A Path to Coldness of Heart

Chapter Thirteen:

1017 AFE:

Eyes of Night

N epanthe deposited Varthlokkur’s dinner on the table designated for the purpose, close by where he was working. “Hey. You. Wake up. Time to eat.”

He did awaken, displeased with himself for having fallen asleep.

Not good.

Sorcerers who fell asleep at work became known as late lamented sorcerers.

“I was resting my eyes.”

“Right. Why are you taking chances? What are you doing?”

“Looking to build a better rat trap based on the latest research.”

It was too damned cold for rats in Fangdred. “Ethrian tried to talk this afternoon. He couldn’t put a sentence together right but he tried hard.”

The wizard moved to the food. Nepanthe settled opposite him. She had brought something for herself. She could pretend to share a meal.

“That sounds good. Why not let him help with Smyrena? Teach him to change diapers.”

“Oh! I don’t know. He’s really clumsy. And he gets frustrated.”

“Sometimes I think he must have had a stroke. Sometimes it feels like he’s completely aware but is trapped behind a wall he can’t break through.”

“You told me…”

“I know. But I’m no life-magic specialist. If the Old Man was here…” “He’s gone. Wishes and fishes.” She noticed a change. “What happened to the mummies?”

“I got worried that the Star Rider might find a use for them. I put them where he’ll never get to them.” Each now resided inside a block of concrete distressed to look like an old aggregate boulder in the shadowed bottom of a distant canyon. And that was temporary. He wanted to reduce mummies and concrete to dust that Radeachar could scatter across a thousand miles of wilderness.

“Part of your strategy of denying him his resources?”

“Exactly.”

“Any plan for the Place of the Iron Statues?”

Varthlokkur’s spoon halted inches from his mouth. His eyes went vague.

“You didn’t think about that.”

“I didn’t.” That stronghold of the Star Rider had not intruded on his consciousness for decades. “I’m amazed that you did.” With her memory problems of late. “I don’t even recall where it is.”

“Somebody went there during the wars. Maybe Michael. Maybe one of my brothers. I don’t remember.”

She had had memory problems since the night they died together. He had some himself. Even concentrating he could come up with only the vaguest recollection of someone ever having gone looking for the Place.

He could not recall who, when, why, or what the result had been. Nepanthe said, “The night we all died…” And quit. The pain was too intense.

“You’re right. Iron statues were there. They tamed the Princes Thaumaturge.”

“You had something to do with that place, too, once, didn’t you?” “Maybe when I was Eldred the Wanderer. I don’t remember it now.” That troubled him. He was having ever more trouble remembering details of his earliest years. It would be awful to lose those memories altogether. Things he had done, bargains he had made, impacted the world every day, even now. And his mother lived on nowhere else but inside the reaches of his mind.

Ekaterina and Scalza bustled in. They wore heavy clothing so must have been playing outdoors. Scalza hollered, “We’re going to see what Mother is doing, all right?”

“Don’t touch anything but your scrying bowl.”

He had set them up with their own means of farseeing. They could use the bowl any time, though he insisted on being told first. He wanted to be aware that he needed to keep an eye turned their way. Neither child ever thought much before acting. A reminder to take care might be resented but was never wasted.

Nepanthe said, “I wish I had a tenth of their energy.” She sighed. “I’d better go. Smyrena will wake up soon. She’ll be hungry. Have the wild animals bring the tray down.”

The sorcerer touched her hand lightly, then resumed eating. Mention of the Place of the Iron Statues reminded him that he had not paid much attention to the outside world lately.

Things happened where he was not looking. A lot, in Kavelin, during those intervals.

Scalza bellowed, “We found her, Uncle Varth! She’s in that tower place again.”

He pushed back from the table. This might be interesting.

…

Ragnarson thought he had the emotional instability whipped. He had to. Total control was now necessary. He had no time to waste on selfindulgence.

He had a chance to get out. Mist had something in mind. It was a razor-slash of light at the end of a ten-mile tunnel but it was there.

He had no idea what they were thinking. He meant to give no excuse to stop that thinking. This prison came close to his idea of hell.

The only way to make it worse would be to reduce the size of the cage.

“I’m living pretty damned high on the hog here, aren’t I? When you get right down to it.”

“Excuse me?” Mist stepped in. “Who are you talking to?”

“The smartest man in the room. A fat tangle of superlatives, he is.”

“I see. Lord Ssu-ma thought you might be interested in seeing the assassin before we release him.”

Ragnarson aced the test. His heart hammered and his vision reddened but he kept his composure. “You’re going to turn him loose, why?”

“Our interest was purely curiosity. He broke none of our laws and harmed none of our subjects. He was forthright when questioned. He’s a sad case. He has been alone and enclosed so long he doesn’t know any way but the way he’s followed forever.”

“We’re all like that anymore.”

