Wings of Omen tw-6

by Robert Lynn Asprin

  But Lalo recognized exasperation in the cool voice behind the crimson curtains at the end of the waiting room, and as the Adept pushed through them he saw resistance in every line of the dark robe that concealed Lythande's tall frame. There was silver in the long hair; lamplight limned lean cheeks and a high, narrow brow where the identifying blue star glowed. Lalo looked away, ashamed to meet the wizard's gaze.

  How the Adept must despise him, as he would have sneered at a beggar who stole his paints and tried to paint the Prince. But a beggar would only have made himself ridiculous. Lalo's ignorant misuse of power might doom them all.

  There was an uneasy silence as the Adept settled into the carven chair. Lalo's nostrils twitched as Lythande lit a pipe and aromatic smoke began to eddy about the room. He twitched nervously, and Gilla, solid as stone on the couch beside him, patted his hand.

  "Well?" The Adept's smooth tenor broke the silence. "Myrtis said you had need of me-"

  Gilla cleared her throat. "That demon in the shape of a unicorn is my man's doing. We need your help to get rid of it again."

  "You're telling me this man is a magician?" Lalo flinched at the scorn he heard. "Myrtis!" Lythande called, "why did you ask me to waste my time with a hysteric and a fool?"

  Gilla bristled. "No magician, master, but a man gifted with one power by Enas Yorl and with another by the gods themselves!"

  Lalo forced his gaze upward, saw the blue star on Lythande's brow begin to shine as Gilla spoke the other magician's name, casting an eerie illumination on the face below it, a face that was worn by wizardry, with ageless eyes.

  His vision blurred. For a moment Lalo saw beneath those austere features a face that was softer, though no less resolute. He blinked, shook his head, and looked again, saw the face of the Adept veiling the other, then both melding together until there was only one face before him, a woman's face whose truth he read as once he had read that of Enas Yorl-

  -An implacable and enduring beauty like the blade of a sword, honed and tempered through more years and lands than Lalo could imagine, and the equally endless pain of fulfillment denied and forever voiceless love. The rumor of the Bazaar had only hinted at Lythande's power and had not even suggested the price the Adept paid for it-that she paid-for Lalo knew Lythande's secret now.

  "But you-" Wonder startled words from his lips and the star on Lythande's forehead blazed suddenly. Lalo's sensitized nerves felt the throb of power, and abruptly he recognized his danger. He squeezed shut his eyes. Powers he might have, but chance memory told him that only another wizard could survive open revelation of the secret of a wearer of the Blue Star.

  "I see," came the Adept's voice, soft, terrible.

  "Master, please!" cried Lalo desperately, trying to let her know, without saying so, that he understood. "I know the danger of secrets-I have told you mine and I am in your power. But if there are any in this city that you love, please show me how to undo the evil I have done!"

  There was a long sigh. The sense of danger began to ease. Gilla moved uncomfortably, and Lalo realized that she had been holding her breath too.

  "Very well-" There was a certain bitter humor in Ly-thande's measured tone. "One condition. Promise that you will never paint me!"

  Dizzy with relief, Lalo opened his eyes, careful not to meet the Adept's gaze.

  "But I warn you, help is all that I can give," Lythande went on. "If the creature is your creation, then you must control it."

  "But it will kill him!" Gilla cried.

  "Perhaps," said the Adept, "but when one plays with power one must be ready to pay."

  "What-" Lalo swallowed. "What do I have to do?"

  "First we have to get its attention...."

  Lalo sat on the edge of one of the Vulgar Unicorn's rickety benches, nervously fingering the edges of the roll of canvas in his arms. Wedemir-where are you now? His heart sent out the anguished cry as he visualized his son slipping through dark streets, searching for the Unicorn. The end of Lythande's planning had been this knowledge that the price must be paid by all of them-by Wedemir, walking into danger, and by the rest of them, waiting for him to lead it to them here.

  He took a ragged breath, then another, striving for calm. Lythande had told him he must prepare himself, but his stripped nerves kept him nervously aware of the blue pulse of the Adept's presence, as he was aware of Cappen Varra, who sat with hand clasped around his amulet, and of Gilla-of her more than any, projecting a mixing of strength and fear and love.

