotion thrilled through him, the music rushing on by with the faintest of rainbow shimmers.
A breeze pulled across the flowers in the wake of the song. Peace came upon that breeze, balance and harmony, healing and hope, so much latent potency that he wanted to spring into the air.
He would have done so, had the earth not gripped his body so firmly. He was certain. The beauty of the melody was unmistakable. That voice belonged to the young wizard of Eyri, Tabitha Serannon. She was outside; she was beyond the Shield of Eyri!
She had sung. By the stars! She had sung. The Lûk maiden walked over to him, watching him with a dreamy smile. She placed the garland on his head then walked away and began to collect flowers for another one.
Tabitha was somewhere in the forest to the west, somewhere in the bloodbelt bordering the Hunterslands, no more than four leagues away. How had she made it through the wastes? There were so many dangers in the terrible spillage, so much malignant silver essence. Why was she out of Eyri in the first place? He’d put so many warnings into the prophecy, but maybe she hadn’t read them yet. She was supposed to be accompanied. Strangely enough, her singing hadn’t drawn the wildfire. It had felt so different. It had changed things, without moving the essence. How had she done that?
But then he felt the horrible rupture. The world jumped. Something else had come after her spell and triggered a terrible consequence. The sky fractured overhead, a jagged crack that tore through the disjointed clouds and the varying blue panes of sky, marking the running passage of the deadly charge. Many erratic lines converged over a place a few leagues away in the dark forest. The tightening web arced and spawned a bright knot of threads in its centre, which fell upon the forest, its many tentacles searching the air ahead of it—a multiple strike, a super-cluster of Chaos.
Twardy clutched his hat. Wildfire fell upon the Lifesinger.
Would she be able to outrun the strike? Surely not. There was little chance of escape for her if she was on foot. Sometimes the wildfire strikes were prone to be inaccurate, especially so far from the Sorcerer’s Pillar in Turmodin, but he wouldn’t bet on it. He wouldn’t bet on anything when playing against the Sorcerer.
Tabitha needed him.
His transference was quick, for he could see where he wanted to be—beneath the shrieking fall of Chaos-essence, where the ground had most likely ridged up in anticipation of its coming. He was gone from the flower-strewn meadow of Rôgspar in a mental jerk that caused his awareness to whip outward to the immeasurable ends of infinity and return, in the flickering of an eye, to a single place in the forest.
He found her in the middle of a trampled battleground, where dazed Lûk warriors and wounded Hunters stood among discarded weapons, fallen bodies and blood. She was with two Eyrian companions—Swordmaster Glavenor and the fisherman Mulrano. Mulrano! What was he doing in Oldenworld?
The Swordmaster had raised a long shield over their heads. Lûk-woven cane, hardened, strong against arrows—the wildfire would burn through it as if it was made of paper.
“This is a merry fix,” he said, ducking beneath their shield’s useless canopy.
Three startled faces looked back at him. Zarost recognised the glazed expression of helpless panic. Even Glavenor was affected. That was something new—the man had changed, he was wiser; older. Zarost turned his attention skyward. There was no time for a complicated spell like the multilaced backbraided dispersal shield or a slow spell like a reference. He had two options—a transference, or a spell of reflection. His thoughts split upon the probabilities. Success with the transference would be unlikely. He could take Tabitha away, but many others would die. He wouldn’t be able to move her companions in such a quick weave, because they weren’t wizards. Their minds would cave in under the vastness of infinity, and he’d never be able to bring them back. He followed that line of prophecy for an instant. He would lose Tabitha as well. She would mourn the loss of her precious Garyll and forever search in the stars for her love, like the legend of Erill and Gamede. No, reflection was the only option. Funny how it always remained as the last thing in the smelting pot, when all else was burnt away. The power of reflection, he reflected, was in what was reflected.
Even as he breathed the words of the spell, he knew there would be further consequences. The Gyre didn’t approve of the spell, it wasn’t classified. Most of the wizards felt it was closer to the Chaos end of the third axis than to any other pole. It would act as a mirror. It did nothing to alter the wildfire, or even to diminish it—it would drive the falling Chaos essence back upon itself. Thus the disorder would be multiplied as particles collided against each other with even greater vigour. There would be more Chaos in the universe, not less, but it was the only solution.
The sky fell with a whining screech. Keep your hat on. Can’t afford to lose your head. He considered the simple algorithm that would flip the velocity of the wildfire, if he could reach enough of it in time. The pattern formed a little half-sphere in the air between his hands. In its convex surface the approaching wildfire shot out around the reflected image of Garyll’s raised shield and the small worried faces beneath it. Silver light danced upon the spell’s curvature. It would draw the wildfire faster. It did look like a Chaos-spell, now that he saw it like that. It took its nature from what it faced.
