Changeling Page 8

  He cleared the remaining books from the shelf and stacked them near his feet. Then, slowly, he extended his hand, waiting for a guiding impulse. His left hand trembled at his side. Two hands seemed required then, or just the left. Very well . . . He raised it and advanced it. Then the middle fingers of his left hand caught the lower thread between them and raised it. The index finger hooked the upper strand and drew it downward, twining the two. His right hand was then drawn forward, all fingers and the thumb bunching to seize the tip of the third thread, to wrap it three times counterclockwise about the twisted pair . . .

  He drew the bunch down, released it and struck it twice with his left fist.

  “Open. Open,” he said.

  The panel at the rear dropped forward, revealing a hidden compartment. He began to reach and recoiled instantly. There lay another spell, hidden, coiled like a smoky snake, an interesting knot at its tail, designed to trap the unwary. He smiled faintly. It was going to be an intriguing problem. The working out of the previous one had become something of a conscious process as he had labored over it, gaining some small understanding of the thought and effort that had gone into its casting. Moving his left hand cautiously crossbody, two fingers extended, he reached forward . . .

  Later, he sat back at the desk, reading a history of the Castle Rondoval and its illustrious if somewhat eccentric inhabitants. Several volumes of personal observations on the Art were stacked before him, along with his father’s journals and notebooks on sundry matters. He read through the entire night, however, before he realized his own connection with the inhabitants of the place. Light had already spilled into the world when he came across a reference to the dragon-shaped birthmark inside the right wrists of the children of Rondoval.

  But this excitement spent the balance of his energy. Shortly, he began to yawn and could not stop. His garments became a heavy weight upon him. He cleared a couch at the room’s far end, curled up upon it and was soon asleep, to dream that he wandered these halls in a state of full repair and more than a little glory.

  During the next afternoon, he ate a large meal and later solved the spell for a sunken tub on the ground floor, bringing him water for a bath (diverted, it seemed, from a nearby river, though he could not understand the twistings of the yellow and orange threads which appeared to govern its temperature). He committed these things to memory as he filled and drained the pool repeatedly, scouring it for his use. Then he luxuriated for a long while, wondering how Rondoval had come to achieve its present state of decay, and what had become of the rest of the family.

  As he wandered later, uprighting furniture, tossing trash out of windows, unscrambling and memorizing a number of minor spells, he decided to return to the library for one of the secret books he had thumbed, which had partly mapped the place.

  The books now returned to their shelves, the room dusted after a fashion, he poured a glass of wine and studied the materials before him. Yes, there were many drawings, a number of floor plans, sketches of the place at various moments in its history and one rough outline of a vast series of caverns below, across which someone had penned “The Beasts.” He did not know whether to chuckle or shudder. Instead, in response to an unvoiced desire, a blue-green thread came drifting by him. He hooked it with the first joint of the little finger of his right hand, twined it three times about his glass, tugged upon it twice with his middle finger accompanied by the appropriate image-commands, untwined it and dismissed it. Yes, now it was properly chilled.

  Rising he placed the book in the pocket of the dark jacket he had found in a wardrobe earlier and dusted thoroughly when he saw that it fit him so well. He carried the wineglass with him as he walked out and descended the stair to the main floor. “Beasts,” he said aloud, and smiled . . . Images of the villagers hurling stones through the night returned to him. “Beasts,” he repeated, making his way to a small storeroom where he had discovered lanterns and fuel earlier.

  Walking the dim tunnels, occasionally consulting his guidebook, the lantern in his left hand casting sharp-edged shadows upon the rough walls, he could almost smell the concentration of power ahead. Whenever he looked in that certain way, he could see great multicolored bunches of streamers in the air. Nowhere else had he yet witnessed signs of such massive workings. He had no idea what it represented, other than that it must be something of great importance. Nor had he any notion whether his newly awakened powers could have any effect whatsoever upon it. As he brushed his fingertips against the strands, it seemed almost as if he could feel the mumble of mighty words, echoing infinitely, slowly, along a vast convoluted circuit. If he tried very hard . . .

  Several minutes later, he found his way barred by a huge slab of stone. Strands led around it, wrapped it, crisscrossed it. There had to be a spell involved, but he wondered whether he would also need a dozen men with pry bars to dislodge it, once any magical booby traps had been defused. He moved nearer, studying the pattern of the strands. There did seem something of a method to their positioning . . .

  The strands faded as his eyes slipped back into more normal channels of perception. Then he saw what it was that had distracted him. He raised the lantern and moved nearer, to read the inscription he now beheld:

  PASS AT YOUR PERIL. HERE SLEEP THE HORRORS OF RONDOVAL.

  He chuckled. They may be horrors, he thought, but I’m going to need a little muscle in this world. So, by God! now they’re my horrors!

  He set down the lantern and shifted his attention back to the colored strands.

  Just like unwrapping a very peculiar present, he thought, reaching forward with both hands.

