by Dave Duncan
Somehow she was sorry for him, then. It was very hard to stay mad at Mist.
“I didn’t know,” she admitted, not able to look him in the eye, studying his long yellow legs and fancy boots. “Not at first. They made me forget.”
“Who did? Forget what?”
“Forget my goodman. Mist, this isn’t your trouble.”
“It is if you’re unhappy.”
How had he stumbled into that touching, un-Mist-like thought?
“Thank you. Mist. I can’t tell you very much.” But suddenly the story came pouring out of her like the insides of a broken egg and she couldn’t stop. “A recorder came and told me I have Faculty and I must come to the College… I ran away. I think I ran away. I fell in love with a man called Leéb. We had a Place, I think, a Place very like your cottage, because that was one of the things that started me remembering. I don’t know how I came here. I just was here. That day we met—I realized that there was a whole year missing from my life, or almost a year. The recorders must have found me and brought me here, and they made me forget.”
“Leéb?” he said. “You didn’t know about him, then, when you… I mean, when we…”
“Yes. But I wasn’t a beginner. Mist, was I?”
His blush had been fading. Now it flooded back.
“No. I don’t think so. You knew more than I did, I think.”
That was an astonishing admission from him. Where had all his smugness gone? Why did he suddenly have to start being so infuriatingly likable? She clenched her fists and hardened her anger.
“That was when I was sure. They stole part of my life and they stole my love! How can the Keeper do that? Where do you find that in your catechism? I want Leéb!”
For a moment Mist shuffled his feet. His fright had returned at the thought of carrying this defiance to Mearn.
“What’s he like, Thaïle? Anything like me?”
She hoped not. “I don’t know. I told you—I don’t remember him at all. Only his name.”
Again those pale yellow eyes widened. “You mean you’re doing this because you’re in love with someone you can’t remember?”
“Yes!” She slammed the door on him, terrified she might start to weep. She leaned on it, shivering. “Tell that to Mistress Mearn!” she shouted. “Tell her I don’t want lunch. Tell her I won’t go to the Defile, tonight or any other night. Tell her I want my goodman back and I shan’t eat or leave here until I get him!”
She heard a muffled wail through the door and Felt his horror. “Thaïle!”
“I don’t care if I starve to death! Tell her that. Mist! Tell the Keeper herself!”
Auld acquaintances:
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to min’?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And days o’ auld lang syne?
Robert Burns, Auld Lang Syne
TWO
Lonesome road
1
That Thaïle child was turning out to be a serious problem, the sort of flaw that could blight a man’s whole career. Her antics were not Jain’s fault, though, and he would have to make that very clear… Scowling at the brilliant dawn sunshine, he strode out of his cottage and gazed over the dunes. Coarse grass rippled in the sea wind, waves rushed up on the beach, disappearing into froth and silvery sheets of water. He took a deep breath and felt better. At last a fine morning!
As he had foreseen, the children were romping on the sand with an enormous black furry animal. He strode over to them. The monster saw him first.
“Wait!” it said from under the giggling, struggling heap. “Wait a pesky minute! Daddy’s here.” Then it shimmered and became a naked woman.
“Trouble?” Jool demanded warily. For a pixie, she was unusually heavy-breasted, wide at the hips, and voluptuous enough to speed his heart even at this time of day—even with his Thaïle worries.
“Just a dull old meeting. Daddy has to leave now, darlings.”
The three came running to him for a hug. He knelt, casting a mild charm to keep the sand from sticking to his clothes.
“Stay home today, then,” Jool said, stretching out catlike, soaking up the sunlight. Her gaze was seductive. Lately she’d begun to suspect that he was bored with her; she missed no chance to make herself available. How did women know such things? He was a sorcerer. He ought to be able to keep secrets from a mere mundane. She was only guessing about the others.
“I’d love to,” he said wearily, and not without truth. “But I can’t. One of the novices is being a stubborn little vixen. I recruited her, so they want me at a meeting. That’s all.” He nibbled and growled fiercely, but a dressed-up daddy was much less fun than a giant sea otter. The youngsters went racing back to their mother.
Jool pulled a sulky face. “Hurry back, lover.” She became a furry monster again as she was buried under the shrieking pack. The illusion was a minor magic he’d given her to amuse the kids. It was well within permissible limits. Major sorcery was forbidden; it would distract the archons and the Keeper.
“Best invitation I’ve had all day,” he promised, and went striding off across the sands.
He’d been a farm boy. The College had provided a suitably homey Place for him, as it did for all recruits. When he’d chosen a fisherman’s daughter, though, he’d asked for a Place more in keeping with her upbringing. The ancient pixie tradition of honoring the site of the first coupling would have required them to live at his Place. He had not wanted his friends to think that he—an urbane, sophisticated resident of the College—was bothered by such rustic superstition. After all, a goodwife spent all her time at home, while in those days he’d been a recorder, traveling all over Thume. Now he was an archivist, and had work to do in the Scriptorium most days. He had never regretted the move to the coast, especially on fine salty mornings like this one.