Out
in the forest, a tree flared, then imploded as the advance strikes began to fall.
“And the multiplier pattern,” he explained to Tabitha, hastily scribing a pattern upon the liquid clarity that looked like a minus one. It would bind the spell to its own reflected light and so travel outward at great speed, reversing any moving particles it met along the way. The simplest spells were always the fastest.
He released his hold on the essence. The domed Reflection shot away in all directions, spreading as it rose, rushing through the men then the trees just as it passed upward through the raised shield and raced to meet the wildfire. Its surface, as delicate as the skin of a soap bubble, carried shimmering images of the people it might save.
Zarost held his breath. If the spreading spell encountered a gap in the essence, it might develop a lesion at that point, and the wildfire might pierce it there. He hadn’t had enough time to gather the clear essence before beginning. He hoped Tabitha had activated enough of it.
Wildfire filled the collapsing sky, rough and ragged, as if heavy clumps of silver rock plummeted toward them. The Chaos essence, so bright before, seemed dull when seen through his expanding spell. Zarost wasn’t fooled. The wildfire was as potent as ever. They were merely inside a mirror, so there was very little light.
The wildfire struck.
Silver essence screeched away into the sky, a scattering of deadly mayhem. It would bring worse destruction on Oldenworld where it fell. Some of it would even spread out into the stars. Despite the filtering effect of the Reflection, it grew brighter and brighter in the forest. A blinding hole burned through in the membrane. A finger of Chaos shot down, and a tree on the edge of the glade burst into a multitude of experimental forms, splitting into a haze of fibres, recombining into broken spines, then a black and sickly skin, sinking upon itself with each alteration, until it was a globular heap steaming in a patch of burning soil. Another tree lit up, spread its limbs, and screamed with an eerily human voice as it fell back into the undergrowth.
The Reflection spell reached the edge of the available clear essence, and it faded away. The light returned in full to the forest. Zarost peered out from under the shield.
A thousand tails of Chaos chased each other away into the sky.
Zarost breathed out. There was nothing left of the wildfire strike. It had been turned, cast outward upon the rest of Oldenworld. Much devastation would come of it, more than before, but Tabitha Serannon was safe. A tinking sound, like cooling metal, told him they were all safe. He turned to face the young wizard of Eyri.
“What in the blue blazes are you doing here?” He was still struggling to get used to the idea—the raw graduate was outside, in Oldenworld. He was shocked, challenged and immensely proud. He jigged from one foot to the other.
Tabitha just mouthed on empty air, and looked at him with brimming eyes.
“Oh Twardy!” She threw her arms around him. “I’m so glad you’re here!”
He flapped his hands helplessly behind her back for a moment then returned her embrace. Her presence was a warm blessing of tenderness and youth. She smelled of Lûk crumble-spices and pollen. She felt good in his hands. Her hair had caught in his stubbly beard.
Garyll Glavenor looked upon him with unnerving steadiness.
Some things about the man hadn’t changed.
“Careful,” Zarost said jokingly. “Your protector will think I’ve caught your eye.”
“Little fear of that,” Garyll responded. “No, I was wondering why you only arrived so late, but well met, Riddler, you are most welcome! It seems you are more than just a riddler.” He extended his right hand, and Zarost ran the gambit of gripping it as he and Tabitha parted. Thankfully, the shake was no more than firm. More than just a riddler? The man had no idea what a riddler truly was.
Zarost turned to Mulrano. “My friend, they have roped you into this crazy journey as well!” He wanted to slap him on the back, but the poor fisherman had wounds in his shoulder, ones that could be healed.
“Egh!” said Mulrano. “Cahnk go back engy more.” He winced. “Cahnk go ong ngow, eiver.”
Zarost looked at the three of them. “Well this is going to take some unriddling,” he said. “It seems I have missed too many chapters of the story.” He surveyed the carnage. “Which side of this battle were we on?”
“The Lûk’s,” Tabitha replied, looking horrified and ashamed. “I was trying to stop it.”
“While they were fighting?” Zarost asked. Trying to stop a battle between such arch enemies was like trying to separate a pack of rabid dogs by waving a piece of meat at them.
“They did stop,” said Garyll.
Zarost hesitated. What had Tabitha learnt to do in his absence? Whatever had she used that beautiful new stanza for? She was not the same wizard he had guided back to Stormhaven.
He eyed his charge critically. “Why did you join the battle in the first place?”
“The Lûk were coming to find Prince Bevn,” she replied. “So are we.”
