The Accidental Magician

by David Grace

  "What about those who don't undertake the trip, who don't want to? What happens to them?"

  "Those are the renegades, the criminals, the ones who wish to take no risks or to have a mate without earning the right, who give nothing back to the race. These are the ones who would destroy our whole world."

  "What do you do with them?"

  "They are forbidden to breed and removed from the community so that, through ignorance or error, they are not accepted as mentors by the young. They live out of contact with Nahra, the soul of the community, the empathy with the land."

  Grantin's head was filled to overflowing with the Fanist culture, and still there were more questions. What did all of this have to do with Fanists living in trees? And how did they mate? Were only males expected to go on the trip of life? What was Chom doing here in the Gogol kingdom? It was all too much for Grantin now. The afternoon was wearing on. The morning's high spirits had dissipated. No longer listening to Chom's lecture, he shifted his attention to the forest.

  As if the Black Pearl River were a boundary between the outer reaches of the forest and its main domain, the character of the woods had changed. There was a subtle deepening in the sky as the leaves grew more dense. The trees themselves were closer together and their trunks thicker and more gnarled. Mosses of rust and deep green festooned many trees, as the trapped air was humid and dank. The bushes and small plants had thinned greatly. The forest floor was dotted with mushrooms and other forms of fungi. The dominant color of the terrain had changed from green to the brown, white, and gray of dead leaf and mold. Though it was now only the eighth hour Before Dark, already a damp breeze presaged Pyra's setting.

  By unspoken agreement Chom and Grantin increased the pace, as if in hope that the landscape beyond the next bend would be more hospitable. In point of fact the surroundings did change as the afternoon waned, but not for the better. By half past the ninth hour a twilight gloom filled the spaces between the trees. Although Pyra would not yet set for an hour and a half, Grantin and Chom had nothing like that much time to find a place to camp.

  Uniformly covered with dead leaves, the trail could be discerned only by the fact that it provided an alley between the close-grown trees. Ahead the path curved to the right and, without warning, descended into a steep gully. Along the bottom of the ravine trickled a small, muddy stream. Chom's extra set of arms again proved their worth in ascending the far bank. Here the dead leaves made the walls slippery and Grantin found it difficult to obtain purchase. Only after working his way fifty yards or so downstream was he able to make use of the protruding roots of a great jonquil and scramble to the top.

  Grantin in the lead, the two walked northward along the far edge of the gully to again intercept the trail. In spite of their relatively minor detour, ten minutes later they had still not spied the opening into the forest.

  "We should have come to it by now," Grantin said nervously. "Have we reached the point where we entered the gully?"

  "I cannot tell. It is too dark to see a disturbance in the ground cover. We may have to camp here and look for it in the morning when the light is better."

  Grantin examined his surroundings with obvious distaste. Here there was neither food nor shelter, and the water in the stream looked too black and forbidding to drink. Grantin suspected that when night came hordes of sting-wings would descend upon the stream and its environs. He halted and peered between the rearing trees to his left. Thirty or forty feet away the ground swelled upward to form a low hill. Perhaps from its top he might be able to spot the trail.

  "Chom, wait here a moment. Let me climb that ridge and see what I can see."

  The leaves crunched beneath Grantin's feet and gave him the feeling of walking on a deep, soft carpet. Unlike the banks of the gully this slope was tree-studded and of a gentle incline. From the top he had a surprisingly good view. The lower foliage of the surrounding trees had withered from the lack of sunlight. Ahead of him and a bit to his right, a direction which Grantin roughly reckoned to be the northwest, he spied a markedly brighter patch. The area was fifty yards distant, but it seemed to glow with the red-orange highlights of late-afternoon sun.

  Grantin turned back toward the gully and waved for Chom to join him. A few moments later the Fanist stood next to him at the top of the hill. Chom agreed that the phenomenon was worth investigating. As if they had emerged from behind a thick curtain, Grantin and Chom found themselves on the edge of a brightly lighted, almost circular meadow ringed with a peculiar variety of short, stumpy tree. A hundred fifty yards in diameter, the park-like spot was inviting. With the sky open above them Grantin and Chom were able to estimate the true time. Grantin judged it to be approximately the tenth hour, as Pyra was already setting. In less than an hour the meadow would be plunged into full night.

