by Rob Summers
Chapter 40 The Witch Gelen
Hungry and cold and dirty and ragged and feverish, Metuza the Dog entered the Court of Sacrifice between two guards and sank onto a bench. A thousand mile trip by ox-cart had brought her back to the Great Midraeum in this state. She had ridden back with Zavira, passing the bulk of their army’s survivors, the unfortunates who were still dragging themselves home on foot from the debacle at the Battle of the Field of Parting. The Cerberus, waiting for the Priestess at the Eleutheria, had whisked them down the river to the site of Purgos and an instant arraignment before Monophthalmos.
Here in the Midraeum beside the altar of sacrifice stood a box shaped litter, black and curtained: the traveling litter of Monophthalmos, Old One Eye, eldest of the remaining Immortals of the Fold. Round about stood candelabras, lighting not only the altar area but the sides of the court also, where were revealed statues that Metuza had not noticed on her first visit here. Standing on wide low steps that ascended to the walls were the images of men and women in wild contortions, as if frozen in a dancing fit.
Near the litter stood black robed initiates of the Watch, each a full Brood member: Dom Chalice, Amoz the Snake, Buz the Scorpion; and the Ram, the Bull, the Lion, the Fish, the Hydra, the Egg, and the Raven. Zavira too was here, the only one besides Metuza under guard.
By means of an incantation old Dom dedicated the meeting to Fowroz. When he had thrown a handful of exotic powder over an incense burner, the other witches raised each a cult knife and passed it back and forth in strange patterns. Then Dom began a long speech about the now shattered army that had left Farja three months before. Metuza knew that her very life might depend on her attention to this speech, but she was so sick and exhausted that the Chalice’s words faded in and out of her consciousness.
She forced herself to look at him through her thick veil. “Now Zavira,” he was saying, “don’t attempt to blame General Pyrus for the failure of your expedition. In the first place, he isn’t here to answer: he’s gone over to the Prowtsians, by report. More importantly, he was always a good soldier and so would stick to his objective of capturing the Pretender. He would not initiate war with Trans-Titan. We have witnesses, officers who were with him, who say that the decision to invade Trans-Titan was entirely yours. That, of course, is a deadly serious charge, for the revered Monophthalmos had no such thing in mind when he sent half of Farja’s military might marching eastward. Now all Farja is seeking whom to blame for our defeat. We followers of Midras may lose control of the Council, something it took us centuries to gain. What do you answer?”
Zavira slowly stood between her guards. “My answer,” she crackled, “is that the loss of half our forces is worth snuffing out the life of the cursed Pretender. I will say that freely here among the Watch. Pyrus failed twice to capture him: once when the Blue Flis intervened and again when the boy disappeared somewhere out beyond Mount Droljel. Since the general had failed, it was up to me to achieve Monophthalmos’ purpose. Yes, I forced Pyrus to lead the army into Trans-Titan. What was the outcome? There we had the Pretender’s sister in our hands!”
“The sister?” Dom Chalice glowered. “What has she to do with it?”
“She was there with the Tirasite army,” Zavira said, “who knows how or why? And we require her death as much as the boy’s.”
“This is no defense,” said the Scorpion. “We were after the boy. What if you did blunder into Simone?”
“And had her,” Zavira said. “Had her! While I was prisoner to the Foresters, they told me how she had been captured late in the battle, but that our craven Farjan soldiers had given her up to a handful of the Lupris, the wretched dog-Sarrs. When those cowards become known, they’ll be put to death. Oh, but that was not enough! No, the invasion might have been justified a second time, for we had her again. Once more her death was as easy to obtain as the strangling of a mouse, and yet once more Monophthalmos’ purpose was betrayed.”
Dom Chalice’s wrinkled face was emotionless. “And that is why, Priestess, you’ve asked that the Dog be brought here with you?”
“She is the greatest traitor that was ever in our midst,” replied Zavira. “While we were captives after the battle, she was called for questioning by Simone. I provided her, therefore, with a little vial of poison vapor—stuff that kills instantly when inhaled—and ordered her to use it on Simone. She had every opportunity to do so, for she was alone with her, but she did nothing. Later she wasted it on a Sarree, a wounded Lusetta that would have died anyway.”
