by Ann Macela
“Let’s change the subject,” Evelyn interjected before Marcus could respond to George. “Tell me about the dinner at the HeatherRidge.”
At home that evening, Marcus worked through the practitioner database looking for imperative information. The next day he went over to the Austin HeatherRidge to use their library. He wasn’t very successful in either endeavor and could only hope Morgan had been able to find more than anecdote and legend in her searching.
They had to find evidence that the—what did Morgan call it? Oh, yes—the SMI could and did make mistakes. Then they had to discover how to make it change its mind.
For the rest of the week, his center didn’t itch or hurt, and he was able to keep the memory of that kiss at bay by overloading himself with tasks, problems, and duties. His dreams, however, betrayed him. Every morning he woke, arms—and other body parts—aching, with an enormous sense of wanting to hold and be held. Telling himself he needed uninterrupted time to work and hoping also for relief from the imperative’s pressure, he flew to Denver on Friday night.
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
Gloriana sat there in the Denver HeatherRidge ballroom on Saturday night willing herself not to scream. It had not been a good day. First a rainstorm in Austin made the plane late and a wreck on the Denver freeway delayed her even more. She’d rushed into the private dining room as everyone was sitting down to eat.
Dinner was pleasant, or at least the food and conversation were. Forscher was there, of course, looking as perfect as ever. By contrast she felt disheveled and slightly unprepared. Damn, why did she always feel off-kilter with him around? Well, duh, because of the SMI, of course.
He walked with her into the ballroom and in a low voice the others couldn’t hear, said, “Meet in my room after we look over the evaluations? I’m in 1080.”
“Fine. I’m in 1081.” She breathed easier when they were sitting on the stage with Ed in between them. Her center was quiet, thank goodness.
She might still scream after all. Mike Brubaker was speaking for the FOM and boring everybody to death with high-level math terms and complicated explanations of power calibration. It was not a way to win friends and supporters. At least Pritchart had injected humor and sarcasm into his three minutes.
Gloriana looked out over the audience. She liked the setup, however. Ed had followed Forscher’s suggestion of dividing the room into thirds. He had organized it with the middle much larger than the two sides, and it certainly made a difference. The people declaring themselves FOM or THA filled their sections, but did not appear as imposing as when there was only one division. In fact, some neutrals had dragged chairs to the center to avoid sitting with one of the factions. Most looked bored. She shared their sentiments.
Finally, Brubaker sat down after Ed called time twice.
To the front strode Gordon Walcott, Horner’s second in command. Tall and very thin, his stiff carriage and his haughty expression proclaimed his arrogance, confidence, and superiority. He took the microphone from the usher and stood for a long moment looking down his sharp nose at the audience before speaking.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we at the THA are here to warn you. We warn you of the pernicious, malicious, destructive danger that will be foisted upon the practitioner community by this wicked heresy of a so-called
magic formula for casting spells. Pritchart, Brubaker, and their cohorts would have you believe that, to cast properly, you must follow an overly complex, elaborate, incomprehensible set of symbols. They would have you follow their path, which will only lead to confusion, difficulty, and chaos. They would have you teach your children to cast their way—the only way, according to Pritchart. The THA is here to tell you that you do not have to follow them, you do not have to believe them, and you can find support and guidance against the insidious threat with us.”
The man has the delivery of an old-time preacher, Gloriana thought, watching the FOM section bristle with indignation. The THA supporters were smiling, clearly pleased with their champion. The middle sat there, their faces showing such a variety of reactions, it was impossible for her to gauge their opinion as a whole.
How interesting that Walcott was blaming Prick, not Forscher for the formula. She glanced at Forscher, but he was staring straight ahead with no expression.
Walcott went on to denigrate and castigate the formula, the Fomsters, and anyone who agreed with them. From time to time, a Traddie would shout, “Amen, brother,” or one would clap.
Over on the Fomster side, a grumbling murmur rose.
