Songs of the Dying Earth

1

Alfaro Morag, who, in his own mind, styled himself The Long Shark of Dawn, rode his whirlaway high above a forest. Ahead lay the bloody glimmer of the Scaum and his destination, Boumergarth, where he meant to assume protection of a rare tome currently in the collection of Ildefonse the Preceptor. As a precaution against the likelihood that Ildefonse was not prepared to cooperate in the transfer, Alfaro had surrounded himself with Phandaal’s Mantle of Stealth.

His desire was The Book of Changes, subtitled Even the Beautiful Must Die. All secrets of protracted vitality and unending youth were contained therein. The Preceptor’s volume was the last known copy.

Ildefonse was unreasonably narrow about sharing. He would not allow The Book of Changes to be borrowed or copied, definitely an unenlightened attitude. Certainly Alfaro Morag had a right to review the spells therein. Surely he should have access to the formulae for puissant potions.

Such were Morag’s thoughts as he peddled across the sky, ever more displeased with the Preceptor and his hidebound coterie, some of whom had been around since the sun was yellow, half its current size, and not nearly so far away. Those antiquities considered Alfaro Morag a pup, a whippersnapper, a come-lately interloper enslaved by impatience and lack of subtlety in acquiring properties he desired.

Bah! They just felt threatened by the refugee from somewhere so far south no local map revealed it.

Alfaro drifted right, left, up, down. How best to proceed? He spied a silhouette masking the sun, there so briefly he suspected it must be a time mirage. Yet he felt it was familiar.

He swung back, dancing on the breeze. He found the silhouette again, for seconds only. He had to climb to gain the right angle, up where pelgrane would soon cruise, watching the roads for unwary travelers as the last bloody light faded. Or for other things that flew: gruehawks and spent-owls. And whirlaways too small and primitive to be protected by more than a single spell.

Alfaro’s machine could not be seen but made noise thrashing through the air. Morag himself shed odors proclaiming the presence of a delicious bounty.

Alfaro veered off Boumergarth. Shedding altitude, he hastened to his keep in the upper valley of a tributary of the Scaum, the Javellana Cascade. He touched down yards from the turbulent stream, pausing only long enough to assure that his whirlaway was anchored against mischievous breezes, then headed for the ladder to his front door. “Tihomir! I come! Bring my vovoyeur to the salon. Then prepare a suitable repast.”

Tihomir appeared at the head of the ladder, a wisp of a man featuring sores and seborrheas wherever his skin could be seen, topped by a few strands of fine white hair. His skull had a dent in back and was flat on the right side. He resembled a sickly doppelganger of Alfaro and was, in fact, his unfortunate twin.

Tihomir assisted Alfaro as he stepped off the ladder. “Shall I pull the ladder up?”

“That might be best. It has the feel of an active night. Then get the vovoyeur.”

Tihomir inclined his head. Alfaro often wondered what went on inside. Nothing complex, certainly.

Alfaro’s tower was nowhere so grand as the palaces of the elder magicians of Ascolais. But it was inexpensive. It had been abandoned when he found it. He hoped to complete renovations within the year.

His salon on the third level doubled as his library. A library bereft of even one copy of Lutung Kasarung’s masterwork, The Book of Changes. He took down several volumes uniformly bound in port wine leather, each fourteen inches tall and twenty-two wide, with gold embossing on faces and spines.

Cheap reproductions.

All Alfaro’s books, saving a few acquired under questionable circumstance, were reproductions created in sandestin sweat shops far to the east. Those he chose tonight were collections of artwork, volumes I through IV and VI, of the fourteen volume set, Famous Illustrations of Modern Aeons. Six volumes were all Alfaro could afford, so far. Volume V never arrived.

He finished a quick search of volumes I and IV before Tihomir brought the vovoyeur. “Are the experiments proceeding correctly?”

“All is perfection. Though the miniscules are asking for more salt.”

“They’re robbers.” Literally, actually. There had been a noticeable decline in the number of wayfarers and highwaymen since Alfaro’s advent in Ascolais. He did not boast about it. He doubted that anyone had noticed. “Give them another dram. In the morning.”

“They’re also asking for brandy.”

“As am I. Do we have any? If so, bring a bottle with the meal.”

Tihomir went. Morag lost himself in illustrations.

The one that fickle recollection insisted existed was in the last place he looked, the final illustration in Volume III.

“I thought so. It would be identical if the sun were behind me. And aeons younger.”

He warmed the vovoyeur.

Strokes with a wooden spoon did not spark a response. More vigorous application of an iron ladle enjoyed no more success. Alfaro found himself tempted to suspect that he was being ignored.

Perhaps the Preceptor was too engrossed in his pleasures to respond.

Irked, Alfaro selected a silver tuning fork. He struck the face of the far-seeing device a half dozen times while declaiming, “The Lady of the Gently Floating Shadows makes way for the Great Lady of the Night.”

The surface of the vovoyeur brightened. A shape appeared. It might have been the face of a normally cheerful but timeworn man. Alfaro could not improve the clarity of his fourth-hand device. “Speak, Morag.” Uncharacteristically brusque.

“See this illustration.” Morag held the plate from Famous Illustrations to the vovoyeur. “Do you know this place?”

“I know it. To the point, Morag.”

“I saw it this evening while enjoying an aerial jaunt above the Scaum.”

“Not possible. That place was destroyed aeons ago.”

“Even so, I spied it in a place where nothing stands. Where no one goes because of the haunts.”

Silence stretched. Then the vovoyeur whispered, “It might be best to discuss this face to face. Tomorrow. I will instruct my staff to permit the approach of your whirlaway, so long as it remains visible.”

“I shall follow your instructions precisely, Preceptor.” Stated while reflecting that his vision had been a stroke of good fortune.

There were reasons the Ildefonses of these fading times persisted.

He examined the plate he had shown the Preceptor. There was no accompanying text, just a word: Moadel.

Alfaro searched his meager library for references to Moadel. He found none.

2

Alfaro dismounted from his whirlaway, bowed to Ildefonse while noting that his conveyance was neither the first nor even the tenth to grace the broad lawn at Boumergarth. He was surprised to be greeted by the Preceptor himself, but more surprised to find that he had been preceded by so many beings of peculiar aspect, magicians of Almery and Ascolais, all. Panderleou, evidently having arrived only moments ago, was haranguing Barbanikos and Ao of the Opals about his latest acquisition, a tattered copy of The Day of the Cauldrons. “Hear this from the second chapter. ‘So they killed a thief and gave the best parts to Valmur, to hasten him on his way.’”

Others present included Herark the Harbinger, Vermoulian the Dreamwalker, Darvilk the Miianther, wearing the inevitable black domino, Gilgad, as always in red, Perdustin, Byzant the Necrope, and Haze of Wheary Water with a new green pelt and fresh willow leaves where others boasted hair. There were others, the quieter ones, and Mune the Mage made his entrance while Alfaro still silently called the roll. Mune the Mage preceded the foppish Rhialto the Marvellous by moments, and Zahoulik-Khuntze was scarcely a step behind the odious Rhialto.

