JEMIDON stirred uneasily and flexed his cramped muscles. The advance scouts had moved through the pass at dawn. The main body of the troop from Searoyal should have marched into the ambush over an hour ago. But the road winding down the mountainside was clear. No cloud of dust or creaking wagon wheels disturbed the serenity of the morning.
The pass itself was still in shadow on Jemidon's right. A narrow cleft barely four men wide, it looked like a deep furrow in freshly plowed ground. From where Jemidon was hidden behind the rocks at the side of the trail, he could not see all the way through the notch to the other side. Beyond the crest on the downslope that eventually led to Kenton's barony, Ocanar's band huddled in concealment, waiting for the royal companies to march by. They lay armed and ready, as did Pelinad's men across the wagon ruts from where Jemidon crouched.
Inwardly, Jemidon seethed. Why was he behaving the way he was? The object of his quest had appeared virtually as a gift, and aligned on the same side, at that. For over two months, he had pushed to achieve an encounter and now, with it in his grasp, his thoughts kept dancing aside to other things.
Jemidon looked at Canthor, slumped peacefully beside him, and shook his head. "How can you be so calm?" he asked. "You understand as well as I that Ocanar has manipulated Pelinad into an impossible position. Melizar is on the top of one of the crags which frame the pass. He will be able to shake the earth and deliver the avalanche on schedule, splitting the royal troops in twain. I have seen his prowess before. But you can make no illusion that will terrify those on this side as we fall upon their rear. Pelinad will have no special aid."
''The avalanche will be enough." Canthor stretched and yawned. "That and the attack from behind will make up for our lack of mail and sharp weapons. I will say some meaningless words and then join with the others pouring onto the trail. And when the swords start swinging, no one will remember whether the hesitation of the opponents was due to surprise or a fanciful image."
"But experienced troops from Searoyal!" Jemidon said.
"The toll will not be light," Canthor agreed. "Yet there will be enough booty in the end for those who are quick and skillful."
Jemidon looked at the scythe that was lying nearby and then at the thick-bladed sword in Canthor's lap. "Such a view is perhaps easier for one who has seen battle before," he said. "Easier for one who, at least, has the proper tools of the trade."
"Stay close and guard my rear." Canthor shrugged. "You will fare as well as I. And speak no more of tools. My head is full of your babble about drums and weights."
"I cannot help it," Jemidon said. "My thoughts keep circling what I have seen. Like a rhyme that persists in your head, the images remain fresh and do not fade. You see, the distortion of the drumhead must indicate the degree a craft is being exercised. When Melizar placed a tare on the one that he said represented sorcery, it remained flat. That is reasonable enough, since, except for one of his followers, there are none who know how to practice it. But the drum for thaumaturgy became a deep cone. The art was widespread, he said. It seems clear, once you think of it. What else can it mean?"
"Why speculate when the answers are so near?" Canthor asked. "You had a whole day to ask this Melizar of his craft and yet you did not. He is an ally. We strike for a common cause. At worst, he would refuse the request. Anything else would teach you more than you know now."
"So says my father." Jemidon sighed. "So cry my memories of Kenton's feast hall and the fields of wheat. And Melizar is the very reason I have returned to the land of my birth."
He paused and tried to sort out his feetings. "And yet, now that I have the opportunity, I am indeed quite hesitant. Somehow, I do not trust this strange one; yesterday, just his presence made me uncomfortable. In truth, his skills I long desperately to know. But now, now that I have experienced him more, something tells me that they must be ferreted away, not received as a gift."
Jemidon hesitated a second time and then smiled. "Besides, I have not done so badly on my own." He numbered the facts on his fingertips, "The first change in sorcery took place on Morgana; nowhere else in all of Arcadia was the craft practiced more. Magic has been nullified on Pluton, where the hoards of tokens were greatest. Here in the wheatlands, thaumaturgy dominates the other crafts. We have seen his use of the drums. It is as if Melizar seeks out where the concentration of the arts is strongest; somehow it makes the changes easier to come about."
"You have the heart of a master and not that of a warrior, to be sure." Canthor laughed. "All of your kind place so much importance on your secrets. And yet, what is the value of any of your efforts in the end? Petty entertainments, bookkeeping devices for trade, machines for the harvest. If not with your arts, then by some other means the same results would have been achieved."
Canthor patted the hilt of his sword. "Even in battle, it is still muscle and bone that determine the final result. Illusions of great monsters or slides of rock perturb the outcome this way or that, but in the end, a blade is in your gut or it is not. It is the warriors who sit on the thrones of Arcadia, Procolon across the sea, and the other kingdoms. Warriors are kings, and not the masters. Why, even the archmage commands only a small guard and a modest house of stone.
"Yes, embrace this Melizar. Learn what you can. In the end, he will be an advisor like the others, bowing deeply to some baron and scrambling for the gold that drops to the floor."
"If it is so simple, then why did I feel such uneasiness yesterday when he was near?" Jemidon insisted, but Canthor stopped paying attention. The warrior put a finger to his lips and pointed down the trail.
Jemidon turned and saw a puff of dust billowing lazily skyward. The royal troop was coming at last. He felt the muscles in his face tighten. The feeling of drifting was still in his stomach, but it faded into an uncomfortable dimness. Now there were more immediate concerns than Melizar's manipulations with the drums.