  He felt the tangles of power and began the motions that would unlock them. As he worked, the subaural mumbling returned, growing, intensifying, until words burst into his consciousness and he cried them out at the same time, whipping his hands back from the final threads and taking three timed paces backwards: “Kwathad! . . . Melairt! . . . Deystard!”

  The slab shuddered and began to topple away from him. He realized then that the spell must have been infinitely more difficult to lay than it had been to raise. All of that power had had to be channeled from somewhere and bound up here. His own work had been more on the order of figuring out how to pull a plug.

  The crash that followed echoed and reechoed until he could not help but be impressed by the enormity of the cavern that must lie behind.

  He had snatched up the lantern, covered half his face with his sleeve and squinted until the reverberations and the hail of stone chips had settled. Then he moved cautiously forward, crossing the cracked monolith he had toppled.

  He was about to raise the lantern to look around the vast hall, when his new key of vision registered an enormous collection of filaments, like a multicolored ball of string larger than himself, resting just off to his left. Individual strands departed it in all directions before him. He realized that it would have taken ages to work each separate spell and then, in some fashion, join them at this common center. No . . . It had to have been done the other way around . . . He could not yet conceive of the manner of its laying but he’d a sudden flash of insight into its undoing. It, too, could fall like the door before his new skill.

  However . . . Could he control whatever he released? A good man had obviously spent a lot of time and energy putting the thing together. Best to have a look around before doing anything else . . .

  He raised the lantern.

  Dragons, dragons, dragons . . . Acres of dragons and other fantastic beasts lay all about him, extending far beyond his feeble light. His eyes caught them at another level, also. To each of them extended one strand of the master spell.

  He lowered the light. What the hell do you say to a dragon? How do you control one? He shuddered at the thought of releasing any of the slumbering horrors.

  Probably wake up hungry, too . . .

  He began to back away.

  Clear out. Forget this part of the family heritage. They must have bred tougher Lords of Rondoval in the old day
s . . .

  As he began to turn away, his attention was caught by a single green filament. Its color was slightly darker than any of the others, and it was also the thickest one in sight, almost twice the size of its mates. What might it tether? he wondered.

  Suddenly, all the dreamlands he had ever read of or conjured in song, all the fantasy worlds he had ever sculpted of smoke or walked through at bedtime as a child rose before him, and he knew that he could not leave this place without looking upon the prodigy bound by this mighty spell. Turning back, he followed the strand among the massive sleepers, averting his eyes as well as his feet in some instances.

  When he reached out to brush the strand with his fingertips, a sound like a crystal bell echoed within his head, “Moonbird . . . ”—constantly fading—and he knew that to be the name of the creature toward which he was headed.

  “Moonbird,” he said, fingers still feeling the pulse of the cord.

  Lord, I hear, beyond the depths of sleep or life. Shall we range the skies together, as in days gone by?

  I am not the lord you knew, and Rondoval has come upon sad times, he thought back, still brushing the cord.

  What matter? So long as there is a lord in Rondoval. You are of the blood?

  Yes.

  Then call me back from these ghost skies. I’ll bear you where you would.

  I am not even sure I know what to feed you . . .

  I’ll manage, never fear.

  . . . And then there is the problem of this spell.

  Not for one such as—

  Pol halted, for he could go no further. His hand had left the strand awhile back, as it seemed tangled on an overhead ledge. For several moments, he had thought it was a huge mineral formation which confronted him—a vast mound of scaly copper bearing the green patina of age. But it had moved, slightly, as he had watched.

  He sucked air between his teeth as he raised the lantern. There, there was the great crested head! How huge those eyes must be when opened! He reached out and touched the neck. Cold, cold as metal. Perhaps nearly as tough.

  “How low must your fires now be, bird of the moon . . . ” he said.

  Back to him came a jumbled vision of clouds and tiny houses, forests tike patches of weeds . . .

  . . . Shall we range the skies together?

  The fear was gone, leaving only a great desire to see the huge beast freed.

  He moved back to the first place where the strand came within reach again. He touched it as he began to follow it back out.

  Patience, father of dragons. We shall see . . . .

  . . . And kill your enemies.

  First things first.

  He followed it back to the ball of plaited rainbows near the entrance. He traced its point of entry into the mass and noted each place where it became visible again at the surface. Would it be possible to tease out this one strand? Could he arouse Moonbird without awakening all the others?

  He stared for a long while before he moved, and then his first gestures were tentative. Soon, though, his left arm was plunged past the elbow into the glowing sphere, his fingers tracing each twisting of the thick, green strand . . .

  Later, he stood holding it free, its end twisted about his finger. He walked quickly back, to stand regarding the drowsing giant once again.

  Awaken now, he willed, untwining it, releasing it.

  The thread drifted away, shriveling. The dragon stirred.

  Even bigger than I thought, he decided, staring into the suddenly opened eye which now regarded him. Much bigger . . .

  The mouth opened and closed in a swallowing movement, revealing spike-like ranks of teeth.

  Those, too . . .

  He moved nearer.

  . . . Must seem bold for a little longer, establish where we both stand right away . . .

  He reached out and laid his hand upon the broad neck.