These constituted the bulk of the magicians of Almery and Ascolais. Alfaro felt the oppressive weight of many gazes. He had not tried hard to win friends. Nor had felt any need. Till now, perhaps.

What was this? What had he stumbled across? As a group, these men — applying the collective in its broadest definition — consisted of the most unsociable, cranky, and iconoclastic denizens of the region. Some had not spoken for decades.

The magicians watched one another with a casual wariness equaling what they lavished on the interloper.

Ildenfonse stepped up to a podium, raised his hands. The approximation of silence gathered shyly. “I do not believe the others will join us. Let us repair to the solarium. I’ve had a light buffet set out, with breakfast vintages and a selection of ales and lagers. We shall then consider young Alfaro’s news.”

The magicians brightened. Elbows flew as they jostled for precedence at the buffet. Ildefonse’s pride did not let him stint.

Alfaro reddened. The loathsomely handsome Rhialto was heads together with the Preceptor. They kept glancing his way.

Alfaro headed for the buffet, only to find it reduced to bones, rinds, pits, and feathers. Some of the 21st Aeon’s finest costumery now featured stains of juice, gravy, grease, and wine.

Clever Ildefonse. Magicians with full bellies and wine in hand soon relaxed. His servants moved among them, keeping their favorite libations topped up.

Ildefonse called for attention. “Young Alfaro, taking the upper airs yester eve, chanced to see something that none of this aeon ought, unless as a time mirage. Amuldar.”

Susurrus, not a syllable of which Alfaro caught.

“He did not recognize what he saw. He did know that it did not belong. A clever lad, he has built himself a library of inexpensive reproductions of masterworks. In one of those, he found an illustration of what he had seen. Suspecting this to be of importance, he contacted me by vovoyeur.” The Preceptor gestured, left-handed, across, up, fingers folded, then open. The Moadel illustration appeared at the western end of the solarium.

A glance at the collective showed the majority to be unimpressed. “Before my time,” grumbled the usually reticent Byzant the Necrope. “And, considering the history, definitely a time mirage.”

Haze of Wheary Water, leaves up like an angry cat’s fur, demanded, “And if it were purest truth, what would it be to us?”

Questions arose.

Likewise names.

Historical events were enumerated.

Accusations flew.

The image did mean something to several magicians.

Arguments commenced, only to be shut down by the host when the spells supporting them threatened damage to his solarium. The magicians were accustomed to making their points briskly, with enthusiasm.

Rhialto approached Alfaro. In Morag’s opinion, he did not deserve his sobriquet. Nor was Rhialto half the supercilious fop of repute. “Alfaro, what moved you to stir all this ferment?”

“I intended nothing of the sort. By chance, I spied an ominous structure where none ought to stand. Amazed, I hurried home, did some research, chanced on the illustration floating yonder. I reported the evil portent to the Preceptor.” Alfaro meant to pursue exact clarity in all aspects, unless interrogated as to why he happened to be where he had been when he had spied this Moadel.

Alfaro posed a question of his own. “Why all the excitement? I didn’t expect to find the entire brotherhood assembled.”

“Assuming you actually saw…that…many magicians’ lives might be impacted.” Rhialto stalked off, having forgotten his usual exaggerated manners. He intervened in a dispute between Byzant the Necrope and Nahouerezzin, both of whom had honored Ildefonse’s vintages with excessive zeal. Nahouerezzin further suffered from senile dementia and thought he was engaged in some quarrel of his youth.

The mood of the gathering changed as the magicians made inroads into Ildefonse’s cellar. The oldest became particularly dour and testy.

Rhialto having demonstrated no interest in further converse, Alfaro slipped off into anonymity. The others preferred to ignore him? He would not fail to enjoy the advantages. He made an especial acquaintance with the buffet once the Preceptor’s staff refurbished the board. The long gray coat he affected boasted numerous capacious pockets, inside and out, as a magician’s coat should. When those pockets threatened to overflow, he strolled down to the lawn. His whirlaway sagged on its springs as weight accumulated in its cubbies and panniers.

During Alfaro’s third taking of the air, he realized that chance had granted him an opportunity he had come near failing to recognize.

He was inside Boumergarth, with a rowdy mob, all of whom would be equally suspect if The Book of Changes went missing.

3

Among Alfaro Morag’s gifts was a near eidetic memory. First time through Ildefonse’s library, he touched nothing. He examined spines, read titles where those were in languages he recognized, and, so, had nothing in hand when Ildefonse caught him staring at a set of slim volumes purportedly written by Phandaal of Grand Motholam.

“Morag?”

“Preceptor? I overstepped, surely, but I can’t help being awed. I might suspect that there is no other library as extensive as yours. Already I’ve noted three books my teachers assured me were lost forever.”

“You suspect wrong, Morag. As you often do, to no great disadvantage to yourself yet. There are much grander collections, all even more direly protected.” Ildefonse was in a bleak mood. “Return to the solarium. Do not roam unescorted. Even I don’t remember all the traps set to take an interloper.”

Alfaro did not doubt that. Neither did he doubt Alfaro Morag’s ability to cope with petty snares.

He followed Ildefonse to the salon, where the older magicians formed ever-changing groups of three or four. Knowing smirks came his way, from faces capable of smirking.

A servant in livery boasting several shades of orange on dark violet blue entered. “Should Your Lordships be interested, an historic solar event appears to be developing. It can be best viewed from the upper veranda.”

The magicians topped up their drinks and climbed to the veranda, impelled by the servant’s intensity.

The fat old sun had completed a third of its descent toward the western horizon. It revealed a portentous case of acne, a dozen blotches that swirled and scurried around its broad face. Some collided and formed larger blemishes, while new blackheads developed elsewhere. Soon a quarter of the red face was hidden behind a shape-shifting dark mask.

“Is this it?” someone asked. “Has the end finally come?”

The sun flickered, grew by perhaps a tenth, then shuddered and shook it all off. It returned to its usual size. The blotches dispersed. The smallest sank into the dark red fire.

Hours fled while the magicians remained transfixed by the drama.

Ildefonse began to issue orders. His staff unfroze. He announced, “The lower limb of the sun will reach the horizon within the hour. I have ordered my largest whirlaway readied. Let us go. Young Morag will guide us to the point where he spotted his untimely marvel.”

Apparently at random, Gilgad remarked, “The sun has developed a green topknot. And tail.” An eventuation apparent only to his unique eye. He dropped the matter quickly.

4

Ildefonse’s largest whirlaway was a palace in itself. Alfaro was hard pressed to conceal his envy.

As yet, he had no clear idea why the magicians were interested in Moadel. They ignored his questions. They were not pleased, that was plain. They were nervous. Some might even be frightened. More than a few sent dark looks Alfaro’s way, sure that he was a taunting liar working a confidence scheme.