The two Swords, John Baldwin and Bill Morrow, shifted their positions—Baldwin to stand before the FOM side and Morrow to put himself between Walcott and his opponents.
“In conclusion,” Walcott said, in tones of fire and brimstone, “if you follow the siren call of these miscreants, the practitioner life we love will perish, and spell-casting will be reduced to robotic methods that will doom us to an existence without richness, without simplicity, and without freedom. You must deny these blasphemers their victory. Only if we stand up and stand together will we save magic itself!”
The Traddies rose, cheering. A few people in the middle did, too.
The Fomsters rose, booing and yelling. Someone threw something at Walcott.
A flash lit the room, and bright blades of frozen lightning suddenly appeared in the hands of the Swords. Morrow’s glowing indigo weapon intercepted the missile, which burst into ashes. It had only been a wadded-up piece of paper.
“Silence!” roared Baldwin in a voice that shook the room, and the crowd immediately hushed.
In the silence that followed, Gloriana was surprised to find herself on her feet, pulled behind Forscher. She had no recollection of moving, much less his taking her arm, but her heart was beating rapidly, like she’d run a mile. Ed was likewise out of his chair and in front of both of them. She tugged against Forscher’s hold and stuck her head around his shoulder so she could see what was happening.
“Sit down!” Baldwin ordered. He pointed his long silver sword at a Fomster in a “Math Rules!” sweatshirt and added, “All except you.”
Everyone in the audience sat, except the young man. Gloriana, Ed, and Forscher remained standing.
“Do you deny you threw that object?” Baldwin asked. The thrower turned the color of milk and shook his head.
Gloriana wiggled her arm. Forscher didn’t let go entirely, but did allow her to stand by his side. Both he and Ed were watching the Swords. She instead looked at Walcott, who had not moved a muscle. The THA spokesman wore an extremely satisfied expression.
“Security, please escort that man out and hold him in your office,” Baldwin said. After two guards had removed the thrower, the Sword faced the Fomsters and brandished his weapon. “We’ll have no more such outbursts here. Is that clear?”
He glared at them until most nodded. He marched over to the Traddies’ side and repeated the question. When several looked indignant, he waited with a stone face and a ready sword until they, too, nodded. His gaze swept the room. “That order stands for everyone. If you cannot be civil, leave now.”
A number of the audience in the middle smiled with what appeared to be relief. Nobody left.
Walcott raised the microphone like he still had comments to make, but lowered it when Baldwin pointed his weapon at him.
“That goes for you, too,” the Sword said. “Keep your incendiary, provocative remarks to yourself. Your time is up.”
Walcott gave Baldwin a venomous glare and said nothing. He handed his microphone to an usher and sat down.
Baldwin and Morrow, who held their swords in two-handed grips, spread their hands apart, and the shining weapons vanished. They took their original positions before the stage. Baldwin looked up at Ed. “It’s all yours.”
Gloriana and Forscher exchanged a glance that told her he wasn’t going to apologize for pulling her behind him. Not that she was asking him to. His touch had felt warmly protective in the midst of the confusion. He re
leased her, and they resumed their seats.
Ed remained standing and picked up his mike. “I want to see Pritchart and Horner up here after the session,” the editor stated. “I remind everyone of the rules printed in the handouts and on the practitioner Web site. Our meeting is for rational, reasoned debate and discussion. If you can’t do that, if a spokesperson for either side can’t abide by the rules, you won’t be allowed to speak. Anyone causing a disturbance will be banned from the proceedings altogether.”
He scanned the audience for a moment. Both Fomsters and Traddies were silently sullen. Ed sat and pulled his microphone to him. “All right, we’ll ask some questions to get the discussion going. Those of you who wish to comment, hold up your hand and wait to be called on. Glori, you go first.”
Gloriana arranged her notes before attempting to speak. The commotion was over, and the comedown from the adrenaline rush made her hands shake. She took a deep, calming breath to settle herself. Ed was right to bring the discussion back to its real purpose, even if it felt like an anticlimax after all the excitement.
