“We have gone to great effort to bring this for you,” Prester said. “My philosophers have confirmed that it is as claimed.” He took the pillow from Alistar, who bowed. “This is so, geomancer?”
“Yes, Your Majesty. I and two of my colleagues, men of learning with whom you are well acquainted, have studied it carefully. It bears the marks and we attest to its authenticity.”
“Authenticity,” the king said. He held the pillow toward Virith. “This is a horn of the sacred einhyrn. We thought it the most appropriate of betrothal gifts. Please, accept it.”
Time stopped for Mindan. Virith did not move for what seemed like minutes. Then, curiously, she gazed along an arc at the nearer people, pausing at Stephen, who appeared on the verge of anger. She continued her sweep until she saw Mindan. Her eyebrows rose for a moment and she almost smiled. She looked back at Prester and dipped her head. Time resumed and she picked up the horn. She held it slightly elevated as she studied it.
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” she said. “I have heard of these but never seen one, much less held one in my hand. This is a rare and special gift. I trust I shall live up to the expectations that prompted you to seek such a treasure and give it to me.”
Through all this the horn remained as it had always been, unchanged. Virith turned to the left and one of her retainers accepted the horn from her. She folded her hands primly on her stomach.
“May it please you now to introduce me to your son?”
Mindan saw the growing rage on Prester’s face. He stared at the girl, motionless.
“Damn,” Cestic whispered. Mindan looked around and saw several of the regular Court officials with frowns or open-mouthed expressions. Others looked clearly relieved.
For a few moments it seemed King Prester would yield and continue the formal presentation, but suddenly his lips parted from clenched teeth and he shoved past Virith to the retainer, who tried to back away, startled by the lunging monarch.
King Prester grabbed the horn from the pillow and whirled on Virith. “How did you do that?” he bellowed. “I—”
As Mindan and the Court watched, King Prester frowned, puzzled, and looked down at the horn in his hand. He opened his fingers. Then he turned toward his geomancer, who stood to the left of the throne, watching with panicked eyes. Prester opened his mouth and a scream erupted, filling the room. He dropped the horn and clawed at his hand. Mindan saw wisps of smoke rising from his quickly blistering palm. As he rubbed his hands together trying to quell the smoke, both began to burn.
Mindan, heart hammering, started forward, but Cestic stopped him. People backed away from King Prester as he turned in place seeking someone to help him. At last, he staggered off the dais and disappeared through the door hidden behind his throne.
Prince Stephen stepped forward, hands raised. “Please, everyone. Stay.” He turned toward Alistar. It was clear he was working hard to control the rage within him, so like his father.
“See to him. Now!” he demanded. The geomancer bowed and retreated.
Virith picked up the horn from the floor. Mindan watched, amazed and troubled, as she took it back to her retainer and placed it on the pillow. She said something to him. The man bowed and hurried away. Virith faced Stephen.
“My lord,” she said. “How shall we proceed?”
“I believe we are to be wed soon,” Stephen said. “We should be formally introduced, establish that fact, and then I must see to my father. First minister?”
Karl came forward and at first awkwardly, made the formal presentation, Princess Virith to her future husband.
Mindan left as soon as he could. He made it as far as the corridor leading to his room before his legs gave way. He leaned against the wall, trembling. Finally, he managed to go all the way to his room.
He sat on his bed, riding out the waves of fear and relief and bewilderment. Something momentous had just occurred and he knew he understood only a bit of it, but it affected him as if he comprehended all.
The door banged open and he jumped to his feet. Karl entered, flanked by two guards. “He wants to see you.”
“Now?”
“Sooner would be best. Come.”
Mindan maintained himself even though he was frightened as they escorted him to the king’s chambers. Karl brought him up to King Prester’s bed. Alistar stood nearby, hovering over a bowl containing a sharp-scented liquid. The geomancer sweated and his hands trembled.
Prester lay against the pillows, pale, his recent vitality reduced. Both his arms were blistered and purple-black from the elbows down to the fingertips. His skin was slick with sweat and he writhed with pain. It took some time before he recognized Mindan, and then his eyes focused on him.
