Madwand Read online

  The man scrambled to his feet, stumbled, then raced forward, passing between the pillars, howling. Immediately, the dark creatures emitted sharp cries and, pushing and clawing against one another, moved to pursue the fleeing changeling, the one who had somehow been of a substance with him joining in.

  Pol heard laughter and awoke to find it his own. It ended abruptly, and he lay for a long while staring at moonlit clouds through the dark branches of the trees.

  They rode one day in the wagon of a farmer and his son and accompanied a pedlar for half a day. Beyond this—and encounters with a merchant and a physician headed in the opposite direction—they met no one taking the same route until the second week. Then, a sunny afternoon, they spied the dust and dark figures of a small troop before them in the distance.

  It was late afternoon when they finally overtook the group of travelers. It consisted of an old sorcerer, Ibal Shenson, accompanied by his two apprentices, Nupf and Suhuy, and ten servants—four of whom were engaged in the transportation of the sedan chair in which Ibal rode.

  It was to Nupf—a short, thin, mustachioed youth with long, dark hair—that Pol first addressed himself, since this one was walking at the rear of the retinue.

  “Greetings,” he said, and the man moved his right hand along an inconspicuous arc as he turned to face him.

  As had been happening with increasing frequency when confronted with manifestations of the Art, Pol’s second vision came reflexively into play. He saw a shimmering gray strand loop itself and move as if to settle over his head. With but the faintest throb of the dragonmark he raised his hand and brushed it aside.

  “Here!” he said. “Is that the way to return the greeting of a fellow traveler?”

  A look of apprehension widened the other’s eyes, jerked at his mouth.

  “My apologies,” he said. “One never knows about travelers. I was merely acting to safeguard my master. I did not realize you were a brother in the Art.”

  “And now that you do . . . ?”

  “You are headed for the meeting at Belken?”

  “Yes.”

  “I will speak with my master, who no doubt will invite you to accompany us.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Who shall I tell him sends greetings?”

  “Pol Detson—and this is Mouseglove.”

  “Very well.”

  He turned and moved to catch up with the bearers. Pol and Mouseglove followed.

  Looking over the apprentice’s shoulder, Pol glimpsed the old sorcerer himself before the man addressed him. Swathed in blue garments, a gray shawl over his shoulders, a brown rug upon his lap, it was difficult to estimate his size, though he gave the impression of smallness and fragility. His nose was sharp, his eyes pale and close-set; his cheeks and forehead were deeply creased, the skin mottled; his hair was thick, long, very black and looked like a wig—for his beard was sparse and gray. His hands were out of sight beneath the rug.

  “Come nearer,” he hissed, turning his head toward Pol and squinting.

  After he did so, Pol held his breath, becoming aware of the other’s.

  “Detson? Detson?” the man asked. “From where have you come?”

  “Castle Rondoval,” Pol replied.

  “I thought the place deserted all these years. Who is lord there now?”

  “I am.”

  There was a stirring beneath the brown coverlet. A big-jointed, dark-veined hand emerged. It moved slowly toward Pol’s right wrist and plucked at the sleeve.

  “Bare your forearm, if you please.”

  Pol reached across and did so.

  Two fingers extended, Ibal traced the dragonmark. Then he chuckled and raised his eyes, staring at Pol, past him.

  “It is as you say,” he remarked. “I did not know of you—though I see now that you are troubled by more than one lingering thing from out of Rondoval’s past.”

  “That may well be,” said Pol. “But how can you tell?”

  “They circle you like swarms of bright insects!” Ibal said, still looking past him.

  Pol consciously shifted into his second mode of seeing, and while there were many strands in the vicinity, he detected nothing which resembled a circling swarm of insects.

  “I fail to observe the phenomenon myself . . . ”

  “Most certainly,” the other replied, “for it has doubtless been constantly with you—and it would of course seem different to you than it does to me, anyway, if you could detect it at all. You know how sorcerers’ perceptions vary, and their emphasis upon different things.”

  Pol frowned.

  “Or do you?” Ibal asked.

  When Pol did not reply, the old sorcerer continued to stare, narrowing his eyes to tight slits.

  “Now I am not so certain,” he said. “At first I thought that the disorganization of your lights was a very clever disguise, but now—”

  “My lights?” Pol said.

  “With whom did you serve your apprenticeship—and when did you undergo initiation?” the other demanded.

  Pol smiled.

  “I grew up far from here,” he replied, “in a place where things are not done that way.”

  “Ah, you are a Madwand! Preserve us from Madwands! Still . . . You are not totally disorganized—and anyone with that mark—” He nodded again at Pol’s right arm “—must possess an instinct for the Art. Interesting . . . So why do you travel to Belken?”

  “To learn . . . some things.”

  The old sorcerer chuckled.

  “And I go for self-indulgence,” he said. “Call me Ibal, and accompany me. It will be good to have someone strange to talk with. Your man is not a brother of the Art?”

  “No, and Mouseglove is not really my man—he is my companion.”

  “Mouseglove, did you say? I seem to have heard that name before. Something to do with jewels, perhaps?”

  “I am not a jeweler,” Mouseglove replied hastily.