She read her first question, the one calling for suggestions for the best way to discover how each practitioner could cast most effectively. A member of the middle audience offered an answer, and the rest of the debate ran as scheduled, although everybody was more than a little on edge.
At its adjournment, the three on the stage rose and stood with their backs to the departing audience.
“Man, I’m glad that’s over,” Ed said. “John and I are going to meet with the two fearless leaders and lay down the law: no inflammatory speeches, only reasonable debate. You go with Bill back to the dining room. I’ll have the evaluations delivered there, and you can get started on them. Okay?”
Gloriana, Forscher, and Bill left the ballroom by a side door and walked to the dining room through the service corridors. She was happy to reach a spot where they could relax without people watching their every move.
“What a circus!” Forscher grumbled and took a seat at the table.
“Feelings are running higher than I expected. I thought we were going to have to stun the FOM for a minute,” Bill stated.
“Walcott incited both sides deliberately, and afterward he looked extremely satisfied with the reactions,” Gloriana said. “I’m glad you and John were there to keep order. That’s the first time I’ve ever seen a Sword in action. What’s your weapon made of?”
“It’s pure harnessed energy,” Bill replied. “I basically fried that paperball with electricity. We can’t ‘fight’ with them as though they were actual physical swords like in the movies. We can shoot an energy beam from the point that acts like a laser and cuts through practically everything, including weak magical shields. That’s how we destroy evil magic items.”
“Do you choose the ‘style’ of the sword? I noticed yours and John’s don’t look alike.”
“Yes, I chose to create a sword that looks like a medieval long sword. John’s is larger, more like a claymore.”
Before Gloriana could ask another question, one of the ushers entered with the evaluation forms. She thanked him, took the forms, put them on the table, and sat down. “Looks like our work has arrived.”
Marcus watched her divide the large pile into three equal ones. When the commotion started and the Swords drew their weapons, he’d wanted to throw himself at her, to cover her before those lunatics could hurt her. Only John’s quick assumption of control had stopped him from dragging her out of the room completely.
He shook himself mentally and turned to Bill, who sat down also. “Did John tell you what we found last week?”
“Those threatening replies? Yeah. Do we expect more?”
“After that uproar we experienced, I do. Why don’t we do a quick flip-through and see if any stand out?”
“Good idea,” Morgan said and handed out the stacks.
The three of them looked through all the forms and spread the questionable ones out on the table. They were categorizing by faction and threat level when Ed and John came in.
“I’ll tell you about the meeting in a minute. What do you have here?” Ed asked as he and John sat down.
Marcus explained what they had done. “We have a total of eighteen ‘rabid dogs.’ Ten for the FOM and eight for THA. None of them are signed, of course.”
Ed picked up a page and read aloud, ‘“You Idiots and Philistines are dragging us back to the Middle Ages! We’re not going to let that happen. Accept the formula or Else!’ He doesn’t say what ‘else’ means.”
“Here’s one from the THA calling Fomsters heretics, blasphemers, whores, Communists, and pointy-headed liberals,” John said with a chuckle. “He can’t seem to make up his mind whether to be biblical or political.”
“Here’s one telling us to ‘Rot in Hell! If you follow through with this disaster, it will cause such a cataclysm that you all will be destroyed,”‘ Morgan read. “It’s not clear which side wrote it—it’s more of a universal condemnation. Does feel more Traddie, though.” She placed the page away from the others.
“Whatever happened to the old idea of rational discourse?” Ed wondered, before becoming serious. “I made an executive decision and told Pritchart and Horner that we were going to change the format. There will be no more ‘opening statements’ from either side. We’ll still open with your remarks, Marcus and Glori, and go straight into questions and comments from the audience. We’re not going to have a repeat of tonight, whether it’s being terminally confused by someone like Brubaker or being insulted and threatened by a fanatic like Walcott.”
