Magician (73 page)

A turn. From the steps below came a
pulsing as the world beat with a life of its own. Upward through the
island, through the building, through the tower, the spire, and his
very body came the urgent yet eternal beating of the planet’s
heart. He cast his eyes downward and saw deep caverns, the upper ones
worked by slaves who harvested the few rare metals to be found, along
with coal for heat and stone for building. Below these were other
caverns, some natural, others the remnants of a lost city, overblown
by dust that became soil as the ages passed. Here once dwelled
creatures beyond his ability to imagine. Deeper still his vision
plunged him, to a region of heat and light, where primeval forces
contested Liquid rock, inflamed and glowing, pushed against its solid
cousin, seeking a passage upward, mindlessly driven by nature. Deeper
still, to a world of pure force, where lines of energy ran through
the heart of the world.

A turn, and he stepped upon a small
platform atop the spire. It was less than his own height in size on
each side, an impossibly precarious perch. He stepped to the middle,
overcoming a vertigo that tried to send him screaming over the edge.
He employed every part of his ability and training to stand there,
for he understood without being told that to fail here was to die.

He cleared his mind of fear and looked
around at the scene before him, awed by the expanse of emptiness.
Never before had he felt so truly isolated, so truly alone. Here he
stood with nothing between him and whatever fate was allotted to him.

Below him stretched the world and above
him an empty sky. The wind held a hint of moisture, and he saw dark
clouds racing up from the south. The tower, or the needle upon it,
swayed slightly, and he unconsciously shifted his weight to
compensate.

Lightning flashed as the storm clouds
rushed toward him, and thunder broke around his head. The very sound
was enough to dislodge him from the small platform, and he was forced
to delve deeper into his inner well of power, into that silent place
known only as wal, and there he found the strength to resist the
onslaught of the storm.

Winds buffeted him, slamming him toward
the platform’s edge. He reeled and recovered, the darkling
abyss below beckoning to him, inviting his fall. With a surge of
will, he brushed aside the vertigo once again and set his mind to the
task ahead.

In his mind a voice cried, —
Now
is the time of testing. Upon this tower you must stand, and should
your will falter, from it you will fall
—

There was a momentary pause, then the
voice cried once more, —
Behold! Witness and understand how
it was
—

Blackness swept upward, and he was
consumed.

For a time he floats, nameless and
lost. A pinpoint of flickering consciousness, an unknown swimmer
through a black and empty sea. Then a single note invades the void.
It reverberates, a soundless sound, a sense-lacking intruder on the
senses. —
Without senses, how is there perception?
—
his mind asks. His mind! —
I am!
— he cries, and a
million philosophies cry out in wonder. —
If I am, then what
is not me?
—he wonders.

An echo replies, —
You are that
which you are, and not that which you are not
—

—
An unsatisfactory answer
—
he muses.

—
Good
— replies the
echo.

—
What is that note?
—
he asks.

—
It is the touch of an old
man’s sleep the moment before death
—

—
What is that note?
—

—
It is the color of winter
—

—
What is that note?
—

—
It is the sound of hope
—

—
What is that note?
—

—
It is the taste of love
—

—
What is that note?
—

—
It is an alarm to wake you
—

He floats. Around him swim a billion
billion stars. Great clusters drift by, ablaze with energy. In riots
of color they spin, giant reds and blues, the smaller oranges and
yellows, and the tiny reds and whites. The colorless and angry black
ones drink in the storm of light around them, while others pulse out
energies in an unknown spectrum, and a few twist the fabric of space
and time, sending his vision swimming as he tries to fathom their
passing. From each to each a line of force stretches, binding them
all in a net of power. Back and forth along the strands of this web
energy flows, pulsing with a life that is not life. The stars know as
they fly by. They are aware of his presence, but acknowledge it not.
He is too small for them to be concerned with. Around him stretches
away the whole of the universe.

At various points in the web, creatures
of power rest or work, each different from the others, but all
somehow the same. Some he can see are gods, for they are familiar to
him, and others are less or more. Each plays a role. Some regard him,
for his passing is not without notice; some are beyond him, too great
to comprehend him, and so being, are less than he. Others study him
closely, weighing his power and abilities against their own. He
studies them in return. All are silent.

He speeds among the stars and the
beings of power, until he espies a star, one among the multitude, but
one that calls to him. From the star twenty lines of energy lead
away, and near each is a being of power. Without knowing why, he
understands that here are the ancient gods of Kelewan. Each plays on
the nearest line of power influencing the structure of space and time
nearby. Some contest among themselves, others work oblivious to the
strife, and still others do nothing that is discernible.

He moves closer. A single planet swings
about the star, a blue-and-green sphere shrouded in white clouds.
Kelewan.

Down the lines of force he plunges,
until he is on the surface. Here he sees a world untouched by the
footprint of man. Great beasts with six legs stride the land, and
hiding from them are a young race of quick-thinking beings.

The cho-ja, a few bands of scurrying
creatures, little more than the large insects that spawned them,
speed through the trees of the great forests, fearing the large
predators who hunt them, as they in turn hunt smaller game. They have
begun to reason, and their queens now design each for a specific
purpose, so strong and well-armed soldiers protect the foragers. More
food is brought to the hive, and the race begins to prosper.

Over the plains the young Thün
males race, fighting among themselves with rocks and sticks, fists
and fang. They clash knowing only there is a nameless urge driving
them on, demanding that one or another from their band drive off the
others and sire the next generation of young. It will be ages before
they become reasoning beings, able to work together against the
two-legged creatures who have yet to appear upon this world.

Near the sea, not yet named for the
blood of thousands killed upon it, the Sunn huddle on the shore,
newly emerged from the sea, discomforted upon the land, but no longer
able to abide in the deep. Fearing all, they plot in their sea-caves,
seeking security and building an attitude toward outsiders that will
set the stage for their genocide generations later.

