by Jack Massa
Amlina winced at the queen's ferocity. But there was no turning back.
“What I propose is to journey to the lost city of Valgool, in the upland wastes of Far Nyssan. There, and only there, by invoking an ancient spirit of that place, it is possible to fashion a great ensorcellment called the Mirror Against All Mishap. If I am successful in weaving that design, I will then sail to Tallyba and attempt to kill Beryl. But you must understand, my queen, the chances of success are uncertain. I might never reach Valgool; I might fail at creating the Mirror; or the power of the Mirror might expire before I can reach Tallyba. Or, Beryl might use some magic I cannot guess at, to overcome my designs. But the worst part is—for you—that you will never know the outcome. You see, this is blood magic; it requires human sacrifice. The death of a queen to achieve the death of a queen: that is the reflection the Mirror demands. I would never ask this of anyone—it violates my principles as a witch of Larthang. But tonight, in the feast hall, you spoke words that made me think you would accept such an opportunity, welcome it, in fact. And so, I lay the offer before you.”
Amlina had stared at the floor as she spoke. Now she forced herself to confront the queen's gaze. Meghild was pale, lips pressed shut. She glanced at the bard, whose hand covered the harp strings as though to keep them still.
“Perhaps you think I lack the courage for this,” Meghild said at last. “But you would be wrong.”
“My queen,” Wilhaven cried. “I beg you to consider with care: your life, your duty to the tribe.”
“Aye, I know. It is no light thing to cast your life away. But this existence I have is but a painful wreck of my former life. As for Demardunn, it deserves a warrior on the throne. Leidwidth my son will make a fit ruler.”
“Not so fit as you, my queen,” Wilhaven said. “Forgive my bluntness.”
“Fit enough,” Meghild growled. “Besides, what difference if he takes my place now, or a few years hence? No, the more I look at it, the more sure I feel. If your witchery can restore me, Amlina, so that I can sail once more, stride the rolling decks of a cranock, then I will gladly go with you and die in lost Valgool.”
Amlina locked eyes with her, wondering again if this was the right thing to do.
“But I have one condition.” The queen raised a finger. “That my bard here accompany us on the voyage. So that, assuming he survives, he may compose fit poetry to record Meghild's last adventure, to sing in all the halls of Gwales. Would you accept that charge, Wilhaven?”
The bard's eyes were downcast, his voice subdued. “Aye, my lady, if you are fixed on this course, then it would be my honor to sail with you.”
“There you have it,” Meghild eyed the witch challengingly. “Now tell me the truth: How will you rejuvenate my body to make this voyage possible?”
Amlina's gaze shifted again to the floor. “That won't exactly be necessary. All I will need is your head.”
Six
“You need to explain that, Amlina,” Meghild said calmly. “And in a way we can understand.”
The witch climbed to her feet. “The Mirror is difficult to create,” she said, pacing the floor. “But not so difficult to understand. Essentially, it protects the bearers from all harm, reflects that harm back at the ones who launched it. If I were protected by the Mirror and Wilhaven here struck at my head with his sword, then space would bend and the sword embed itself in his skull. If a deepshaper cast a design at me to turn my bones to jelly, then it would be cast back and her limbs and spine would collapse.
“So much for the Mirror's effects. As to its fashioning, just as in an actual mirror, each element of the design must be a reflection of something else. To create it requires the formulation of an eidolon, a spirit-body, which would be a reflection of your physical body. This eidolon will be animated, directed, by your brain. This means that your head must be removed, still living, and mounted on the shoulders of the eidolon.”
The bard stared aghast, but Meghild’s eyes showed eager excitement. “Will it allow me to stand, to walk, to breathe the air?”
“It will, according to the ancient texts. It will also, from the moment of its animation, draw power from the Ogo—that which we call the Deepmind. This pure, unformulated power will engender the Mirror Against All Mishap, at the moment when the eidolon—and you, my queen—are obliterated atop the ruined pyramid in lost Valgool.”
“I see,” Meghild said. “And you are certain you can make this eidolon work, and it will house my mind?”