  As excited as a child with a new toy, Grantin strode into the center of the clearing, obviously well pleased at its luxuriant ground cover. Chom hung back just within the boundary of the low trees. In spite of Grantin's signals he refused to proceed farther, and a moment later the young man returned to the Fanist's position.

  "Chom, what's wrong? Is there something the matter?"

  "Nothing that I am sure of, but I sense a strangeness here. I feel we're being watched."

  "Watched? Are you sure?"

  "No, it is just a feeling I have. I am not sure that we should spend the night here. Perhaps we should go back to the gully and find the trail to Cicero in the morning."

  "Spend the night in that dismal gully with the sting-wings? No, thank you. Why are you looking at the trees like that? Is that what the problem is? Are they poisonous?"

  "No. I do not think so," Chom said, rubbing his hands over the smooth, dark blue bark. "But they are very unusual. I have never seen a tree like this before. Why should we suddenly find a whole community of them ringing this particular meadow? There must be a reason, but I do not know what it is. I have a feeling about these trees. Something is not right."

  "I think your time with Shenar has upset you more than you realize. I don't get any feeling from them at all. Come on, now. Are you going to camp here with me tonight or not?"

  Once more Chom rubbed the trunk of the tree. He inspected the architecture of its limbs. The deep bluish-gray bark sheathed the circular trunk to a height of five feet, whereupon two V-shaped branches sprouted upward from either side. The ends of each branch were encased in an egg-shaped mass of fleshy blue-green leaves. Another foot or two above the branching point, the tree's central stalk likewise exploded in a great inverted teardrop of the same thick intertwined blue-green leaves. This crown was four feet in diameter and six feet high. Upon close examination the leaves resembled fat corkscrews so tightly interlocked that Grantin's hand could not be inserted between them.

  For a few seconds longer Chom stared at the treetop with intense concentration then he removed his hands and followed Grantin to a spot fifteen feet from the edge of the forest.

  For dinner Chom hunted up some mushrooms which he assured Grantin were nontoxic. At the far edge of the clearing the human managed to find a tayberry bush heavy with fruit. These substances augmented the food from Grantin's pack, and the human enjoyed a pleasant dinner. For his part Chom completed his meal with various random animal, insect, and plant delicacies. Not wanting to mar the meadow with a fire, the two curled up to sleep immediately after dinner, Grantin wrapping himself in a blanket while Chom trusted his comfort to his thick hide.

  By the third hour AD both travelers were fast asleep. In their slumber they failed to hear the distant whinings of the night creatures, the chirps of the mating insects, the buzz of the occasional stingwing, and the plastic-like rustle and rattle of the life trees. With great care a bud-like stalk pushed its way through the leafy surface of the tree nearest the travelers. Leaf-like petals unfolded to reveal a functioning eye which focused unerringly on their forms.

  Now satisfied that the two were indeed asleep, the rustle became louder and more agitated as inch by inch
the life trees' shallow roots were plucked from the soil and slid forward. With the greatest deliberateness the trees moved slowly across the edge of the clearing to encircle Grantin and Chom where they slept.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Four days had passed since Grantin had fled, and still there was no word. For Greyhorn the first day was marked by anguished rage, the second by sour, heartsick defeat, and the third by a cautious hope that Hazar might yet find Grantin and the ring. Now, on the fourth day, Greyhorn lapsed into a state of numbed calm.

  Since Grantin's departure the wizard had neglected his normal duties; he had skipped his usual Manxday seminar with the assistant commissioners of the Tectors and Artisans Guilds, thereby forfeiting his standard fee of a silver each; his appointment to cast a vermin-extermination spell over the rich acres of Elder Peabody had gone unkept. Even the day-to-day operations of his manor house and surrounding fields had succumbed to general neglect. So disheartened was Greyhorn by the loss of the ring and the consequent collapse of his plans for power that even Maurita's charms failed to arouse him.