Above the mountains, the Thrillillil
soar, their culture formative and crude, only little more than a
loose association of breeding pairs and young. Their large but
delicate wings cast shadows that hide the Nummongnum, who creep along
the edge of the rocks, hidden from sight by their mottled fur, which
resembles the stones behind which they scurry, seeking Thrillillil
eggs, beginning a war that will last a thousand years and end in the
annihilation of both races.

This is a harsh world, abundant with
life, but contentious life, with no mercy for the weak. Of those
races he sees, only two will endure, the Thün and the cho-ja. He
sees darkness approaching like a sudden storm, and it sweeps over
him.

Like the calm after the storm, light
comes.

He stands on a cliff looking down upon
a great plain of grass separated from the sea by a small beach. A
shimmering in the air begins, and the sea beyond the plain is
distorted. Like the agitation of the air by the heat of the day, the
scene ripples. Scintillating colors appear in the air. Then, as if by
two giant hands, the very fabric of space and time is torn, an
ever-widening gap through which he can see. Beyond this fracture in
the air, a vision of chaos is revealed, a mad display of energy, as
if all the lines of power in that universe are torn asunder. Bolts of
energy sufficient to destroy suns explode in displays of color beyond
the ability of mortal eyes to describe, leaving them dazzled with
lesser lights. From deep within this giant rift, a wide bridge of
golden light extends downward, until it touches the grass of the
plain. Upon the bridge thousands of figures are moving, escaping the
madness beyond the rift to the serenity of the plain.

Downward they hurry, some carrying all
they own on their backs, others with animals pulling wagons and sleds
heaped with valuables. All press forward, fleeing a nameless horror
behind.

He studies the figures, and though much
is alien, he can see much that is also familiar. Many wear short
robes of plain fashion, and he knows he is looking upon the seeds of
the Tsurani race. Their faces are more basic, showing less of the
blending with others that would take place in years to come. Most are
fair, with brown or blond hair. At their feet run barking dogs, sleek
and swift greyhounds and whippets.

Next to them stride proud warriors,
with slanted eyes and bronze skin. These are fighting men, but not
organized soldiers, for they wear robes of different cut and color
one from the other. Each steps down off the bridge, some showing
wounds, all hiding terror behind implacable expressions. Over their
shoulders they carry long swords of fine steel, fashioned with great
care. The tops of their heads are shaved, with the hair around pulled
back into a knot. These bear the proud look of men unsure if they are
better off for having survived the battle. Mixed among them are
others, all strangers.

A race of short people carry nets that
proclaim them fishers, though of what sea only they know. They have
dark hair, sallow skin, and grey-green eyes. Men, women, and children
all wear simple fur trousers, leaving upper bodies bare.

Behind them come a nation of tall,
noble, black-skinned people. Their robes are richly fashioned of soft
and subtle colors. Many have gems adorning their foreheads, and gold
bands on their arms. All are weeping for a homeland never to be seen
again.

Then come riders upon impossible beasts
that look like flying serpents with feathered birds’ heads.
Upon the riders’ faces are masks of animals and birds, brightly
painted and plumed. They are covered in paint alone, for their
homeworld was a hot place. They wear their nakedness like a cloak,
for there is beauty in their form, as if each had been fashioned by a
master sculptor, and they bear weapons of black glass. Women and
children ride behind the men unmasked, revealing expressions made
harsh by the cruel world they flee. The Serpent Riders turn their
creatures eastward and fly away. The great flying snakes will die out
in the cold highlands of the east, but will remain forever in the
legends of the proud Thuril.

Thousands more come, all walking down
the golden ramp to set foot upon Kelewan. When they reach the plain,
some move off, traveling to other parts of the planet, but many stay
and watch as thousands more come across the bridge. Time passes,
night follows day, then gives way to day once more, while the hosts
enter from the insane storm of chaos.

With them come twenty beings of power,
also fleeing the utter destruction of a universe. The multitudes upon
the plain cannot see them passing, but he can. He knows they will
become the twenty gods of Kelewan, the Ten Higher and Ten Lower
Beings. They fly upward, to wrest the lines of power from the
ancient, feeble beings who hold station around this world. There is
no struggle as the new gods take their stations, for the old beings
of power know a newer order is coming into the world.

After days of watching, he sees that
the stream of humanity is thinning. Hundreds of men and women pull
huge boats made from some metal, shining in the sun, mounted on
wheels of a black substance. They reach the plain and see the ocean
beyond the narrow beach. They give a shout and pull their boats to
the water and launch them. Fifty boats raise sail and set out across
the ocean, heading southward, for the land that will become Tsubar,
the lost nation.

The last group is composed of thousands
of men in robes of many designs and colors. He knows that these are
the priests and magicians of many nations. Together they stand,
holding back the raging madness beyond. As he watches, many fall,
their lives burning out like spent candles. At some prearranged
signal, many of them, but less than one for each hundred standing at
the top of the golden bridge, turn and flee downward. All are holding
books, scrolls, and other tomes of knowledge. When they reach the
bottom of the bridge, they turn and watch the unfolding drama at the
top.

Those above, looking not at those who
have fled but at what they hold back, give forth a shout, incanting a
mighty spell, wielding magic of enormous power. Those below echo
their cries, and all who can hear them quail in dread at the sound.
The bridge begins to dissolve, from the ground up. A flood of terror
and hate comes pouring through the rift, and those who stand atop the
bridge begin to crumple before its onslaught. As the bridge and the
opening above disappear from sight, a single blast of fury comes
through that stuns many who stand upon the plain below, felling them
as if with a blow.