Beyond Wizardwall

by Janet Morris

  But this god was canny, wiser than Vashanka, not as easily fooled. "You're wasting time, man, thou who art an insect in My sight! Your love for another man is not My problem; your love of heaven is what's in question."

  "Help me save the boy—or do it on Your own. You gods ought to take responsibility for what You've wrought."

  Now Enlil was closer, god-glowing eyes narrow and filled with craft. "He's not yet Mine, and you know it. Thou art a deceiver, manling, if man you are. Will you bend your head to Me, and receive the power of My battle unto your shriveled soul and the strength of My blessing unto your sword? Or must you lose against your curse once more?"

  They were always promising to protect him from the curse, yet they seemed a part of it. But Niko, by the moment, drew closer to damnation. "That's right—he's not yet chosen You. And if I choose You in his stead, You must be content with that. I'll even go down on my knees if I have Your promise—by whatever power gods can swear—to leave the boy unblessed by Your horrific love!"

  Having made his offer as clearly and as carefully as he could—for gods do take advantage, adhering only to what's explicated in an oath, never what's meant but left unspoken—Tempus waited, ready to go down on his knees for power, one more time. And to his disgust, the staircase under him began to shake, the walls about to tremble, and a ruddy light surrounded him: the light of the primal god, Enlil, under which all things came out of heaven and in which he'd now have to bow and swear and compound his already awful fate.

  He almost changed his mind, but then rethought it: he'd lived three hundred years under deific sway and hadn't liked it; he couldn't stand by while the boy he loved, Niko, who was the son he should have had, if men could only choose their offspring, stepped unknowing down a path from which there was no retreat.

  "Bow down, and embrace thy fate, mortal minion! My power and My glory are thine, reflected light. My Word is given—My wish is thy command, as thy bargain is accepted!"

  It was hard to bow down to another god, this one worse, if any were, than Vashanka. He hoped he wouldn't live on, regretting it, too long. Before his eyes he saw fierce and awful battles, an eternity of man up to his hips in blood because of godhead and gods' quarrels; he heard martyrs' voices and the death screams of whole peoples, genocidal wars that had, and did, and would take place.

  Then something touched him and he shuddered; throughout his person, agony and ecstasy admixed.

  When he looked up, he saw great horny feet with clawed toes and golden scales. A hand reached out, as large as his whole trunk, plucked him up, and out among long-tailed stars, set him down again in darkness:

  "Fight well, Riddler! And make it interesting— something more than simple slaughter."

  Then Tempus felt the familiar emptiness that told him that the god was gone.

  Well, he thought, what difference does it make, really? One god or another, what they do and what they want's about the same.

  And then he saw, ahead, a group locked in ensorceled combat: he saw Niko, blue shining light like ropes or snakes enveloping him, propped up against an alley wall, his face uncomprehending as before him, witchfire raged.

  The witch was in a boy-form, true, but overlaid on that was a crippled, tortured female form and her eyes were fierce and thirsty as, clawlike hands outstretched, she reached for Randal's globe.

  The mageling held that globe tight against his chest, both arms wrapped around it, blue snakes of magic fire striking at him, while on each side and right before him, other sorcerers from Tyse fought back, red mongoose-ghosts in see-through battle with Roxane's ectoplasmic snakes.

  Meanwhile, about the edges of the fray, Tempus saw his own simple, human fighters: Crit, trying to get to Randal, fighting spiderwebby nets which bound him; Strat, his huge hands on Grit's collar, his muscles bulging, trying to keep his partner from being sucked into a cobalt maelstrom building in midair among the garbage of the alleyway; Sync, frozen in mid-movement, a vial of witch-subduing potion uncapped in his hand, its droplets glistening but unmoving, as if encased in amber. From the maelstrom, an eery yowling issued, and Tempus realized that his moment was at hand. He'd see if Father Enlil was out to trick him, or just bluffing: if the maelstrom coalesced and demons, fiends, and devils joined the fray, then all was lost—at least his men would be. And he really didn't want to bury Stepsons on New Year's day. It wasn't the sort of omen he'd accept.

  Drawing his sharkskin-hilted sword, he sallied forth, howling battle cries. And the sword turned pink as it encountered magic, and began to warm and quiver in his hand.

