“Works every time.”
“Why?”
“'Why’ what? Why use a man? Why not do it himself? Because magicians can't tolerate the presence of other magicians. And I don't mean emotionally. You know how a lodestone will repel another lodestone if held properly?” Daasek nodded. “The same holds for magicians. We can be in proximity of another of our kind for only a matter of minutes. Any longer and we both would be driven insane. It is part of the original compact among the Thirteen, to prevent several working together to eliminate the sway of the others. And it is very effective. It is nearly impossible for a magician to physically slay another.”
She stopped. “Perhaps I didn't answer your question properly. Why you in particular? Kismet. You made somebody angry. You pissed in the wind. It doesn't matter. Why anybody, that is the real question.
“You see, we've been keeping track of you, Daasek,” she continued. “Do you know how many magicians there used to be on this world?”
“Thirteen.”
She nodded in approval. “You have been paying attention. Now there are three; myself, your master and ... one other. Over four years ago, you were let loose on us, Daasek. You've raised a lot of Hys in that time.”
Daasek shook his head. “I don't remember.” He suddenly felt a chill. If the woman was telling the truth, he didn't want to remember.
“That's because you have no soul. Let me correct myself,” she added quickly. “you have little soul.” She leaned forward “But you are beginning to remember, aren't you?”
“Yes.”
“That's because your soul is regenerating.”
He had never heard that word. “I don't understand.”
She scratched her head. “Let me see if I can explain this. When you were a little boy, did you ever cut tails off of lizards, just to watch them grow back? You don't have to answer, all little boys do. That's called regeneration. Your soul is doing the same. You see, Nyxx—that's the horse's rear who is controlling you—couldn't take all of your soul. You would have been as mobile, and useful, as a tree. By removing most of it, he removed your ability to feel, your ability to remember. You can still think, of course. You can still converse, you can still plan, you can still move and react. But you can feel—nothing. Except physical pain, of course, and that hardly counts.
“Your soul, you see, is the seat of emotion. Without it you can't truly feel, can't completely remember.”
Daasek wrestled with the concepts. He understood how his emotions had been stifled, but the correlation to his memory was beyond him. “Why can't I remember?” She rubbed her chin. “I really didn't want to get this involved because I don't know how much time you have. Before you must—never mind. But let's try an example. Do you see this scar?” She raised her right arm. Daasek could discern a long red line rising up it. “When I was five I became careless over a cooking fire. An iron pot overturned and struck me there. Hurt like Hys. I remember the incident as if it were yesterday. But ask me what I had for lunch last week and I wouldn't have a clue. You see,” she continued hastily, “there was an emotional connection to the accident. There was none when I ate last week. I remember the accident but not the meal.
“Because you cannot feel, you cannot fully remember. Frankly, from what I have heard, it is best for you that you do not. You see, you have no emotions to associate certain events with, and therefore the events become meaningless. What you recall today are events, skills, facts that are in the foreground of your mind. Abilities that have become almost instinctual over the years. Talents that require no conscious thought to exercise. Those that require effort or emotional association to recall are beyond you, no matter how close to the surface they may lie. And they would remain unobtainable except for one small detail. Over the years, your soul has begun to grow back. Not completely, but some.”
He did not exactly enjoy thinking his soul was akin to a lizard's tail, but he could comprehend the metaphor. It gave him hope. “Then I will get my soul back?”
She shook her head. “If you wait for your soul to return to you, you will be dust and forgotten long before.” Then she removed a single black stone from her pocket and held it up. “Do you know what this is?”
Daasek knew that both Krujj and Aletia had had one. He knew he had destroyed them both. But he had no idea why. “No.”
“A soul-catcher. This represents the covenant between one of the Thirteen and its representative here. It is the device through which they communicate with us. When you destroy the stone, and I know you have, Daasek, you totally sever the link between our world and theirs.
“That, incidentally, is the real reason you have been sent on your mission. Because of a long-standing agreement among the Thirteen, a severed link can never be reopened. What you have done by destroying both the magicians and their soul-catchers is to remove permanently the influence of the full Thirteen from us.
