"Do you enjoy your work with him?" Patrice asked with a knowing smile.
"Yes, my lady, I must admit I do. He's so gentle and trusting. The other one is taking more time, but I am gradually breaking him down too."
"Just see you don't get too attached. Nothing must interfere with this plan--nothing."
"My lady, I have served you too long and have too much to gain to allow anything, much less a little puppy like Imada, to interfere with our goals."
Patrice stared hard at her, then relaxed. Ulinda was reliable--after all, they had worked together on this plan for years.
"If you pronounce him fit to start the operation, we will begin your final transformation tonight. By tomorrow you will be Vena, the peasant girl who saved his life and became his one true love."
Again she paused. "Are you certain of your readiness also?"
"Yes, my lady. I have been assuming Vena's form on a daily basis for months now, and several teams of researchers have found no leak on any level in their probing. Only after the proper sequence of signals may I resurrect my personality."
Patrice nodded. "I want you to go through one more series of tests this afternoon. Go and set up the sequence now, and if all goes well we will begin tonight."
Ulinda bowed her head and backed away.
For a few minutes Patrice sat there, thinking hard. Then she left her private chamber and strode down the cool, marble-columned corridor, lit tastefully by high windows covered in exquisite designs of stained glass. Images of woodland glades, forests, and cliff-lined beaches shone on the highly polished alabaster floor, filling the hallway with a riot of color.
She turned down a side passage and stepped out onto a high balcony. It was so peaceful here, she thought, inhaling deeply of the salty ocean air.
Beneath her, the port was a bustle of activity, and great sailing cogs, slender clipper ships, and a fleet of warships, bronze rams polished, rode at anchor.
Here was the source of her wealth. Her capital city served as the main port for this whole region of coastline.
She had an army, to be sure, and a navy to protect against pirates. But her main strength had always been in her hundreds of sorcerers, now including the fifteen deserters from Sarnak's ranks.
That had been a treasure haul: Almost no fighting to speak of and she had been able to snatch up a third of that fool's realm in less than a fortnight. Of course, under pressure from Allic and Jartan she'd had to retreat back to her original borders or face a war that would have interfered with her long-range plans. Still, she had gained an enormous amount of wealth and booty just from the initial assault. If only Sarnak and Allic had played themselves out against each other as she had hoped, then it all would have been hers as was her right.
She had waited three thousand years to expand her realm. Now she was tired of waiting. Soon they would know the payment to be exacted for their slights and neglect.
Turning away from her city, she stepped back into the corridor and walked farther down the halt, until she came to a broad side passage.
Two sorcerers stood before her in its darkness. Wordlessly they stepped forward, and one of them held a crystal up to her eyes and peered closely through it. A long moment passed as the sorcerer looked at her both outwardly and within.
"It is you, my lady. You may pass."
Without a word of acknowledgment, Patrice continued down the corridor. She had once challenged her way past a guard, shouting her down before she could do the inward scan. The girl had acquiesced and backed away. It had been a good object lesson for the others: The guarding of this passage must be thorough. She had not killed the young sorcerer--that would have been a waste of talent--but blinded, the girl could still be of some service in the healing arts until her eyes grew back.
The passageway was wide enough for a dozen to pass. The walls were seamless except for one faint outline just before the main entrance. That hidden side alcove was a convenient escape route if ever she should need it. She liked those little touches of plans within plans, but it was a precaution that would not be needed now.
Stopping by the door she reached out, her delicate nails tapping out a quick interplay on half a dozen raised disks of polished brass. Drawing a crystal pendant from between her breasts, she took the warm stone and pressed it into a socket that fit the crystal exactly.
The doors slipped open.
The room, over a hundred feet in diameter, was lit by the fires that came from a vast pentagram of gold and rubies set in the middle of the chamber. Within the pentagram itself was a deep fiery pit whose flames were eternally fed.
At the edge of the pentagram, she knelt on silver-embroidered cushions and removed the large sparkling crystal of fire from the sash around her waist. She gazed at it lovingly. It had been fashioned eons earlier by her father, the Creator Bore, before his death at the start of the war between the gods. She exulted in the sense of power emanating from the crystal, which even without its companion pieces made her all but invincible in battle.
Darkly, she remembered being denied the other crystals by the full council of gods, after her father's death. They had claimed that it had never been Bore's intent for her to hold all three,and in silent humiliation she had stood before them, mumbling a bitter thanks that they had at least given her the one gem. She had felt like a foolish child, forced to endure a public humiliation, while Jartan had been so pious in his mouthing of praise for Bore, even as he robbed his daughter of her legacy and locked the two other gems in his own treasure vault.
Later she had gone to him, like a low-born supplicant, to plead for a change in the decision. His words had been gentle as he'd lied and said how he could not entrust such power even to his own children, with all its potential for harm or corruption. Yet she had seen through those lies, although she had nodded and pretended to agree. He wanted the crystals for himself, it was so evident, and in the centuries that followed, when she had appeared at court functions, she had known he and his offspring were laughing at her humiliation. Now at last there would be a reckoning--not only for that, but for all the slights she'd endured.
