Madwand Page 4

  But then, when Pol rose and there was a brief and rapid exchange of forces between the men, I rushed to settle upon Pol and permeate his form, inspecting it for damage. I could discover nothing which seemed permanently debilitating to his kind, and since they generally render themselves unconscious during the night I made no effort to interfere with this state.

  Withdrawing, I then set out to locate the other man. I was not certain why, nor what I would do should I succeed in finding him. But he had departed quickly and there was no trace of him about, so the questions remained academic.

  That was when I came across the rabbits and terminated them, as well as the bush where they crouched. I felt immediately stronger. I puzzled over all my reactions and the more basic questions which lay behind them—wondering, too, whether I was really made for such a fruitless function as introspection.

  No one in the company, Ibal included, seemed to take note of Pol’s altered appearance. And none addressed him by name. It was as if each of them had forgotten it and was embarrassed to reveal the feet to the others. Eventually, those who spoke with him settled upon “Madwand” as a term of address, and Pol did not even get to use the other name he had ready. Conceding the possibility of its protective benefit, he was nevertheless irritated that his new identity had caused Ibal to forget whatever it was that he had intended telling him about Rondoval. Not knowing how strong the stranger’s memory-clouding spell might be, he was loath to associate himself with Rondoval in his companions’ minds by broaching the subject himself.

  It was two nights later, as they sat to dinner, that Ibal raised a matter almost as interesting.

  “So, Madwand, tell me of your plans,” he said, spooning something soft and mushy between what remained of his teeth. “What do you propose doing at the fest?”

  “Learning,” Pol replied. “I would like to meet some fellow practitioners, and I would like to become more proficient in the Art.”

  Ibal chuckled moistly.

  “Why don’t you just come out and say that you’re looking for a sponsor for initiation?” he asked.

  “Would I be eligible?” Pol inquired.

  “If a master would back you.”

  “What would the benefits be?”

  Ibal shook his head.

  “I find it hard to believe you are that naive. Where did you grow up?”

  “In a place where the question never arose.”

  “I suppose I can believe that if I try, since you are a Madwand. All right. I occasionally find ignorance very refreshing. Proper experience of the rituals involved in initiation will result in an ordering of your lights. This will allow you to handle greater quantities of the energy that moves through all things. It will permit you to grow in power, a thing which might not happen otherwise.”

  “Will initiations actually be conducted at Belken this time, during the course of the gathering?”

  “Yes. I plan on having Nupf initiated there—though Suhuy, I feel, is not ready.”

  He gestured toward the larger of his apprentices, the youth with dark eyes and pale hair. Suhuy frowned and looked away.

  “Once an apprentice has been initiated he is on his own, so to speak?” Pol asked.

  “Yes, though a man will occasionally remain with his master for a period of time afterwards to learn certain fine points of the Art which might have been neglected while he was studying the basics.”

  “Well, if I can’t locate a sponsor I guess that I’ll just have to muddle through life on my own.”

  “If you are aware of the dangers of initiation . . . ”

  “I’m not.”

  “Death and madness are the main ones. Every now and then they claim a few who were not quite ready.”

  “Could I get some coaching so as not to be unready?”

  “That could be arranged.”

  “Then I’d be willing.”

  “In that case, I will sponsor you in return for future goodwill. It’s always nice to have a few friends in the trade.”

  The dreams of the Gate and the peculiar land beyond them did not return that night, nor on any succeeding night until their arrival at the festival. The days passed uneventfully, routinely, as they hiked along, until only the feel of his changed appearance assured Pol that something unusual had actually occurred. The terrain had altered as they headed upward, though the ascent here was more gradual than the descent from the mountains about Rondoval. Belken itself was a great, black, fang-like peak, dotted with numerous depressions, bare of trees. The evening they first caught sight of it, it seemed outlined by a faint white light. Mouseglove drew Pol aside and they halted to regard it.

  “Are you sure you know what you’re getting into?” he asked him.

  “Ibal has outlined the initiation procedures for me,” Pol replied, “and he’s given me an idea of what to expect at the various stations.”

  “That is not exactly what I had in mind,” Mouseglove said.

  “What, then?”

  “A sorcerer tried to kill you back at Rondoval. Another came by, apparently to help you, last week. I get the impression that you are in the middle of something nasty and magical—and here you go, walking right into a den of magicians and about to attempt something dangerous without the normal preparations.”

  “On the other hand,” Pol replied, “it is probably the best place for me to discover what is going on. And I’m sure I will find uses for any additional insight and strength the initiation provides.”

  “Do you really trust Ibal?”

  Pol shrugged.

  “It seems that I have to, up to a point.”

  “Unless you decide to quit the whole game right now.”

  “That would put me right back where I started. No thanks.”

  “It would give you time to think things over more, perhaps find a different line of investigation to follow.”

  “Yes,” Pol answered, “I wish that I could. But time, I feel, is something I cannot afford to spend so freely.”

  Mouseglove sighed and turned away.

  “That mountain looks sinister,” he said.

  “I have to agree with you.”