“I agree completely,” Marcus said.
“Me, too,” Morgan nodded. “How did they take your declaration?”
“Both complained, of course. When they mumbled about free speech, I told them they could say what they wanted in answer to a question, so long as it wasn’t inflammatory We will not allow a riot or name-calling or personal attacks. They need to concentrate on persuading people to their side, not frightening or forcing them. Pritchart and Horner nodded, but I don’t know if they’ll follow instructions.”
“Who is Walcott?” Gloriana asked.
“He’s been part of Horner’s inner circle for some time,” John answered. “I looked him up after he signed that evaluation. From what he’s said and written, he’s even more conservative than Horner. Lives in Waco, I believe, and is often seen in Dallas in Horner’s offices. He’s also an eighth-level with a talent for organizing political campaigns and is the brains behind Horner’s endeavors. He’s evidently decided to come out from his support role into the limelight.”
Ed ran his hands through his thinning hair and looked at Marcus and Morgan. “We’ve got to get out in front of the situation here. Use the opportunity, both of you, to speak to the necessity of working together. Marcus, maybe you could explain the formula again and apply it to a simple spell. Glori, why don’t you talk more on how you cast spells. Look for common ground. Let’s all be extremely specific. If we give people concrete examples, maybe we can get away from these sweeping generalities. I’ll try to pin participants down more on the exact meaning of their comments with the same end in mind.”
“Let’s also emphasize the need to study and test the equation,” Marcus said. “My major request is getting lost in the rhetoric.”
“How do you feel about Pritchart?” John asked. “It appears to me that he’s trying to take all the credit for your work.”
“Botanist Alexander von Humboldt,” Morgan interjected, “is supposed to have said, ‘There are three stages in scientific discovery: first people deny that it is true, then they deny that it is important, and finally they credit the wrong person.’“
“That’s typical Prick,” Marcus answered. “I thought he had learned his lesson in grad school when nobody would collaborate with him. Idiot. He doesn’t bother me.”
“His tricks bother me,” Ed said with a scowl. “I’m going to start calling it ‘the Forscher Formula.’ We’ll take a rule from ad
vertising—repetition helps people remember.”
“How about calling it F-Squared?” Morgan asked with that mischievous grin of hers. “Or maybe Forscher’s Famous Formula—F-Cubed.”
Marcus couldn’t help groaning. “Oh, please, no. The last sounds like a patent-medicine, snake-oil concoction.”
On that note, they adjourned.
CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
To avoid both factions, Marcus and Morgan used the service corridors and elevators to reach their floor. As they walked down the hall, he congratulated himself on avoiding an elevator ride like the last one.
When, however, he ushered her into his suite, he caught a whiff of her scent. Breathing deeply to hold her fragrance in his lungs, he watched her drop her purse and folio on a chair and roam the suite’s living room. Neither the dress or the jacket she had on could be considered “sexy,” but the way her body moved under them made him wish …
Easy, take it easy. He put down his folder and walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows, where he stared at her instead of the city. Her restlessness betrayed her tension. Indeed, they both needed to relax before they could discuss their situation reasonably.
To get them both talking, he asked, “How are you? What happened to make you so late tonight?”
She stopped pacing and faced him. “It rained in Austin, and the plane was late, and a wreck on the way from the airport delayed me more. When did you get here?”
“Yesterday. I find that changing locations sometimes frees up my thought processes. I wrote quite a bit last night and today—finished an article, in fact.”
She nodded. “I like to do the same thing. I get some of my best ideas in waiting rooms.”
“Probably something about a neutral atmosphere.” Like they were in here, another bland hotel suite. Maybe it would help them come to a conclusion. “How did your research go on the imperative? I found few hard facts, only reams of legends and anecdotes. Evelyn told me one tale she had ‘on good authority,’ but without names. I never found it officially recorded, however, and I even went to the practitioner library.”