  “No matter. Tomorrow I will tell you some things that may be of interest to you, Detson. But it is still over half a league to the place where I intend to camp. Let us move on. Upward! Forward!”

  The servants raised the litter and moved ahead with it. Pol and Mouseglove took up positions behind it and followed.

  That night they camped amid the ruins of what might once have been a small amphitheatre. Pol lay troubled for a long while, in fear of the dreams that might come to him. He still had not spoken of these, for in daytime the things of sleep seemed far away, but when the stillness descended and the fire dwindled the deeper places of shadow seemed filled with faces, as if some ghostly audience capable of seeing beyond the cowl of sleep had come together here to watch his journey into the place of baleful lights and screaming winds and cruelty. He shuddered and listened for a long time, his eyes darting. He knew of no magic to affect the content of his dreams. And he wondered again as to their significance, partly with the mind of one whose culture would have seen them in psychopathological terms, partly with the freshly tuned awareness that in this place another explanation could as readily apply. Then his thoughts began to drift, back to the encounter with the sorcerer who had tried to kill him at Rondoval. The dreams had begun almost immediately after that, and he wondered whether there could be a connection. Had the other laid a spell upon him before he had died, to trouble his sleep thereafter? His mind moved away, lulled by the steady creaking of insects in the distant wood. He wondered what Mark would have done. Looked for some drug to block it all out, perhaps. His mind drifted again . . .

  The movement. Now a familiar thing. The fear was gone. There was only anticipation within the rapid and disjointed series of images by which he moved. There was the Gate, and . . .

  It stopped. Everything stopped. He was frozen before the image of the partly opened Gate. It was fading, insubstantial, going away, and there was a hand upon his shoulder. He wanted to cry out, but only for a moment.

  “It’s all right now,” came a whisper, and the hand left him.

 
; Pol tried to turn his head, to sit up. He found that he could not stir. A large man, his face more than half-hidden in the shadow of his cowl, was rising from a kneeling position beside him, passing through his field of vision. Pol thought that he glimpsed part of a pale moustache and—impossibly—a shining, capped tooth.

  “Then why can’t I move?” he whispered through clenched teeth.

  “It was far easier for me to lay a general spell upon this entire camp than to be selective about it. Then I needed but arouse you and leave the others unconscious. The paralysis is, unfortunately, a part of it.”

  Pol suspected that this was a lie but saw no way to test it.

  “I saw that your sleep was troubled. I decided to grant you some relief.”

  “How can you see that a man’s sleep is troubled?”

  “I am something of a specialist in that matter which confronts you.”

  “That being . . . ?”

  “Did your dream not involve a large door?”

  Pol was silent for a moment. Then, “Yes,” he said. “It did. How could you know this unless you induced it yourself?”

  “I did not cause your dream. I did not even come here for purposes of releasing you from it.”

  “What, then?”

  “You journey to Belken.”

  “You seem to know everything . . . ”

  “Do not be impertinent. As our interests may be conjoined, I am trying to help you. I understand more than you do about some of the forces which are influencing you. You make a serious mistake, wandering about the world announcing yourself at this point in your career. Now, I have just taken great pains to remove the memory of your name and origin from the minds of Ibal and everyone in his party. In the morning, he will only recall you as a Madwand traveling to Belken. Even your appearance will be a confusion to him. If he should ask your name again, have another one ready, and use it in Belken, also. Rondoval still has its enemies.”

  “I gathered something of this with the attempt on my life.”

  “When was this? Where?”

  “A little over a week ago. Back home.”

  “I was not aware of this. Then it has begun. You should be safe for a time, if you remain incognito. I am going to rinse your hair with a chemical I have here, to conceal that white streak. It is too distinctive. And then we must hide your dragonmark.”

  “How?”

  “A relatively simple matter. How do you see manifestations of the Powers when you are working a spell?”

  Pol felt moisture upon his scalp.

  “Usually as colored strands—threads, strings, cords.”

  “Interesting. Very well, then. You can imagine me as wrapping your forearm with flesh-colored strands—so closely as to entirely mask the mark. It will in no way interfere with your workings. When you wish to uncover it you need but go through an unwrapping ritual.”

  Pol felt his arm taken, raised.

  “Who are you?” he asked. “How do you know all these things?”

  “I am the sorcerer who should never have been, and mine is a peculiar link with your House.”

  “We are related?”

  “No. Not even friends.”

  “Then why are you helping me?”

  “I feel that your continued existence may serve me. There. Your arm is nicely disguised.”

  “If you really wish to protect me from something, you might do well to tell me somewhat about it.”

  “I do not deem that the most fitting course of action. First, nothing may happen to you, in which case I would have exposed you to information I’d rather not. Second, ignorance on your part may actually benefit me.”

  “Mister, someone’s already gotten my number. I don’t like the notion of being suddenly engaged in another sorcerous duel.”

  “Oh, they’re all right if you win. That was the nature of the assassination attempt?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, you’re still intact.”

  “Just barely.”

  “Good enough, my boy. Keeps you alert. Now, perhaps we’d best coarsen your features a bit and lighten your eyes a trifle. Shall we have a wart beside your nose? No? An interesting scar on your cheek then? Yes, that should do it . . . ”

  “And you won’t give me your name?”