Only Ildefonse spoke to him, and that with obvious distaste. “The sun will be behind Amuldar shortly. Where do I situate us?”

“Amuldar? I thought it was Moadel.”

“Amuldar is the place. Moadel was the artist.”

“Oh.” Alfaro had spent some energy seeking an alternative to admitting that he had been near Boumergarth. He had come up with nothing. Nor was it likely that any disclaimer would be accepted. Ildefonse had dropped hints enough.

Morag delivered the true ranges and bearings.

He would build an image of honest cooperation. That might prove useful should flexibility be called for later. “It’s difficult to judge from so grand a standpoint but I would move a hundred yards back from the Scaum and rise half a dozen.”

The palatial conveyance adjusted its position, possibly in response to the Preceptor’s thoughts.

“Here. This is almost exactly…”

“Excellent.” With an undertone suggesting that Alfaro Morag had won a stay.

Alfaro had spent little time with the elder magicians since his advent in Ascolais. Now he suspected that they were deeper than they pretended. And were very clever at making outsiders feel small.

5

The tips of the spires and bulbous towers of Amuldar rose stark black against the sun, seeming to climb it. Beforehand, the magicians had been indifferent. Now they were interested. Some dramatically so.

Ildefonse and Rhialto lined the rail of the promenade. Alfaro leaned against that rail between them. Rhialto mused, “We may have misjudged our new associate.”

“Possibly.” Ildefonse seemed to doubt that.

“I, for one, am pleased. This could be a splendid opportunity. Alfaro, tell us more.”

“There’s nothing to tell that hasn’t been told.”

“Indeed? So. Why go home and contact Ildefonse rather than investigate?”

“I am neither a fast thinker nor particularly courageous in the face of something that should not be.”

Ildefonse said, “Any of these starry old bull erbs would have swarmed straight in, hoping to strike it rich.”

Alfaro noted that Zahoulik-Khuntze and Herark the Harbinger, both, had developed a furtive manner. Nor were his immediate companions demonstrating their customary flash and bravura.

Panderleou presented himself. “Ildefonse, I have recalled a critical experiment I left active in my laboratory. Return to Boumergarth. I must get home quickly.”

“And thence, whither?” Rhialto inquired.

“This is no time for your superior airs and snide mockeries, Rhialto. Preceptor! I insist.”

“Dearest Panderleou, companion of my youth, you are entirely free to come and go as you will.”

“A concept exceedingly appealing but one you have rendered impracticable.”

The sun declined behind Hazur. The after light revealed no sign of Amuldar. Nothing could be seen but a brace of pelgrane circling.

With little expectation of a useful answer, Alfaro asked, “Will someone tell me something, now? Anything?”

Ildefonse said, “We will honor Panderleou’s request. I set course for Boumergarth. After a suitable evening repast, we will repair to the library, research, and consider what actions we should take or should not take tomorrow.”

The grand whirlaway soared, leaned, swept away across the dying light. The hundred colorful banners dressing its extremities cracked in the passing air.

6

A scramble commenced as the whirlaway docked. Most of the magicians rushed the buffet, determined to further deplete the Preceptor’s larder. A few fled to the lawn and their conveyances. Those returned in a squawking gaggle, righteously outraged.

Ildefonse said, “After protracted soul-searching, I suffered a change of heart. Prudence demands that we remain together and face the future with a uniform plan and resolute purpose.”

Mune the Mage, mouth filled with lark’s liver croquets, observed, “The most salubrious course would be to continue the exact policy pursued since the incident of Fritjof’s Drive. Ignore Amuldar.”

A strong minority were swift to agree.

Herark the Harbinger declared, “I put that into the form of a motion. Though it would seem that Amuldar inexplicably survives, it has offered no provocation since the age of Grand Motholam. Let sleeping erbs lie.” The Harbinger had not yet recovered his color. Alfaro feared the man might have caught some dread scent drifting in from the future.

Rhialto said, “An admirable strategy, tainted by a single flaw. When Alfaro became aware of Amuldar, Amuldar became aware of Alfaro.”

Morag enjoyed a barrage of dark looks. These magicians seldom let reason sweep them away.

“When we went out to learn the truth of Alfaro’s sighting, Amuldar sensed us looking. Te Ratje knows we know.”

“Unacceptable,” Panderleou declared.

And Herark, “I call for a vote of censure against Alfaro Morag, the penalty to include confiscation of all his possessions.”

Ildefonse stepped in. “Control yourselves. Alfaro is but the messenger. In any event, did he possess anything of merit someone would have taken it for safekeeping already.”

Alfaro suffered a chill. This might be an ideal time to refill his pockets and hurry home, then move on, perhaps into the wastes beyond the Land of the Falling Wall.

Herark grumbled, “Will no one second either of my motions?”

No. But Haze of Wheary Water, leaves again in a ruff, offered, “I make a motion that Ildefonse, Rhialto, and others with the apposite knowledge, render the rest of us fully cognizant of the truths concerning Amuldar, being candid in all respects and reserving no salient point.”

“Hear! Hear!” from a dozen throats. The young insisting on knowing what the old had gotten them into.

Alfaro, having heard no actual second, declared, “I second the motion offered by the esteemed Haze.”

The “Hear! Hear!” chorus gave way to protests of Alfaro’s audacious conceit. He had no standing.

“Quiet,” Ildefonse said. “I have another second from Byzant.”

Startled, the Necrope turned his back to the buffet and glared at the Preceptor.

“Panderleou, you were in the front rank at Fritjof’s Drive. You have an agile tongue. Tell the tale. Cleave close to the truth. Neither fanciful embellishment nor self-effacing modesty are appropriate.”

Sourly, Panderleou suggested, “Let Rhialto tell it. He was nearer the action than I.”

Ildefonse demurred. “Rhialto was too near. And, as we well know, Rhialto holds himself too dear to relate any story involving Rhialto with precise accuracy.”

Morag smiled. Even Rhialto’s closest crony had reservations about his character.

Sullen, Panderleou growled, “All right. Gather round. I’ll tell this once, touching only the critical moments.”

The magicians gathered. Those with only two hands had difficulty managing their food and wine. And Ildefonse was of that inhospitable breed who did not allow guests to use magic inside his house. Which could explain his continued robust health.

Panderleou said, “At some undetermined point in the 16th Aeon, the first Great Magician rose, Te Ratje of Agagino, who may have been greater than Phandaal himself. Long gone, he is recalled only in footnotes in the most ancient tomes, where his name is inevitably misspelled Shinarump, Vrishakis, or Terawachy.”

Panderleou headed for the buffet.

Ildefonse cleared his throat. “Panderleou, that was far too spare for those unacquainted with the name or situation.”