  Perhaps she simply disliked being in the Vulgar Unicorn. It was the measure of her trust of Lythande that she had accepted the Adept's pronouncement that the Unicorn must leave this dimension by the same Gate through which it had come.

  But was this really the Vulgar Unicorn, or only some drunken nightmare? It was so very still. After a brief, explosive interchange between One-Thumb and Lythande, the Adept had expelled the few customers who had braved the birthplace of the Black Unicorn, and cleared away the tables from the booth and the center of the room. Lalo stared at the irregular white space on the wall where his drawing had been, shivered and looked away, found his eyes focusing on the new dark stains that marred the floor, and shut them.

  Breathe! he told himself. For Wedemir's sake-you have to find the strength somewhere!

  "I should never have allowed it-" Gilla's whisper voiced Lalo's fears. "My poor son! How could you let him sacrifice himself? You'd let your baby bum and send your firstborn to be eaten by a demon from Hell-a fine sort of father you are!"

  Lalo could feel her gathering steam for another diatribe and found himself almost welcoming the distraction, but Lythande's voice knifed through the pause as Gilla gathered breath to go on.

  "Woman, be still! There is more than one life at stake here, and the time for discussion is long gone. Lend some of your anger to your man-he'll need it soon!" The Adept's snapped comment was followed by a half-heard muttering something about "working with amateurs" that made Gilla's ears bum.

  Lalo sighed and tried to formulate a prayer to Ils of the Thousand Eyes, but all that would come to him was a vision of Wedemir's bright gaze.

  The door opened.

  Lalo jerked around, peering at the shadow that had precipitated itself from the darker oblong of the open door. Wedemir? But it was too soon, and there had been no sound. The figure stepped forward; Lalo recognized the dark cloak and narrow, sullen face of Shadowspawn.

  "I got a message-" Hanse surveyed the odd group with disbelief. "I'm supposed to help you?"

  His face was eloquent with resentment, and Lalo, realizing abruptly from whom that message must have come, felt a slim stirring of hope. He got to his feet.

  "Yes, you can help us," Lythande said quietly beside him. "You saw something get loose here last night. Help us send it home again."

  "No." Hanse shook his head. "Oh, no. Once was a time too many to see that thing."

  "Shalpa's Son..." Lalo said hoarsely, and saw Shadowspawn flinch.

  "Not even for-" he began, then whirled, hands going for his knives. From outside came the sound of feet running, and a deep roaring as if all the sewers in Sanctuary had overflowed.

  "Quick, for your life-" snapped the Adept, pointing across the room. "Take your place in the circle, and don't stir!"

  For a moment Shadowspawn stared, then he moved.

  But Lalo had forgotten him. Bench clattering over behind him, he darted past Cappen Varra to reach his place by the wall, glimpsed Gilla's bulk moving surprisingly quickly to the spot the Adept had assigned to her. As if she had tel-eported, Lythande was already standing, wand at the ready, at the point between the door and the wall.

  Then it crashed open and Wedemir hurtled through, hesitated for a moment as he saw the place he had expected to fill already occupied by Shadowspawn, then stumbled into the middle of the circle, blood from his arm spattering across the floor. Lalo's stomach churned; he reached for the boy and pulled him to his side.

  "The blood-" he gasped. "Did the Unicorn get you
?"

  Wedemir shook his head and touched the knife at his side. Lythande darted them a quick glance.

  "I told him to wound himself," the Adept said. "Innocent blood-and your blood, Lalo-the smell of it would be irresistible-"

  Then a darkness filled the doorway, deeper than the shadows, in which flamed two glowing eyes. It had grown. Lalo swallowed sickly as the Unicorn forced its expanding bulk through the doorway. The black muzzle bent, snuffling for the blood-trail. Wedemir swayed, and Lalo saw that blood was still welling from between the fingers clenched around his arm to fall smoking to the stained floor. Lalo's altered vision perceived the life-force radiating from each drop. That, then, was what the Unicom desired.

  Us of the Thousand Eyes, look down and help me! his spirit cried. Gilla's invocation ofShipri vibrated in the heavy air, and beyond her Lalo sensed the blur of Shalpa's power, Lythande's blue glow, and the murmur of Cappen Varra's plea to his northern gods.