  “It would mean nothing to you, but your knowledge of it might trouble me later.”

  Pol willed the dragonmark to life, hoping his disguised arm would mask this from the other’s second sight. The man voiced no reaction as the throbbing began. Pol sent the force up and down his right arm, freeing it from the paralysis. Then his neck. He had to be able to turn his head a bit . . . Best to leave the rest as it was for the moment. Catalepsy, he knew, is hard to fake.

  The hands continued to move over his face. The other’s face remained out of his field of vision. Pol summoned a tough, gray strand and felt its ghostly presence across his fingertips.

  “Now they’ll all think you’ve been to Heidelberg . . . ”

  “What,” Pol asked him, “did you say?”

  “An obscure reference,” the other offered quickly. “A really good sorcerer has knowledge of places beyond this place, you know—”

  Pol let the energy pulse through him, breaking the paralysis entirely. He rolled onto his side and directed a flash movement of the gray strand. It snaked upward and snared the man’s wrists. As he tightened it, he began to rise.

  “Now I will ask my questions again,” Pol stated.

  “Fool of a Madwand!” said the other.

  The strand writhed in Pol’s hand and a feeling like an electrical shock traveled up his arm. He could not release the thing and the dragonmark felt as if it were on fire. He opened his mouth to scream, but nothing came out.

  “You are very lucky,” was the last thing he heard the man say before the storm reached his brain and he fell.

  Dawn had just bruised the eastern heaven when he opened his eyes. It was the voices of Ibal’s servants which had awakened him, as they moved about packing their gear, making ready to decamp. Pol raised his hands to his temples, trying to recall how much he had drunk . . .

  “Who are you? Where’s Pol?”

  He turned his head, saw Mouseglove standing arms akimbo, staring at him.

  “Is there a scar on my cheek?” he asked, raising his fingertips to search it.

  “Yes.”

  “Listen to my voice. Don’t you recognize it? Is the streak in my hair gone, too?”

  “Oh . . . I see. Yes, it is. Why a disguise at this point?”

  Pol got up and began gathering his things.

  “I’ll tell you about it while we’re walking along.”

  He searched the ground for signs of his visitor, but it was a rocky place and there were none. As they followed Ibal’s servitors back toward the trail, Mouseglove paused and pointed into a clump of withered shrubbery.

  “What do you make of that?” he asked.

  Three mummified rabbits hung among the tangle of branches.

  Shaking his head, Pol walked on.

  III

  It was more than a little traumatic at the beginning: the sights and sounds—all of the new things we encountered beyond Rondoval. I hovered close to Pol for the first several days, drifting along, sensing everything within range, familiarizing myself with the laws governing new groups of phenomena. Travel, I discovered, is broadening, for I found myself spreading over a larger area as time went on. My little joke. I realized that my expansion was at least partly attributable to the increased number of things whose essences I absorbed as we traveled along—plants as well as animals, though the latter were more to my liking—and partly in accord with Boyle’s and Charles’ laws, which I’d picked out of Pol’s mind one evening when he returned in memory to his university days. I cannot, in all honesty, consider myself a gas. Though I am anchored to the physical plane, I am not entirely manifested here and can withdraw partly with ease, entirely with more difficulty. I confine myself to a given area and move about by means of
my will. I am not certain how that works either. I was aware, however, that my total volume was increasing and that my ability to do physical things was improving—like the rabbits. I had decided to look upon the entire journey as an educational experience. Any new thing that I learned might ultimately have some bearing upon my quest for identity and purpose.

  And I was learning new things, some of them most peculiar. For instance, when that cloaked and muffled man entered the compound, I had felt a rippling as of a gentle breeze, only it was not physical; I had heard something like a low note and seen a mass of swimming colors. Then everyone, including the camp watchman, was asleep. There followed more movements and colors and sounds. Having recently learned the meaning of “subjective,” I can safely say that that is what they were, rather than tangible. Then I observed with interest as he altered the sleepers’, memories concerning Pol, realizing from the sensations I had experienced and from my memory of those back at Rondoval during Pol’s duel with the sorcerer in brown that I was extremely sensitive to magical emanations. I felt as if I could easily have altered these workings. I saw no reason to do so, however, so I merely observed. From my small knowledge of such affairs, it seemed that this one had an unusual style in the way he shifted forces among the planes. Yes. Sudden memories of a violent occasion reinforced this impression. He was peculiar, but I could see how he did everything that he did.

  Then he stood beside Pol for a long while and I could not tell what he was about. He was employing some power different from that which he had used minutes before, and I did not understand it. Something within me jerked spasmodically when he reached out and laid a hand upon Pol’s shoulder. Why, I did not know, but I moved nearer. I witnessed the entire conversation and the transformation of Pol’s appearance. When the man covered the dragon-mark I found myself wanting to cry out, “No!” But, of course, I had no voice. It irritated me considerably to see it done, though I knew that it remained intact beneath the spell—and I was aware that Pol could undo the spell whenever he chose. What this reaction told me about myself, I could not say.