Even with just one of the three crystals, she had great power. Once she had the others that were now in Jartan's possession, her power could be magnified tenfold.
Reverently, she picked up the stone and set it into its proper niche at the base of the pentagram, which began to pulse and glow, bathing the room in a twisting light.
A shadow reared up before her, towering to the height of the arched vaults a hundred feet above. Mighty arms of flame reached outward, pressing on the side of the pentagram, so that it flexed and bulged though it did not give.
She attempted to look upon his visage, but it was a face that danced and shifted in the flames. Shafts of fire snapped out, and at the end of each the image of a tormented soul appeared, shrieking in silent agony. Eyes of liquid fire, brighter than the hearts of suns, gazed down upon her. From the ends of its fangs, white-hot drips of phosphorescence rained down, forming into bodies that tore at themselves in anguish as they fell.
As it moved, muscles of glowing steel coiled and shifted like writhing snakes. Its taloned hands reached out, so that she struggled for control as it grasped toward the doomed souls, and squeezed...
The nightmare closed inward, pulsing, shifting. There was a flash of light and the room was bathed in a gentle brilliance, soothing to the eyes, like sunbeams glistening off the softly rolling sea.
He appeared neither male nor female to her eyes, but a fascinating, seductive blending of both.
"Gorgon," she whispered.
He smiled.
"Tomorrow I set my plan in motion. It is time for you to act as well."
There was no response, only the smile.
"When I have my father's other crystals, and Horat's portal crystal, I will have the power to break the barriers that divide our realms. With your strength the gateway can be widened for your entrance into this world, and together we shall rule."
In h
er heart she knew the lie. But as she looked into his guileless eyes, she could almost feel a tremor of desire. She was no fool, she knew who he was, but here in this realm, with the power of the Crystals of Fire, she knew she could bend even him to her power, once he had served his purpose.
And Gorgon, ruler of the demon lords, his features now lighting with desire to match hers, smiled yet again.
* * *
"Is that the best image you can form? Those windows are too blurry, and you don't even know how many floors there are. No wonder it's so out of focus!"
Kochanski found himself clenching his teeth and flexing his hands, imagining them wrapped around this little monster's throat.
His "help" from Jartan had turned out to be a precocious seventeen-year-old know-it-all: all boundless energy, enthusiasm, and contempt for the failings of mere adults.
Sara brushed her blond hair back from her face as she straightened up from examining the model of the Empire State Building.
"This is useless. I suggest you think of another artifact, or let me deeper into your mind so that I can help more. Why you insist on keeping those barriers up... it's just silly."
Kochanski's temper snapped.
"Listen, you obnoxious little twit, I don't care if you are Jartan's granddaughter. No one is going to rummage through my mind without my permission!"
Sara raised her eyebrows in an exaggerated gesture and pantomimed sorrow, further infuriating Kochanski.
"Jartan told me that you were still developing your powers, but I had no idea that you would be this backward. And I can't imagine how he can think that I would learn anything from you."
Kochanski struggled to think of a retort that wasn't profane and by doing so lost the exchange, as she continued:
"I guess he wants me to learn patience from working with someone so arrested in development."
She paused, then went on brightly, "Perhaps he wishes me to further my development of empathy for the unfortunate."
Sara shook her head ruefully. "It's harder than I thought, but I guess I can do it. All right, Kochanski, what other images do you want to try?"
Kochanski was fighting for control. Taking a deep breath, he managed a shaky smile, but inside he screamed, "Why me?"
By evening there were over a dozen models scattered about the room. With Sara's help, Kochanski had created copies of the Washington Monument, the Capitol, and Mount Rushmore. He had even tried models of things he had seen while stationed overseas: the Tower of London, Stonehenge, and even the Chinese temple that they had been in when they were teleported to Haven.
He was exhausted, and she was as bright-eyed and enthusiastic as ever.
"You know, the last couple were much better. Why don't we try one more and break for dinner? My classmates are meeting at my house for a game--we compete to see who can create the most interesting creatures. They're not living, of course, but it's such wonderful fun. And I'm sure my friends wouldn't mind having you along."
He managed to croak a "No!" that was barely audible, but utterly final.
"Well, I guess you are a little tired. Poor man, you are pretty old, aren't you?"
"Twenty-three, going on nine hundred at the moment," came the numb reply.
He watched her helplessly. Her bright blue eyes now filled with the superficial, but sincere, compassion of the young.
"I understand. Don't worry, Kochanski, you're improving. And I'm sure with lots of work I can make you into a first class sorcerer someday."
She turned and walked from the room, calling over her shoulder, "I'll be back at first light tomorrow morning, and we'll pick up where we left off!"
Sara smiled contentedly to herself. His talents weren't that bad really, and he certainly was cute in a helpless sort of way. She heard something behind her and thought to herself, There he goes again. I've got to find out what "bitch" means in that odd language of his.
Jartan smiled at Sara, and interrupted her. "Did Kochanski agree to this?"