Panderleou grumbled, “I blame modern education. Very well. In his day, Te Ratje was known as the Good Magician. All magic, he claimed, was a gift that should be used to benefit mankind as a whole. In his self-righteousness, he was more objectionable than is Rhialto in his egotism. He was smug, he was absolute, he was too much to endure. His fellow magicians concluded that an intervention was necessary. Te Ratje’s eyes had to be opened. In consequence, much of the earth was burned clean of life. A wave of emigration took most of the survivors to the stars. Their descendants return occasionally, so changed we fail to see them as human.”

Alfaro scanned faces. None of the magicians resented that remark.

“This was in the time of Grand Motholam. Many magicians since have wondered how Valdaran the Just, a mere politician, could have decimated the mages of Grand Motholam. The answer is, Te Ratje, the Good Magician. In the end, though, Te Ratje and his perambulating city were extinguished. Or driven into the demon dimensions. Valdaran succumbed to time’s bite. The Earth went back to being what it always was, absent a few hundred million people.”

“Until today,” Ildefonse observed. He gestured. Amuldar reappeared. “Moadel painted this after Te Ratje disappeared. From a dream, he said. From a time mirage haunting the dreamlands, Vermoulian said at the time.”

Vermoulian the Dreamwalker pulled a thrush’s drumstick out of his mouth. “I did advise you that I had found no trace of any such dream when Moadel made his claim.”

“Yes, you did. I was complaisant. Te Ratje was no longer under foot. Evidence sufficient to consider the problem solved.”

Alfaro tried to think himself beneath notice. He was at risk of being swept up in a quarrel that harkened to an ancient confrontation between vigorous rectitude and a relaxed attitude toward corruption.

The past might have come back.

Alfaro worried that it might bite him, too.

7

Once Boumergarth was a palace of vast extent. The countless towers and rooms — some in realities not of Earth — were fading with their master. Ildefonse was nearing his dotage, despite the mysteries spun by Lutung Kasarung. Or had lost his taste for the grand show. When guests were not present, he and his staff lived no better than common tradesmen, in a fraction of Boumergarth. Heroic expenditures of effort had been needed to provide for the current infestation.

It was, indeed, tempting misfortune to roam Boumergarth without Ildefonse. Who, occasionally, fell prey to his own forgotten snares.

So Alfaro learned in discourse with Ildefonse’s staff, during a night when sleep proved hard to secure. During a night when discontent plagued the full company.

Ildefonse was determined to deal with Amuldar as soon as daylight drove more mundane dangers into forests and caves.

The breakfast buffet was basic. Fuel for a hard day’s work.

Why go gourmet for the condemned?

By way of elevating spirits, the Preceptor announced, “I deployed my sandestins during the night. Expect a dead city, if we find anything more than a time mirage. Te Ratje detected would have acted by now. His recollections of us would be less affectionate than ours of him. So. One last sup of wine, and away!”

The magicians arrived on the lawn in a grumbling scrum, only to be disappointed again. Ildefonse did grant leave for individuals to provide their own transport. Woefully, that transport would proceed exclusively to the destination the Preceptor chose.

Most whirlaways used a minor demon called a sandestin to move them about. The Preceptor had suborned those with threats and loose talk of a release of indenture points, which were within his power to award.

He told Rhialto, “Lead the way, with young Alfaro. I will come last, sweeping up stragglers.”

Alfaro thought Rhialto approached this morning with no more enthusiasm than did Panderleou or Zahoulik-Khuntze. Both continued to plead a pressing need to attend to business at home.

Ildefonse, from behind, shouted, “Each of you came to Boumergarth armed with several spells. I hope that, collectively, we’re armed with a broad variety.”

“Spells?” Alfaro gobbled. “I didn’t…Why would…”

Rhialto looked at him with what might have been pity. If not disdain. Assuming that was not just the wind in his eyes.

8

The magicians neared Hazur. Ildefonse relaxed control. They buzzed round the headland like giant gnats. Alfaro remained near Rhialto, keeping that magician between himself and the haunted country the best he could.

Magicians sparking about attracted attention, first from the road hugging the far bank of the Scaum, then from above. Yonder, travelers stopped to gawk. Above, the activity attracted pelgrane, monsters remotely descended of men. Their slow brains understood that all that sweet meat bobbing around Hazur could be deadly. Ao of the Opals underscored the point with his Excellent Prismatic Spray.

The gallery beyond the river roared approval when a hundred scintillant light spears pierced a too daring pelgrane. Sizzling, the monster plunged toward the Scaum.

The magicians closed with the headland, which consisted of rocky ground strewn with deadwood and clusters of stunted brush.

Ildefonse called to Rhialto, “Do you apprehend any cause to avoid the Forthright Option of Absolute Clarity?”

“It costs but a spell to try. Though it is absolute. And unlikely to have a broad impact on a target as grand as Amuldar.”

The Preceptor made sure none of the magicians were slinking away. He whispered. His whirlaway plunged toward the forest choking the approaches to Hazur. He curved round above the treetops and hurled his spell.

The Forthright Option was new to Alfaro. Few magicians used it because it banished all illusion, not just what the spell caster wanted brushed aside.

The air coruscated. A patch an acre in extent became the flank of a transparent dome rising from barren rock. A city lay behind that patch.

The orbiting magicians swooped in to look.

The Preceptor preened.

Rhialto told Alfaro, “That took the aeons off. He’s a boy again.”

Morag was more interested in the city. The not-mirage.

Nothing moved there. There was no obvious decay, but the place had the look of having been abandoned to vermin and dust for ages.

For aeons, Alfaro reminded himself. Meaning there were potent sustaining spells at work.

The older magicians, so recently determined to attend interests elsewhere, now chattered brightly of what might be unearthed here.

Terror had been forgotten. Greed reigned. There was much snickering at the certain disappointment soon to grip those who had failed to respond to Ildefonse’s summons.

The Preceptor observed, “Once again avarice trumps caution.”

Alfaro saw something. “There! Did you see?”

“What?”

“A blue moth. It was huge.”

Ildefonse said, “Blue was not Te Ratje’s favorite color.”

“An understatement,” said Rhialto. “Te Ratje appears to be out of patience. He is ready for the test direct.”

The Preceptor’s whirlaway rose and darted away. Alfaro followed, as did Rhialto. Below, Barbanikos launched a spell with dramatic results.

The spell struck the dome, flashed brilliantly, rebounded, caught Barbanikos before he could dodge. His great dandelion puff of white hair exploded. Down he went, smoldering, whirlaway shedding pieces, its animating sandestin shrieking. Wreckage scattered down the flank of Hazur. Small fires burned out before they could spread.

Rhialto observed, “Barbanikos succeeded.”

A black O ring a dozen feet across pulsed in the surface of the dome. Haze of Wheary Water darted through. No instant doom struck him down. Mune the Mage followed. The other magicians wasted no time.

Rhialto remarked, “Our reputations are unlikely to recover if we fail to follow.”

Alfaro had a thought about opportunity knocking. Should that slowly shrinking O ring close a dozen estates would become masterless.