“You could be right without actually recognizing why.”

“And without understanding what you mean.”

“This assassin isn’t quite a real man. He’s more like a devil manufactured by the darkness inside us all. Though that isn’t what I’m really trying to say.” She clapped her hands in frustration. “I saw elements of all of us in him. He’s hollow inside.”

Ragnarson was baffled. Mist did not get philosophical.

Mist said, “One reason I call him supernatural is, he doesn’t remember his own name.”

“How can you not know your own name?”

“I think because he’s used so many. I found him intriguing. Lord Ssuma was taken by him, too.”

“You’ve lost me.”

“Come along. You’ll see.”

Mist left. The door did not close behind her.

Ragnarson moved that way like a mouse intent on sneaking past a cobra. This could not be what it seemed. It had to be a cruel prank. Something awful would happen. He was safe as long as he did nothing. He should climb into bed and shut his eyes. There would be no pain in sleep.

Sherilee crossed his mind, then Elana, who had given him so many children, all of whom he had outlived. Then Fiana, so remarkable in her passion. She had given him a child he never got to know. And Inger, who had given hope and love in a time of deep despair, and a beautiful son, but who could not overcome her blood.

He stood before the door but did not consider it. He fixated on Inger. His wife had done little that was wicked before hubris drove him to destruction by Ssu-ma Shih-ka’i.

He bore Shih-ka’i no ill will. The Tervola had done his duty, defending his empire. The man had gone out of his way to repay a debt once his duty had been satisfied.

“Are you coming?”

Ragnarson could not see Mist. Her voice came from above. He stepped into the gloom beyond the doorway, spied steps leading upward, to his right. He managed twenty-eight of those before he stopped to fight for breath.

Mist called down, “One more story.”

She lied. It was two. He managed eight steps, took a break, then did six more. After that he took the steps one by one. He caught up unable to talk and unsure if he would get his breath back before he collapsed.

“You are leading too sedentary a life.”

He gasped, “Nor am I an eighteen-year-old stud anymore.”

“Get your breath. We still have twenty steps to go.”

It took Ragnarson ten minutes to clear those. He developed a cramp in his right thigh and an uncontrollable twitch in his left calf. He could not stand up straight. It seemed he would never stop panting. And he was much too aware of every overexcited thump of his hammering heart.

Mist said, “Go lean on the rampart. Don’t sit down. I’m not big enough to shift you if your muscles lock up.”

She was teasing. He hurt too much to care. “Just get on with it.”

“As you wish.” Mist moved several steps away. “Shin-jei. Bring the prisoner.”

Ragnarson paid no attention. He feasted his eyes on the cityscape. He enjoyed the breeze. He absorbed sounds he never heard in his apartment. He drew in alien smells, especially the rich, spicy odors of eastern cooking.

The Empress had known deprivation in her time. She was patient. But minutes were all she could afford. “Look at this man, Bragi. Tell me if you know him.”

Ragnarson looked at a westerner about six feet tall, well-weathered, and gaunt. His eyes were a changeable blue. He appeared to be totally resigned. “Have we ever met?”

“I doubt it.” In a feeble monotone, not avoiding Ragnarson’s eyes. He was not afraid.

“The Guild. With Hawkwind. Before the El Murid Wars.”

That startled the man but his face closed down immediately.

Ragnarson said, “We may have been in the same regiment when we were young. There would be nothing else to connect us. Except Sherilee.”

“I am disappointed. I’d hoped there was some drama of deep time coming to a head.”

“He might not be the man I’m remembering. He would have been just another recruit who went into the desert with Hawkwind.”

Mist gestured. Her bodyguards took the assassin into the tower.

“Did I pass the test?”

“You controlled your temper admirably. Though I do hope you can tell us more about that man.”

Ragnarson said, “No such luck. An arrow from a broken bow.”

Mist looked to Lord Ssu-ma, who had done his best to remain invisible. He had nothing to contribute now.

Mist said, “We will take time to enjoy the sunset. I’m told the wondrous colors are by grace of the wars with Matayanga and the Deliverer.”

“A sky painted with the dust of souls,” Ragnarson observed. “Don’t attribute that to me. Derel Prataxis said it.”

Mist did not believe him, but why argue? “Those wars are over. Their horrors have been sucked down into the quicksand of time. If gaudy sunsets are their memorial, let the survivors enjoy them.”

Ragnarson grumbled, “Aren’t we deep into a philosophical pocket of night.”

Mist said, “Time to go back to your quarters. The trip should be easier this time.”

“Harsh.”

“And I have to get back to being mistress of this mad empire.”

…

Ragnarson settled for the night feeling renewed and too excited to sleep. He obsessed over the wonderful trivia he had seen. His happiest recollection was of lightning bugs in their courtship dances. He was amazed that they had fireflies in the east, too.

…

Shih-ka’i asked, “Did we gain anything tonight?”