This particular stone,” she continued, “contains my soul. I want you to destroy it.”
Daasek felt a chill run through him. That was exactly what he had to do, but not what he wanted to do. “But that will kill you,” he protested.
“If you don't do as I say, you will kill me. Have you ever noticed that your victims always carry their soul-catcher, or at least have it nearby?”
Daasek recalled Krujj's ring, the stone in Aletia's forehead, and nodded.
“Nyxx has a similar stone. We all did. Most of my soul is in this stone. As long as the stone is in close proximity, there is no danger to the magician. If, however, you stole my stone and rode away, I would be dead by the time you reached the city gates.”
Daasek shook his head. “I still don't understand.”
She brandished the stone. “This is what Nyxx and his master want, not me. I am merely the object that stands in their way. Destroy the soul-catcher and Nyxx has won. The Thirteen I represent will hold no sway over Horea ever again. I will live. I will recapture my soul. Most of it anyway. Enough that it won't matter. The rest I will give to you.”
“Why would you do that?” he asked after a long pause. “When you know I have come to kill you?”
She stamped her foot in anger. “Because my master doesn't care! You have no idea how it feels to serve a master who doesn't care!” She looked at Daasek with an emotion near envy. “Nyxx may have abused you tremendously,” she explained away the startled look on his face, “but at least he has helped you survive, even if no one, especially Nyxx himself, expected you to survive this long. But my master? He has as much concern for our world as a man does for the ant underfoot.
“I have served him for 70 years, Daasek. By rights, I should be grooming a successor, someone to take over my role when I finally die. I refuse to do it. I am more than content for the Thirteen that Nyxx serves to take over this world. It wants it and the others don't care. Or didn't care until it was too late. To which I say, fine. It cannot do our world any more harm than the others have by their benign neglect. I will help you destroy the soul-catcher. Nyxx will be satisfied because he'll believe I'm dead. He won't trouble me again. I will be alive. And you, you will have your memory, your emotions. I can give you enough of my soul to assure you of that.”
Daasek sat. The urge throbbed within him, but by concentrating intensely he was able to resist it. What she had told him, what she had promised, easily distracted him. He pondered all she had said, all she had promised. “I still won't be free, though, will I?” he asked hopefully.
“No. Not until you go to Nyxx. Only you can free yourself. But at least you will have a chance.”
He stood. There was no decision to make. “What do we have to do?”
“Stand next to me.” He did so. She set the stone on the table before them. She handed him the silver spoon she had used to stir her tea. “The soul-catcher is not particularly hard. You're stronger than I am. Just hit it with this. When it breaks, a gray cloud will rise. Inhale some of it. Not much,” she added and forced a smile. “That will be my soul. If you inhale too muc
h, you could kill me.”
Daasek nodded. He set the spoon on top of the stone and slowly applied pressure. He felt it begin to collapse, and he heard it crack. Then the stone gave way completely. He threw the spoon away. A small cloud rose slowly. She glanced at him and nodded. He bent over and sniffed cautiously. It smelled cold, warm, alive, hopeful, green and white and soft and weak and compassionate. He stood back and she nearly lunged forward, inhaling the rest like a starving man.
At first he felt nothing and only noticed a hollow ringing in his ears. Then it was as if an avalanche struck him. His memory returned. Of Byrnhea, Phrion and Oio. The cruel Pasheur in Avania and the deranged yet harmless monk on the hills of Lystra. The magician/healer buried in an avalanche in the Vyron Mountains as he hurried to aid what he thought were some travelers in distress. The devastation Daasek had wrought on Jhahar, and that wrought on him by Nyxx.
Then it was as if a dam had broken. His senses were overwhelmed by smells, tastes and feelings that previously had knocked unacknowledged. The icy clutch of Aletia. The spicy tang of the blood orchid. The murderous scream of the warback and, worst of all, the agony as inch by inch the crushing red velvet was stripped from him. He felt as well as heard himself scream.
