The Sage (4 page)

But
that sweetness coursed through him, spreading strength and warmth. He bit
deeper and felt a fly-bite twinge, tasted something flat—and realized it was
hair. He, who had always shaved his face clean, now felt his own hair in his
mouth, for his beard and moustache had grown while his body slept—and he knew
what the gray blanket over his breast was. Slowly, he forced the other hand up,
over, then let it collapse onto his beard, feeling the chest labor beneath. His
fingers twitched in the grizzled mass, feeling the texture—softer than it
looked. He would have to cut it back to a manageable length—and his hair! How
long had
it
grown? And what was he to cut it with?

Painfully,
he turned his head, looking about the cavern. On the floor beside the ebony
table lay a leather rucksack, and on top of it, a hammer, tongs, chisels, all
the tools of a smith's trade—and shears! Well, he could trim his hair and
beard, then—if he could move his hands.

That
struck him as an excellent place to begin. Slowly, he began to squeeze the
fruit as he ate it, feeling the strength flow into him. Then he began to flex
his hands. It took an immense amount of effort, but at last they moved fairly
easily, and with almost no pain. He rewarded himself with another piece of
fruit—difficult, because his arm still moved like a bough in winter. Then he
began to flex his arms, finally managing to touch his shoulders. From that, he
went to working his upper arms, resting his hands on his breast. When he could
do a reasonable imitation of a bird flying—though no bird ever flew so
slowly!—he ate another piece of fruit, forcing himself, because he still had no
appetite. Then he began to work his legs.

By
the time he swung his feet to the floor, he had finished the fruit, and sweat
beaded his forehead. He didn't try to stand, only turned over onto his stomach
and put part of his weight on his legs, then leaned back on the bier, then back
on his feet again until he could do it without feeling that his knees were
about to buckle. At last he achieved the colossal feat of getting himself back
up on the bier again, and was about to reach for another piece of fruit when he
remembered that the bowl was empty. But it didn't matter, because he had
already fallen asleep again.

The
bowl was full again the next morning. His achievement for the day was standing,
even walking a few steps—enough to discover that wood was laid for a fire, at
the foot of his bier. He kindled a stick in the flame that jetted from the
crack in the floor, then lit the fire. He warmed himself at its flames,
glancing apprehensively at the ice about him as he did, but it never melted.
Indeed, the warmth from the fire seemed to radiate only a few feet before it
was swallowed up in the constant chill of the cavern. The heat helped him to
begin bending and stretching, though.

By
the end of the day the fruit bowl was empty again, and it was all he could do
to climb back on his bier once more. As he drifted to sleep, the thought
crossed his mind that fruit was all very well, but to rebuild muscle, he would
need meat.

Rahani
must have been watching his every movement and caring for him as much as she
could from the spirit realm, without more outright magic. How else could he
explain the piglet that wandered into the cave, or the fact that its mother
never came after it? How else explain that his muscles grew from that meat to
reasonable resemblance of their former strength, if not their bulk? How explain
the partridge that flew in, or any of the other small animals that made up a
virtual parade, until his limbs moved easily, though they still ached, and he
had stitched together enough chewed skins to cover his loins?

One
morning, he woke to find a new cloak and tunic lying on the ebony table. It was
time to begin.

* * *

Culaehra
may have put aside thoughts of rape, but he still enjoyed having someone to
order about and to cuff if she didn't obey him quickly enough. He ordered her
to fetch him some meat, and she asked, “How?” wide-eyed.

“Kill
it, you little fool!” Culaehra roared, and gave her a slap.

She
cowered back, gasping and shaking her head, almost a shudder. “No, master! A
poor little squirrel? I never could!”

“It
had better be more than a squirrel, or I'll beat you sore!”

And
beat her he did, but kill she never would, only wept and wept as if her heart
would break, so he beat her for that, too. Even when he killed a partridge
himself, she wept as she plucked its feathers, and he had to beat her to make
her gut and clean it. Did these gnomes know nothing of cooking meat? Well, this
one learned, for he browbeat her into setting up a spit and roasting it for
him. She would have burned it, too, if he hadn't told her when to stop. He
could have done that himself, of course, but it gave him a singing elation to
force someone else to do it.