“Nothing knowledgewise. He did demonstrate a renewed ability to master his emotions.”

“For what that is worth.”

“You are a sour one lately.”

“That I cannot deny, Illustrious.”

“What do you need? A new war in which to shine? I can’t give you one for a generation.”

“Illustrious, I prefer the struggle for peace. Sadly, we don’t live in a world where such thinking is practical.”

“What do you want, Shih-ka’i?”

Lord Ssu-ma marshaled his courage. “A suite here. In this tower.” “For your own hideaway? Or for an enemy you want bound without hope?”

“There is someone I want to install in a place that respects his standing while assuring an absence of contact with the world.”

“You make it sound deliciously mysterious.”

Shih-ka’i shrugged. “The reality is quite banal.”

“Make it happen quickly. We have the final peace terms to dictate to Matayanga.”

“I’ll be there when you need me.”

…

Shih-ka’i transferred to the island, he hoped for the last time. Though Ehelebe never much impacted his life he traversed the installation as though it had been the scene of significant childhood events. As though he wanted to reinforce memories of places he would never see again. He did little things as he wandered about.

He found Kuo Wen-chin and the crazy man making breakfast. The island was that far east. Kuo was pleased to see him.

“I know it hasn’t been but it seems like a long time since you visited.” Kuo eyed Shih-ka’i expectantly.

“I haven’t yet dropped your name into conversation but I have been given permission to use a particular piece of property as I see fit.” He explained.

“I would be a prisoner in that tower instead of here.”

“It’s the best you can expect.”

Kuo smiled a tired smile.

“Somewhat less than optimal for you,” Shih-ka’i said. “The food will be better.”

“And what would be the attitude of the Empress toward Kuo Wenchin these days?”

“She has none. She never mentions you.”

Both Tervola glanced at the old man. Though he moved slowly he did his share. He hummed as he began clearing away. The tune was catchy but unfamiliar.

Kuo said, “I can’t abandon him.”

“Uhm?”

“He’s better than he was but he’s not ready to take care of himself.”

“I wouldn’t leave him. He may be a link to the history of this place.” Shih-ka’i paused briefly. “Magden Norath is dead. A serendipitous thing. This was his headquarters, once.”

The old man ceased humming. “Ehelebe,” he said, then got lost in his own mind again.

“I can’t divine the past,” Kuo said. “I’m sure there is interesting historical stuff to be found here. If I could. Unfortunately, a clever man might use the same tools to manage long distance communications.”

Shih-ka’i replied, “You would know better than I. I’m not the technical sort.”

“I’ll move if my friend comes, too.”

“Definitely not a problem.”

“On the other hand, permitted the tools, I could make a career of exploring this island’s yesterdays.”

“We might consider that after the Empire relaxes and persons of stature have become less paranoid about what ancient sorceries potential rivals might be unearthing.”

Kuo Wen-chin sighed. “I understand. I don’t like it, but my likes are irrelevant. It isn’t just Norath and Ehelebe, either. This place is ages older than that. This may have been the Star Rider’s base before the Pracchia betrayed it and the Deliverer drew attention to it.”

The old man, moving glacially, twitched or winced each time Kuo said a name. Neither Tervola missed that. And neither believed the old guy understood why he responded that way.

Shih-ka’i said, “I do think it’s a good idea to keep him close.”

“Yes. I’m ready to leave when you are.”

“We should disguise you. The transfer operators might recognize you.”

Kuo said, “I’ll be a bodyguard. The old man can be a prize we’re moving for safekeeping.”

…

The timing was coincidental but the Star Rider visited the eastern island shortly after its evacuation. He had not been there since the flight of the prisoner Ethrian, who had become the Deliverer. He expected the place to have been abandoned. The evidence argued otherwise.

Use by the Dread Empire was clear. The fortress reeked of Tervola. It was an excellent place to operate quietly. They would be back.

Old Meddler’s nerves had not yet recovered from the shock of Norath’s murder. Inimical anarchy lurked in every shadow, lately. Experience left him confident that his jumpiness was justified. Ahead lay an age where all the survivors would hammer their imaginations for inventive ways to kill him.

He rested briefly, then cleared out before he stumbled into any of the booby traps certain to be cleverly disguised.

…

Mist reviewed the current status of the portals installed inside Kavelin over the decades. Technicians tended to be apolitical and kept good records. But search results were not encouraging.

The chief of technical research told her, “Those people were quite skilled at finding and destroying portals once you left.”

“I know that, Lord Yuan. Portals that aren’t there now don’t interest me. How many survived? Must I have new ones smuggled in?”

“Several remain but we’ve only just started trying to reconnect with them. I have my cleverest man, Tang Shan, doing the work.”

“Where would they be?”

“One is in the caverns behind Maisak. One is in the attic of the house you occupied in exile.”