He sensed someone grab his arm and pull him to his feet. He followed without complaint. Something warm was thrust into his hand and forced to his lips. He drank the burning liquid without thinking. He was too busy remembering to be aware of anything else.
He was pursuing the warback when he suddenly heard his name. The vision of the beast fogged, then vanished, to be replaced by the face of the old woman. “Daasek,” she said softly.
“Yes,” he whispered.
“Where are you?”
“I'm on the Great Sail.” He stopped and looked at her. “No, I am in Brayf. In your home.” Suddenly he broke into laughter and tears. “By the eyes of Phann, I remember!”
“Drink some more tea. You need to recover your strength, regain control of yourself.”
He looked at her in awe and amazement. “The urge is gone. He no longer controls me!”
She shook her head. “He still has most of your soul, dear Daasek. He can still control you. But now it requires great effort on his part. More effort than even the greatest magicians are usually willing to expend. Someday you will have to face him.” “I know.” He held her and kissed one sunken cheek tenderly. “How can I repay you?”
“You didn't kill me. That to me is as valuable as any coin of the realm.” Then she smiled mischievously. She took one of his hands and guided it to a sunken breast. “Men no longer find my body appealing, Daasek, and I suspect women feel the same about yours. I may be old, but I'm not dead.”
She led him upstairs without protest.
* * * *
Alegro was still waiting outside when he left. He seemed to have recovered from his previous distress and now was impatient to leave. “Was she able to help?”
Daasek thought about the entire encounter. “We helped each other.”
The minstrel grinned. “I recommend we celebrate this evening with a bottle of Brayf's best wine and a nubile wench or two.”
“A fair proposition.” Daasek opened his purse and was not surprised when it proved to be empty. As they lay in bed, she had hinted that since Nyxx no longer had complete control of him, he might assume Daasek had died. In which case he would no longer protect Daasek with his magic. His sudden lack of funds might prove a problem, Daasek thought. Then he smiled. Other things may have changed as well. “Do you still have the money I gave you?”
Alegro puffed himself up with mock anger. “I am a minstrel, not a wastrel!” “Good. You buy.”
“Of course, my patron,” he bowed. “Off to the wineshops and the women.” Daasek forced a smile and followed behind. As memories flashed within, some pleasant, most not, he decided that tonight would be an excellent night to get roaring, smashing drunk. Tomorrow he would find a way to Myniah.
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Chapter Eight: The Twelfth Magician
Daasek sat on the great harpoon launcher and stared longingly across the Horean Sea. It had been years since he had been on a ship, yet his “sea legs” had returned to him in a matter of hours. He took a deep breath of the crisp breeze that bore the smells of grickle and seamockers and sighed happily. This was indeed where he belonged! The breeze felt like a lover's caress on his bare chest and arms. No more the foul air of Byrnhea and other crowded cities, seething with the odors of sweat, dung, offal, toiling beasts, rotting food and others even more unpleasant. If he had his way, he would spend the rest of his days offshore.
He patted the metal barrel of the harpoon launcher. It was a weapon neither used nor needed by the Fishermen. He had been told that the machine was there for added protection from warbacks or pirates. The spring-driven launcher could supposedly send a harpoon 40 kines or more across the waters. “Stand yonder and I'll split a grape balanced on your head,” one sailor had bragged.
Daasek had his doubts. Against a charging warback, it would be too slow and clumsy to aim properly. A strong arm and a lance blessed with the Love of Karmela would be more effective, but he would not share that knowledge with those outside his Guild. All Guilds guarded their secrets selfishly to protect themselves and their membership. No matter how he might personally feel, he would not break his oath. Instead, he caressed the great barrel. I would not match you against a warback. Against another ship, however, you could be very useful.
“Patch! Stop admiring your ugliness in the waters and get up here. You are supposed to relieve me now.”
Daasek looked up and towards the helm, where the pilot was gesturing angrily. He shrugged and made his way aft. “Forgive me, I was in contemplation,” he said as he took his post.