  What was he to do? The commencement of the Gogol attack had been delayed. Though originally scheduled for the following day, it had been pushed back until six days hence; but then what? In spite of his strong words. Greyhorn was paralyzed with indecision. Even without Greyhorn's support the chances were good that Hazar's attack would succeed. By opposing Hazar Greyhorn might only earn for himself swift disaster.

  On the other hand, without the ring, without an important share in the plot, Greyhorn would be reduced to the status of merely another Hartford wizard to be dominated, and as soon as possible, eliminated by the victorious Gogols. And if Greyhorn opposed the devil-worshipers, then what? The small fragment of powerstone contained within Greyhorn's amulet would not be sufficient to protect him against the onslaught which would be launched by the Gogols against a traitor to their grand design.

  The more Greyhorn pondered the problem, the more he realized that a favorable resolution could occur in only one of two ways: either he obtained the bloodstone before the attack commenced, or he disposed of Hazar and thus delayed the battle indefinitely. Charged now with a goal for which he could strive, Greyhorn shook off his apathy and made for his laboratory.

  In a metal drawer in a metal cabinet bound to the stone wall with deep metal bolts reposed the amulet which Grantin had worn to Alicon. With a wave of his hands Greyhorn released the spell of impenetrable protection and slid open the drawer. From its cushioned bed he withdrew the necklace and slipped it over his head.

  Carefully Greyhorn faced westward toward the Gogol empire. The wizard held the amulet in front of him so that he could stare into the stone set at its center. The thumb and index finger of his left hand pinched the left edge of the disk while his right hand grasped the right side in a similar manner. Now the energy of his body flowed across the disk and through the chip of powerstone.

  With all his force Greyhorn cast a spell of location and focused his gaze upon the gem. As if of their own volition the pupils of Greyhorn's eyes began to dilate. The bloodstone swelled in hazy display until it filled Greyhorn's field of vision. Within its depths he was able to discern vague pink shapes, some of which seemed to be moving while others suggested trees or bushes, or perhaps mountaintops. The geometry of the splinter was flawed. The most he could hope for was a vague sense of distant forests and landscapes.

  With a wail of psychic pain the sorcerer allowed the amulet to slip from his fingers and bounce against his chest. Though emotionally drained, Greyhorn found his nerves tightened to a high, singing pitch. He refused to allow himself to be defeated. He sat panting while frustration danced before his eyes like a haunting apparition.

  Half an hour later, when he had recovered from his exertions, Greyhorn rose and approached his communicator lens. Carefully the sorcerer pulled back the drapes which sheltered the device, then moved to a cabinet high on the wall next to the window. Pressed against the left-hand edge of the cupboard was a folder which Greyhorn opened. Inside were two disks of shiny black, plastic-like material of the same dimensions as the communicator lens. With great care Greyhorn affixed one of these disks to the face of the lens, kneading and stretching it until it exactly conformed to every bend and ripple in the glass. A few seconds later and with equal care the other disk cloaked the bulging back side. No ordinary coverings, the disks were specially energized with a spell of Hazar's own construction so that when placed in contact with the communicator they filtered out the vision of the one who cast the spell while at the same time allowing the crystal to function as the focus of the transmitted psychic energies.

  Greyhorn placed himself before his gray-black lens, checked his mental armory, and, finding all in readiness, at last passed his hand palm outward before the surface of the now blind eye.

  In Hazar's laboratory two hundred leagues to the west his own crystal exhibited no more than a faint pearly glow now invisible in Pyra's ruddy afternoon light. Only slightly did Hazar feel the tug of magic drawing him to his lens. So faint was it, in fact, that he was unsure if he were being called at all. A quick glance at his crystal convinced him that he was mistaken. Back in his manor Greyhorn was already enlarging upon his previously begun curse.

  "In his stomach, in his vitals find a canker and a worm. In his guts and in his bloodstream grows a tumor large and firm. In his heart and in his brain, softens mushlike the decay. In his body gathers corruption. When I command, he'll die in pain."