“That’s unbelievable,” said Dom. “The Dog is an Immortal, completely given over to us.”
“Don’t forget, Dom Chalice, that an Immortal betrayed us once before. But ask her yourself. She won’t dare deny it with our knife blade at her heart.”
“Tear off her veil,” Dom ordered.
A guard ripped it away, and Metuza hunched over, covering her face with her hands.
“If I had brought you word of Simone’s death,” Zavira said, “you would have esteemed it as worth the loss of one battle or many. The only reason I don’t bring such word is due to the bottomless perfidy of this girl. She’s to blame for the failure of the expedition. Let her pay then as the traitor March did, with her life.”
Dom motioned for Metuza to rise, and she did so, shakily, with tears on her face.
“You are charged a traitor,” he said.
Metuza looked around as if she were only half conscious. Then she began to moan and wail. “Oh, good General Pyrus!” she cried. “Great Pyrus, an exile forever. I can’t cry for myself, only for him. When I think, oh, when I remember! The Pretender was at bay in the mountains north of Dowerkass, and though a Blue Flis was nearby, Pyrus ordered the army to take him. But the Priestess overruled him. She ordered the troops back and let Clay Gareth escape.”
Zavira turned totteringly to stare at Metuza.
“I know I won’t be believed,” Metuza said, “but Zavira did it again and again. As the Pretender rode north, the Priestess never allowed Pyrus to catch him, but she always hampered him, she gave orders to slow the pursuit. Oh, it was as if she wanted Monophthalmos’ plans to fail!”
“Lies! Lies!” Zavira croaked. “You fiend! Is this how you repay me? Dom, why don’t you order her silenced?”
“Quiet,” Dom ordered. “Let the girl speak.”
“Then Zavira ordered the army into Trans-Titan, just as she said,” Metuza went on. “But it’s not true that Simone was ever in Farjan hands. I was prisoner with Zavira, so I know that none of our enemies ever spoke of Simone’s having been captured and having escaped. And I myself was never called to Simone’s tent. No such thing happened.”
“Why would Zavira say it then?” asked the Raven.
Metuza turned to Zavira. “She wants to call attention away from her own treachery. Zavira is no friend to Monophthalmos. She has often told me—in private—that Monophthalmos has ruled too long, that it’s time she took his place. So she did everything she could to secretly ruin the expedition that Monophthalmos had planned. She hoped that, when Pyrus failed, Monophthalmos would be discredited with him. I know I won’t be believed, but during the battle Zavira ordered Pyrus to hold back his reserves until they were too late to save the army. I was a witness, I saw it happen.”
“You viper,” Zavira said, “do you think you can save yourself with such pathetic lies?”
“Quiet,” Dom ordered again. “Metuza the Dog, do you have anything more to say?”
“Only—that I’m Monophthalmos’ devoted slave,” Metuza whispered and, seeming to swoon, fell back onto her bench.
“No more witnesses will be heard,” said Dom. “Monophthalmos will now judge.” The old warlock stepped around the side of the black-draped litter and for a few minutes spoke quietly with the one within. Then he resumed his place before the Brood and announced the judgment.
“The Dog is entirely innocent,” he said, “
Zavira hideously guilty. Monophthalmos commends the Dog, remembering that her betrothal to the Eastern prince is the key to our great strategy; and he thanks her for bravely exposing Zavira as a traitor, something he had already come to believe.”
“He didn’t say that!” cried Zavira, “he couldn’t have said that. He knows she lies, how could he not know? He—”
“Zavira is condemned,” Dom went on, “to confinement within the Black Hall. Ram and Snake, take her there and lock her in.” Zavira was dragged from the Court of Sacrifice down the passage that led to the Hall, screaming as loudly as her ancient, black lungs would allow. When she had been taken far enough away that all was quiet again, Dom said that the Brood would now leave the Midraeum and return to their ships.
Somewhat later, above ground and walking toward the river, Metuza found herself on the arm of her father-in-law.
“An appalling thing, Metty,” Amoz said. “Your testimony really shocked me. It went so far beyond what I had already suspected of Zavira. I only wonder that she was fool enough to confide in you about all her treacherous designs.”
“Yes, it was foolish of her,” said Metuza, ignoring Amoz’s thinly disguised sarcasm.
