The Magician of Hoad (18 page)

Heriot had seen this face before, years ago on the edge of the battlefield. And he had other, more curious memories. “What did you do to him?” he hissed to Lord Glass. “What’s happened to him?”

“It would seem we mourned him too soon,” Lord Glass replied. “I haven’t talked about him, I must confess. I didn’t want to depress you.” The face began to withdraw into the blackness. “We all believed he must be dead, but apparently he simply crawled away and changed masters. What is that sound?”

Light quickened. Incredibly the tables seemed to have become as remote from one another as branches in a mountain range, the spaces between them expanding to
contain a rough, stony land, a plain set with distant forests. Out of those forests came the horses, heavily harnessed, even armored, bringing the light with them. Out from among the rocks rose men armed with bows and arrows, and along the top of the nearest ridge, barely visible in the gloom that bordered Izachel’s magical stage, came even more riders. Voices cried from afar. The cries were faint but clear, coming out of the past at the Magician’s bidding. Made thin and sinuous by the weight of time, they had to struggle to reach listening ears. Then battle was joined, and the merciful faintness of the sound of it was more than compensated for by the visible clash of men and horses. At first the figures seemed flat and simple, but then, taking breath from the tide of memory that began to surge around them, they swelled out with approximate life. Men of Diamond and the Dannorad clashed violently, and the air was filled with those threadlike but nonetheless terrible cries, for unlike the suspended figures on the wall of the study room, these men fell pierced through, chopped down, hacking one another with a graceless skill.

Confronted with spouting, twitching, screaming men, Heriot’s stomach twitched with its own violence, wanting to volunteer its own comment on the spectacle the Hero was providing, but he was not sick, for almost at once, he noted a new fact with considerable interest. The moment any man began to die, he assumed a new, different kind of reality. The fighting men were approximately real, but at odd moments they might blur or sag, one eye might swell up and burst, one ear might grow larger than its partner,
or a hand might detach itself, not because of any blow but according to some whim of its own, and go floating across the field like a disembodied emblem.

Izachel couldn’t entirely control such a complex creation, and details were subject to strange variations. But the moment a man began to die, his reality became intense, beautifully held for the duration of this ending, every detail displayed with loving skill. Bloody bubbles swelled out of nostrils, eyes turned up until only bloodshot whites showed, fingers clutched and scrabbled convulsively while bodies demonstrated hysterical angles among the stones. Death was so vivid and painful it could not be turned away, and all were bound to witness the true horror of the hundreds of terminations that inevitably marked Hoad’s success in the battle. The armies fought, irrationally disintegrating, while the true entertainment offered, there under the feet of the illusory horses, was the galvanic extremities of death in battle. Men of the three kingdoms lay crushed and oozing among the stones, or twitched in grass that was not grass but a dim green mist the Magician had not been interested in resolving into its constituent blades and seed heads.

After the first shock Heriot was interested in seeing what another Magician might do, and must have been the only person in the room not directly considering the effect that this recreation of an old battle might have on a touchy company, some of whom had fought and lost friends in such battles… battles still well within the living memory. The time of the friendship was a brief season; enmity was a glorious tradition.

At last Hoad triumphed. The men from the Dannorad
were either dead or fled, and one of the warriors turned to the company, showing the vivid face of young Carlyon, bloody and exultant, the age, perhaps, of Luce, who was standing entranced behind the older Carlyon’s chair. But then the visionary Carlyon faded, and they were left in darkness with the violated dead before them, beginning to pass into shocking and accelerated decay under the Magician’s power.

“Alas, for our past!” the living Carlyon now said, his leisurely voice coming from somewhere beyond the borders of the battlefield. “Let us all hope, on behalf of the happy bride and groom, for future tranquility.” And his words were accompanied by a soft, voiceless laugh, trembling with breathless pleasure.

“Dear life, he’s got to be fed with blood, that poor old Izachel,” Heriot muttered, more to himself than Lord Glass, as darkness became absolute.