“I will not be cheated!” he hissed.
“My lord?”
“Alistar may just survive this,” the king said. “As to the others, no matter. You did what I asked without question or fail, but obviously I was wrongly advised. The wedding itself will not be for two weeks. Time enough for you to do another journey.”
“To where?”
King Prester closed his eyes as a wave of pain passed through him. He licked his lips and continued. “Back to Githira. Evidently I need the entire animal. Alive. I should have known a mere piece of one wouldn’t work for this.”
A calloused mass of distaste formed in Mindan’s mind. “My lord, forgive me for saying, but what if the girl is pure?”
King Prester scowled. “You may be forgiven for your naiveté, gamekeeper. You are not a regular at Court. I have reliable reports that she is not.”
Mindan shuddered. “What if Stephen takes to her?”
“He’s not a stable boy! This is politics, not love! Go quickly and return before the wedding.”
“What if I cannot bring one in time? Will you delay the wedding?”
“I can’t. I can only allow it or end it, so do not be late.”
Mindan bowed and backed away. Karl took him escorted him to his room. Without a word, he dropped a purse on Mindan’s table.
“The king is committed to his course. If this way doesn’t give him what he wants, he’ll find some other way. I wouldn’t blame you if you did not return.” Karl spoke his words with exaggerated care.
“I take it that your problem is already solved.”
“It’s all a matter of price sometimes.”
Mindan turned away. “I think I’d rather not know more.”
Karl opened the door. “Be safe, gamekeeper.”
“You were going to leave without even a note?”
Mindan started at the voice and turned from cinching the saddle of his horse to see Virith standing in the stable door. He looked around for others, but apparently they were alone.
“My pardon, Princess,” he said. “It would be inappropriate for a gamekeeper to seek an audience—”
“Stop it. That is exactly why I was where I was.” She glanced around. “I regret nothing. It would have been nice to spend another day, but I was interrupted.”
“I saw them.”
“Father can be overprotective, and Court life is stifling.”
“Do you think it will be any better here?”
“Stephen—he’s not what I expected. I think it will be fine. I knew all along that I would be bartered for advantage. I never hoped it would be to someone I might actually enjoy. It may be that I’m more fortunate than I deserve.” She smiled. “That was a mean trick your king played on me.”
“I think you played a meaner one on him.”
“Meaner? I can’t fathom your meaning.”
“How did you do that?”
She shrugged. “A special oil to coat my skin. I wasn’t sure it would work, but I couldn’t very well refuse it, could I? That would have served for an excuse just as well, but I wasn’t worried. The legends are just legends, unless they’re made to be true. I didn’t realize just how anxious your king was for war. My people were here, preparations were made. I’m not sure what we’d have done had the kin
g left well enough alone. As it his, he fell into his own trap.”
Mindan was stunned. Deceit on deceit, and this time played by a girl. No, hardly a girl—
“I wish you every happiness, Princess.”
“I think I can manage that on my own. Wish me success, though. That can be more elusive.” She frowned. “You’re leaving?”
“On another mission for my king.”
“Should I wish you success, then?”
Mindan shook his head. “I think I shall not succeed.”
“Would you consider returning and serving me?”
“As what?”
She smiled. “Gamekeeper, of course.”
Mindan considered it—briefly. He shook his head. “Thank you, Your Royal Highness, but I think I would prefer service with fewer ambiguities.”
She nodded. “I can understand that. Do you think you can find it?”
“I believe so.”
“Then—at least safe travels.”
He mounted his horse. “May I ask, Your Royal Highness, what were you doing?”
She held up a hand. “A last summer’s day of freedom. A foolish act of will, but I’m grateful it was with someone I think I can respect.”
“Thank you. I’ll try to deserve that.” He hesitated, weighing what was left of his loyalty against the problems of a troubled conscience. He chose.
“You should know King Prester wants to conquer Thessany. A breach with Masady would give him the excuse to go to war over it.”