“You knew everything, Metty, and had to guess at nothing. Seldom is an accused person so fortunate as to have such a seamless and utterly damning story to tell. Of course, you could not have known how badly Monophthalmos has wanted to blame the army’s disaster on Zavira. You couldn’t have known what pressure he has been under from the Council to produce a scapegoat.”
“No, father, I couldn’t even suspect.”
“Well, welcome home. Your parents will be glad to see you.”
They walked on in silence.
‘One down and one to go,’ Metuza thought to herself with satisfaction. ‘I shall yet rule alone.’
When Monophthalmos too was eliminated, she still would have to deal with the Emperor. He was somewhere beyond the Titans, perhaps even now seeking to occupy the eastern throne, the throne that ought to be reserved for her. But even with his good fortune, even with his charmed lineage and prophesied blessings, he could not quickly unseat Solomon. There would be time for her to deal with him as she had with his sister. By telling Simone that her brother was dead, it appeared that Metuza had driven her to despair. Rumor among the Brood was that the tall girl had headed for Crow Wood in order to leave the Fold, perhaps forever. Well, Clay Gareth could also be deceived. Once again it was one down, one to go.
Metuza’s pleasant train of thought was cut short, for as she walked through the woods with the other witches, she was suddenly aware of Zavira, aware of the Hag as a Power. She fell to her knees by Amoz’s side and remained there trembling.
“What is it, Metty?”
“No!” Metuza croaked. “Not to be kept here without light!” She struck at the air with one hand. “Open the doors! Don’t leave me alone, all by myself, year after year. Not here, not here with the broken pieces of the others. On and on, in the darkness, until I’m a statue! Come back! Let me out!”
“Silence, Zavira,” Amoz said. “Metty, come along. This will wear off when we get away from Purgos.”
“Metuza!” the girl moaned. “I know you’re there. What are you? Do you think it will be any different for you? I’ll have my revenge. You’ll stand beside me, viper, in this Hall. Zavira and Monophthalmos and Metuza, we three, as the centuries pass. You can’t escape your fate, Metuza. You belong to Fowroz.”
Amoz pulled Metuza up and, with the help of others, carried her along the path. By the time they reached the beach, she was herself again and could walk, leaning on her father-in-law.
“How do you feel?” he asked her as she limped along.
“I thought I was going to die,” she said.
“You’re more sensitive than most to the Powers. That’s both a strength and a weakness.”
Metuza looked back over her shoulder at the line of witches, some carrying Monophthalmos’ litter.
“Where is he?”
“Where is who, Metty?”
“The red-haired man who made Zavira be quiet. He pulled her away from me.”
“There’s no red-haired man.”
“He was here. He had the Power of light. It was blinding.”
“You’re babbling. We’ll get you on the ship and into a bed. Then you’ll feel better.”
“All right,” she said wispily and walked on a bit. “Is it true what they say, did Simone return to the Old World?”
“Metuza! Are you still calculating, even now? Doesn’t that mind of yours ever rest?”
“Just tell me.”
“Our spies tell us she was going toward Crow Wood in November. That’s all we know. Why?”
“Because Clay Gareth told me that one of us was still alive in their world. One of Ven’s coven.”
“Honestly? Well, let’s hope it’s true. We might then have one more try at them.”
In the Indiana dusk, Sarah Overby gunned her Taurus up the steep drive to Cemetery House and parked in the mud and gravel mixture that passed for a driveway. A Christmas tree was aglow in the living room window, and several other lights were on. She turned to Simone and Clay in the car with her.
“Yeah, no Dart, your mom’s still gone. Gelen’s here though, you can be sure of that, and in front of the TV as always. I wish I could go in with you and see the look on her face, but I’ve got to zip home before Mom and Dad get curious about what I’ve been doing. You’re mom got real mad at me last time, Simone, when I gave you a lift out of here. After that, Mom and Dad told me not to get involved anymore.”
“But you got involved anyway. Thanks,” said Simone. “Clay was getting embarrassed at the convenience store, so we’re glad you came right away.”
Simone was still in the Indiana clothes she had worn when returning to the Fold two weeks previously, but Clay was outfitted in colorful robes, tunic, and boots.