Amlina shook her head. “No. As I admitted before, the whole project is uncertain. The currents of the Deepmind are true, the laws of magic are certain. But steering those currents, invoking those laws—that depends on the power and skill of the deepshaper. I believe I can fashion an eidolon body that will house your mind. That is all I can say for certain.”
Meghild stared, pondering, appraising the witch. Wilhaven’s eyes were downcast, his face solemn and dark.
“Very well,” the queen said, at last. “I will risk it. When do we start?”
Amlina could not help but smile. “You are brave and indomitable, my queen. I honor you for that.”
“Bah!” Meghild brushed aside the compliment. “It is little enough I am risking. Assuming your magic works, how long will I have to live in the spirit body?”
“That,” Amlina said, “is a crucial factor. For just as many days as the eidolon lives, from the moment of creation to destruction, for just that long will the Mirror itself last after it is formed.”
“Then you will want to prolong the time.”
“Yes, for as long as possible. But there is another factor. The Mirror is both blood magic and moon magic. It can only be created under a specific alignment of the moons—including not only Grizna and Rog, but Tysanni, the mythical third moon that vanished in the Time of the World's Madness.”
Wilhaven twanged a sharp note. “And how can a vanished moon align with anything?”
Amlina shrugged. “Some believe Tysanni did not fly off into space, as is commonly believed, but only became invisible, and still follows its course through the sky. In any case, there are records of its appearance on historical dates, and these allow astronomers to calculate where in the sky it would be, even to this day.”
“And that is sufficient for your moon magic?” the queen asked.
“Yes. Moon magic is common in Nyssan, including such as relies on aspects to Tysanni. For creation of the Mirror, the three moons must be aligned in a configuration known as a Baleful Trine—a configuration that occurs once every four or five years. It will next occur on the 19th night of the first month of Second Summer.”
“Then we have roughly two months,” Meghild said.
“Precisely 73 days.” As a bard, Wilhaven was trained in calendar calculations.
Meghild shifted her legs and sat upright. “There are charts in that cabinet by the wall. Find me one that shows Kleeg and the northern seas.”
Amlina walked over and opened the carved doors of the cabinet. She sorted through a number of parchment rolls, then carried one over to the queen. She sat on the divan beside Meghild, who spread the roll on her lap.
“Aye, here we are.” Meghild's gnarled finger traced the outline of lands and waters across the northern ocean. “About two small-months to reach Kleeg, in the soft-water season. Then across the Bay of Mistrel … Fogs are likely there, so say another 10 to 15 days … That makes about 37 days to get here, Borgova, on the eastern edge of the bay. Valgool, as I recall, was supposed to be somewhere beyond these mountains.”
“Yes … here.” Amlina pointed to a spot on the map. “According to charts shown to me by Buroof, the talking book.”
“Then we’ll travel up this river as far as it is navigable, then overland through the mountains. That is the realm of the torms, you know? The winged-folk are savage and speak no human tongue.”
“So I understand,” Amlina replied quietly. “But Buroof claims to know their language.”
The queen's eyebrows
lifted. “Interesting. Well then, assuming safe passage through their mountains—and it will be summer at least, so the passes should be open—it should take maybe another 20 days to reach the ruins of Valgool. And that means … how many total days for the journey, Wilhaven?”
“Close on 57 days by your figuring, my queen. And if the alignment of moons comes in 73 days, that gives us 16 to spare.”
“Very good,” Meghild said. “I will need a small-month to settle my affairs.” She showed a wicked smile. “After that, Amlina, my head is at your disposal.”
* O *
Nervous, exhilarated, bone-weary, Amlina returned to her chamber—to find the Iruks waiting. Grouped around the trestle table, they turned to her expectantly as she entered and shut the door. From his place at the end of the table, Kizier the windbringer regarded her somberly with his single eye. He instantly sensed her mood.
“Amlina, is everything well?”
“Yes. I've just come from the queen.” She ran a hand through her pale hair as she stepped toward them. “But why are you here, my friends?”
“We need to talk with you, about Glyssa,” Karrol said. “You must help her. She is … she needs your help.”