"Well, no. But that's only because I didn't think of it in time to discuss it with him. Really, Jartan, I think going back to school would do him a world of good. And I happen to know that Deena is having a class on image forming and creativity for the eight-year-olds tomorrow. That's just the thing he needs help in now, and I'll be right there to help him when, uh, if he needs it."
Jartan held up his hand to quiet her for a moment and expanded his mind to pick up Kochanski. He didn't open contact from his end, just listened in on what Kochanski was thinking at the moment.
--And roared with laughter.
A few moments later he regained his poise and looked gravely down at his granddaughter.
"I'm very proud of you, Sara. You are doing an outstanding job of helping Kochanski. When you see him tomorrow morning tell him that I agreed with you, and it is my command that he is to attend this class."
"Thank you, Jartan. And you were right, too. I think I'm learning a lot about self-control and compassion from working with him."
Sara smiled at the god and excused herself from his presence.
The moment she left the room Jartan's smile widened into a wicked, delighted grin.
Kochanski sat in the class, wishing he was dead. He couldn't recall ever being so humiliated in his entire life. Not only were these little desks too damn small, but the whole class of children was trying so earnestly to help him that he hated them all at that moment.
In spite of his best efforts the pedestal in the center of class showed no distinct solid form, only a wavering image of the miniature statue that he was supposed to copy and create in solid form.
A moment later he gave up, and the whole class groaned in disappointment as even the image disappeared.
Deena, the instructor, clapped her hands to get their attention and said, "Now, children, he's still a beginner at this and he has improved, don't you think?"
The chorus of encouraging remarks and smiles made Kochanski want to puke. This really was too much. Surely Jartan had some isolated outpost somewhere that he could volunteer for.
A loathsomely cute little tyke smiled up at him and offered, "Watch me, Kochanski, watch me!" He turned and called, "Deena, can I go next?"
Deena nodded. "Now remember, I want motion, not just a static copy."
The boy responded enthusiastically, "I'm going to try to make the model walk and then wave at me. Now watch, Kochanski."
Kochanski gazed in sullen silence as the kid created an exact copy of the small statue on top of the pedestal. Its first movements were slow and jerky, but it soon began to stroll with a fluid grace. Kochanski flicked a glance at Sara sitting next to him, and she turned to give him a blinding, reassuring smile. He hastily turned his attention elsewhere and his glance happened to settle on Deena.
Now that's some woman, he thought appreciatively. Her dark brown hair was long and shiny, and her eyes were a golden brown, warm and lively. And that body! He had always liked his women lush rather than slim. Her breasts must be full and soft under that gown....
Kochanski was so busy undressing Deena that he hadn't even noticed that the boy had finished his turn.
Little eight-year-old Lindsey was sitting on the other side of Sara, watching Kochanski intently. She felt very sorry for him, trying so hard and coming so close, but just not being able to grasp the final stage. He was trying again; she could see the concentration on his face.
Gathering up her will she slipped a narrow probe into his mind and sent a surge of power to help.
Suddenly a solid, graceful image of Deena appeared on the pedestal. The motion of its hair and breasts corresponded exactly to Deena as she turned in surprise to stare at the statue of herself. The only difference was that the statue was breathtakingly naked.
A roar of laughter and cheers from the children brought Kochanski back to his senses. An instant later he was on his feet, red-faced and stammering.
Deena picked up the now immobile statue of herself and smiled at him.
"This is
truly beautiful. If I had realized that you would respond better to living material, we would have tried this earlier." Her smile became a bit more mischievous and her eyes became more direct.
"You don't have everything exactly correct, though. Perhaps we could work on this some other time?"
Kochanski was trying desperately to find some way to get out of the situation with a shred of dignity when he noticed that Sara was no longer smiling at him. In fact, he couldn't ever recall seeing eyes that icy before.
Christ, I think she's jealous. Oh my God, do I deserve this?
Kochanski sat glumly in the Godchair.
I don't ever remember being so embarrassed before, he thought. And what am I going to do if Sara is still mad at me? She'll probably be a nightmare at our next work session. He shuddered at the thought.
Jartan would tell me to look at the positive, he considered. All right, I ended up with a date with a beautiful woman, and I actually learned to create something by using the Essence. Seeing Deena had been a truly remarkable experience, but last evening's pleasure was now in the past, and he stiil had to face what would undoubtedly be a jealously enraged young woman.
He stopped brooding momentarily to practice his creativity again, focusing on the model of Stonehenge in front of him. With great effort, he focused in his will, concentrating on his memories of the day he had spent exploring the ancient site while stationed in England. He pushed the image onto the model and muttered, "Change, you bastard."
And the model seemed to come alive. All the distortions disappeared and a perfect little Stonehenge was before him, this time completely intact, with all the lintels and uprights in place as it must have been thousands of years before.
I can do it. Damn!
The image almost seemed to be alive as he stared at it, and he thought, I wish I were there.
Instantly the Godchair reacted, and his spirit was whisked into the evening sky. He grasped the seemingly solid arms of the chair and started to order it to take him back, but then figured that he hadn't been out today; might as well give it a try.
Crystal Sorcerers Page 4
