Into The Void

by Nigel Findley

  Chapter Eight

  Consciousness returned slowly. For an immeasurable time, Teldin luxuriated in a relaxed state of half-sleep, half-wakefulness. Thoughts that were almost dreams drifted through his mind. Real events of the past weeks combined with memories of his childhood. People and places mixed and matched in totally illogical combinations. Grandfather and Aelfred collaborated on teaching Teldin to use a short sword, while Estriss and Dana – now inexplicably wearing Teldin’s cloak – stood on the forecastle, watching. Throughout, the only emotion he felt was mild puzzlement, not the deep pain that by rights should have accompanied some of the images.

  As he drifted closer and closer to full consciousness, he found that he could manipulate some of the thoughts, some of the images. For the first time, he could review events at least somewhat objectively. Lying there, he went over the decisions he’d made, the points where he could have turned the course of events to a different path. There were, he realized, all too few of them. His actions had been more constrained than he’d perceived. At each branch point, he’d really had only one option that made complete sense, and – he saw now – if he’d strayed from the most logical path, the outcome would almost certainly have been worse than it was now. The vast majority of other paths ended with him dead, and with the cloak in the hands of the neogi.

  So it was with a grim sense of relief – of exoneration, even of redemption – that he finally returned to full consciousness. The results of his actions still weighed heavily on him – and he knew they always would – but at least now he felt better prepared to bear the burden he’d been given.

  He opened his eyes and squinted in the flow-light that poured in through the porthole. For a moment he didn’t remember exactly where he was, then memory returned fully. He was in Aelfred’s cabin.

  He swung himself off the narrow bunk and looked around with interest. He’d expected the first mate’s cabin to somehow match the big man’s personality and background. There would be mementos mounted on the bulkheads, possibly an old, notched broadsword that he’d taken from a worthy foe or the pennant of a unit he’d fought with. There would be charts and books piled everywhere. It would be a comfortable refuge for a man who needed escape from his responsibilities.

  If Teldin had ever considered himself an infallible judge of character, Aelfred’s cabin would have destroyed that notion for good. The small cabin was spartan, almost bare. There were no trophies on the bulkheads, no books – in fact, nothing at all that gave it any sense of the owner’s personality. A traveling chest – presumably containing Aelfred’s personal effects – was at the foot of the narrow wooden bunk. A small desk was bolted to the bulkhead beside the door, and a padded bench was mounted below the porthole. The only thing that matched Teldin’s expectations was the chart: there was a star chart on the desk, held in place by small metal clips.

  In retrospect, Teldin realized that this was the kind of cabin he should have expected all along. How much time did Aelfred actually spend in his cabin? Virtually none, it seemed. The warrior was always on the bridge or wandering about the ship. To a man like that, a cabin would be a place to sleep, nothing more. Why would he bother to decorate it, or even give it the stamp of his own personality, when he’d have virtually no time to see it?

  Teldin smiled to himself. Aelfred was still something of an enigma in some ways, but Teldin was slowly coming to understand the burly warrior better.

  He stretched luxuriously. Well, he thought, it’s time I was out and about. What time was it, anyway? That was something about shipboard life he’d never quite gotten used to. Whether the ship was in wildspace or in the flow, there was no way to tell what the time was just by looking. You had to depend on the ship’s bell, and even then it wasn’t obvious what watch it was.

  He listened for a moment. The ship was fairly quiet, no loud noises on deck. That didn’t mean much, of course. After the battle with the neogi, Aelfred would probably choose to run the ship with as few people on watch as possible and give the others a chance to sleep.

  Where was Aelfred, anyway?

  Teldin opened the cabin door. A crew member was passing but stopped when she saw Teldin standing in the doorway. She edged back a little, as if to give him plenty of room.

  “What time is it?” he asked.

  “Two bells, sir.”

  Teldin raised an eyebrow. “Sir,” was it? The level of respect had grown even more than he’d thought. He had to admit it was pleasant, in a way, but it was based on a misinterpretation. Oh, well, he thought, there wasn’t much he could do about it now.

  Two bells. That meant he’d been asleep for about eight solid hours. He stretched again, enjoying the tension in his well-rested muscles. He gestured with his thumb forward toward the bridge. “Who has forenoon watch on the bridge?” he asked.

  The woman looked at him strangely. “It’s two bells in the night watch, sir,” she told him.

  Absently he thanked her, and she went about her business. Night watch meant he’d been asleep for about twenty-four hours. No wonder he felt so fully rested.

  “Where’s Aelfred Silverhorn?” he suddenly thought to call after the woman, but she’d already vanished down the companionway to the cargo deck. He shrugged. Odds were, the first mate was on the bridge. He started forward.

  Then a noise from across the corridor – from the officers’ saloon – stopped him. It was a snorting rumble of some kind. At first he couldn’t identify it, then a broad grin spread across his face. Quietly he crossed to the saloon door and opened it.

  He’d found Aelfred. The first mate was sprawled bonelessly in a chair, booted feet on the table. His arms dangled limply on both sides of the chair, so his fingers brushed the deck. His mouth hung loosely open and gave vent to the rumbling snore Teldin had heard. Gently, Teldin shut the door again. Let the man sleep, he thought, he needs it.