“Oh, people probably just thought he was in an early Christmas play,” said Sarah. “Can I help you carry anything in?”
“No thanks, we’ll get everything. I’ll come see you tomorrow evening and reclaim my nevel, OK?”
“OK, and you tell me the latest from the country that isn’t Mexico.”
When Simone and Clay went to the back of the house, they found the screen door unlatched but the main door locked.
“Don’t knock,” said Simone. “I think dimwit Gelen doesn’t know we’re here. Apparently, she was too caught up in her TV watching to notice Sarah’s car. Could you pick the lock, and then we’ll sneak up on her?”
“Easy. You know I used to practice on this one all the time.”
Clay got them in quickly. They put their things on the kitchen table and crept to the front of the house. With the TV blaring, Gelen was lounging in robe and pajamas, a bag of potato chips in her lap and a can of soda in her hand. Her back to them, she was mesmerized by an episode of ‘Gilligan’s Island.’
Simone strode to the television and firmly turned it off. “Surprise, Gelen! I’m back with Clay.”
The pudgy girl cringed into the couch, gaping in turn at Clay and Simone.
“Did you understand me?” Simone added in Gellene. “Clay’s back and now you’ll have to move out of his room. Don’t worry, we’ll put you somewhere. How would you like to sleep on the couch? You’d be close to the TV.”
Gelen answered in the same language. “Are you going to hurt me? Throw me out? Mom won’t let you!”
“Relax, I told you last time that I’m not going to hit you anymore,” Simone said, sitting down. “But we’ve got to get some things worked out before Mom comes home. You need to know that no more witches can get through to this world. The Door’s sealed off because Tsawb’s on our side now.”
“We hope,” Clay added too quietly for Gelen to hear.
“So you should be on our side, too.” Simone sought, but failed to meet,
Gelen’s piggish eyes. “Since Mom took you as a foster child, that makes you a sister to the Emperor. Isn’t that a lot better than being at the bottom of the witch pecking order and having to drink blood and all that gruesome stuff? I mean, you’ve got it made here. Don’t blow it.”
Tears rolled down Gelen’s cheeks as she looked back and forth at them, still never quite meeting their eyes. “You said I’d kill Mom,” she said bitterly.
“OK, so I was wrong! I already apologized for that when I was here last, so don’t live in the past. The question is, are you going to be good?”
“Stop threatening me,” Gelen spat.
“She’s not threatening you,” Clay said. “Actually, this is as nice as she gets.” (Simone shot him a withering look.) “Anyway, we just want you to know that there’s no point in your being a witch anymore. You can drop it. No more yucchy stuff. No more spell burns.”
Gelen dropped her hands to her robed thigh as if to protect it.
“So you’ve got them, huh?”
She waited a long time before answering. “They made me,” she said.
“Who did, Ven and Icky?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Well, wasn’t it nice of them to push it off on you like that?”
Gelen shook her head humorlessly. “Not nice.”
“Well, we’re going to try to be nice to you,” Simone said. “Don’t expect too much, but we’ll try.”
“What do you say?” Clay prompted.
Gelen looked at her pink, fluffy slippers and answered in English. “I wanna watch TV.”
Simone and Clay intended to go to bed early, but first they had to hide away the gold and jewels they had brought with them, parting gifts from various peoples of the Fold. Fortunately, Clay had a mini-safe in his room big enough to hold everything but the statuette Sipnur had given him.
Simone sat the figure of the Lusetta on Clay’s desk and immediately had to steady it. “This thing’s too top heavy; it barely stands.”
“Don’t be critical,” Clay said as he closed the little safe. “Do you know how much that thing’s worth? I mean, even just melted down and forget the sapphires for eyes?”
“Enough to pay for my college?”
“Well, throw in some of the jewels and you’ve got it. You’re going now, no problem.”
“And you don’t have to worry about your lost scholarship.”
“I’m going to try to get it back, anyway.” He stood up. “I’ll hide my Fold clothes in the top of the closet. I guess I’ll put the statuette up there too, for now. Oops, and the camera. I don’t want mom developing that film. Will you take Gelen some blankets so she can sleep on the couch?”