  That's more like it, he thought, slitting Grit's bonds of magic netting with a slice that sent them up in smoke, so that Crit yelped from the sparks and stumbled back when Strat's hold on him could help. By then the witch had seen Tempus, and she cast a lightning bolt his way.

  But the sword was as good as its god, and his new god as good as His word: he parried the bolt and it split, pink swordmetal glowing red as opposing forces met, sparks flying, thunder roaring.

  At the same time, with his other hand, he got his own vial of witchstuff out and threw it. Then, as she howled, hands up, and before she could strike again, he took a chance, turned his back on her, and leaped toward the sucking maelstrom, in which demon heads and fiends' white teeth and devils' horns were beginning to appear.

  He had to stop the incursion: this wasn't only Niko; it was the beginning of another wizard war. Back unprotected, trusting Randal and his mages to do their best for him, he thrust his blade deep into that sucking maw, from which the fumes of hell were beginning to escape.

  The concussive force of sword striking hell-mouth rocked him to his core: "Well, God," he snarled, "are we out of our league, here?"

  And in his head he heard a chuckle: "Not yet, mortal, not yet."

  He had to trust the god; he couldn't even look away to see how his men were faring: a devil's warty hand had his sword by its pink tip and was pulling him inward with all its might.

  He dug in his heels, but it was useless. If he let go the sword, he didn't want to consider the consequences: the sword was linked to him by the god and to the god by him. He had to fight it.

  He pulled back with all his strength, but the devil-grip was heating up the sword and it stretched instead of coming loose.

  And hand over hand, fiends helping it, the devil pulled him closer to its maw.

  Fiendish arms reached out to grab him; warty jaws gaped in horrid laughter. His sword, as soft as clay, glowed so that he had to to look away.

  Closer and closer, he was drawn. He could smell the roasting flesh of hell and hear the devil's war cry. It grated on his nerves and made his teeth ache.

  Then once more he called upon the god, and this time the heavens opened with His answer: a freezing wind began to blow, hail pummeled from a clear night sky, and all about him steam began to rise.

  Steam rose from his sword and blinded the closest devil, half out of the maelstrom, who screeched and rubbed its eyes.

  His sword released, he thrust and skewered the devil, who right away exploded, spraying ichor everywhere.

  The stink was awful. The steam hissed and roared, obscuring everything as the hail and wind reacted with the hellish maelstrom.

  But Tempus's sword was hard once more, if bent, and he hacked away with abandon, humming gleeful curses under his steaming breath.

  Before his onslaught, his god-inspired battle, the maelstrom quivered, then it heaved. Then it gave out a human-seeming sigh and caved in on itself with an audible thud, leaving a severed demon trunk and arms of fiend littering the cobbled street. He stared for a moment at the garbage heap beyond, where the maelstrom had just been.

  He realized that his clothes were still steaming, that acid ichor had splattered his face and hands, that his sword-holding palm was burned, and that, amazingly, he was breathing heavily from the fight. Then he turned and saw his allies: Randal, his globe hugged tight like a baby, directing his mageguild betters in the binding of Roxane, the Ni
sibisi witch, with magical bonds; Crit, welted with blisters and striped with soot, sitting on a splintered wine cask while Straton fussed over him like a mother over a naughty child; Sync, talking softly to Niko, who still leaned against the wall and favored the 3rd Commando colonel with an uncomprehending stare.

  When Tempus was sure that no casualties were serious, he took Niko by the arm.

  The boy was coming out of whatever spell he'd been under, asking: "But Grippa, where's Grippa? Is he safe? The witch didn't get him, did she?"

  That was a good question, but one for which Tempus had no answer. He said, "Grippa will turn up; the witch took his shape."

  Niko shook his head, his brow deeply furrowed. "No, that's not true. He was right with me, a moment ago."

  Beyond the dazed Stepson, Tempus saw Randal shake his head. The brave little mage's lower lip was quivering: Niko ignored Randal as if the mage did not exist.

  "Wait here, Stealth," Tempus growled, and took Randal aside. "You did well, Hazard. We're all proud of you."

