Sorcerer's Son (31 page)

Opposite his seat, behind the chair that faced him, a section of the wall swung inward on hidden hinges, and a man strode into the tiny room. He was a tall man, thin and dark, with creases in his cheeks as if they had been grooved by a sculptor’s tool. His eyes, set deep in his head, reflected pinpoints of candlelight, and the black brocade in which he was clad glistened like scale armor. With each stride of his booted feet, the floor chimed beneath him like a great bronze bell.

“I am the lord of Ringforge,” he said, and he halted beside the empty chair and rested one hand on its wooden back as he stared at Cray.

Cray bounced to his feet and made a low bow. “My lord,” he said, “I am Cray Ormoru.”

“Turn around and let me see you from all sides,” said Rezhyk.

Cray obeyed, slowly, feeling akin to a horse being put up for auction in a marketplace.

“You look to be a sturdy lad.”

“I am strong and healthy, my lord. I can lift my own weight without strain and ride all day before I tire. I can scarcely remember the last time I was sick.”

Rezhyk stroked the side of his jaw with one finger. “You resemble your mother.”

“I have thought so, my lord.”

“She is a great sorceress in her own right. Why are you not her apprentice?”

“I wish to conjure demons, my lord, and she knows nothing of that art.”

Rezhyk slipped into his chair and leaned against the high back, his arms folded upon his chest. “And why, Cray Ormoru, do you wish to conjure demons?”

Cray looked at him levelly and then decided that dissembling with this cool, dark figure would be a mistake; if he were to apprentice himself to this man, it must be on honest terms from the beginning, for he felt sure that if once he were caught in a lie, Rezhyk would never trust him again. “I never knew my father,” he said. “He disappeared before I was born. I want to find him, or at least learn his name, his house, his history. I have followed his trail for many months without success, and now the only means left to me is through the conjuration of demons.”

Rezhyk frowned, and his eyes narrowed as he gazed upon the lad. “A unique reason,” he said at last.

“I will work hard, my lord. I am not afraid of effort. You will find me a willing student, and not without a certain talent, at least so my mother judged.”

In a low voice, Rezhyk replied, “Your mother is not the best judge of these things. The talent that may suit her sort of sorcery may be totally at odds with mine.” He rose abruptly. “I must consider your request, Cray Ormoru. I must consider if your mother’s son is the sort of apprentice I would wish.”

“I have great hopes that you will take me on, my lord. I know that I could hardly find a better teacher.”

Rezhyk’s eyes seemed to flare in the dim room, or perhaps, Cray thought, it was the way he turned toward the candlelight. “Flattery means nothing to me,” he said. He wheeled about and stalked to the opening in the wall. Within its compass, he glanced over his shoulder. “Gildrum will fetch whatever you may need for your refreshment and then join me in the workshop. I will weigh your suit there and return with a decision quite soon.”

“I need nothing,” said Cray. “Only your consent, my lord.”

“To me, then, my Gildrum.”

With a swift smile for Cray, Gildrum scurried to join her master, and the wall sealed behind them, leaving a surface so smooth that even when he examined it from a finger’s breadth distance, Cray could not see the juncture. He sat down again then, trying not to feel as if he had been sealed in a tomb. The candles burned low, lower, but somehow they never guttered.

Rezhyk leaned against the bench where the brazier burned, his hands flat on the smooth work surface, fingers spread stiffly, pressing until the flesh whitened and the fingernails blushed deep pink with trapped blood. By the ruddy light of lazily burning coals, his face was pale in spite of its olive tint, ghastly, as if he had been ill for months. His eyes were wide, the whites showing beneath the dark irises, tiny vessels webbing that whiteness with red.

“I saw her, my Gildrum,” he whispered, his voice rasping, as from a throat choked with phlegm. “I saw her staring at me through his eyes.”

“An illusion, my lord,” said Gildrum, touching his arm gently. “Surely her powers do not extend to human beings.”

He turned a baleful stare upon the demon. “Don’t be foolish; I know that well enough.” He closed his eyes a moment, squeezing them shut with brows knitted so tight they seemed to merge into one line of darkness across his forehead. “Yet, he is her flesh and blood. It was

almost as if she were here herself.”