As he left the beach behind, the dunes gave way to moorland and sedge marsh, the sand dwindling to patches and then disappearing altogether. Soon his feet trod a broad white gravel path, winding over the heath ahead until it became the Way itself and then he was encased in sorcery, unable to perceive the ambience. He felt confined and blinded, but that always happened. He called up a mental image of the Meeting Place and strode along at an easy pace. He was in no hurry, although he would be crossing the entire width of Thume, from the shores of the Sea of Sorrows to extreme east; no journey on the Way took very long.
He felt he ought to be rehearsing his defense, yet he could think of no reason why he should need a defense. He’d done exactly what had been required of him. He had been diligent and meticulous, working his assigned area in the Progiste Foothills, month after boring month, talking with all those peasant bumpkins, noting who among the Gifted families had died, which youngsters had kept Death Watch, checking for Faculty, reporting back to the archivists. He had done exactly what a recorder was supposed to do, no more and no less. He had a commendation in his file.
His assignment to the Progistes had been a compliment in itself. His superiors had passed on a warning from the Keeper that there had been a major battle on the other side of the mountains, Outside, and that recorders in the area must keep an eye open for refugees sneaking into Thume. Horses climbed trees with more success than intruders ever evaded the archons’ watch, but the posting to that place at that time had been more than pure routine, a sign of trust.
When he had picked up rumors of the Thaïle child and her occult vision of the battle, he had remembered the warning and gone at once to investigate. At once! He made a mental note of that important phrase. He had seen at once that her Feeling was extraordinary. He had given her all the necessary instruction, to her and her father. Perhaps he had been a little harsh with the old man, but he had not strayed beyond permissible limits of discipline. He had taken time to explain very carefully to the child herself. She had shown no unusual symptoms of rebellion.
He had absolutely nothing to apologize for, nothing to fear.
&nb
sp; Any reprimands were going to settle on someone else’s performance record, not his.
As it approached the Meeting Place, the Way wound through thick cypress forest, gummy-scented with the trees’ response to spring. It emerged into mixed woodland under a veiled sky. The sun shone diffusely, but cheerfully enough. The air sparkled with life and dampness.
Jain’s mind drifted back to Jool. She definitely suspected. Why should it matter to her if he indulged in an occasional idle affair? Lots of his friends did. What was the use of being a sorcerer if you couldn’t enjoy a few fringe benefits? Why should she care? He wasn’t going to walk out on her and the kids, after all. Seven years since their first loving, half a year since he had become a full sorcerer and been promoted to archivist. That fourth word of power must have been a weak one. As an adept he had been exceptional; as a mage still above average, but the final word had not made him the truly powerful sorcerer he had expected. That rankled. He still found it hard to believe that fate should have been so unkind. He might very well remain a lowly archivist all his days. Like Mearn.
Like Mistress Mearn, who had summoned him to this stupid meeting. Would he become bitter, like her? He hoped not. Mearn had never married, which suggested that she had been a sourpuss even in her youth. Her crabby disposition might also explain why she had not been promoted to higher rank, for her power was certainly adequate, much greater than his. Another possibility was that no one else had ever wanted her job as Mistress of Novices. He knew from personal experience how the old cat enjoyed bullying the kids; he still found himself deferring to her. Mearn undoubtedly had enough power for higher rank, even if she lacked the temperament. Power depended on Faculty. Faculty was something one was born with, or without.
The Thaïle child, for example, had considerable Faculty. Even a single word of power—one feeble, attenuated “background” word—had given her an astonishing talent, an occult talent, not just some useful mundane ability. With three more words, she would undoubtedly be a very puissant sorceress. Forty years from now she would likely be an archon. If she was truly extraordinary, she might ultimately become Keeper. Why did she have to be such a stubborn little minx about it? How could Jain possibly have known that she would run away instead of coming to the College as he had directed her? She had not been plotting rebellion that first day he had met her. He was certain of that.
It was not his fault that the archivists had not noted her absence for so long. He had still been a recorder then.
It was not his fault that she had gotten herself with child in the meantime, sired by some nonentity of a peon not even from a Gifted family.
And it was certainly not Jain’s fault that she had refused to go to the Defile with the other novices last night.
Everyone went through the Defile! He shivered. The Defile was not a happy memory for anyone, and it would undoubtedly be worse for her with her strong Faculty than it had been for him, but she could not know that.
Stubborn little harpy!
* * *
The Way brought him to the Meeting Place, and there it became only a mundane path again. Again he became conscious of the ambience, the other-world, the shadowy plane of the occult.
All around the clearing, spring flowers flamed in brilliant fresh hues. White swans floated on the lake, and the grass was green enough to hurt the eyes. Here and there people strolled or lounged on benches—gossiping, flirting, relishing this fine morning. Perhaps a score of them in all, spread around the glade, none looking more than twenty-five or thirty, young and finely dressed and happy. In the ambience he could see them as they really were, and all the repair work done on gray hair and sagging breasts and wrinkles.