The sailor spat. “Remember that you only paid partial fare. You still have to work like everyone else. Don't run us aground on any reefs, mind?”
Little likelihood of that, he thought as he took hold of the great wheel. True, he did not know this part of the Horean Sea well. The fishermen of Myniah rarely traveled this far north, contenting themselves with the waters below the equator, those smiled upon by the Face of Thren. But he understood the signs of the sea. By sight and smell, he could recognize any dangers and avoid them easily.
Still the sailor's plaint was just. It had taken them, or rather Alegro, near a month to earn enough to purchase partial room and board on the southbound vessel. Daasek had always considered the life of a minstrel to be a mild one, an assumption Alegro's mien often justified. But Daasek had soon learned otherwise. From noon meal until nightfall Alegro had worked his music in squares and parks throughout Brayf, occasionally earning a full hat but more often only polite applause. In the evenings, they had roamed the wineshops and pleasure houses. These were more lucrative yet also more hazardous, and several times Daasek had been forced to protect him from cutpurses or those stirred by drink into believing that the musician should provide entertainment beyond his songs and stories.
“There is no need for you to do this for me,” Daasek had protested more than once, but Alegro had demurred.
“You have your mind back,” he argued reasonably. “Now you can tell me the lost verses of the warback's song. That, and your aegis, is more than adequate recompense.” Aboard ship, their positions had changed. A minstrel was considered ballast and by day Alegro labored in the scullery. Daasek had soon convinced the captain of his expertise on the waters and he had been accepted as a substitute helmsman as well as a strong and dependable deckhand. But Alegro didn't complain and Daasek was too delighted with his new station to notice if he had.
Daasek whistled a Mynian shantey and steered confidently through the open sea. Their voyage to Tscheran, he was sure, would pass as swiftly as a baby's cry. He paid little note to the bird that landed near the lookout high in the mast above. Even if he had, he would not have seen the message attached to its foot or guessed how quickly his status would change.
<
br /> * * * *
“I believe you told me you sailed the southern waters.”
Daasek paused, a forkful of grickle halfway to his mouth, and nodded at the captain.
“What port did you call home?”
What lie did I tell him? “Lanou,” he said finally. “Not, I must admit, the most prosperous of ports.”
“You say you were a fisherman?”
Daasek nodded.
The captain gazed briefly at his broad chest and strong arms. “I see,” he said softly. He refilled his mug. “The Usurers Guild contacted me this day. They have expressed concern about the troubled waters where we are venturing. So, to be honest, have your crewmates. I have been forced to make a decision. We are changing course to Ferring.”
Daasek started. “I thought we were mooring at Tscheran.” This was very close to Myniah.
“No longer. The pirate scum from Myniah have been increasing their raids, venturing farther and farther north with every moonphase. The Guild doesn't want to risk their ship, or their cargo, for the small gain we could enjoy at Tscheran. We'll unload at Ferring and be content with less. That's far enough south for my men.”
Pirate scum from Myniah. So much has changed, he thought sadly. “We paid passage to Tscheran,” he protested.
“Partial passage only. The Usurers Guild has priority, since they underwrite this vessel. And I am employed by the Usurers,” he replied, rising. “If you are a true fisherman, then you should know the rules of the Captains Guild. There are no guarantees, no compensation. This is my vessel, my responsibility. I will decide what is best for her and my crew.” He paused, then looked at Daasek. “Because of the increasingly troubled seas and your admitted parentage, I have decided that you will no longer man the helm. Only men I know and can trust may share that honor. For the remainder of our voyage, you are a common swab. Myniah is not very popular right now. No men who admit to southern heritage can be trusted. I will be watching you closely.” Daasek gazed morosely at his plate as his captain left. Ferring. South it was, but barely. If the sea was indeed as dangerous as the captain intimated—which it must be if the Usurers Guild was willing to settle for smaller profit—then booking further passage would be nigh impossible. He couldn't afford his own craft and he couldn't expect Alegro to earn one. A journey that would have taken three months now appeared eternal.
The Thirteenth Magician Page 15