After
a few days he was healed well enough to begin his journey away from his
village. “We go,” he told Lua. “Take the food and walk ahead of me.”

She
gave him a huge-eyed, frightened glance, then wrapped up the remainder of the
meat and stumbled after him. He caught her up and shoved her ahead of him,
giving her a slash with a leather thong every now and then, barking “Faster!”
He could feel the strength returning in him, having someone to bully again.

So
they went through the afternoon, Culaehra driving and snarling, Lua stumbling
ahead of him, weeping and squinting, for her eyes hurt from the brightness of
daylight. Inwardly, Culaehra exulted in her pain, and if something much deeper
in him felt wrung out in agony, he ignored it.

That
night, he glanced at her eyes glowing in the firelight, and took a savage
delight in no longer seeing any vestige of love—only fear. But there was no
hatred in that look, only a weary resignation, and that galled him.

In
revenge for that, he pretended to close his eyes and regulated his breathing so
that he seemed to be asleep, but watched through his eyelashes. They almost
sealed themselves in real sleep, but at the last moment Lua stirred, then knelt
up and began to creep away into the forest, stealthy as a stalking cat, silent
as a gliding bird.

Culaehra
leaped up and threw himself after her with a shout, caught her ankle and
slapped her again and again, crying, “Desert me, would you! No one leaves me
unless I wish it! Oh, you vile creature, you slime-coated rock-heart! Run away
from me, would you? I'll see that you don't!” But he stopped the beating short
of leaving her limping—after all, who would carry his burdens if she were
lamed?

The
next day, he tied a leather thong about her neck, and held the other end as he
drove her before him with a switch. It felt good, but whenever he looked at her
eyes, he grew angry all over again, for he still saw no hatred there—and,
worse, no despair, only that same old resignation. It was almost as if she
expected someone to rescue her!

That
someone fell upon Culaehra at dinner that noon. A small body dropped from a
tree to kick at his belly and stab at his eyes, shouting, “Run, Lua! Flee for
your life!”

“Flee,
and I'll whip you raw!” Culaehra thundered, angry and alarmed. He rolled away
from the kicking fury, then snapped upright suddenly and caught the blasted
creature by the neck, holding it at arm's length. It wriggled and squirmed,
wind-milling tiny fists and kicking diminutive legs, trying to screech curses
and threats, but only making a strangling noise through Culaehra's grip while
its pale blue skin grew darker. Culaehra stared at it in amazement.

“Oh,
Yocote!” Lua gasped in tones of mourning.

Culaehra
grinned, suddenly understanding. He threw back his head and laughed loud and
long. “So her swain has come to the rescue, eh? Much good may it do her! What
could you rescue her from, mannikin? A squirrel?” And he laughed again.

“Do
not shame him!” Lua pleaded. “O Master, please do not shame him!”

“Why
not? He looks so amusing as he turns purple!” Culaehra gave the gnome a shake,
grinning at him, then laughing yet again.

Yocote
emitted a gargling noise, face contracting in fury. He raised his arms, hands
moving and writhing in strange abstract gestures while his gargling turned into
incomprehensible syllables. Culaehra laughed and laughed—until he realized the
little gnome was working magic! Then he squeezed the creature's neck hard,
cutting off talk, but it was too late—Yocote made fists in a gesture of
finality, and the spell struck.

Something
popped under Culaehra's nose with a bright light, loosing a puff of
foul-smelling smoke. He was so startled that he nearly dropped the
gnome—nearly. But he held on and forced a laugh. “Is that the best you can do?
Oh, I fear your magic, little one! So vastly do I fear your magic!” And he
dropped the little man indeed—but planted a foot on him, or on his skirts,
rather; the gnome wore a robe that seemed too big for him, though his kicking
had showed leggings and buskins beneath. What manner of race was this, Culaehra
wondered, where the men wore robes and the women did not? Yocote looked so
dispirited that Culaehra thought it best to rub it in. “You were better off
fighting me with your fists than your spells, mannikin!” And to demonstrate how
useless either was, he bent down and clouted the gnome.

Lua
cried out, hands to her mouth and eyes wide, but the gnome only picked himself
up off the ground, glaring. “It's true, my magic is weaker than that of most
gnomes ...”