“I know. That’s one reason I agreed to all this. A small sacrifice to preserve peace, don’t you think? But thank you for the warning. Be well.”
Mindan half expected to be stopped, if not in the city then by the border, waylaid and killed but nothing happened. He went alone this time and traveled directly to Githira.
Fama met him soon after he crossed the border.
A year later he heard the news that King Prester had died. In his sleep, it was said, but other rumors told of poison. Mindan wondered if he ever recovered from the horn. Stephen took his place on the throne with his queen, the Princess Virith.
Mindan never went back.
Redaction
Bruce held Ro-boy tight against his chest, regarding the others in the waiting room with great suspicion. There was a tension in the room that wasn’t all him. Every kid in there was embracing his or her own Ro-boy as their parents fidgeted. There were young kids, babies to Bruce’s eyes, and a few around his age, eight or ten. Bruce rested his chin on his Ro-boy’s head.
Ro-boy had been silent since the previous evening, when Bruce’s parents had argued and his dad came in and removed Ro-boy’s brain. Bruce had slept badly without Ro-boy telling stories and talking him through the nightmares. He had finally drifted off early in the morning hours, a sleep that ended too soon when his mother gently rubbed his back, telling him to get ready for a visit to the doctor. Her eyes had been puffy and red.
He knew better than to ask anything when she was like this. Her explanations didn’t make sense to him. Sometimes it was okay, but most of Bruce’s memories of his mother included bouts of crying and self-recrimination, most of it somehow related to Bruce’s dead brother, Ryan.
Bruce had no memory of Ryan, who had died before Bruce was born, but he had been a presence in the house throughout his life. As far as Bruce could tell, the only times his parents fought were about Ryan.
Now Bruce hugged Ro-boy and glanced at his dad, who sat on his left, arms folded, staring ahead, his mouth a straight, unsympathetic gash. On Bruce’s right, his mother kept her hands folded in her lap. Her eyes drifted across the room, occasionally fixing on a child, her mouth flexing around the effort not to cry. Confused as he was, Bruce sensed that she was even more so.
Two other families were called in before the nurse came for Bruce. His dad tapped his shoulder, and Bruce walked alongside him through the door, his mother following down the corridor to an examination room. Bruce’s dad indicated that he should sit on the couch opposite the desk below a large terminal screen. One wall showed a meadow in early morning sun. His parents took chairs with their backs to the meadow.
Bruce was relieved when the door opened a few minutes later and a tall man in a short smock entered.
“Hi,” he said, his voice deep and pleasant. “I’m Dr. Widistal. You’re the Michesons?” Bruce’s parents stood and his dad extended a hand.
“John,” Bruce’s dad said, clasping the doctor’s hand, “and this is my wife, Vanessa.”
The doctor shook Vanessa’s hand, then went to his desk and touched the keyboard. A chart appeared. Bruce saw his name and birth date above two columns of notes and numbers. The doctor read for a time, then turned to Bruce.
“Bruce. Is that your friend?”
Bruce glanced at Ro-boy. “Not right now. He’s not really here.”
“What do you mean?”
“Dad pulled his brain.”
“I see.” He looked at John and Vanessa. “What’s the situation with the Personal Auditing Liaison?”
John cleared his throat. “I don’t believe the PAL is functioning as it should. He’s eight and by now, according to my understanding, he ought to be past certain—manifestations—of early childhood. We’ve had unexplained tantrums, nightmares, occasional bed-wetting, and certain related discipline issues.”
Dr. Widistal waited for more, but when John remained silent, he glanced at Vanessa, then at Bruce. “Did you bring the matrix with you?”
John fished the insert from his jacket pocket and handed it to Dr. Widistal. Bruce had not seen it often—a small, off-white wafer edged in silver—and wondered now if he would ever see it again. The doctor inserted it into a slot on the side of his screen. A smaller window opened on the left and he spent a few minutes studying the data that scrolled up. Suddenly he pulled the matrix and dropped it into a drawer, then stood.