The Iruks hovered over Glyssa like bears protecting an injured cub. The small woman sat with shoulders hunched, staring vacantly through eyes red from crying.
The witch slumped into her chair. “What help would you have from me, Glyssa?”
It was necessary that Glyssa speak for herself, to confront the chaos inside her. Amlina knew this much, at least, and so she waited through the painful silence.
“I cannot speak of it,” Glyssa said at last. “I am too afraid, too ashamed.”
With a twinge of fright, Amlina glimpsed the abyss in which Glyssa was trapped. The witch pulled back, deliberately shielding her emotions. Empathy now would be no help at all.
“There is no reason for shame, Glyssa. But the fear: I understand that all too well.” She glanced at Draven, then Lonn. “I have known for some time of Glyssa's predicament. Since even before we came to Gwales.”
The Iruks stared at her with surprise.
“It is true,” Kizier said. “Amlina and I have spoken of it. We have both been concerned over Glyssa's suffering.”
“Then why have you done nothing to help her?” Lonn demanded.
Amlina frowned. She rose to her feet, leaned over the table, and opened the talking book.
“Buroof: I, Amlina, summon you to speak.”
A white haze flickered over the pages, and with it came the ancient smell of the book—mixed of dried parchment, incense smoke, countless magical energies.
“I am listening, Amlina of Larthang.”
“My allies, the Iruks, are present, along with Kizier,” Amlina said.
“Hmm. Yes, I perceive them. An active set of minds, not dull, but unschooled— distastefully ignorant.”
The Iruks were watching, grim and perplexed. The book had spoken in Larthangan.
“Converse with us now in Low Tathian, so they can understand.”
“Oh, very well,” Buroof replied with ill humor. He switched to the common trading tongue: “Why have you summoned me?”
“Have I not spoken with you before, concerning souls that have been enthralled, and the ways of recovery from that condition?”
At the far end of the table, Glyssa lifted her head, eyes alert.
“Yes,” the book said.
“In many cases,” Amlina continued, “full recovery occurs within days of the mind-cage being broken. Is that not correct?”
“True,” Buroof allowed. “But in many other cases, full recovery never occurs, and the thrall is left a babbling idiot or speechless imbecile.”
“But there are also cases, are there not, where recovery is only partial? Where conditions of fear, confusion, or desolation linger?”
“Yes, as we have discussed. This seems to happen more often if the captivity has been long, or the enslaver particularly powerful.”
“And what magical techniques are known for healing such afflictions?”
Buroof answered impatiently, “As we also have discussed, there is scant knowledge on the subject—which only stands to reason after all. Why should a practitioner of these arts be interested in helping thralls recover? What benefit to them in such foolish altruism?”
“Spare us the rhetorical questions,” Amlina said. “Explain instead the historical cases where full recovery for such sufferers has been achieved.”
“Purportedly achieved,” Buroof corrected. “And there are only two creditable traditions. One, at the temple of Nei-Chan in northwest Larthang, in the 16 Century of the current era, thralls who had been enslaved by the Red Viper Cult were supposedly healed, over time, by strict adherence to a monastic life.”
“Yes, and the other tradition?”
“That would be Moorlina Kel San, the legendary and saintly Archimage of the East in the 4th century. Upon deposing Jan Tei, her notorious predecessor, Moorlina is said to have taken it upon herself to free all those whose minds Jan Tei had enslaved. In some cases, according to the histories, this could only be accomplished by training the former thralls in the arts of deepshaping, so that, over time, they were able to heal themselves.”
Amlina shifted her gaze to Glyssa, whose stare now was compounded of fear and confusion—and perhaps a glint of hope.
“Thank you, Buroof. That is all.” Amlina closed the book. She filled her lungs and let out the breath, scanning the Iruk's faces. “Now you understand. Kosimo the serd was a potent sorcerer. He left a mark on Glyssa's soul. The only treatments known to history for her condition are a life of complete withdrawal from the world or training in the magical arts. In both cases the hope would be that, in time, Glyssa could heal herself.”