  The following morning, proceeding among the foothills, they reached the top of a low ridge and the group halted. Spread out before the eastern base of the mountain was something out of dreamland or fairy tale: a sparkling collection of creamy towers and golden spires amid buildings which looked as if they had been carved out of massive gemstones; there were bright arches over glistening roadways, columns of jet, rainbow-hung fountains . . .

  “Gods!” Pol said. “I’d no idea it was anything like that!”

  He heard Ibal chuckle.

  “What’s funny?” Pol asked.

  “One is only young once. Let it be a surprise,” the old sorcerer replied.

  Puzzled, Pol continued on. As the day advanced, the dream-city lost some of its glamour. First went the sparkling and the rainbows; then the colors began to fade. A haziness came over the buildings, and within it a uniform grayness settled upon the entire prospect. The structures seemed to diminish in size, and some of the spires and higher columns vanished altogether. Glassy walls grew opaque and took on motion, a gentle, flapping movement. Then the fountains and the archways were gone. It was as if he now looked upon the place through a dimming and distorting glass.

  When they sat to lunch, Pol addressed Ibal:

  “All right, I’m surprised and I’m several hours older now. What’s become of the city?”

  Ibal nearly choked on his mush.

  “No, no,” he finally said. “Wait until dinnertime. Watch the show.”

  And so he did. As the sun moved westward and the shadow of the peak fell over the hazy outlines of the structures at its base, the flapping movement ceased and the walls began to acquire something of their former sheen. Pol and Mouseglove continued to stare as they approached. As the shadows lengthened, the place seemed to grow, slowly at first, more rapidly as the afternoon faded toward evening. The haze itself
seemed to be dimming and the outline of higher structures again became visible within it. Drawing nearer to it, they became aware of the spurting of fountains. The colors gradually reappeared within the still-firming outlines of the buildings. The towers, columns and arches took on a greater solidity.

  By dinnertime they were very near, and the city was much closer to its early morning appearance. The haze continued to dissipate as they sat watching it, taking their meal.

  “Well, have you guessed?” Ibal asked, spooning in a dark broth.

  “It appears to be different things at different times,” Pol said. “So obviously it is not what it seems and must represent some sort of enchantment. I’ve no idea what’s really there, or why it changes.”

  “What is really there is a group of caves, shacks and tents,” Ibal explained. “Each time, by lot, various practitioners acquire the responsibility for putting the place into order for the gathering. What they normally do is send their apprentices and some servants on ahead. These clean and repair the structures, raise the tents and set up the various facilities. Then the apprentices usually vie in working out spells to give it a pleasing appearance. However, apprentices vary in ability, and since the thing is only to be temporary first class spells are seldom employed. Consequently, it is beautiful from evening through dawn. As the day progresses, however, it begins to waver. Things are weakest at noon, and then you catch glimpses of what is really behind it all.”

  “Do the spells hold on the inside as well as the outside?”

  “Indeed, Madwand, they do. You shall see for yourself soon.”

  As they watched, the sparkling began again, faint at first, growing.

  They reached the foot of Belken by evening and entered the bright city which had grown up there. The first archway through which they passed might have been made of branches strapped together, but it gave every appearance of gold-veined marble possessed of intricate carvings. Countless lights drifted through the air at several times the height of a man. Pol kept turning his head, assessing the wonders. Unlike any city with which he was familiar, this one seemed clean. The way beneath their feet was unnaturally bright. The buildings appeared almost fragile, with an eggshell translucence to them. Filigreed screens covered fancifully shaped windows in walls sporting designs of glowing gemstones. There were balconies and overhead walkways, arcades through which richly garbed men and women passed. Open-fronted shops displayed magical paraphernalia and exotic beasts were penned and tethered throughout the city—though a few wandered harmlessly, as if taking in the sights themselves. Thick clouds of red smoke rose from a brazier on a corner where a turbanned mage chanted, a demonic face and form taking shape within it high above the street. The sounds of flutes, stringed instruments and drums came from several directions. On an impulse, Pol jerked his guitar into existence, tuned it, slung it and began playing as they walked along. He felt his dragonmark throbbing invisibly, as if in response to the magical ambiance they were entering. Bright birds in cages of silver and gold trilled responses to his song. A few of the passing faces turned his way. High above, the face of the mountain was glowing softly, as if traversed by swarms of fireflies. And even higher, the stars had appeared in a clear sky. Cool breezes moved about him, bringing the odors of exotic incenses, perfumes, of sweet logs burning.

  Mouseglove sniffed and listened, fingers twitching, eyes darting.

  “It would be difficult to know what to steal, in a place where nothing is what it seems,” he remarked.

  “Then you might look upon it as a vacation.”

  “Hardly,” Mouseglove replied, eyeing a demon-face which seemed to regard him from behind a grating high in the wall to his left. “Perhaps as an experience in compulsory education . . . ”

  Ibal, croaking orders to his servants at every turn, seemed to know the way to his quarters. They were, Pol later learned, the same apartments he had always occupied. Their appearance would be radically altered upon each occasion, one of the older servants informed him. Orientation here was a matter of familiarity with position rather than appearance.