Mearn was standing on the far side of the lake with a blocky-shaped man Jain did not recognize. He set off along the white gravel path toward them. He supposed Mearn would be her usual well-dressed self, but she was too far off for him to make out details of her dress without using farsight. In the ambience her occult image was nasty and scrawny, admittedly very solid-seeming, which was an indicator of her Faculty. She had well-pointed pixie ears, but that was about all she could boast of. Her hair was piled neatly on the top of her head to make her dumpy form seem taller, but her eyes were an ugly brown, sort of mud-color, not good pixie gold. Today they conveyed undoubted worry. Novice trouble was Mearn trouble.
Probably do her a lot of good, humility-wise.
Her husky companion had remarkable eyes, large and very slanted and pure gold. No, Jain had never met him before. That was surprising, but a sorcerer did not forget faces. The man’s image was unnervingly solid, like rock. There could be no deception in the ambience—he truly must be as young and husky as he seemed, yet Jain had thought he knew everyone of his own generation in the College at least by sight. Clearly he had been mistaken. This stranger might be a little older than he. He might have been recruited while still very young and progressed very fast through the educational process. But he must have whistled through the junior ranks of recorder and archivist, or Jain would have met him somewhere, sometime. In short, he must be very highly gifted. Could he possibly be an archon?
Jain speeded up his approach. If the Thaïle affair had attracted the attention of an archon, then it was serious indeed. He hoped his sudden agitation was not visible, but of course it would be. There were never more than eight archons at a time, and for some reason he had always assumed that they would be very old. He had never met any of them. He knew no one who had. He did not want to meet any of them, either, especially today.
He had never seen the imperturbable Mearn look so uneasy before. Uneasy? She was plain scared!
Long before he was within speaking distance, the man addressed him. “I am Archon Raim.” His thoughts struck like notes from a great bell. He was violating the College tradition that conversations should be held in mundane style whenever possible, as a concession to those with weaker Faculty.
“Honored, noble sir.” Jain had no need to introduce himself, and a strong desire to vanish from Thume altogether.
“Archivist, you interviewed the Thaïle novice on the morning of her arrival.”
Jain was starting to sweat, and not only from the length of his strides as he hurried closer. “I did, sir.”
“You were instructed to establish what she recalled of the period deleted from her memory. You reported that she remembered nothing since before she met the man Leéb.”
“That is correct.”
“Then explain why she now asks for him by name and demands to be reunited with him?”
Still several paces away, Jain came to a dead halt, panting and gaping. “Impossible!”
The archon smiled thinly and dangerously. “Perhaps, but it is so. You offer no explanation?”
“None, sir!” Jain realized that he had spoken aloud. He began to walk again. This was what was behind the rebellion? This why the minx refused to go to the Defile? “The memories had been totally wiped. They had been excised as completely as the aftereffects of her pregnancy. I said all that in my report. It was one of the finest pieces of sorcery I have ever seen.” Mearn had credited it to Analyst Shole, who was an acknowledged expert in such matters.
“Obviously your judgment was faulty.”
“Yes, sir.” Jain shivered, and could think of nothing to say.
He was relieved when Mearn intervened—grateful, even, although he would never have imagined himself ever feeling grateful to the old hussy.
“Sir, is it possible that her unusually strong Faculty could have interfered with the results of the operation?”
“No.” The ambience flickered with annoyance. Evidently archons could think up such inanities for themselves.
The gold eyes raked Jain as he finally reached the group. “You have not spoken with her since?”
“No, sir! Certainly not!”
“Someone has been meddling!” This time Raim’s anger was a rumble like distant surf. “The archons will assemble today at noon. In the Chapel. You will attend.”
Cold rivulets coursed down Jain’s skin. “I am not familiar with the Chapel—”
“Of course not. You will be summoned.” The archon vanished, his departure lighting the ambience with a blinding flash.
Jain and Mearn both jumped. Startled faces looked around everywhere in the Meeting Place. To use such naked sorcery within Thume was a crime of great magnitude. Only the Keeper unleashed power like that. That an archon would do so was more proof of severe trouble, and of more trouble in store.
Jain and Mearn exchanged worried looks. Don’t blame me, those looks said, and I have nothing to fear, and what do you think’s going on?
Jain cleared his throat harshly. “I don’t recall when the archons last assembled.”
She pouted. “Are you implying that I do? It was about three hundred years ago.”
2
Thaïle lay on her bed, fully dressed but unable to find the energy to do anything at all. She would not have believed that a mere two days without food would make her so weak. Visions of melons and cutlets floated in her head. Mangoes and perch and rice cakes and breadfruit and…
Where had she ever tasted breadfruit?
If Mistress Mearn marched in now and waved an egg at her, she would crawl on hands and knees all the way to the Defile to get it.
No she wouldn’t!
Leéb! My goodman, Leéb! Whoever or whatever you are, Leéb, I want you. I want to come back to you.
I will never give up.
She drifted in and out of a drowsiness that was not sleep.
Never give up.
An explosion of terror jarred her awake. Someone was coming. The Feeling was unbearable, the worst agony she had ever sensed. It grew stronger and nearer. Footsteps thudded like drumbeats before they reached the porch—a heavy man, running hard, his tread uneven and staggering as if he had run a very long way. She soon realized that it was Mist, his normal aura warped off-key and distorted almost beyond recognition by the strength of his fear.