A half hour later, when Simone and Clay were asleep in their rooms, the golden Lusetta shook slightly and tipped over on the high shelf in Clay’s closet, falling noiselessly into the clothes he had worn home. Momentarily, something crawled out of the hollow base and slowly, slowly found its way in the dark to the floor of the closet. Flattening itself, it pushed under the door. It spread its fleshy wings and flew across the room until it thumped softly against the opposite wall and clung there. Then it crawled to the floor and out through the crack at the bottom of the door.
Gelen was still in front of the television but was too stirred up to pay attention to what she was watching. She was miserable to the point of nausea. She did not want them back! If only the Smoke Hag had killed them there in the Fold! Then she would have been able to continue the happy life she had begun here with Susan Tanner. But apparently the Emperor had won and had come back in triumph, smiling and unhurt. His vicious sister, too. How she would like to have them on an altar of sacrifice....
While she pondered, something alive whirred through the room and landed on her upper leg. Gelen gasped but did not scream, for she recognized the thing, recognized it as the sort of messenger often used by her own cult. She grasped the brown bat and held it up. The eyes were bloody and the mouth dry and black, proofs that it was almost used up. Around its neck was a tiny tube held by a string. When she plucked this off, the bat stopped breathing, it was instantly dead.
Gelen got up, carried the dead thing to the toilet, and flushed it. Then she went to the kitchen and, turning on the light, sat down at the table. Watched only by a ceramic angel in a Christmas centerpiece, she carefully broke off the end of the dusky tube, just as she had seen others do, and slipped out the paper. Thin as a cobweb, it unfolded and unfolded until a message lay before her in tiny Gellene:
To the witch who has passed Tsawb’s Door.
From the Silb Sipnur, servant of Tsawb
My Master wills you to kill the boy Clay and the girl Simone, his great enemies. You need not bring him proof: Tsawb will sense when the thing is done. When you have killed them, return to the Fold, and Tsawb will reward you with great wealth and make you Queen of his cult.
Gelen looked at the paper for a long time, and then sighed. Since she had come to the Old World, she had learned to read a little English. But in her own language she remained illiterate. Of this message she could recognize only the words ‘wealth’ and ‘cult.’ Still, she knew what her last mission had been. If she would now complete it by murdering the Lila-mes, then someone—probably the Hag—promised her wealth.
She took the paper to the sink and dissolved it in water. Her knife she fetched from its hiding place under the bottom kitchen drawer. A cult knife had been taken from her by police when she entered the Old World, so this was a substitute: one of her foster mother’s butcher knives. Gelen had sharpened the blade, decorated the handle with dark symbols, and pronounced over it the proper spells of dedication to Fowroz. She repeated these spells now, in preparation. Lastly, she fetched a candlestick and some red thread.
She lit the candle, shook off her flapping slippers, and crept into Clay’s room. After placing the candlestick on a shelf above his head, she laid out thread in a rough circle around him. Then, as he lay in deep, exhausted sleep, she considered the need for a little blood to sprinkle over the sacrifice. She raised the knife to prick her finger but paused in thought. If she were to hitch a ride on the highway after killing them, she would soon reach Mullins Cave and the Door. Since the gate was locked, she would have to find some way to climb in. Very well, she could manage that. But suppose that, in dying, Clay waked his sister? Simone would kill her.
She felt that the cult expected too much of her, a mere girl. Besides, these two had promised to be nice. Their mother was nice. Her teacher here was nice, the school bus driver, everyone. The food was wonderful, especially macaroni and cheese, and she always got to wear clean clothes.
She balanced against this the immense riches with which her cult would reward her if she brought them the heads of the Lila-mes. She could picture herself on a chair of gold, attended by dozens of pampering slaves. Yes, the Lady Gelen of Farja: served, feared, and sought after. She would be a sort of Empress herself, live in a palace, feast every meal.
In spite of this, Gelen delayed. For she had found something in the Old World that she could not take back to the Fold; something she loved with all her soul, thought about day and night, and could not imagine giving up. She had left the door to Clay’s room slightly ajar, and through it from the living room came the sound of singing, of country music, the theme song of ‘The Beverly Hillbillies.’ She had left the set on. This was the siren song she could not live without. Gelen lowered the knife and, quietly gathering the things she had brought with her, left the room.
In a few minutes, she was on the couch again, her eyes glazed and her mouth slack, happy and untroubled.