  Words formed in Teldin’s mind. So you rejoin the land of the wakeful.

  There’s one problem with mental communication, Teldin thought: you can’t tell what direction it’s coming from. He looked all around for Estriss.

  The illithid approached from the aft end of the corridor. Do you feel better? the creature continued.

  “Much better,” Teldin replied. “I feel like I’ve come back to life.”

  Estriss nodded. You were drained. Not simply tired, but drained. I could sense the difference.

  “What does that mean?”

  I believe it means that the cloak draws some of its energy from you, the illithid explained. The vast majority of enchanted items do not work in that way. They draw all of the energy they need from elsewhere, and the will of the user is just a trigger, not a power source as well.

  Teldin shook his head. There was something emotionally disturbing about what Estriss was saying. “Is it meant to do that?” he asked.

  I am certain it is not, Estriss told him. Suddenly, as though realizing for the first time where they were, the illithid glanced around. Some things are best spoken of in private, he said. May we continue this in my cabin?

  *****

  If Aelfred’s cabin was devoid of personality, the mind flayer’s cabin was almost overfull. Nearly every square inch of the large cabin’s bulkheads was covered with some form of artwork: paintings, tapestries, and art forms that Teldin had never seen before. For example, in pride of place on the aft wall was a large, circular ring of metal more than two feet in diameter. Crisscrossing the ring were fine wires of different colors of metal. Where the wires crossed near the middle of the ring, they twisted and knotted around each other, building up into an intricate interweaving of metal threads. The pattern seemed somehow right on the edge between chaos and order. When Teldin concentrated on the arrangement, the whole thing seemed totally random, but when he didn’t concentrate, just let his mind drift and experience the design without analyzing it, he couldn’t avoid the feeling that there was some organization, some higher order of pattern, to the wires … but one that was just beyond his mind’s ab
ility to perceive.

  The paintings and tapestries were more familiar forms of art, but there was something unusual about them, too. In those that depicted scenery or figures, there seemed to be missing detail in certain places – surprising, since overall the works were incredibly intricate. Even the tapestries made up of abstract geometric patterns didn’t look right. Otherwise regularly repeating geometric motifs seemed to be broken up here and there by featureless areas of dark red. For some reason, Teldin found those pieces mildly frustrating.

  He turned to Estriss, who’d been watching his inspection with obvious interest. “Is this illithid art?” he asked.

  It is. How do you find it?

  Teldin paused. He suddenly felt a little edgy. How much did he know about Estriss, after all? In the creature’s hours of privacy in his cabin, the mind flayer might have been creating these paintings, these tapestries. Teldin didn’t want to offend his friend. “Very interesting,” he said enthusiastically. “I like them.”

  Do they convey emotions to you? Estriss asked. He pointed to one tapestry, an intricate tessellation of five-pointed stars, broken here and there by large regions of featureless red. This one, for example. What emotion does it portray to you?

  Teldin looked closer at the tapestry. The weaving was incredibly intricate, and it was fascinating the way the stars – each subtly different in shape – interlocked so perfectly, but … “No real emotion,” he had to admit.

  Estriss looked disappointed. Truly? It is one of the most emotionally evocative works I have ever found. Estriss fixed Teldin with his white eyes. Are you sure? No sense of pride, of exultation?

  “None.”

  The illithid gave a whistling sigh. There seem to be some things that simply cannot cross racial boundaries, he mused. Of course, much of it may be due to differences in our optical apparatuses. He reached out a red-tinged finger and touched one of the featureless patches of deep red on the tapestry. Do you see the continuation of the pattern here?

  Teldin looked closer, but the region remained undifferentiated red. “No,” he said. “What do you mean?”

  To my eyes, the illithid explained, the pattern is as clear there as it is here. He pointed to a region where the stars were strongly contrasting blues and greens.

  “How is that possible?”

  My eyes are adapted to see farther into the infrared than are humans’, Estriss explained. When I see a rainbow, I see two bands of color beyond red, colors that humans cannot see.

  Teldin felt a sense of wonder growing within him. “What do they look like, these colors?” he asked.

  The illithid’s tentacles writhed with amusement. First describe to me what green looks like, he suggested.

  Teldin was taken aback. “What? Well, it looks …” His voice trailed off, and he had to smile. “It looks green” he finished. “All right, it was a dumb question.”

  Estriss gave one of his shattered-spine shrugs. We drift far from the point, he remarked. We were speaking of the cloak.

  A little self-consciously, Teldin touched the garment, still a small band around the back of his neck. “You say it drains energy from me,” he said. “How?”

  There is no way for me to be sure, Estriss admitted. Most enchanted items draw their energy directly from elsewhere – from the Positive or Negative Material Planes, for example – much as do spells.

  “I thought wizards were the power source for their own spells,” Teldin put in.

