“Your aura,” Owen cautioned.
“Oh That.” Felice seemed to notice for the first time the damage inflicted by her radiation. She gave a mischievous little laugh as the glow about her faded. Then she stooped, passed a hand over the scorched surface and restored it. Lifting Julian easily in one arm, she followed the others down the companionway into the salon.
“You can lay Jill on the settee,” Owen said Cloud and Elaby slipped away aft.
Felice was gentle. She touched the head wound with one finger “I’m sorry about her. It was a mistake. I only wanted to scare you.” She looked about the salon with interest. “This is very nice. What a clever way to mount the lamps and table and stove.”
“On gimbals,” Owen said. “Then they always stay level, even when the boat doesn’t.”
“And you sailed all the way from North America,” Felice mused. “I’ve often thought about flying there, but I don’t think I could stay aloft that long without falling asleep. Flying takes great concentration, especially if there are winds. Do you devils fly?’
“None of us here can. A few back in Florida do it. Not far”
Felice wandered forward, peering into the head and the fo’c’sle. She opened a hanging locker, then grimaced over her shoulder at Owen. The storage space was packed solidly with cased laser weapons and their recharging units. “You won t need these if the Goddess protects you.”
“Of course not,” said Owen heartily.
“That’s all right, then.” She flicked offhandedly at the cases. There was a silent flash and the locker held a sintered amorphous mass that steamed a little. Owen swallowed with some difficulty.
“We have the redaction equipment ready,” Cloud said, back in the salon. “Shall we carry it topside, or would you like to inspect it here?”
“I’d rather go upstairs,” Felice said. “If I feel like leaving, going through walls and things is so tedious . . .”
“Please don’t go.” Elaby Gathen’s sincere face, ruggedly boyish and sunburnt, showed worshipful entreaty.
“I may stay awhile longer,” Felice said. She smiled at him.
The docilization equipment was reasonably compact with its power unit left below. Cloud carefully paid out the cable as they climbed topside, Felice coming last. Elaby set the small console on the forward bench, activated the preliminary evaluation mode, and donned one of the three monitor-director headsets. Another of those headsets, now tossed carelessly on the chart table, was externally distinguishable from its duplicates only by the unobtrusive scratch on one of the electrodes. Felice was scrutinizing all of the equipment with X-ray intensity, but the microscopic fleck-circuitry could be deciphered only by an expert.
“The machine is ready to conduct a preliminary mind-as-say,” Elaby said. He lifted a hood of fine golden mesh that glittered in the sun. “The analysand wears this tarnhelm, and the operators work through headsets like the one I’m wearing. Would you like me to analyze you now?”
“Let her be the guinea pig,” Felice said, pointing to Cloud.
Marc Remillard’s daughter drew the netted hood over her blonde hair. She lay down on the starboard bench, her tanned limbs now showing bruises from the earlier roughhouse. She was wearing blue shorts and a matching halter. Her breathing was regular, relaxed, and her superficial mental aspect undaunted. She closed her eyes.
Elaby tapped the activator, simultaneously overriding the deep-probe mode telepathically. Another mental impulse readied the shunt of the docilator.
“Would you like to listen in to Cloud’s evaluation?” Elaby picked up the modified headset and held it out to Felice.
She hesitated, then took it, turning it over in her hands. The three North American redactors were motionless, their minds opaque. Felice lifted the headset—
Don’t put it on Felice.
Startled, the girl dropped the thing Elaby flung up his strongest defensive screen around Cloud, Owen, and himself and braced for Felice’s retaliation.
The farspoken voice of the other reverberated in all their minds.
That headset has been tampered with, Felice, it will harm you. not heal.
The large brown eyes regarded the cowering devils with reproach. “You lied to me?”
They lied.
“You didn’t come to help me?”
They came to use you. They are incompetent to help you.
“No one can help me.” Tears spilled down the pale cheeks. “I’m too filthy ever to be clean. Oh, devils. I suppose it was all lies. Even about making me queen and bringing Cull.”
The devils were mute.
“Now I’ll have to keep on with the nightmares until I drown in the shit. Until the last scream.”
No, child I will help you.
Felice looked bleakly into the azure sky, toward the north-east. “You, Elizabeth?”