The Iruks eyed her somberly. Karrol shuffled her feet. Lonn laid a hand on Glyssa's shoulder. Glyssa simply stared straight ahead.
“I do not see Glyssa withdrawing to a monastery,” Kizier finally said. “But surely the other path is a possibility.”
“That's right,” Lonn said. “You initiated me, and later the rest of the klarn. Why not Glyssa?”
Amlina sank into her chair. How could she make them understand? “When I initiated you, and we formed a wei circle, it was with a certain, narrow purpose. That work only touched the surface of what we are talking about now. To train Glyssa in the arts of deepshaping, to the point where she could integrate and control the energies of her own soul: the task would be long and difficult at best, the chances of success … unpredictable. And I am certainly not the best teacher. Honestly, you would do better to sail to Larthang and to use your gold to place her in an academy, or hire an expert tutor. But then—”
She stopped herself. She had known it was possible that she must part from the Iruks, but had not till this moment confronted her feelings. She feared going on without them, knew she would miss their strength and blithe courage, dreaded most of all the prospect of losing Draven.
She forced herself to go on. “—But that would mean we must part ways. For I will be sailing to the other side of the world. It has just this night been decided.”
She told them of her plan, to take the head of Queen Meghild to the lost city of Valgool, to use it to invoke the Mirror Against All Mishap. The Iruks listened intently, grim and thoughtful, yet with a light kindling in their eyes at the promise of such a wild adventure. The decision was also news to Kizier, but from him Amlina sensed only doubt and worry.
“You are resolved on this course?” Draven asked. “Even if we do not go with you?”
Amlina suppressed her misgivings. “Yes, I am resolved. If you will not join me, I hope some of Meghild's men might volunteer to sail with their queen. If not, I will hire a crew.”
The bleak expression on Draven's face made her wonder if he might even break with his mates and follow her. Then Amlina's eyes were drawn to Glyssa, and the emotion she saw there, the fear and anguish, but also the stubborn courage, touched her h
eart. There was emotion in her own voice as she spoke.
“My friends, I cannot say what the end of this voyage will bring, but I dearly hope you will come with me. If you will, I promise to use my arts and all the strength of my soul to help Glyssa … if that is what she chooses.”
She rose unsteadily from the chair. “Now I must rest. For the next small-month, there is deep magic to prepare. I mean to sail in twelve or thirteen days. You must decide for yourselves what is best for you, and for Glyssa.”
Seven
The bathing hall of Castle Demardunn was a long, steep-roofed building set in a corner of the main courtyard. The Iruks, who were fond of bathing, came here nearly every day—first to soak in tubs of warm water, then to relax in the steam.
They chose the bathing hall for their klarn meeting. It was as private as any place in the castle. Besides, by speaking in Iruk, they were assured their words would not be understood by attendants or other bathers who might appear. Wrapped in linen towels, they sat on two benches, facing each other through clouds of white steam that rose from the heated and drenched stones.
Glyssa had passed a sleepless night, her mind returning again and again to the duel with Penredd, the horrible flight up the steps, the despair so deep it almost made her leap from the parapet. But she had not stirred from bed, afraid of disturbing her mates, certain that Lonn and Brinda and Karrol would all have woken if she had tried to leave. She despised herself for causing them such worry.
Lonn stood and cleared his throat. “As to the meeting. You all know the question. Who will speak first?”
Their faces turned to Glyssa, and their scrutiny was like something that smothered her. “I prefer for others to speak,” she muttered.
After a moment, Draven sprang up. “Well then, my opinion is this: we owe Amlina much—for rescuing us when we would have drowned in the sea, for helping us find and reunite with Glyssa, for leading us to more treasure than we'd ever seen. We owe her loyalty; she is our friend and ally, and she needs us now. But more than all that, she has promised, from her heart, to help Glyssa. I know she said she might not be the best teacher, but what option do we have? To sail to Larthang and try to find a witch or school to train Glyssa? We would have no idea what we were doing.” He spread out his hands. “Really, mates, I see very little question about it. We should sail with Amlina. That is my vote.”