  The Unicom reared back: Lalo could not tell whether it went on two legs or four. Did those red eyes see puny human victims, or did it sense the inflowing power of the gods? The monster must not be frightened away, though his every nerve quivered with hope that it would go. Lythande's stem gaze commanded him. Now was the time-the Adept had done her part and he was on his own.

  Great Ils! He could not do it; but somehow his feet were carrying him between Wedemir and the Unicom.

  "Unicom!" Lalo's voice was a crow's croak. He tried again. "Unicom, come to me! Blood of my blood, here is what you desire!"

  The dark form shuddered with thunder and deep laughter. It took a step toward him and then another, contemptuous of the others who stood there. Its gaze was like a horribly intimate touch upon his soul, and Lalo remembered suddenly that it was his-his own evil had been joined to that of the rest of Sanctuary in the Unicorn's conception. Lalo's part in the creature yearned for reunion; an answering yearning resonated in the secret depths of his soul. How easy it would be to... simply give in.

  Lythande poised like a beast of prey, absolutely still. As Lalo wavered, the Unicorn stepped past her; her wand flashed out like a sword of fire, and blue light snapped across the circle to Gilla, back to Cappen Varra, over to Wedemir, occupying Lalo's old place by the wall, up to Shadowspawn and back to Lythande again before the Thing could move.

  It roared and whirled, but it was imprisoned by the glowing lines of the pentagram. Lalo realized with horror that he was imprisoned too. Then the Unicorn grew still, senses questing outward to test the barriers. Its darkness pulsed softly; Lalo recognized faces contorted in voiceless torment, blinked away a vision of his own features swirling among the throng, and fumbled to unroll the canvas still clutched in his arms.

  The Unicorn heard the rustle of canvas and began to turn.

  The results of half a night's labor unrolled stiffly, and Lalo wondered desperately whether it would serve. Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes, seeking the Face of Ils in memory. Awareness faltered, fixed, and for one timeless moment he was There, but this time he did not look away. The brightness of the Divine Face blinded and burned him, searing that part of him that had responded to the Unicorn. And still the light grew, until Lalo realized that even the Shining Face of Ils had been only a mask for that radiance whose least part burned in the sun and the other stars.

  And then he was falling, spiraling dizzily back into the prison of his human body. Still dazzled, Lalo released his pent breath across the canvas in his clenched hands.

  The Unicorn shrieked as if it sensed the birth of its enemy. Lalo felt the canvas quiver in his hands. Light shattered and scattered across the floor as crystal wings beat upward into three-dimensionality. He had set out to draw a white bird like something he had once painted for the gods, and Lythande's cool voice and fluttering fingers had tranced him as an aid in recovering the memory.

  But he did not recognize the wonder that was emerging now-it was an eagle, it was a phoenix, it was a swan- it was all of these and none. The great bird opened its bright beak in a piercing cry, talons clutched and unclenched, wings swept wind across the room, and it was free.

  Lalo sank back upon his heels, gasping as the Unicorn's darkness gave way before a storm of white wings. The war of fire and ice and darkness sent fierce coruscations of opal light around the room. Roaring, the Unicorn charged against its foe, and Lalo huddled, a still speck at the eye of the storm.

  Between one flurry and another he heard someone call his name. Blue light stabbed his eyes. "Lalo-open the Gate!"

  Lalo forced his limbs to pull him toward Lythande. The pentagram burned him; then the Adept's wand broke it and he was through. And just in time, for the Bird of Light was driving the Unicorn after him in a tempest Vashanka would have been proud to claim. Lalo struggled upright. Light followed his finger as he traced a line around the pale area on the plaster where he had drawn the Unicom.

  He finished, his hand fell, and the space he had outlined began to shimmer. The plaster thinned, cleared, disappeared to reveal a black gulf that pulsed with sparkling lights. Lalo's ears sang with subliminal vibration, his vision blurred, a strong hand closed on his arm and jerked him out of the path of the bolt of blackness that hurtled past him toward the void, followed by a beam of light.