  Hazar stood with his back to the lens. Unbeknownst to him Greyhorn repeated his incantation a second time. While the Gogol wizard planned the next step in his rise to power invisible emanations poured from his crystal. To a great degree Hazar's own vitality and spells of protection warded off the deleterious effects of Greyhorn's curse. Even more important was the protection supplied by the bloodstone ring which now rode the fourth finger of Hazar's left hand. Still, augmented as it was by the fragment of bloodstone in Greyhorn's amulet, the incantation was immensely powerful. In spite of all his defenses Hazar's vitals were seized with a wrench at the conclusion of the spell.

  Instantly, Hazar sensed the source of the attack. With a sputter of rage the wizard turned and hurled a bolt of force into the lens. Two hundred leagues away the energy flung itself against Greyhorn's shielded crystal. The communicator shattered with a cannon-like roar, its razor-sharp fragments cutting Greyhorn on the cheek, chin, and knees.

  "Imbecile!" Hazar screamed as he felt the ripples of the destruction which his spell had wrought in Greyhorn's workroom. "Fool! That incompetent . . ." Standing, Hazar broke off his shouts as a new bolt of pain lanced through his stomach. Somewhat shocked by the potency of the spell which Greyhorn had managed, Hazar restrained his curses and walked stiffly to his chamber door. Time for the fool Hartford later, he warned himself. He had more important tasks at hand now.

  "Derma," he shouted to his aide. "Go find Mara and bring her here, immediately."

  Hazar slammed shut the panel and retreated to his couch. Zaco had again delayed shipment of the special powerstones which by the nature of their cut were subject to control through the one worn by Hazar himself, stones that were needed to complete his plan of attack.

  Zaco's excuses did not fool Hazar, not in the least. He was having second thoughts. Now was the time for Mara to prove her worth, to reestablish with even greater power the enchantment which she had woven around the Lord of Mammon.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Throughout the night Grantin had become accustomed to the clatter of the leaves. It was the absence of that sound which caused him to awaken. Sitting up sleepily he needed a moment to remember where he was. Strange . . . he could not recall bedding down so close to the trees. Twisting his head, Grantin was surprised to see that he and Chom were surrounded.

  "Chom!" he called. Chom awakened instantly. As soon as his eyes cleared the Fanist stood, turned a brief circle, and addressed the crown of the largest and oldest tree.

  "Wha
t do you plan to do to us?"

  "Who are you talking to? What's going on? Where . . . ?"

  "These are not ordinary trees. I sensed something last night but could not interpret what I was feeling. Obviously they have some plans for us. What is it that you want, friend trees?"

  A smooth, deep bluish vine terminating in thick palps which wiggled like a nest of worms slipped from the gnarled tree and snaked toward the Fanist.

  "Pull back your arm before we are forced to employ our magic against you," Grantin warned in a nervous voice.

  "We are magicians of great power, but we have no desire to injure you. Surely this is all a misunderstanding. Tell us what the problem is. Perhaps it can be avoided without unpleasantness."

  As he spoke Grantin began to point the power-stone. The tentacle waved for a moment, then pulled back a foot and slumped to the ground. The palps continued to writhe, but for the moment the vine halted its attack. Now a thicker, stubbier tube protruded from the base of the crown. A rhythmic pulsing convulsed the last two inches of the cylinder until its end became flattened and took on the appearance of a puckered mouth. Lastly a startlingly white eyeball surrounded daisy-like by blue-green leaves emerged from the body of the tree and hung suspended above the newly created organ.

  Dissonant sounds, grumblings, and squawks erupted from the tube. At last the tone settled back into a parody of speech.

  "Such as you are never allowed to pass. You have trespassed on our meadow. Now you must join us. Prepare to be planted."

  "Wait, wait!" Grantin pleaded before the tentacle could begin again to move. "We didn't know we were trespassing on your meadow. There were no signs or warnings. We are sorry, very sorry. We will smooth out the grass where we slept and leave immediately. You don't have to go to all the trouble of planting us."