“Where did you get this matrix?”
“From—here,” John said, shrugging. “We had it profiled here—” He looked at Vanessa, who looked from Bruce to the doctor to the floor. After a couple of false starts, she said, quietly, “I had it cloned after Ryan’s death.”
“What did you do with Bruce’s?”
Vanessa shrugged. “It’s—somewhere—”
“I didn’t know about this,” John said.
“How long has the substitution been in place?” Dr. Widistal asked.
“Um—” Vanessa reddened. “Since he was three.”
The doctor made notes through the keyboard and sighed. He turned to Bruce. “May I see?” He held out a hand for Ro-boy.
Bruce waited for a response from his PAL, but then remembered that he had no brain. Without its mind it appeared to Bruce as nothing but a featureless set of arms and legs with a head. When Ro-boy was there, it showed him human features that varied with Bruce’s mood, but always a face he could trust. Now Bruce offered the bare form with both hands, and Dr. Widistal took with obvious care.
“Thank you, Bruce,” he said and placed it on the desk. He plugged a cable into it and still another window opened on his screen. He tapped the keyboard a few times, nodding, then unplugged it and set it aside. He stood. “Mr. and Mrs. Micheson, would you come with me, please. Bruce, I’d like you to wait here while I talk to your parents. Everything’s going to be fine, okay?”
“Okay.”
The doctor waved his parents through a different door than the one they had entered and closed it behind him.
Bruce stared at the big screen still displaying his data. He understood some of it—the optimization curves year by year, with the deviation percentiles (he still had trouble pronouncing some of the terms, but he had been getting better) that increased over the last four, bothered him, but his academics showed consistently high. He knew that most of what he saw required the kind of interpretation Ro-boy normally supplied. Seeing himself spread out in numbers and comments like that gave him a peculiar feeling of not being himself, but that also might have been his PAL�
��s absence. Ever since his dad took Ro-boy’s brain last night, Bruce had been anxious, fidgety, waiting for something that had never happened before. Usually when he felt this way, Ro-boy helped. Not just the explanations he gave, but just a sense that everything would be all right.
That was how it was supposed to work, but it seemed recently to take Ro-boy longer to calm Bruce down, and even when he succeeded it was a tenuous calm and sometimes short-lived. Bruce thought it had to do with his parents and their arguments, which had been getting more frequent.
At least there had been no fights this morning. It seemed for the last six months his parents had made a routine of building an argument where none existed and letting it rage like a storm. Occasionally Bruce recognized himself as the subject, but it never made sense. As far as he could tell the only problem he had was a pronounced dislike of broccoli and cauliflower.
His dad had been upset at some of the vids he had been watching this past year, claiming they were violent or disrespectful of something; Bruce was never sure what exactly. About four months ago he had used a word—he still did not know where he had heard it—that had been the cause for a whole week of tension. He had taken a control chip out of the mower, just to examine it. He should not have left the machine broken that way, and certainly not where his dad could find it, but he had. His dad lost his temper. Bruce didn’t understand how he could be upset that he was doing something more important than lawn maintenance, so he didn’t explain himself. Instead, he spoke out his resentment with the word—well, a few words—that turned his father’s face a strange shade of red.
In the end his dad took the issue up with his mother, not him. No one talked to him about it. No one asked him anything. He seemed to be nothing but an object, not a person, so he stopped listening to them.
The worst had been the last couple of months. So bad, that he had become afraid of his dad, and he avoided his mother. His dad seemed to watch him constantly through narrowed eyes as if searching for flaws Bruce grew convinced he possessed and could not hide, while his mother teared up at the least thing: a word, a gesture, even the way Bruce laughed. Bruce no longer felt safe with either of them, having failed at being who or what he was supposed to be. He found no help from Ro-boy, no advice that worked, nothing that offset the anxiety and doubt. Now he was wetting his bed, a regression that horrified him, and Ro-boy had just been lobotomized. Bruce was alone.
Gravity Box and Other Spaces Page 14