There was a moment of stillness, then an angry scraping. Chairs were pushed back and visiting men were on their feet, shouting and hissing with outrage. Hoad and Carlyon were being reminded of other reciprocal atrocities and defeats, of old grievances and broken promises of safe-conduct. Then, as if to accommodate any answer Hoad might have to give, silence fell, and into the new silence Heriot laughed as his occupant came pouring out of the space in his head, interpenetrating his bones and overflowing out into the darkness.
I’m giving myself over,
he promised it.
You can be free to play a bit.

At the sound of his laughter, the stillness that had seeped into the room extended itself. Heriot fastened on
the silence, taking it industriously away from King, from Hero, from angry Lords alike. Then, exaggerating his country voice, he spoke into the air of the banqueting hall, making his drawling accent a message to the Hero.

“I am the Magician of Hoad,” he declared, restoring the scene in the center of the room. The dead men lay in the grass, each blade of which now became discernable while Izachel struggled vainly to hold down the concealing dark. Speaking steadily, if rather absentmindedly, Heriot used his sense of Izachel’s struggle to locate him precisely. The Hero’s Magician was tired and shocked by the huge power Heriot was suddenly revealing. Fight as he would, Izachel could not regain any control over the dream he had set loose in the King’s Hall.

I am the farmer, the uniter, the twist in the air… ,” Heriot said, improvising and inventing such phrases as he thought would be enigmatic and healing to the consternation and anger boiling in the shadows around him. “I am the resolution of Hoad, both the child and the brother of Draevo who records births, deaths, and unexpected meetings.”

He felt Carlyon twitch unexpectedly at the mention of Draevo, twitch like a fish caught on a line. He felt Izachel fighting on, trying to regain some power over the minds of the company, but Heriot, having the advantage of surprise, of variety, and of sheer power, filled the watchers easily, letting his occupant free to flow through him and out into the world, touching them all, gathering them up like threads he would shortly weave into some new tapestry. Everyone in the room—the King and his sons, the guests from the Dannorad and Camp Hyot—all began to dream Heriot’s dream, Izachel and Carlyon, however unwillingly, among them.

“There is no last word,” said Heriot. Slowly the blood that had crept over the stones became a grassy stain, the twisted bodies relaxed, then gently mossed over as if a green blush was creeping through and through them. Their stiffening grimaces relaxed, their expressions were dazed and gentle, a slow vegetable vision reanimating their dead minds. Heriot’s memory of connection with the inner life of apple trees in winter, spring, and early summer became part of his spell. Slowly, slowly the dead men rose up again, arboreal men turning faces as mild as a green spring up to the sky. A Dannorad man held out his arms, becoming a living tree, supporting flowering vines, his wounded side putting out crimson flowers, the chains that hung like a shifting metal curtain from the sides and back of his helmet transformed into leaves and tendrils.

“The mystery of the changes of Hoad,” Heriot said, entranced himself by the images moving through him in answer to his occupant’s call. “They enter upon a pure vocation, take in air once more, offer out brightness to the world.” The faces, restful and at ease, became part of the mosaic of the bark. “Their green children grow around them,” said Heriot, and up from the grass and stones came little saplings, each one completely true, for he had been there and he knew the nature of trees.

There were no words in the language of Hoad for the layers of cells or the busy inner life of the tree, but he could make others feel, as he felt, that each tree was not only a changing object but also a process of spirit. At that moment he could make each blade of grass live, each leaf, each root hair reveal itself as both one and many. The outrage
of guests and hosts alike began to surrender as they were invaded by that verdant tide, remorseless but tender, too, turning them always toward the source of light, which, in that dark room, was nothing other than Heriot himself.

“Our tears have made it all grow green again,” Heriot suggested, and tears obediently slid down under the silver rims of his glasses, down his cheek as, for the first time in his life, he allowed himself to fade away and his occupant to inhabit without any restraint that carefully maintained fortress they shared… the fortress of his head.