  I am Pol Detson, Lord of Rondoval until further notice, he tried to communicate.

  The giant head was raised, turned, the mouth opened . . . Suddenly, the tongue shot forward, licking him with a surface the texture of a file, knocking him backwards.

  . . . Master!

  He recovered himself, dodged a second caress of the tongue and patted the neck again.

  Contain yourself, Moonbird! I am—soft.

  Sometimes I forget.

  The dragon spread its wings and lowered them, drew itself upright, raised and lowered its head, nuzzled him.

  Come, mount my back and let us fly!

  Where?

  Out the old tunnel, to view the world.

  Pol hesitated, his courage ebbing.

  . . . But if I don’t do it now, I never will, he decided. I know that. Whereas if I do, I may be able to do it again one day. And I may need to . . .

  A moment, he communicated, looking for the easiest way up.

  Moonbird lowered his head fully and extended his neck.

  Come.

  Pol mounted, located what he hoped was a traditional dragon rider’s position, above the shoulders, at the widening base of the neck. He clung with his legs and his arms. Behind him, he heard the vanes stir.

  I sense that you play a musical instrument, Moonbird began, as they moved forward (To distract him? No—too sophisticated a concept). You must bring it next time and play to me as we fly, for I love music.

  That might be novel.

  They sprang from the ground and Moonbird immediately located a draft of air which they followed into a broader, higher part of the cavern. The light from the lantern Pol had left on the ground dwindled quickly, and they flew through an absolute darkness for what seemed a long while.

  Suddenly, with a rush of cool air, there were stars all about them. A moment later, surprising himself, Pol began to sing.

  XIII

  Mark rolled out of his bed, drew the purple dressing gown about his shoulders and sat clutching his head, waiting for the room to stop spinning.

  How long had it been—four, five, six days?—since the robo-surgeon had worked him over?

  He raised his head. The room was dark. The thing which protruded from his left eye socket hummed. Finally, it grew silent and he had vision on that side.

  He rose and crossed the meticulously well-kept chamber—all metal and plastic and glass—and regarded himself in the mirror above the washstand. He tapped lightly with his fingertips about the perimeter of the lens case, where it joined his brow and cheekbone.

  . . . Still too tender. Impair efficiency to take too many drugs, but I’ll need some more to be able to think at all . . .

  He withdrew a container of tablets from a drawer in the stand, gulped two and proceeded to wash and shave without turning on a light.

  . . . It does have some advantages, though, especially if you get turned around this way. Must be the middle of the night . . .

  He drew on a pair of brown trousers with many pockets, a green sweater, a pair of boots. He opened the rear door of his apartment and stepped out onto the terrace. His personal flier stood on the pad—delta-winged, compact, glassy and light. Mechanical things rose and fell in the distance, some only visible in his left field of vision. He inhaled the fragrance of imported plants, turned, crossed to an elevator hatch, dropped three levels to a footbridge leading across the road. He crossed there, heading for the surveillance center in the lower, adjacent building.

  One of the small, gnarled men, clad in a brown and black uniform, sat before a bank of glowing screens. Whether he actually watched any of them was something Mark could not tell from the rear—one of the reasons he disliked using people except in situations such as this where he had no choice.

  As he approached, his optic prosthesis hummed, its lens becoming a greenish color as it adjusted to the lighting. The man straightened in his chair.

  “Good evening sir,” he said, not turning away from the screens.

  . . . Damned sharp senses these fellows have.

  “Anything to report?”

  “Yes, sir. Two surveillance bird
s are missing.”

  “Missing? Where?”

  “The village, your own—”

  “What happened to them?”

  “Don’t know, sir. They just suddenly weren’t there anymore.”

  “How long ago was this?”

  “A little over three hours ago, sir.”

  “Didn’t you try to maneuver any of the others to get a look at what was happening?”

  “It was too sudden, sir.”

  “In other words, nothing was done. Why wasn’t I notified immediately?”

  “You had left orders not to be disturbed, sir.”

  “Yes . . . I know. What do you make of it?”

  “No idea, sir.”

  “It has to be a malfunction of some sort. Pull back the others in that area for complete inspections. Send out fresh ones. Wait!”

  He moved nearer and studied the appropriate screens.

  “Any activity in the village?”

  “None, sir.”

  “The girl has not been out of her house?”

  “No, sir. It has been dark for hours.”

  “I think I may pick her up tomorrow. It depends on how I feel. Plan B, three birds—two for safety escort. See that they’re standing ready.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The small man stole a glance at him.

  “I must say, sir. The new eye-thing is most attractive.”

  “Oh? Really? Thank you,” he mumbled, then turned and left.

  What had he been thinking? The pills must be starting to work . . . . He wouldn’t be in shape by tomorrow. Wait another day. Should he go back and countermand that last order? No. Let it stand. Let it stand . . . .

  He wandered down to spot-check a factory, his eye humming its way to yellow.

  Lantern-swinging shadows bouncing from his rapid step, the small man passed along the maze of tunnels, occasionally pausing to listen and to peer about abrupt corners. Usually, when he halted, he also shuddered.