  Estriss shook his head. Not possible, he said flatly. Do you know how much energy is involved in even the simplest of spells? If that power were drawn directly from the caster, it would leave him exhausted at the very least, but more likely a lifeless husk. No, the energy comes from elsewhere. Now, with enchanted objects – he moved smoothly back to his original point – the energy is focused by the item and directed so as to have on effect in the physical world. It is like – he struggled for an analogy – like when you carry a lantern. The energy of the lantern’s light is produced and focused by the lantern it-self, though it is you who directs that energy by moving the lantern. Do you understand?

  “I think so,” Teldin said slowly. “The cloak is different?”

  The cloak is different, Estriss confirmed. When you used magic to defend yourself from your attacker, the power was channeled through you, through your body. It was as if the cloak poured power into your body, then you released that power in the manner and direction that you willed. Was that not how it felt?

  Teldin remembered the sensations: the flood of heat through his body, the feeling that he must be burning with light, the terror, the pain, and the ecstasy …. He nodded wordlessly.

  In that way, the cloak is different from anything I have experience with, the illithid continued. And there is more. The fact that you were drained after the experience tells me that some of your own energy was added to what was released. You contributed to the power – not much, or else you would now be dead, but to some degree. The mind flayer’s facial tentacles writhed, adding to the tone of intensity in his mental words. Do you realize what that means? he asked. It means that you actively participated in using magic, but you are not a mage. I have never heard of anything like this before.

  Teldin shook his head again. This was getting deep, and he’d never really had the interest or the determination to worry about philosophy. It was also getting scary. “Is that the way it should work?” he asked.

  I seriously doubt it, Estriss replied at once. I think it is a result of you not knowing how to control the cloak’s functions. “Is it dangerous?”

  I believe it may well be, the illithid told him soberly. Although it was impressive, and highly effective, the power you wielded on the forecastle was relatively minor, as such things go. There is no reason to believe that the display we witnessed is the most powerful capability the cloak possesses. It is possible you may accidentally trigger a facility that is more significant, that will pour more power through your body. It is also possible that your unintended … participation … in this energy flow might permanently damage you.

  “Or kill me,” Teldin added quietly.

  Or kill you.

  “What do I do? Never use the cloak? I don’t bow how I used it this time.”

  No, the illithid said sharply. Deciding never to use the cloak is useless. The power was triggered accidentally this time. You did not consciously intend to wield it. It seems likely, perhaps inevitable, that you will again trigger it by accident.

  “But, then, what do I do?” Teldin asked desperately. “I can’t take the cloak off, and if I don’t take it off, eventually it’s going to kill me, isn’t that what you’re saying?” He spat one of Aelfred’s mercenary oaths. “The only question is, what will kill me first, the cloak or the neogi?”

  There is another way, Estriss cut him off firmly. I said that the draining effect is simply because you are unfamiliar with controlling the cloak. If you were to become familiar, however …

  Teldin was silent for several heartbeats, then, “How?” he asked forcefully. “It’s never done anything when I’ve wanted it to, only when it’s wanted.” He shivered. For a moment, he could almost believe that the cloak on his back was some kind of intelligence – maybe a malign one, considering what had been happening to him lately – that was playing with him like a cat plays with a mouse … before killing it.

  Estriss shook his head so violently that his facial tentacles flailed. It is an easy trap to fall into, to ascribe intelligence to the cloak, he said firmly, but I urge you not to fall into it. The cloak has no sentience – none – but … The creature’s eyes hooded under double eyelids. But you are right, in a way. The problem lies in triggering the cloak.

  “How do you normally trigger a magic item?”

  It varies widely, the illithid said. For some, it is a word that must be spoken aloud, or repeated mentally. For others, it is sufficient to visualize the desired outcome. For others still, it is simply an act of will, as when you move your arm. The creatur
e paused. From my research on the Juna, he continued at length, it seems there are other ways. A word of command is, after all, merely a number of symbols – in this case, spoken syllables – strung together in a sequence. There are other kinds of symbols as well. My research implies that some items may be triggered by visualizing a sequence of geometrical forms or relationships. Or even, perhaps, a sequence of emotions. Do you understand?

  “Only vaguely,” Teldin admitted, “but then I don’t really understand how a word can trigger something either.” He hesitated. “How does this matter?”

  What did you feel, Teldin? Estriss asked intensely. What did you feel, what did you think, when you fought the man on the forecastle? Try to recall.

  “I felt fear,” Teldin replied instantly. “I thought … I thought I was going to die.”

  Be more precise.

  “I don’t know.”

  I saw your movements, as I tried to reach you. You reached out with your hand, toward your attacker. Why? What were you thinking? What, exactly?

  Teldin tried to force his mind back to that moment, but it was difficult. The memory was blurred, indistinct. Yes, the illithid was right. He had reached out. Why? To save himself. To block the swing of that deadly sword …. “To stop him.”

  How?

  “I don’t know,” Teldin said, “it was just a reflex. It wouldn’t have worked.”

  But you did stop him, Estriss reminded him. Perhaps it was your emotion the cloak responded to, your desire to stop the man, in any way possible. Perhaps it was that desire, that unintentional act of will … if that makes any sense. The illithid thought for a moment. What did you feel when the power was released?

  “Heat,” Teldin responded, “and light. The cloak burst into light —”

  There was no light that I saw, Estriss interrupted.