“Prince Bevn, King Mellar’s son Bevn? But he is no mage! How in the Destroyer’s name did he pass through the Shield?”
“I don’t know, Twardy, but he has stolen the crown. King Mellar sent us after him.”
Zarost felt the weight of all his eluded years press suddenly upon his heart.
The Kingsrim had left Eyri!
If the prince was wearing the crown, if it had accepted him, he would have been able to walk through the Shield as if it wasn’t there. And Zarost, the one wizard who should have prevented such a disaster, had done nothing. He had been following the trail of the missing Gyre text.
A trail, or a distraction?
“By all the black-hearted crows! I take it the king is none too well? Dear oh dear oh dear! This is no good at all.”
The Kingsrim was the anchor for the Shield of Eyri, it was the crux. Without it, the Shield would be weak, and the king would be tripping headlong into madness.
“If you came after Bevn, and not with him, how did you cross through the Shield?”
Tabitha looked down and away. “It got hardest right at the edge, where the essence was bound so tightly. I ... I grew a little cross at being denied.” Her voice grew small. “I think I might have broken it.”
“Oh merry me! It gets worse every time I ask a question!” Zarost exclaimed. “And the wastes, however did you cross them without being killed?”
Tabitha closed her eyes.
“It was a bad journey,” Glavenor filled in. “We lost our horses. We lost our companion, Logán , the young Gifter. The wildfire struck down on her the once, and we outran it. We found a scoured valley that was clean. I think we were lucky.”
“Lucky? Lucky! Nobody has ever crossed it on foot, nobody in unaltered form. You have the luck of all the Gods and Goddesses combined.”
Tabitha looked at him in horror. A shadow seemed to cross her face.
“Well. Not really lucky, I suppose. Blessed, then?” No doubt the wastes had been a horrifying experience.
“I’ve just been trying to survive, so far,” she murmured.
“And yet you have perfected the art of being at the centre of every conflict. What were you planning to do with all the Chaos you had summoned? Did you have any plan at all?”
“There wasn’t much time. I had thought—maybe—the Shiver note would do something?”
“And so spread the wildfire like a fine dust upon everyone?” He gave a nervous little laugh. “Very effective. You would have had time to appreciate each monstrous form you took, instead of burning away instantly.”
Zarost shook his head. She was so impulsive. She never thought things through. So much like himself, all those years ago, in the college in Kingsmeet. Tabitha was going to be very, very dangerous to be around.
“Never mind, that subject fills half of the Gyre’s library, and still we are not wise enough to answer it.”
“I didn’t know his name would summon wildfire, here in the forest!” she exclaimed.
“It will happen everywhere in Oldenworld, wherever the wildfire web has grown.”
“Then why didn’t you warn me?” she challenged him.
Zarost laughed. “I did that, I did indeed, and yet you have found a way to work around his web! I heard your song, dear Tabitha, it was a wonderwork.”
“But what am I to do, Twardy? We must find Bevn, we must retrieve the crown. Will you help us?”
“Have no fear, I can do nothing else. The sooner we can find the Kingsrim the better. You said the Hunters knew something of where Bevn is? Well, then we shall ask them.”
So many dead. Bodies littered the forest floor. Most of the remaining Hunters had fled into the forest while he’d been speaking to Tabitha, but he spied a ragtag cluster of wounded men moving slowly, supporting each other. He walked in their direction.
“Spearleader Sihkran tried that,” Garyll called after him. “They weren’t very forthcoming. That’s what sparked off this whole battle.”
“Surely so,” Zarost acknowledged, “but it is mostly how a question is asked that determines the answer.”
He strode off after the ragged bunch of leather-clad men. The Eyrians trailed along behind him.
“Men! I can help you, if you tell us some things.”
They looked over their shoulders, and the more agile among them ran away, shouting.
“Wait! I shall not fight you!” But Zarost understood. They were afraid of magic, not weapons. After the quantity of wildfire Tabitha had summoned, he wasn’t surprised. They must have seen him appear, and had marked him as a magic-worker, one to avoid at all costs.
One Hunter could only move at a slow hobble. He had nasty gashes in both of his legs, and he held his one arm cradled in the other. He kept his head down, even when Zarost stopped him.
“Do yer ken wherebegone a Prince Bevn?”
The man slowly raised his head. He looked back at Zarost with blank incomprehension. The Hunter language had changed again since he had last been among the south-eastern tribes. He made a stab at a likely degeneration.
“Telleroos wherebegone a boyden Eyri. We kennernow he par thoo a’huntersland.”
Second Sight: Second Tale of the Lifesong Page 43