I am a genuine Grand Master redactor, Felice. You know that for the truth. This other forfeited the Unity when he participated in the Metapsychic Rebellion, and even before that his specialization was coercion, not mental healing. He never intended to help you. He and the young ones came to make you their slave so that they could take over Europe.
“I shall kill them Now!”
Stop.
“Why?”
You must not kill again. It would make your healing that much more difficult by enlarging the burden of guilt. Come to me so that I may drain away the pain and the evil as I promised. You will attain peace. I will help you find real love in place of your perversion.
“Love? But she wouldn’t have me,” said the girl forlornly. “Even though she said she loved me.”
My poor little one. That was only sex renounced, not love. You have so much to learn! Let me teach you. Only come freely and trust.
With all of his strength, Owen intruded his thought:
She lies! She lies! Don’t listen, Felice! What has she ever done for you? Did she help you at Gibraltar? We did! We’re your true friends!
The drowning mind and eyes turned to him. “Prove it, devil.”
Ask Elizabeth if she’ll make you queen! Ask her if she’ll give you your Beloved!
“Elizabeth?”
After you are healed, you’ll see all things differently, Felice. You will know what is sick fancy and what is clean love. You will know wherein true power and completion reside and you will make free choices. You will know yourself, love yourself. Believe me. Come.
The slight figure shimmered in opalescence. And then it was gone, and there was a raven skimming the water of the cove, soaring high above the eastern headland.
Elaby let his protective screen dissolve. He removed the headset and dropped it. Cloud came up slowly and pulled off the tarnhelm. Owen slumped on a bench. The back of his neck was scarlet and he trembled slightly.
“And now?” Elaby’s voice was dull.
“We get out of here as quickly as possible.” Cloud met his gaze calmly. “We do what we can for poor Jill, repair the boat, and keep our minds well wrapped. After that, let’s hope my father has some useful advice for us when he returns from his star-search.”
11
“I KNOW YOU’RE GOING TO LIKE HUNTING,” AIKEN INSISTED,”and you’ve never seen anything like these beasts. One of the dragons almost ate me at my Tanu initiation bash.”
“How fateful for the Many-Colored Land, Battlemaster,” King Sharn observed, “that you were spared.”
Queen Ayfa and the other five Firvulag Great Ones chortled, and all of the flying chalikos laid their ears back and rolled their eyes at the sinister sound until Culluket banished their anxiety.
The Flying Hunt was the culminating entertainment in the pre-Loving houseparty hosted by Aiken and Mercy for the Firvulag Gnomish Council. Some of the guests had declined to participate; for even though Aiken had abolished the older, crueler style of pursuit, bitter memories lingered of the times when Hunt quarry fled on two legs. The anti-bloodsport faction had stayed behind in the castle attending a musicale supervised by Mercy, whil
e Aiken led a compact aerial safari on a quest for phobosuchine crocodiles in the bayous of the Laar delta. His Tanu companions included Culluket, Alberonn. Bleyn, Aluteyn Crartsmaster, Celadeyr of Afaliah, and the formidable Lady Armida of Bardelask.widow to Darel and now ruler of the beleaguered Rhône city. In addition to the King and Queen, the Firvulag party was composed entirely of battle champions: Medor, a Firvulag First Comer and Sharn’s deputy, whose illusory aspect was a spiny black wereinsect, the Dreadful Skathe, Ayfa’s ogress crony of the snaggleteeth and dripping talons; the novice hero Fafnor Ice-Jaws, who had trounced Culluket in the Encounters at the last Grand Combat, Tetrol Bonecrusher, the feathered serpent, who had been defeated by Alberonn in the same event; and Betularn of the White Hand, another First-Comer champion, who had been the antagonist of the equally venerable Celadeyr for as long as anyone could remember.