  Lalo thrust out one arm in self-protection as he fell, and screamed as it took the final buffet of the Bird of Light's crystal wing. Then an explosion of radiance dispersed the darkness. The tavern shook as the Gate between the dimensions slammed shut, and both the Unicom and its opposite were gone.

  Two bodies lay in the lee of a wall where Dyer's Alley turned off from Slippery Street. Lythande took a swift step aside to peer at the pallid faces and eyes that stared unseeing at the rising sun, then returned.

  "Knifed-" the Adept said. "Nothing unusual. I'll be going now." She nodded abruptly, and began to walk away from them toward the Bazaar.

  Lalo stopped rubbing his numbed arm for a moment and stared after her, wanting to call her back. But what could he say? The Adept had favored him with more good advice than he could understand all the way back from the Vulgar Unicorn.

  By the time Lalo had recovered consciousness, Shadowspawn was long gone, and Cappen Varra, with voice unsteady and hands that still reached for his amulet at any unexpected sound, had taken his leave as soon as he could thereafter. By the time they got Wedemir's wound stanched and Lalo was able to walk again, the sun was striking gold from the dome of the Temple, and Hakiem was peering through the tavern door. With the tables and benches back in place, only the bare spot on the wall and an unnaturally wholesome atmosphere would have enabled anyone to guess what had happened there; but Lalo supposed that the storyteller would find out. He always did, somehow.

  But as Lythande had pointed out, it hardly mattered what the rest of Sanctuary thought of him-it was the wizards he must watch out for now. As the style of a painting proclaimed its creator, so it was with magic, and the Black Unicorn had been signed "Lalo the Limner" for any with eyes to see.

  "One way or another they will be after you, and you must learn to use your power..." Lythande's words still rang in Lalo's ears.

  He sighed, and Gilla eased more of her arm under his, supporting him. Wedemir, leaning on her other arm, lifted his head, and father and son exchanged apprehensive grins. They knew Gilla's frown, and the twist of lips clamped shut over hard words.

  At the foot of their stairs Lalo halted, gathering his strength for the climb.

  "All right, 0 Mighty Magician, do you want my help or can you make it under your own power?" asked Gilla. In the full light of morning he saw clearly for the first time the new lines of anguish by her mouth and the bruise marks beneath her eyes. And yet her body was as steady as the earth below him. It was her strength that had got him this far.

  "You are my power, all of you-" His eyes moved from Gilla to Wedemir, meeting his son's steady gaze, accepting him at last as an equal and a man. "Don't let me forget it again."

  Gilla's eyes were suspiciously bri
ght. She squeezed his hand. Lalo nodded and began to climb the staircase, and in his labored breathing they heard the whisper of white wings.

  THE HAND THAT FEEDS YOU by Diane Duane

  The ephemerals have no help to give.

  Look at them!

  They are deedless and cripple,

  strengthless as dreams. All mortalkind

  is bound with a chain;

  all their eyes are darkened....

  The sound of screaming slowly aroused Harran from the mechanical business of pounding out the Stepson Raik's hangover remedy in the old stone mortar. Raik scrambled to his feet, his face ashen, staring toward the gates of the Stepsons' barracks compound. "Just a little more business for the barber," Harran said, not looking up. "More serious than your head, from the sound of it."

  "Shal," Raik said, sounding wounded himself. "Harran, that's Shal-"

  "Knew the damned careless fool would get himself chopped up one day," Harran said. He measured the last ounce or so of grain spirits into his mortar and picked up the pestle again.

  "Harran, you son of a-"

  "A moment ago you didn't care about anything, including where your partner was," Harran said. "Now you know... Mriga!"

  Over in the comer of the rough stone hut someone sat in the shadows on the packed dirt floor, hitting two rocks together-grinding a third rock to powder between them in a steady, relentless rhythm. The hut's small windows let in only a couple of dust-dancing arrows of sun; neither came near the bundle of skinny arms and legs and filthy rags that sat there and went pound, pound, pound with the rocks, ignoring Harran.

  "Mriga!" Harran said again.

  Pound, pound, pound.

  Another scream strung itself on the air, closer. From under Harran's worktable, by his feet, came a different sound: an eager whimper, and then the thumping of a dog's wagging tail.