“And
gnomes' magic is weak, compared to elves!”

“It's
strong enough when it comes to things of the earth!” Yocote snapped.

Culaehra
backhanded him so hard his head rocked. “Talk nicely when you talk at all,
gnome—and don't speak unless I tell you to!”

Yocote
shook his head and stared slit-eyed up at the bully. “I'll talk as I please,
and as you
don't
, suet face!”

Culaehra
stared a moment in surprise and outrage, then roared without words and waded
in, kicking and punching. When the spasm of anger was spent and the gnome lay
moaning on the ground, he spat, “Talk
now,
fool!”

Yocote
groaned; Lua whimpered.

“Now!
”
Culaehra kicked him again.

“Noooo!”
Yocote groaned.

“What!”
Culaehra struck again.

Yocote
managed to push out words. “Why did you ... do that? I talked .. . didn't I?”

Culaehra
stared; then anger grew as he realized that in some way the gnome had managed
to make a fool of him. He yanked the little man up by the scruff of the neck,
gaining savage strength from Lua's whimpering. “None of your tricks, you lump
of dough! You're a failure as a magus—and a failure as a man!”

Yocote's
voice was thin, strangled by the weight of his body against the collar. “As a
man ... perhaps ... but a success as a gnome!”

“Will
nothing stop your prattling?” Culaehra dropped him, then caught him with his
toe before he hit the ground. Not too hard, of course—he wanted another
underling to bully, not a corpse. “I'll teach you to mind, and to speak only
when you're spoken to!”

“You
can't... teach what.. . you don't... know,” Yocote gasped.

“You'll
learn it, then! And you'll learn it hard!”

“I'll
speak when ... I wish, and .. . flee when ... I please!”

“Oh,
will you, then?” Culaehra snarled. He drew his dagger and seized the little
man. Lua screamed, but Culaehra only sliced a long thin strip from the gnome's
robe and tied one end around his neck. “You'll not flee at all!” He yanked the
gnome to his feet as if he were a puppet. “Now, pick up that pack!”

Yocote
stood immobile, his face stone, and Culaehra began to worry that he might
actually have to kill the little man, and what good would the gnome be to him
then? But inspiration struck. “Came to rescue your maiden fair, did you? Well,
you can rescue her from carrying the burden! Up with it, now, and off with you!”

Yocote
stood immobile a moment longer, then slowly picked up the pack and slung it
over one shoulder. He winced at the contact of the strap.

“Oh,
Yocote!” Lua mourned.

“None
of your whimpering!” Culaehra felt a savage exultation—he had made the gnome do
his bidding. “Up, now, and off!”

Staggering
under the load, Yocote moved away in the direction Culaehra pointed. Lua
reached out in distress as he passed by, but he turned his face away from her,
ashamed.

Ohaern
knew he was as fit as he was ever going to be, staying by his fire in the chill
of his tomb. He was astounded to feel a thrill of fear at the thought of going
into the outside world, but he mastered it sternly, telling himself how
ridiculous he was, for he knew the form of the world even after five centuries,
had watched the ebb and flow of tribes and nations across its face. Still, he
was going forth into uncertainty; sheer pain and death could meet him, whereas
for five hundred years he had been safe in Rahani's bower.

Too
soft,
he told himself.
You have lived in luxury and safety too long.
It was time to learn to fight again. He loaded his tools into their pack,
shouldered it—and was amazed at the weight. In his youth he would scarcely have
noticed it!

Time
to rebuild wasted muscle. Leaning against the weight of his pouch, he turned
his back on the fire and the bier and went into the tunnel from which the
little animals had come. Even now his bones creaked with the unaccustomed
movement; the rust was gone, but his joints ached, his muscles pained him with
every movement. He felt a surge of anger at the cruel joke Time had played him,
a feeling of outrage at the stolen years, at having been robbed of the chance
to grow old with dignity, to keep this wasted body in some echo of its former
strength. But the surge crested and passed; he reminded himself that he had
gained instead five hundred more years of youth, and what ancient would not
willingly have traded slow aging for centuries of ecstasy, and gladly accepted
this catapulting into old age?