“He is your flesh and blood, too.”

Rezhyk’s eyes snapped open, and he pulled away from the demon’s touch. “Mine? Oh no, not mine, not of my desire!”

“The seed was yours, my lord. You cannot deny him.”

“I can! I never asked for a child, my Gildrum!”

“Still, you have one.”

“Oh, I have one; I have one indeed.” He locked his hands together behind his back and began to pace, marking the length of the workshop with long-legged strides. “This game is not so simple as it looked some days since, my Gildrum. Oh, now how I wish it were as uncomplicated as I guessed. If only it were merely a bid for power by my enemy Delivev. If only she merely wished to increase her strength through alliance with another sort of magic.”

“That never seemed uncomplicated to me, my lord,” said Gildrum.

“You think not? Well, what have we here, then? He comes to me, my Gildrum, to find me out! She has sent him, I know it. She suspects, and now I have only to wait a few years before the truth is revealed to her. What will happen then, my Gildrum? When she knows the truth

will it be war between us? Will she find herself allies among my other enemies, perhaps, so that the shirt will not be enough to protect me? I could defeat her alone, I trust I could. Perhaps it would not be easy, but it could be done. But if her hate is strong enough

who will she find to help her? I have no friends, my Gildrum. I have no one to turn to for aid!”

Gildrum followed his progress with her eyes, while her body remained still. Softly, she said, “Has the lady Delivev any friends, my lord?”

“What? Friends? I suppose she must, somewhere. She will buy them if she must; her works are always in demand, those tapestries, those fine fabrics she makes. Oh, she’ll have friends. She’ll be ready for me. What shall I do, my Gildrum? What shall I do?”

Gildrum eased herself up onto the tall stool. “Are you sure my lord,” she said slowly, “that she will hate you?”

“How not? After what I have done to her?”

“Perhaps she would not consider your actions so hateful. She raised the boy, after all; she must have some feeling for him. She must love him. And you gave him to her.”

He glared at the demon. “Were I Delivev, I would not love the one who did such a thing to me. It was not done out of love.”

“You need not tell her that, my lord.”

His gaze softened a bit. “What would I tell her, then, my Gildrum?”

“That you did it from love of her. That you gave her the child you wanted.”

“You tell me to lie, my Gildrum.”

“Yes, my lord. Lie, if you fear her so. Lie to save yourself.”

Rezhyk stalked to the workbench, and with one slashing gesture knocked the brazier across the smooth surface, scattering flaming coals in a wide arc; most of them struck Gildrum, who did not even flinch but merely began methodically to snuff with bare hands the smoldering spots on her blue gown.

“No!” said Rezhyk. “I will not lie. I will not spout love at that cunning enemy. You think she’d believe for a single moment? No! I’d abase myself for nothing. And she would realize exactly how weak I must be. Better that she never knows, my Gildrum! Better that you and I hold the secret still inside us!”

“But what will you do then, my lord? If the boy stays and learns your sorcery, he will find out, he must.”

“He must,” echoed Rezhyk. “Yet I dare not turn him away. Another master would teach him as well as I, well enough to find the truth. Any demon-master would do for that.” He shook his head violently, as if to rid himself of some unpleasant substance clinging to it. “What can I do indeed, my Gildrum? What is there to do that can prevent him

?”

Gildrum spread her hands in a gesture of perplexity. “My lord, I know not.”

Rezhyk looked down at the floor, where the polished bronze threw his own brocade-clad reflection back at him, foreshortened and squat, like some inhuman creature, scaly, wet, risen from the depths of the sea. “I can kill him,” he said softly.

Gildrum stared at his bent head a moment and then down at her hands, ashy gray from the crushing of embers. Her dress was speckled with char, and here and there a hole had burned through well enough to show the human-seeming flesh beneath. She caught up the hem, where fewer coals had struck, and wiped her palms upon the fabric.

“I can kill him,” Rezhyk repeated.

She murmured. “Do you think that wise, my lord?”

“Wise?” He raised one clenched fist, shaking it at his reflection. “There is no wise course now. There is only swift action! If the boy is dead, then he can’t discover the truth!”

Gildrum slipped off the stool and reached to the workbench to right the brazier. “And what will the lady Delivev do if the boy dies at your hand, my lord?”