Ildefonse caught his eye. “Learn to think things through.”

Alfaro opened his mouth to protest.

“Had you developed that skill early you would have had no need to migrate in haste.”

Rhialto observed, “You are a slow learner. Nevertheless, you show promise. And you have youth’s sharp eye.”

Youth’s sharp eye, unable to meet Ildefonse’s fierce gaze, wandered to the pelgrane contemplating prospects on the river road, then to the feeble sun. “Gilgad was right. The sun has a green topknot. And maybe a beard or tail.” Both discernable when considered from a dozen degrees off direct.

Rhialto and Ildefonse discovered it, too. And Rhialto saw something more. “There is a line, fine as a thread of silk, connecting the earth to the sun.”

Ildefonse said, “Would that we had Moadel here to sketch it.”

Alfaro suggested, “I could get my brother. He has a talent for drawing.” Tihomir was immensely blessed in that one way.

“Unnecessary. The sun will persist for a few more days. Our task is more immediate. Rhialto. Lead the way. I will sweep up the rear.”

Rhialto tilted his jeweled whirlaway toward the shrinking O ring. Disgruntled, Alfaro followed.

9

“There’s no color,” Alfaro exclaimed.

“But there is,” Rhialto countered. “Te Ratje’s gray, in all its thousand shades. Gray is the color of absolute rectitude.”

“Unsettling news,” Ildefonse said. “Barbanikos’s aperture has closed.”

The hole had become a black circle floating in the air. The acre unveiled by the Forthright Option of Absolute Clarity had dwindled to a patch a dozen yards in its extreme dimension, too.

Rhialto said, “I have not been here before.”

Ildefonse confessed, “My visit has become so remote that I might need weeks to exhume the memories. Alfaro was correct. There is a blue moth. I need recover no memories, though, to understand that the street below leads to the heart of Amuldar.”

The others had gone that way. Dust hung in the air, stirred by their passage. There was nothing here to seize their attention. This was the most bland of cities. No structure stood taller than three stories, nor wore any shape but that of a gray block, absolutely utilitarian.

“Where are the towers? The minarets? The onion-domed spires?”

Ildefonse said, “The silhouette was what the Good Magician believed he was creating. Now we are inside what actually came of his vision.”

“Valdaran the Just destroyed the magicians of Grand Motholam for this?”

Rhialto chuckled. Ildefonse did not respond.

Alfaro squeaked, startled by a big blue moth that just missed his face.

The elder magicians slowed. “Time for caution,” Rhialto said, indicating a strew of polished wood and wickerwork that had been a whirlaway not long ago.

“Mune the Mage,” Ildefonse decided. “I don’t see a corpse, so he walked away.”

Several large moths, or maybe butterflies, flitted randomly nearby. They ranged in color from dark turquoise to pale royal blue. Alfaro said, “Looks like writing on their wings.”

“Those are spells in Te Ratje’s own script.” The Preceptor evaded a moth as big as his spread hand. “One of his contributions to magic. Even he could encompass no more than four spells at a time. So he made these creatures. He could read a spell if he so chose, or he could arm them so the insects could deliver disaster by fortuitous impact. This would be an instance of the latter.”

Rhialto prized a small purple stone from its mount on the tiller bar of his whirlaway, whispered to it, pegged it at an especially hefty moth. The moth turned onto its back and wobbled downward.

Ildefonse observed, “That one carried the Dismal Itch.”

“They’re all nuisance spells.” Rhialto’s right hand danced. His purple stone zipped from butterfly to moth, trailing ichors and broken wings.

They fell where others had fallen already. Then there was Mune the Mage, clumping onward with inspired determination, his iridescent cape an aurora against the gray. Ghostly, shimmering footprints shone where he trod but faded quickly. Ildefonse observed, “I believe his temper is up. Forward, Mune! Forward, with alacrity!”

Mune the Mage made a rude gesture. Even so, Rhialto swooped down for a few words. He returned to report, “Only his dignity is injured. As you might expect, though, he’s already grumbling about restitution.”

Alfaro said, “I see something.”

All three slowed.

There was a hint of color at the heart of Amuldar, about as lively as that of a plant found lying beneath a rock. It filled the spectrum but every shade was washed out, a ghost of what it might have been.

Thither, too, stood a scatter of structures resembling those seen against the sun. None were the size the silhouette had suggested.

An expansive plaza lay surrounded by those. A squadron of unmanned whirlways sat there. The Preceptor said, “They’re all here but Barbanikos and Mune the Mage.”

The three settled to the gray stone surface, which trembled with ribbons of color for an instant after each dismounted.

Alfaro understood. The color here, weak as it might be, existed only because outsiders had tracked it in.

10

Fallen Lepidoptera marked the path into the squarest and grayest square gray structure, where no light lived. Alfaro drew his short sword from beneath his coat. A moonstone in the pommel, properly seduced, shed a brisk light, which illuminated a circle twenty feet in radius. Rhialto and Ildefonse were impressed. “An heirloom,” Alafaro explained. The acquisition of which had precipitated the cascade of events that had brought the Morag brothers to Ascolais.

“Amazing,” Ildefonse said. “But we need something more.”

The hall seemed to have no boundary but the wall through which they had entered. The other magicians were around somewhere, though, as evidenced by remote echoes and flashes.

“What is this place?” Alfaro asked.

The Preceptor said, “Your guess will be as good as any.”

There was a deep mechanical clunk. The floor shuddered. Light began to develop, accompanied by a rising hum. The distant voices sounded distraught.

Alfaro damped his moonstone, turned slowly.

The wall behind boasted countless shelves of books, up into darkness and off into the distance to either hand. “Preceptor…”

“I did tell you there were libraries superior to my own. Forward!”

Ildefonse stepped out. Alfaro followed. He did not want to be alone, now. There was danger in the air. Rhialto felt it, too. He appeared uncharacteristically nervous. Ildefonse followed tracks in dust disturbed by those who had run the gantlet in the dark.

“Ghosts,” Alfaro said as they moved through acres of tables and chairs, all dusty.

Creatures high in the air floated their way. Both were near-naked girls who appeared to have substance. Rhialto murmured approval. He had a reputation concerning which no one had yet produced hard evidence.

“Take care,” Ildefonse warned. “They’ll be more than they seem.”

Rhialto added, “I suspect a sophisticated twist on the theme of the moths. The one to the left seems vaguely familiar.”

The Preceptor said, “She is showing you what the secret Rhialto wants to see. This trap consists of choice. You have to chose to touch. But if you do, you’ll have no time for regrets.”

“Te Ratje’s way. Destroy you by pandering to your weaknesses.”

Similar ghosts floated ahead. They formed an aerial guide to other magicians. Not all those ghosts were female or young.

A scream, yonder. A brilliant flash. Then a half minute of utter silence during which the ghosts hung motionless. Then a grinding began, as of hundred ton granite blocks sliding across one another.