“I can’t see them not finding that.”

“It was a bolt hole type carefully disguised.”

“And the others?”

“One more, in the mausoleum of Queen Fiana. It was a sleeper, never activated.”

“How grotesque. I want the exact status of each by the end of the day.”

“As you will, Illustrious.”

…

Varthlokkur had spent several interesting hours with Ethrian. He did so most mornings, now. This particular morning the boy had sustained his half of a simple conversation. He had asked about Sahmaman no more than a dozen times and appeared to get it when Varthlokkur explained.

But he did not retain the information.

The wizard had gotten the boy to practice writing lists of nouns using a charcoal pencil.

Impatient Scalza demanded, “How soon can we go to the Wind Tower? I want to use my scrying bowl.”

The boy had blood power. It would be amazing if he did not, with his antecedents. He had learned to manage the scrying bowl in two lessons. With it he did more than spy on his mother. Varthlokkur had given him a watch list of interesting operators to follow.

Scalza was of an age where peeping tom efforts were an attraction, too.

Varthlokkur hoped the boy never caught his mother sporting, though he suspected that Mist had lost interest after Valther’s demise.

“Patience is the first skill the young wizard must master,” Varthlokkur said. “We’ll go after lunch.”

Scalza headed for the kitchen to find out how long he had to remain patient. Ekaterina trailed him, saying, “Told you so.” Loftily, from the eminence of her superior years.

“Be quiet, brat.”

“Ha ha!”

Varthlokkur watched. The children squabbled constantly, yet remained inseparable. He could not recall one ever being more than ten feet from the other. They would not sleep in separate rooms. When nightmares moved in they ended up in the same bed.

Varthlokkur worried more than did Nepanthe. She had grown up with a tribe of brothers, younger and older, none of whom treated her different from one another.

“Varth? Is something wrong?”

“Nepanthe? No. I got caught up in the old nightmare about what happened to my mother. Again.”

Nepanthe massaged his shoulders. “Lunch is ready. The children are in a hurry to go upstairs.”

“Of course. I’m coming. But I… I wonder why I still have trouble with what happened. Only a lunatic would believe that a boy as young as I was could have done anything to keep them from burning a woman who frightened them.”

“But still you obsess.”

“I do. Obsession drove me to avenge her. Obsession drove me to win you. And now, despite time-won wisdom, I suffer an intermittent obsession focused on the past.”

“Come have lunch. It will improve your spirits. Then you can focus on better rat traps.”

Varthlokkur did as she suggested. A half hour later, in the Wind Tower, he could not remember what he had eaten. Mist’s rascals were too distracting.

His efforts with Ethrian were paying off but he preferred time spent in the Wind Tower. There he felt like he was getting somewhere in his quest to create that better rat trap.

He surrounded himself with notes reminding himself that he was not the first. A mobile hung above his work table. Its strings bore twelve cards, each recording known details of a failed effort to rid the universe of the Star Rider. He would find more as he developed more tools to mine truth from the deep past.

He wanted to dive all the way down to the beginning of the world. To do that his first great task would be to find a means of breaking through barriers set to prevent that, without being noticed. He believed he was making headway. The research, so far, had not been as difficult as expected. The magic of the Winterstorm, and of the Unborn, were key. The grand challenge was to remain undetected.

Others had believed that the answers could be found hidden in deep time. Several master sorcerers of yesteryear had tried mining the secret histories of the world. They had failed. Their digging had hit a tripwire at some point.

How? Wizards delved the past regularly without drawing fire.

He began by investigating the investigators. He was a loner. They had been loners. He knew how his mind worked. Their mental processes would have been similar. And he had a big advantage over them.

He had time. Centuries, if he needed them.

“Hey, Uncle Varth! Something’s going on in that tower of Mother’s.”

“What?”

“They’re bringing in new prisoners.”

Which likely meant nothing. But he owed Scalza the courtesy.

Ekaterina leaned on her brother’s left shoulder, enthralled by the quicksilver surface. Scalza, seated, elbows on the table and chin in his hands, was completely engrossed, too.

Varthlokkur saw nothing remarkable initially. Then he recognized the tallest man: “Kuo Wen-chin! He’s supposed to be dead. I’d better study this. Thank you, Scalza.”

The boy’s bowl offered visual access only. He could not eavesdrop. That was intentional, so Scalza would not be eavesdropping on his elders.

Most far-scryers, though, suffered from that handicap. Sound was difficult to capture.

The device Varthlokkur activated presented a three-dimensional image and did transmit sound, unreliably. As it came to life it revealed something more amazing and exciting than an unexpectedly healthy Kuo Wen-chin.

Varthlokkur laughed softly, wickedly. This was priceless. More than priceless if Old Meddler did not know.

That old man might be just what he needed.

And Ethrian might be the key to that old man.

Ethrian would be getting a lot more attention now.