None of the Great Ones among the Little People was capable of personal levitation, much less teleporting a steed, and so it was up to the Shining One to keep his guests airborne. The potential hazard in the arrangement was minimized by the metapsychic firepower advantage held by the Firvulag. At the very start of the visit, Sharn had taken pains to demonstrate the progress made by the Little People in offensive metaconcert. Whereas in former days each champion had jealously declined to share his powers with another, under Sharn’s innovative direction they were learning to link minds. The cooperation was still rough, and operant only in the creative spectrum; but Culluket had estimated that the combined psychoenergetic wattage of the Firvulag royals very likely exceeded Aiken’s own creative potential, depleted as he was by the strain of the progress. And of Aiken’s allies, only Bleyn, Alberonn, and Culluket himself were familiar enough with his mental pattern to mindmesh. Given the circumstances, Aiken set aside any hope of engineering a convenient mass assassination of top-ranking Foe. Sharn and Ayfa, following their own strategy, exuded goodwill to all and pretended that they had never violated the Armistice .
It was full dark when the Hunt arrived at the Tainted Swamp south of Goriah. A yellow moon, lacking two days to fullness, shone disapprovingly through rising mist tike some suspicious demonic concierge.
“The plesiosaurs—the sea monsters—have to lay their eggs in fresh water,” Aiken said. “They come up the Laar this time of the year and mate in the lagoons. Of course, the dragons are lying in ambush for the poor love-sotted brutes.”
“Passion,” Queen Ayfa remarked, “has been known to distract even the bravest of hearts.”
She was wearing a spectacular riding outfit of pinkish metallic cloth with purple boots and a cloak of black brocade. Her apricot-colored hair, partly hooded, was crowned with a jeweled diadem trailing beaded wire streamers. That peculiar Firvulag adornment that humans called a “face-frame” covered her chin, the sides of her face, her brow, and the bridge of her nose in a kind of open mask, also thick with gems. She looked nearly beautiful, if you were prepared to ignore her bulging shoulder muscles and the bellicose glint in her dark eyes.
“It would be easy to pick off a plesiosaur as well as a dragon while we’re here,” young Fafnor suggested.
The Tanu contingent radiated disapproval Aiken explained: “We consider it unsporting to Hunt sea monsters during their wooing, kid. But the dragons are fair game. You get first dibs.”
“Poor crocodiles,” said Lady Armida. “No one feels sentimental about them. And yet our sage Seniet tells us that they are as much of an endangered species as the marine plesiosaurs.”
“Or you Tanu,” put in the Dreadful Skathe, with a merry guffaw.
“Thanks be to the Good Goddess that so many of our people were saved from the Flood,” old Betularn crowed.
“You survived because we licked you, White-Hand!” Celadeyr shot back. “You couldn’t get your exalted asses off the White Silver Plain fast enough after we whipped you in the Heroic Encounters. Downright disgraceful the way you always skipped out before the post-Game awards. Sore losers!”
“But live ones.” Betularn was smug. “In this year’s Combat, you Tanu’ll be lucky to field four companies to our forty!”
“This year’s Combat will be different,” said Aiken. “Shall we tell them, Sharnie?”
“Why not, Battlemaster? We’re only anticipating the official announcement at the Grand Loving by a couple of days.”
The Hunt slowed and wheeled into a tight circle, coming to a halt in midair. There was a mental and vocal clamor from all of the Firvulag vassals, as well as from Celadeyr, the Craftsmaster, and Lady Armida, who were not privy to Aiken’s schemes.
“It’s simple, folks,” Aiken said. “Things have changed so much in the Many-Colored Land that the old customs just aren’t practical any more. Betularn’s right about you Little People outnumbering us ten to one. We couldn’t fight the Grand Combat in the old way without getting slaughtered. So I proposed a completely different type of setup to King Sharn and Queen Ayfa a few weeks ago. Not a Grand Combat, but a Grand Tourney—with nonlethal contests and a completely new system of scoring. Hell, the Heroic Encounters of the Combat were already mostly judged on points, not kills, and everybody knows that they were the most exciting part of the Games. What we’re going to do is have a complete program of rugged events and skill events. I’m not saying nobody’ll get killed. We don’t want to turn this into a fewkin’ tiddlywinks match, after all! But now the headhunting will become symbolic instead of literal, with the losers paying off the winners in treasure and battle standards.”