Ildefonse stepped out vigorously. Alfaro, perforce, kept up. Rhialto remained close behind, muttering as he wrestled temptation.

11

Perdustin had screamed. Gilgad reported, “He touched a girl. Haze saw it coming. He interceded.”

Perdustin was down and singed but alive at the center of an acre of clear floor under the appearance of an open sky.

“And the girl?” Ildefonse asked.

“Shattered.” A red-gloved hand indicated a scatter that appeared to be bits of torn paper. “Sadly, none of the young ladies are any more real.”

“It’s all illusion,” Haze said, before retailing his version of events.

Ranks of gargantuan, dusty machines surrounded the acre. “Where did that come from?” Alfaro asked. “We saw none of it till we got here.”

Gilgad shrugged. “Things work differently inside Amuldar.” He was frightened. And, in that, he was not unique.

“What is that?” Morag indicated the sky, where alien constellations roamed. Where fine lines, plainly visible despite being black, waved like the tentacles of a kraken eager to feast on stars.

Someone said, “Ask Te Ratje when he turns up.”

A dozen pairs of eyes contemplated the wispy curve of pale green trailed by a sun that had set.

Ildefonse knelt beside Perdustin. Rhialto hovered. The other magicians grumbled because not one worthy souvenir had surfaced.

Alfaro glanced back. What about those books? Then he resumed studying the sky.

Saffron words, written on air, floated over his shoulder. YOU WITNESS THE EVOLUTION OF THE STARS. A MILLION GALACTIC YEARS PASS FOR EACH THREE MINUTES YOU WATCH.

Stricken, Alfaro watched black tentacles for a moment before he turned to face the oldest little old man he had ever seen. Liver spotted, nearly hairless, with a left eyelid that drooped precipitously. The left end of his mouth sagged, too. His wrinkles had wrinkles. He had an arresting nymphet under either arm. His toes dragged when they moved. They were no ghosts. Alfaro felt the heat coming off them. They would bleed, not scatter like bits of torn paper.

Alfaro watched the improbable: self-proclaimed fearless magicians of Almery and Ascolais began to mewl, to wet themselves, and, in the case of Nahourezzin, to faint. Though, to be exactly reasonable, his faint had exhaustion and prolonged stress behind it. Morag noted, too, some who were not obviously intimidated, the Preceptor and Rhialto the Marvellous among them.

12

“Te Ratje?” Rhialto asked.

The old man inclined his head. After a pause. He did not seem quite sure. More girls gathered to support him. Their touch did not inconvenience him.

“Their concern is intriguing,” Ildefonse murmured. “They exist at his will. And he isn’t healthy.”

Rhialto opined, “Even my formidable resources would be taxed were I tasked to entertain so many gems.”

Alfaro asked, “Who are they? They’re exquisite. Does he create them himself?” His own such efforts always turned ugly.

“No. Long ago he traversed time, harvesting the essences of the finest beauties and most accomplished courtesans, each at her perfect moment of ripeness: firm, unblemished, and a trifle green. He decants their simulacra at will.”

Ildefonse added, “Youth’s fancy.”

Rhialto said, “The girls are not precisely aware of their status, but do understand that they have been fished from time’s deep and are dependent on his affection for their immortality.”

Alfaro wondered, “Why is he so old?” By which he meant: Why had Te Ratje let himself suffer time’s indignities?

According to Rhialto, “His mind never worked like any other. Belike, though, this is just a seeming, like Ildefonse, or Haze, or Zahoulik-Khuntze with his illustrated iron fingernails.”

Alfaro examined the Preceptor. As ever, Ildefonse seemed a warm, plump, golden whiskered grandfather type. Had he a truer aspect?

The Good Magician became someone dramatically less feeble. He stood tall, strong, hard, saturnine, and entirely without humor. But his eyes did not change. They remained ancient and half blind. Nor did he speak.

Te Ratje stabbed the air with his left forefinger. His fingernail glowed. He wrote: WELCOME, ALL. ALFARO MORAG. SCION OF DESTINY. YOU HAVE BEEN A LONG TIME COMING. His lines were thirty characters long, floated upward to fade in tendrils and puffs of yellow-lime vapor.

“Always a showoff!” Herark the Harbinger sneered.

TIME HAS BETRAYED ME. MUST YOU SABOTAGE MY GREAT WORK AGAIN?

Rhialto was skeptical. “I see no sign of work, great, trivial, wicked, or otherwise. I see the dust of abiding neglect.”

I HAVE ABANDONED ALL EFFORTS TO IMPROVE MANKIND. THE BEAST IS A SHALLOW, SELFISH, INNATELY WICKED INGRATE. I LEAVE HIM TO HIS SELF-DESTRUCTIVE AMUSEMENTS. I FOCUS SOLEY UPON THE PRESERVATION OF KNOWLEDGE AND MINISTRATION TO THE SUN.

The Good Magician gestured. The air between himself and the magicians resolved into a diorama six feet to a side and three deep. An exact replica of the space they occupied revealed itself, with miniscules of magicians and girls at its center.

Te Ratje’s illuminated forefinger extended to become a slim four foot yellow-green pointer. LIBRARY. INCLUDING EVERY BOOK WRITTEN SINCE THE 13TH AEON.

Ildefonse actually winked at Alfaro.

THESE ENGINES DETECT CREATIVE WORK IN PROCESS. WHEN A WORK IS COMPLETED, A SUITE OF SPELLS INTERRUPTS TIME, AN ASSOCIATE TRAVELS TO THE CREATION POINT AND RENDERS AN EXACT DUPLICATE. NO POEM, NO SONG, NO ROMANCE, NO MASTERWORK OF MAGIC OR HISTORY IS EVER LOST, THUS.

Alfaro detected a taint of madness.

The magicians had ignored the books in their haste to find more worldly treasures. But, now, every book written for eight aeons? Including the lost grimoires of Phandaal, the Amberlins, the Vaspurials, and Zinqzin? Three quarters of all magical knowledge had been lost since Grand Motholam.

A blind man could smell the greed beginning to simmer.

Deliberately provoked? Alfaro wondered.

Inside the diorama several engines turned a pale lilac rose. THERE BEATS THE HEART OF AMULDAR. THOSE DO THE GREAT WORK OF TIME. THOSE REACH OUT TO THE STARS AND DRAW THE SUSTENANCE FOR WHICH OUR SUN HUNGERS.

Gesture. A sphere of denominated space appeared overhead, the sun a bloody pea at its center. A scatter of latter age stars blazed at the boundary, true scale of distance ignored. Threads of black touched those and lashed the empty regions between. Every thread pulled something unseen into one of the two green tails spiraling out from the sun’s poles.

AS I GIFT MY ANGELS LIFE, SO DO I GIFT LIFE TO ALL THAT GOES UPON THE EARTH. COME.

Alfaro blurted, “Me?”

YOU. YOU ARE THE ONLY INNOCENT HERE.