  "He's not; he won't even speak to me. Commander…" Randal tried not to sniffle; he turned his head away, then back. "It's really over, isn't it? He despises me. Despite our oath, and everything. I didn't think it…"

  "Randal," Tempus said as kindly as he could, "Niko's just had another brush with witchcraft. You're a part of what he fears the most right now. Eventually, you'll understand what I'm saying now, but until you do, just take me on faith: if Niko spends a while as my right-side partner, I can mend him. Then you'll have your left-side leader back again. Until then, try not to be offended. The rest of us value you more highly every day."

  But he had to leave the mage alone in the alley: Randal had a prisoner, the once-mighty Roxane, to escort to her incarceration in the mageguild.

  And Tempus had the Stepson, Niko, to take in hand and try to heal, a god on his back, and some wholly spooked fighters to cajole into pretending that all this was a normal, or at least anticipated consequence of Fete Week in Tyse.

  * 8 *

  Partha's son, not Roxane, was found next morning in the mageguild holding cell where the witch had been incarcerated.

  By then, it was clear that Grippa wasn't lying dead somewhere—a nightlong search had turned up only one corpse, and it a desiccated pile of bones wrapped in foxfur in an alley. And since the corpse had bones once broken which had mended wrong, and Grippa'd never broken any, the skeleton, all agreed, could not be his.

  When Partha heard that his son was safe and sound, if locked up in the mageguild, he used all his influence to try to free the boy.

  The military governor thus summoned Tempus to the mageguild dungeon, where Partha and his daughter, as well as Randal, were waiting.

  Young Grippa sat inside a cage wound with colored wool, his hair matted with straw and his eyes red from sleeplessness or weeping, holding his sister's hand through the bars when Tempus got there.

  Partha, seeing Tempus, thundered: "Riddler, give me one good reason why my boy should have to languish here! The witch possessed him, yes. But that's no crime—Niko's suffered the same way and he's free to come and go! She possessed him, now she's gone, any fool can see!"

  The military governor, in shadows, his face impassive, said not one word; Sauni sobbed softly, her brother's hand pressed to her cheek. Randal made a sign all Stepsons learn: he wanted a private word with his commander.

  Tempus said: "Possession's nothing to take so lightly, Partha. She might come back. She might be right here, and the boy's shape just an illusion. Randal, come with me. I have to talk to you."

  Out in the dank and musty hallway, Tempus said, "Well Randal, what do you think? Let him go, and wander, or keep him here, and make an enemy of the strongest single lord in Tyse?" While in the Riddler's head the god's voice hissed: "Let my servant go!"

  Randal, clearly agitated, said: "Riddler, they've made me First Hazard of the mageguild! Me, a lowly seventh-grade adept! If you want, I'll decree we free him, but something tells me it's not right."

  Tempus wondered if a witch could fool a god, and then reminded himself that neither dark nor light, bad nor good, were different, but one and the same thing, in heaven's sight.

  And he was more concerned, right then, with Randal, whom his guildbrothers had chosen not out of respect, but as a sacrifice, mere bait to tempt fate, an expendable lamb to tether where a mage-killer was sure to find him.

  So he said: "Forget the boy; it doesn't matter if she's in him now or comes back later. We need Partha's good will in Tyse."

  Randal frowned uncertainly. "As you wish, Commander." Then he brightened: "Congratulate me, Riddler; I've come to high estate today."

  "Randal," Tempus said carefully, "I'd like you to consult with Cime, if you insist on accepting this appointment—your Brothers of the Writ have put you on the front line in this battle of magics. It's not a safe place for anyone, even a Stepson, to be."

  Then Randal looked away, down at his fingers, twining one another. "That's just it, my lord. I'm not sure I can remain a Stepson—conflict of interest, you see."

  "Randal, you've sworn an oath. And because of Niko's problems, you can't unswear it. If you have to, pretend to leave the band, but only that: I still need you. I'll feel free to call upon you when and how I must."

  "But…" Randal's gaze met his and it was deeply shadowed. "All right." He heaved a sigh. "I'll do the best I can."

  "And declare the boy a victim of possession, free him on his father's recognizance? At least until we've further proof?"