“Not at my hand!”

“How then?”

Rezhyk dropped his fist to his side. “I will send him on a quest to fetch certain materials for me; he will have to pass through dangerous territory. It will not be my fault if he is killed.”

“No?”

“No!”

“On your errand, my lord? On an errand that could surely be accomplished by any one of your demons?”

“One which requires human hands alone.”

Gildrum stooped to gather up the coals that had fallen to the floor, the ones which still glowed cherry-red beneath a thin film of ash. These she poured back into the brazier. Then she opened a bin under the workbench and drew from its substantial supply a handful of the small, hard briquets that fueled the brazier’s flames, and she stacked them atop the live coals. Their slate-smooth surfaces caught quickly, with little flamelets licking all around them; like flowers tossing in a high wind. Gazing into those flames, Gildrum said, “Somehow I feel that the lady Delivev will question the necessity of sending the new apprentice on an errand that some other human being could perform as well. Some other human being not her child.”

“An accident then!” shouted Rezhyk. “Something caused by his own stupidity. He can lock himself in the kiln and burn to death!”

“In your house,” murmured Gildrum.

“Yes, but an accident nevertheless. There must be a hundred ways of being killed beneath this roof!”

“Beneath this roof.”

“Don’t echo me, demon!”

Their eyes met. His face was red, veins standing out on his forehead, lips compressed to whiteness; her face was pale, guileless. She lifted one hand toward him, in supplication, in apology.

“My lord,” she said, “your fear blinds you. If the lady is truly your implacable enemy, then she will not believe in any accident that claims her child’s life. She will blame you, even though you be innocent as a virgin girl. You will have brought her wrath upon yourself, not seven or ten years hence, but now, when you have not yet the means to deal with it.”

He tore his gaze away from her, and when he spoke, his voice had lost its edge of anger and was bleak instead, and hollow with despair. “You are right, my Gildrum. You see clearly. Human emotions do not cloud your vision.”

“There must be another course, my lord.”

“Must there? I know it not. There is no course at all, it seems. No matter what I do, I can only stave off the final conflict. It was inevitable. It has been coming for sixteen years now, and I have closed my eyes and trusted this shirt when I should have been preparing. Has she been preparing, I wonder? Surely. Perhaps the shirt is already nothing to her. Perhaps she knows of it and scorns it as she scorns me.”

“She cannot know, my lord. We were too careful for that.”

“She is clever, my Gildrum. Perhaps she has guessed all and merely wants

confirmation.” He took a deep, shaky breath. “And he will give it to her, won’t he.” It was not a question, but a statement, and the voice that uttered it was tired, weak, as if its owner had run hours before speaking that sentence. Rezhyk looked behind himself for a stool, found one against the nearest wall, and sat down heavily, as if his bones were tired of carrying his flesh about.

“Perhaps not,” said Gildrum.

Rezhyk looked up at her, his face grooved deep with lines of pain. “Perhaps not what?”

“Perhaps he won’t be able to give her confirmation.”

“What nonsense are you spouting?”

She leaned her elbows on the workbench, interlacing her fingers beneath her chin. “He said he had talent. What if he has not?”

“His mother said it, so he said. She would know.”

“But she was wrong.”

Rezhyk frowned. “How can you know?”

“My lord, he has no talent at all, for sorcery. He cannot learn the simplest conjuration. He will never become a demon-master.”

“What are you saying, my Gildrum? Where have you found this knowledge?”

“I have invented it, my lord. And you will demonstrate its truth. You will teach him, but he will not learn.”

“I doubt that. Delivev’s child

and mine

I would think he would learn well enough.”

“He will learn nothing.” She nodded slowly, her chin brushing the backs of her fingers. “You will teach him nonsense, and when, after some reasonable time, he is totally unable to conjure the meanest demon, you will declare him incapable of mastering the art He will go home then, or at least he will go away, and he will know nothing of his father—or of the trick you played on his mother.”

Rezhyk clasped one hand over the other fist. “But

he will suspect. She will suspect.”

“How, my lord? Neither knows anything of your art. How will they judge between true and false training?” She pointed one slim finger at him. “You are the master; they will accept your word that the lad is a failure.”