Morag gulped air. He felt like a small boy caught with his hand in a purse that was not his own. A situation in which he had found himself more than once. A glance round showed him none of the magicians moving, or even aware. “A stasis? One that exempts me, though I’m at a distance and did not initiate it?”

YES. Wicked smile. The Good Magician continued to grow stronger and younger. THERE IS LITTLE TO DO HERE BUT TEND THE ENGINES, STUDY, AND INDULGE IN RESEARCH. He smiled more wickedly as two of his pets slipped under his arms. Another, a sleek black-haired beauty wearing a pageboy cut like a visorless bascinet, who roiled Morag’s thoughts from the moment he spied her, sidled up beside Alfaro. Her wicked eyes told him she knew perfectly well that she could make him her slave in an instant.

Te Ratje said, WITH ALL THE GREAT MAGICAL TEXTS AT HAND, AND TIME IN NO SHORT SUPPLY, EVEN A DILITANTE CAN FIND CLEVER NEW WAYS TO USE MAGIC.

Distracted by the nymph and natural flaws in his character, Alfaro followed Te Ratje’s speech only in its broadest concept.

The story Te Ratje told was dubious even to a naïve youth just beginning to grasp how far out of his depth he was with the magicians of Almery and Ascolais. Who had begun to understand that he needed, desperately, to rein in his natural inclinations, lest he suffer a fate not unlike that enjoyed by his miniscules.

From glances caught, he knew that Byzant the Necrope had something in mind.

13

The nymph rubbed against Alfaro like an affectionate cat. He asked, “Is this distraction necessary?”

I CANNOT CONTROL THEIR AFFECTIONS.

Alfaro remained unsure of how he had moved from the plaza of the engines to a cozy little library rich with comfort and polished wood. It could not possibly hold all the books created across eight aeons. It was crowded by two magicians and three girls.

WHAT BOOK WOULD YOU LIKE TO SEE?

Because a lust for its possession had brought him to this pass, Alfaro said, “Lutung Kasarung’s The Book of Changes.”

Te Ratje extended an arm impossibly far, retrieved a volume. He presented it to Alfaro. It was a pristine copy, never opened. Alfaro placed it gently on a small teak table featuring a finish so deep the book seemed to sink. Shaking, he asked, “What are you doing to me?”

I WANT YOU TO BECOME MY APPRENTICE.

“Why?” Morag blurted.

YOU ARE THE FIRST TO FIND AMULDAR IN AEONS. YOU COME BURDENED BY NEITHER PREJUDICE NOR GREEDS FROM THE PAST, ONLY BY PICAYUNE WEAKNESSES EXAGGERATED BY YOUR TALENT.

“Why would Te Ratje want an apprentice?”

EVEN THE BEAUTIFUL MUST DIE.

Alfaro was baffled. He was confused. In moments of honesty, he could admit that he was not a good man, just a man who excelled at self-justification. He was not a man made in the style of the Good Magician.

There was a trap here, somewhere.

COMES THE DAY, COMES THE MAN. THE CHALLENGE CREATES THE MAN. I HAVE STRIVEN, ACROSS AGES, TO PRESERVE KNOWLEDGE AND PROLONG THE HOURS OF THE SUN. THE STRUGGLES OF THE 18TH AEON COST ME MY POWER AND AFFLICTED WOUNDS THAT GNAW ME TODAY.

Could the snare be emotional?

EVEN HIDDEN, UNKNOWN, WITH ALL THE KNOWLEDGE OF THE AGES, I COULD NOT RECLAIM WHAT HAD BEEN RIPPED AWAY. BUT NOW CHANCE OFFERS AN OPPORTUNITY. I CAN PREPARE A REPLACEMENT.

Alfaro concealed all cynicism. He did not believe. He could envision reality only through his own character. Te Ratje must be another Alfaro Morag, ages subtler and craftier.

Even so, Alfaro sustained his resolution to honesty. “I’m not the man you need. The best I can be called is rogue or scoundrel.” And he did have obligations elsewhere.

YOUR BROTHER. OF COURSE. YET I HAVE ALL THESE DELICACIES. TEN THOUSAND OF THE SWEETLINGS, WHO LIVE BUT A DAY OF EACH HUNDRED YEARS. I HAVE THE WORLD, WHERE THE SUN’S TIRED OLD LIGHT WOULD BE EXTINGUISHED BUT FOR TE RATJE’S MIRACLE ENGINES.

“You read minds?”

SOME, I DO. YOURS IS OPEN. THOSE OF MY ANCIENT ANTAGONISTS, THOSE PRINCELINGS OF CHAOS AND SELFISHNESS IN THE SQUARE, NO. BUT I KNOW THEM. AND THE ENGINES UNDERSTAND THEM.

IT IS DETERMINED. AFARO MORAG WILL BEGIN TRAINING TO BECOME THE GOOD MAGICIAN.

Alfaro’s companion snuggled close and purred.

14

Ildefonse stepped into the library. The girls squeaked in surprise. The Good Magician shimmered.

The Preceptor asked, “Morag, what is this?”

Alfaro blurted, “What happened? How did?…”

“Mune the Mage arrived. He broke the stasis. Only, I’m sure, after making sure there were no loose treasures in need of pocketing. Answers, please.”

“Te Ratje would like me to become his assistant.”

The Preceptor chuckled wickedly, his mirth echoed by the other magicians, outside. Ildefonse turned to the doorway. “I spent my Forthright Option of Absolute Clarity. Does anyone have a spell meant to disperse illusion?”

Vermoulian the Dreamwalker pushed forward. “I have a charm, not a true spell, which will distinguish illusion from waking dream.”

“Try it. Young Alfaro needs to see how far in he has been drawn.”

“That seems profligate.”

“We were all young once.”

“Very well. The charm is renewable.” The Dreamwalker gestured, said a few words.

Ildefonse asked, “Is it time release? Nothing happened.”

“The effect is instantaneous.”

“Nothing has changed.”

Not strictly true. Nothing he wanted to be illusion had changed. Ildefonse himself reverted to his natural form. The change lacked drama. He developed a paunch and lost some looks, hair, and his avuncular warmth.

A brief disturbance arose outside the library, where the magicians saw one another clearly for the first time.

The library remained precisely unchanged. Likewise, the three beautiful girls. But an odor pervaded the scene.

“Ach!” Alfaro gasped. “Te Ratje!”

The Good Magician’s response to the charm was to grow old again, to become the wizened gnome, then to stop moving.

Nearest, Alfaro pronounced, “Dead! A long time dead. A mummy. Have we been dealing with a ghost?”

A shimmer formed about the husk. A voice inside Alfaro’s head said, I am a memory in the same engines that recall the delicate legion. Even the beautiful must die. But an idea, a dream, lives forever in Amuldar. The engines will labor on after the last star gutters.

“Not a dream,” Vermoulian opined. “A nightmare, brought to life.”