“And a brand new trophy,” Sharn concluded. “Compliments of us Firvulag. Now that both the Sword and the Spear are gone, we need a new symbol of rivalry. So the best craftsfolk back at High Vrazel are busy making one. A Singing Stone. It’s an enormous beryl, tuned to be psychoreactive and carved in the shape of a regal field stool. At the conclusion of the Tourney, it will be programmed to the aura of the winning faction’s monarch. Then, for one whole year, the Stone will respond with aethereal music whenever the true High King of the Many-Colored Land is enthroned upon it.”
“Putting the squash on any pretender tushies once and for all!” Aiken winked at Sharn. Everyone knew that the Firvulag ruler had been using the title illegally ever since the Flood.
“No more battles to the death?” exclaimed the dismayed Celadeyr.
“No more beheading?” echoed Betularn. Both veterans were aghast.
Aluteyn Craftsmaster vouchsafed his contemporaries a sour smile. “All good things come to an end. Our Exile is entering a new era—whether we like it or not.”
“But the Gnomish Council hasn’t voted on it!” Tetrol Bonecrusher protested. “Old King Yeochee would never have—”
Ayfa cut off her liegeman. “Our royal brother Yeochee has passed on to Té’s peace. We have decided the matter. You’ll also be interested to know that this year’s Grand Tourney will be held on our own Field of Gold in Nionel, as will subsequent contests—”
“If you win, Queen Ogress!” Armida interjected.
Ayfa sailed serenely on. “As will subsequent contests until you Tanu get around to constructing a new tournament ground of your own. Then our two races will take turns hosting the event, no matter who wins.”
“It makes sense,” said the Craftsmaster.
“It stinks!” said Celadeyr.
“Damn right!” Betularn agreed.
“It’s settled!” Aiken and Sharn shouted together. All of the chalikos reared. From the swamp below came an answering bellow.
“You see?” The trickster was grinning. “The dragons know that their favorite tidbit has arrived: Me! Shall we descend? You Firvulag who feel like Hunting get your weapons ready and I’ll play bait. If the crocs eat me, all arrangements are off and you can have the fewkin’ Nightfall War, for all I care.”
The chatikos coursed down the wind toward a lagoon bordered with tall taxodium cypresses that was separated from the mainstream of the Laar by a meandering channel. Aiken switched off his golden metaluminescence and the other riders followed su
it. Sharn urged his mount to keep pace with that of the human usurper. Unlike the Queen, Sharn was dressed not in a riding suit but in ornate obsidian armor. In place of the heavy battlehelm he wore a light visorless sallet surmounted by three horns. His long dark hair streamed from openings in the skullpiece like smoky plumes. He bore a sword with a clear crystal blade nearly as long as Aiken’s body.
“You have no weapon of your own, Battlemaster.” the Firvulag King remarked to the little man.
“I’ll have enough to do on this Hunt, holding you up. In return, you gotta keep the beasts from making a midnight munchy out of Me!”
Now came the telepathic warning of Culluket, who possessed the strongest farsensing ability in the party:
Silence all. Something comes channel! Not dragon. Plesiosaur!
Aaah! exclaimed the Firvulag. The train froze in midair, eerily backlighted by the moon.
Down in the bayou, something broke water and rose up, up—until it seemed that a sea serpent was cruising swiftly through the inky slot. a V-shaped wake trailing after. And then the back of the plesiosaur became visible in addition to its five-meter neck. It opened its jaws wide to the moon and uttered a plaintive two-note hoot: Ooo-awww.
In the lagoon ahead, another snakelike neck burst from the depths, throwing sparkling drops of water. It hooted in higher tones and the approaching creature answered and put on speed. Back and forth the monsters called until they finally met. The gleaming necks entwined and the hooting became an earsplitting duet; and then both animals sounded, leaving a mass of oily bubbles and dwindling echoes. The farsighted among the observers saw the gargantuan consummation deep in the water, after which the male floated up to lie on the surface, paddling gently, while the female swam toward a portion of the shore where the cypresses grew wide apart in a semiliquid mass of saturated soil and organic detritus. She hauled her massive body onto the land and wriggled ponderously along, gasping, until she had traveled five or six lengths—perhaps 80 meters. Then she seemed to explode in frenzy, digging with flippers and head and flailing body until she had hollowed out a muddy bowl that gleamed darkly wet from seeping groundwater.