  "Yes, I said we would," Randal snapped, his tone uneasy, then wheedled: "I really don't think I need to see your sister. Me being First Hazard and all, it might be more temptation than she can stand. She'd like nothing better than to kill anoth—" Breaking off before he admitted knowing that Cime had slain his predecessor, Randal smiled weakly, then added: "Let's give Grippa to his father then, and hope we won't regret it—that Niko won't suffer because of what we do today."

  But as a Stepson must, Randal followed orders with which he obviously did not agree: first he freed the boy, who stumbled dazed into his sister's arms, while Partha gloated that he should have known that Tempus would "make things right."

  Randal accompanied his commander across town, through half-deserted New Year's streets, to a First Day reception being held on Embassy Row, where Cime feasted with foreign dignitaries in the Rankan embassy wherein Tempus had found her lodging. At the embassy's portico, half hidden among the evergreens, they saw Crit and Kama, arms around each other.

  Tempus touched Randal's arm and cleared his throat.

  "Ah… Commander, we didn't see you." Crit disengaged, his blistered face embarrassed.

  Kama smoothed her fete clothes and raised her chin high: "You didn't let the witch go, did you? Aunt Cime said you would, that you never learn, but I told her that where Niko is concerned, you'd not risk…" She trailed off, looking at Randal's face, then shuddered and whispered, "Men!" disgustedly, turned and went inside.

  "I'm sorry, Riddler," Crit apologized for Kama. "You know she's just upset. Cime's been giving her lectures on comportment as befits a—"

  "Don't apologize for my daughter," Tempus rumbled. "I told you before, no good will come from her. She knows too much and she's a born dissembler. She and my sister are two of a kind." Then, to Randal: "Go on in, find Cime, tell her what's transpired and that she's to help protect you. Crit and I will be along presently."

  When Randal, his courage obviously failing, had hesitantly mounted the chocolate granite steps and gone inside, Crit said, "What's this? What happened?"

  "Randal's the new First Hazard. The witch—if she's that boy—is loose again: I can't risk trouble with Bashir, or a war with Partha's faction."

  "Wonderful," Crit said, and fell in beside him as Tempus headed through the hedgerows to enter the embassy from the rear. "Commander, can I ask a question? That is, I've heard something that, if it's true, the task force ought to know…"

  Crit was taciturn, of
ten secretive, the most perceptive and efficient of his men. "What is it, Crit?"

  "Niko's in there… he came with Cime. He's drunk as a lord and he told Strat that he's rejoined us—as your rightman. Can that be true?"

  "It can. It is. What of it?"

  Crit opened his mouth, said, "But the witch… Brachis and the planned coup at the Festival. You must realize that if a Stepson's involved in that, we're doomed—outlaws, sacrificial sheep…" then shut it and shook his head, eyes slitted.

  "The Festival's a long time off, Crit. When there's something to worry about, I'll give you plenty of notice. Right now, worry about keeping my sister and Kama at arm's length."

  Crit grinned mirthlessly and allowed that, with the god's help, he'd do his best.

  Book Three:

  BEYOND THE VEIL

  When Niko rode out to Partha's to bid Sauni and Grippa fond farewells, the Nisibisi witch was ready for him.

  Roxane, in the form of Grippa, had been lying low and gaining strength, learning what it was like to be a boy. She'd never unequivocally quit her body, not in all the years she'd lived, and taken up another as a permanent abode.

  But desperation had mothered invention, and Roxane was now a boy, her crippled woman form discarded, its bones parched to ashes in some Tysian crematorium. Whenever she saw Niko, urges arose in her much more forcefully than when she'd been a woman. It was lucky, she told herself, that Niko was by nature a Sacred Band boy-lover, not ill-disposed to loving men.

  If he'd been that way, she might have risked another change, invaded Sauni's nymphlike form, even though it would have taxed her strength. But the sap was rising in Grippa's young, strong body, and Roxane was safer as a boy—safe from that travesty of natural law called Cime, safe from Randal the First Hazard, safe enough to be content to stay this way, at least until she arrived at the Festival of Man.

  A boy, in Tyse, had advantages over a girl: he could stay out all night, come home with the dawn, and no one questioned it; in all debauch and any manly escapade, Grippa could count on his father's full support.