  The apartments to which they were conducted as Ibal’s guests seemed extensive and elegant, though the eye-swindling shimmer of glamourie lay upon everything and Pol noted that solid-appearing walls seemed to yield somewhat if he leaned upon them, smooth floors were sometimes uneven to the feet and chairs were never as comfortable as they looked.

  Ibal had dismissed them, saying that he intended to rest and that he would introduce them to the initiation officials on the morrow. So, after bathing and changing their garments, Pol and Mouseglove went out to see more of the town.

  The balls of white light illuminated the major thoroughfares. Globes of various colors drifted above the lesser ways. They passed knots of youths whose overheard conversations were like the ruminations of philosophers and groups of old men who called upon their powers to engage in practical jokes—such as the tiny cloud hovering just beneath an archway which suddenly rattled and drenched anyone who passed below it, to the accompaniment of uproarious laughter from the gnome-like masters lurking in the shadows.

  Brushing away the moisture, Pol and Mouseglove continued on to a narrow stair leading down to a winding street less well-illuminated than those above—blue and red lights, smaller and dimmer than the others, moving slowly above it.

  “That looks to be a possibly interesting way,” Mouseglove indicated, leaning on a railing above it.

  “Let’s go down and have a look.”

  It seemed a place of refreshment. Establishments serving food and beverage, both indoors and out, lined the way. They strolled slowly by all of them, then turned and started back again.

  “I like the looks of that one,” said Mouseglove, gesturing to the right. “One of the empty tables under the canopy, perhaps, where we can watch the people pass.”

  “Good idea,” said Pol, and they made their way over and sat down.

  A small, dark, smiling man wearing a green Kaftan emerged from the establishment’s doorway almost immediately.

  “And what will the gentlemen have?” he inquired.

  “I’d like a glass of red wine,” said Pol.

  “Make mine white and almost sour,” said Mouseglove.

  The man turned away and immediately turned back. He held a tray bearing two glasses of wine, one light, one dark.

  “Useful trick, that,” Mouseglove observed.

  “Private spell,” the other replied.

  The man grew almost apologetic then as he asked them to drop their payment through a small hoop into a basket.

  “All the others are starting it, too,” he said. “Too many enchanted pebbles going around. You might even have some without knowing it.”

  But their coins remained coins as they passed through the charmed circle.

  “We just arrived,” Pol told him.

  “Well, keep an eye out for stones.”

  He moved off to take another order.

  The wine was extremely good, though Pol suspected that a part of its taste was enchantment. Still, he reflected after a time, what difference should it make? Like the entire place about them—if it serves its purpose, appearance can be for more important than content.

  “Hardly an original observation,” Mouseglove replied when he voiced it. “And it meant a lot to me every time I lifted a bogus jewel I thought was real.”

  Pol chuckled.

  “Then it served its purpose.”

  Mouseglove laughed.

  “All right. All right. But when death gets involved it is better to know which is the real dagger and which the real hand. After what happened that last night in your library, I would be very careful in a place like this.”

  “By what means that I am not already employing?”

  “Well, that magical shower we passed through earlier,” Mouseglove began. “I just noticed—”

  He was interrupted by the approach of a blond, well-built young man with finely chiseled features and a flashing smile. He was extravaga
ntly dressed and he moved with an extraordinary grace and poise.

  “Madwand! And Mouseglove! Strange meeting you here! Waiter! Another of whatever they’re having for my friends! And a glass of your best for me!”

  He drew up a chair and seated himself at their table.

  “It looks as if they did a better than usual job this year,” he said, gesturing. “How do you like your accommodations?”

  “Uh—fine,” Pol replied as the waiter arrived and produced their drinks.

  The youth gestured and his hand was suddenly filled with coins. They leapt upward from it, arched through the hoop and into the basket with a small pyrotechnic display.

  “Colorful,” Pol said. “Listen, I hate to seem rude since you’re buying, but I can’t seem to recall . . . ”

  The youth laughed, his handsome features creasing with merriment.

  “Of course not, of course not,” he said. “I am Ibal, and you are looking at the finest rejuvenation spell ever wrought.” He brushed a speck of dust from his bright sleeve. “Not to mention a few cosmetic workings,” he added softly.

  “Really!”

  “Amazing!”

  “Yes. I am ready to meet once again with my beloved Vonnie, for two weeks of lovemaking, revelry, good food and drink. It is the only reason I still come to these things.”

  “How—interesting.”

  “Yes. We first met here nearly three hundred years ago, and our feelings have remained undiminished across the centuries.”

  “Impressive,” Pol said. “But do you not see one another in between times?”

  “Gods, no! If we had to live together on a day-to-day basis one of us would doubtless kill the other. Two weeks every four years is just right.” He stared into his drink a moment before raising it to his lips. “Besides,” he added, “we spend a lot of the intervening time recovering.”

  He looked up again.

  “Madwand, what have you done to yourself?”

  “What do you mean?” Pol asked.

  “That white streak in your hair. Why is it there?”

  Pol ran a hand through his still-moist thatch.