Ildfonse nodded. Alfaro failed to comprehend. His kitten slithered up him and nipped at his left earlobe. “I lack key information. Te Ratje did not discuss his old feud. He dismissed it as of consequence only insofar as it might interfere here.”

“Te Ratje was a zealot, of the narrowest focus, prepared to wreck civilizations to enforce his concept of right. The city outside, the gray, is the gift the Good Magician planned for us all.” Ildefonse spoke passionately.

“And yet, after the excesses of Grand Motholam, he ceased intercourse with mankind. He focused on sustaining the sun.”

“For which we must express gratitude, of course. But…”

The nymph had a hand inside Alfaro’s coat and shirt. He had trouble concentrating.

The Good Magician — or the machine inside which his ghost still conspired — read his mind.

The truth is the truth, whatever hat it wears.

Alfaro disagreed. “The truth is different for each observer. Even the laws of nature are protean in some circumstances.” He eased the hand from beneath his shirt, pushed the girl far enough away that her warmth no longer heightened his blood. “Forces try to enlist me, by seduction or implied threat. Why?”

Ildefonse betrayed a momentary surprise.

“The seducer is easily understood. My wants and fantasies will be fulfilled. The Preceptor, on the other hand…”

Ildefonse visibly controlled his tongue.

Truth is truth. The spell has been spun. Henceforth none can lie, save by silence. But truth will fill their thoughts. The Preceptor wishes to plunder Amuldar, then complete its destruction. So much does he loathe the vision of the Good Magician.

“Even to the cost of the sun?”

Even the beautiful must die. There are other suns. The magicians of Ascolais can travel in the palace of Vermoulian the Dreamwalker.

Why did the magicians so hate the Good Magician’s vision?

The engines showed him the world Te Ratje would have made, first according to his truth, then according to neutral machines capable of calculating the sum vector of all the stresses presented by the ambitions of the beings within that world. There was little resemblance.

Morag rode the engines’ memories, observing incident and fact, absorbing the truths lurking between the biases.

15

Time had fled. Ildefonse had gone into a stasis again, his mouth open to protest. Likewise, the girls and the mummy.

Who had not been the Good Magician. Te Ratje had perished in the ancient conflict. He had been replaced by a follower with a lesser grasp of magic.

And had been replaced himself, in time.

“Relax the stasis.”

Ildefonse resumed protesting. The yelp of his stasis alarm interrupted. “What happened?” he demanded.

“The engines shadowed me through history.”

Ildefonse had no comment. Neither did the magicians outside.

“Preceptor, Te Ratje did fall at Fritjof’s Drive. The Good Magician here was a follower who salvaged Amuldar and carried on in secret. He made sure the engines will not fail in the lifetime of this universe. Amuldar is no threat to you. It will tend to the sun. It will care for Te Ratje’s beloved daughters. It will protect itself.”

Ildefonse absent his normal semblance could not conceal his inner self. Nor could he hide from Amuldar, which did not withhold salient information from Alfaro.

Morag said, “You all need to understand that none of the things you’re thinking will work. Content yourselves with the status quo.”

“Which is?” Vermoulian demanded.

“We are guests of Amuldar. For so long as Amuldar wishes.” Alfaro flung a thought at the engines. “A buffet is being set out. Follow the young women with the lights. Restrain your lusts. Vermoulian, go. Preceptor, stay. Rhialto, join us in here.” At a thought from Alfaro, the husk of the Good Magician floated away. Morag did not look. He feared it might be watching him as it went.

The dimensions of the library shifted. There was room for three men in three comfortable chairs attended by three implausibly beautiful young women. Alfaro reviewed his own sour history. One vision plagued him: Tihomir’s injury.

Several new girls appeared. They brought wines and delicacies.

Alfaro said, “I’ve been bitten by the serpent whose venom moved Te Ratje. I’ll do as he asked. So, now, the question. What to do about you?”

“Release us,” Rhialto said, distracted. He had a princess on either knee.

“The machine considers that dangerous. It knows your minds. You are who you are. Yet returning you to Ascolais would be my preference.”

Alfaro was amazed. He was talking like the man in charge.

He asked, “Who among you can be trusted?”

Rhialto and the Preceptor instantly volunteered.

“I see. The engines disagree. I want to send for something. But whoever I send is likely to plunder those who stay behind. Excepting Nahourezzin, who would fail to remember his mission. Yes. An excellent strategy. There. And done.”

“What is done?” Ildefonse asked, nervously.

“The sandestins from the whirlways have been enlisted for the task, in return for remission of their indentures.”

“In just such manner did Te Ratje become unpopular, making free with the properties of others.”

“A paucity of otherworldly servants should make actions against Amuldar less practical. Enjoy the wine. Enjoy the food. Enjoy the company.” Alfaro leaned forward to whisper, “I’m doing my best to get you out of here alive.”

16

Tihomir stared at the gray city, childlike. The sandestins had deposited him, and the contents of the tower beside the Javellana Cascade, in the center of the acre square. Alfaro rushed to greet his brother. Several favorite nymphs followed. He anticipated meeting the others wholeheartedly. Ten thousand of those precious, wondrous gems!

There were no magicians or whirlways in the square.

After embracing his brother Alfaro commenced the slow process of making Tihomir understand their new situation. He worried overmuch. Tihomir would be comfortable so long as he remained near Alfaro. He had arrived frightened only because they had been separated for a time, then strange demons had come to carry him away.

Alfaro Morag. The bad magicians are escaping.

“How can that be?” Though he had noted the absence of the whirlaways, including his own.

The one called Barbanikos propped the way open when the demons returned. The demons themselves had no confidence in your promise to relax their indentures.

Golden-tongued Rhialto and Ildefonse would have leveraged any demonic doubt to adjust notoriously evanescent sandestin loyalties.

There was a reason they were indentured rather than hired.

Alfaro shrugged. He remained irked that his whirlaway had been appropriated — by Mune the Mage, surely — yet here was a problem solved without his having to offend Amuldar. A prodigy. He was free to be the Good Magician and free to make Tihomir whole.

A dozen more girls arrived to help Alfaro move his possessions into his wondrous new quarters, shaped by Amuldar’s engines based on his deepest fantasies.

Not even Ildefonse’s Boumergarth could match their opulence.

He had fallen into paradise.

Paradise was a blade with vicious edges.

Across subsequent centuries, individual magicians, or, occasionally, a cabal, attempted to avail themselves of the riches of Amuldar. Every stratagem failed.

Only Vermoulian the Dreamwalker penetrated Amuldar’s shell — by stalking the nightlands. The Dreamwalker traced the nightmare into which the Good Magician descended.

Alfaro Morag, as all the Good Magicians before him had, discovered that only a few millennia of this paradise left him unable to continue to endure the cost. As had they, he began to yearn for the escape of the beautiful.

The better grounded and rounded Tihomir Morag would gain fame as his brother’s successor.