Trees so tall their tops were now lost in distance, smooth trunks brocaded with tiny luminous mosses, shed tears of gold that ran down the bark and then fell, burning harmlessly, into the perpetual twilight under their branches, while the forest retreated without visible end. The space between the tables, between the people sitting at them, grew vast beyond understanding. Each man and woman in the hall was alone with the trees. A wind composed of light and the breath of dragons beat through the company, rustling carefully assembled clothes and tangling hair, and there in the dimness Heriot began to shine, the broad planes of cheek and forehead remaining dark, the lines from nose to mouth and the creases of his eyelids etched on the night with fine lines of fire, each hair a thread of silver, lifting with reluctant grace when the wind blew. He appeared to be not so much contained by the air as embroidered on it.

“They have become the quiet heart of the world,” he said, and though the words were his own and were gentle, the voice that uttered them was filled with unappeasable longing. A moony shine burst through him, as if he had
become nothing more than a human skin, while everything within him dissolved into light. And now he felt an echoing awe and kindness, a new resolution taking form in the hall around him.

“Our brothers have blended and become the heart of the first silence and the last silence. They have gone beyond us. The old treacheries are gray dust, and only dust bothers to remember them.”

He moved away from the table as he spoke, leaving the whole company, including Izachel, his prisoners, caught in his transformation so that they themselves were transformed like the fabulous dead into a woven vision of peace and gentle resolution. But unexpectedly he felt his arm seized and, turning, found Dysart beside him, trying to hold him back. Something in Dysart—some secret necessity, some element of friendship perhaps, was enabling him to fight against Heriot’s spell.

“Let me go!” Heriot cried. His everyday self was coming back to him, but his occupant was still dominant, raging with the energy of its release. “Let me go! I’m not safe.”

“Don’t… ,” began Dysart. “Don’t go! Forget anything you ever promised me and just…”And then his expression changed, as the occupant surged through Heriot to overwhelm him. “Don’t… go!” Dysart mumbled. “Be nothing but a friend, not a promise.” He was crumpling as he spoke.

“I’m not safe!” Heriot cried again. His voice seemed to come from some distant and barely connected place within him. All the same he could hear his warning echo in the outside world.

But it was too late. Dysart fell onto his knees, then tumbled sideways. Heriot stared down at him, certain that anything he might try to do could only make things worse. Wildly he turned and made for the door.

The door opened before him. Unchallenged by the guards, all caught up in the same vision just as their masters were, he paused in the doorway and spoke into the mind of Hoad the King.

“Lord King, move now. The vision will begin to fade, and me—I am already fading. Share grief. Share the mystery. Move on into reconciliation and joy. Speak before the Hero moves. And Dysart’s fallen. Look after him!” At the same time as he sent these inner orders to the King, Heriot touched Izachel into deep sleep and felt Hoad begin to rise, still half dreaming, preparing to follow his instructions.

At once he began to break his connections, releasing the audience, sure that he was leaving Hoad strengthened and able to correct any damage the Hero’s invocation of that violent past might have done. And if Carlyon should try to challenge the new mood, Heriot knew he would not succeed.

But Heriot himself was in an intolerable condition. Kindled by his own force, he thought he might burst into incandescence through attempting to control that raging occupant, who was still burning through him, feeding on him as flames might feed on a living tree. Trying to give himself some necessary pattern to work with, he began to run out through the main doors, across the courtyard beyond, then along a familiar path toward the castle gardens. A
summer wind came to meet him, leaping up like a welcoming dog, rubbing itself against him, pushing his heavy hair aside, while his forest continued to swarm out of him, endlessly reproducing, until it seemed impossible he could run himself free of it. Heriot shouted as he ran, or thought he did. He felt the cry go out of him, but couldn’t hear it in the outside air and didn’t know which part of him was doing the crying.

Yet, at last, the forest faded into real night and he came to recognize himself… just Heriot running, though, even as he ran and remembered himself, he thought he also stood still, a rock outside time, a brother to Draevo, the rock on the hills overlooking the farm. Diamond, with its restless opinions and maneuverings, fell away from him like tattered leaves in a black autumn, and history flowed under him like a river of dust.