Eventually, the marching column came into view. Triple file across the trail, the men-at-arms snaked into the cleft of the pass. A mounted commander, with pennant bearers stepping smartly at either side, led the procession. In full armor, he prodded his sweating horse up the incline. Behind the leading officers came the first company. On foot and dressed in mail, they breathed heavily from the labor of the climb.
Jemidon tensed as the head of the troop disappeared from view. After the second of the four companies had gone by, the rocks were to tumble. Each of the two outlaw bands would fall upon those on its side of the pass and then come to the aid of the other, if it were able to. The last of the first company entered the notch, and Jemidon waited expectantly for the next to follow.
But suddenly, just as the pennant bearers of the second group approached, the ground shook. A grinding rumble filled the air.
"Avalanche! Look out!" Jemidon heard someone shout. The flag carriers threw down their standards and turned to run. Small rocks and then heavier boulders began to rain down from above. Streaks of blurring gray fell from the cliffs. The groans of breaking stone and then of wounded men sounded over the deep, teeth-shaking rumble. Clouds of white and dirty brown billowed from the crest of the pass.
One pennant bearer was hit in the shoulder by a rock ricocheting in a flat arc, but he managed to stagger back before the larger boulders smashed him to the ground. In momentary confusion, the marching column stopped in the swell of dust and noise.
A horn sounded from the cover on the other side of the trail, and Pelinad's band jumped to the attack. With swords raised high, they thundered into the third company's flank.
"But Melizar was supposed to wait until two companies had passed through!" Jemidon shouted to Canthor. "And you were to stage your glamour among the wagons from behind! Now Pelinad charges on the side, rather than into the rear."
"A misbegotten plan, to be sure," Canthor said, suddenly alert. "Leave it to a practicer of the arts to bungle what chance we had." He grabbed his blade, bounded around the rock, and looked up and down the trail. "Quickly, follow me," he said after a moment. "With three companies rather than two, the line is too long; we are blocked from the others. But despite Pelinad's odds, we will fare better on his side of the trail than here. There is no time for a pretense of sorcery. Our hope will be to circle through the confusion of the avalanche, if we can."
Jemidon scooped up the scythe and ran after the bailiff as Canthor scrambled toward the pass. The attention of the royal troops was focused on the charge of Pelinad's men, and no one noticed them in the swirling dust. With practiced precision, the middle company turned its shields to meet Pelinad's attack, while the ones on either side made ready to engulf the flanks as the ragged tine drew closer. Soon the rumble of the rock was replaced by the clang of steel and cries of pain.
Canthor jumped among the boulders with an agility that belied his age. He headed directly for the broken rock that had spilled out of the confines of the pass. The royal troops were giving the area a wide berth. In the confusion, Jemidon and the bailiff managed to reach the edge of the rubble before they were noticed. Without slowing, they climbed onto the fresh talus and began to scramble toward the other side of the trail.
But three-quarters of the way across, they were spotted by a pennant bearer. Before Canthor could reach him, he cried out an alarm. In answer, half a dozen men-at-arms turned from the rearmost line and started to climb the rubble. As they approached, Jemidon flung out the scythe at arm's length and struck the nearest in the temple. Two more closed on Canthor, who slashed with his blade, biting deep into the wrist of the one on the right. Undaunted, the other four pressed forward, one waving an axe, and Canthor stepped back in order not to expose his side. Watching the bailiff out of the comer of his eye, Jemidon retreated as well, taking a few steps up the slope.
One of the men-at-arms tried to circle from the left. Jemidon picked up a jagged rock at his feet and threw it squarely into the attacker's face, breaking his nose with a splash of blood. The remaining attackers continued forward, waving their swords in menacing arcs. Jemidon found himself retreating farther up the jumble of rocks, swinging the long scythe back and forth as best he could.
As he retreated, Jemidon jabbed tentatively point first, using the shaft like a pike. The man he faced reacted swiftly. Before Jemidon realized his mistake, a slashing sword hacked the blade from the head of the pole. Jemidon instinctively jabbed a second time, but saw his adversary continue forward, this time removing two more feet from the shaft. Jemidon threw the useless pole aside and turned to look at Canthor, to see what he should do. But as he watched, the bailiff stumbled on loose rock and fell onto his back, his sword sailing out of his hand.
The man-at-arms on the left ran forward, seeing his advantage, and swung his axe high over his head for a fatal plunge. Canthor threw his hand upward in a desperate attempt to ward off the blow, his eyes wide with the image of death. Then, like a drowning man grasping at leaves on the surface of a lake, he sang one of the sorcerers' chants. The three recitals tripped from his tongue faster than Jemidon had ever heard a glamour spoken before. He recognized it as the illusion for a windstorm. He saw Canthor scoop up a handful of dirt and pebbles and throw them in the axeman's face.
Then, as Canthor threw, Jemidon experienced a great lurching in his stomach. The feeling of drifting that had been submerged by the danger of battle boiled upward from where it had been pushed away. With a breathtaking blur, Jemidon felt himself flung across some measureless space and time. His senses reeled. He was overcome by the same disorientation he had felt in the presence of Melizar and his drums.
As suddenly as it had come, the feeling vanished. Like a speeding arrow wrenched from the air in midflight, he jarred back into focus. His stomach was calm, the sense of falling was gone; everything was sharp and clear. It had all happened in an instant, and Jemidon blinked in surprise. He looked at Canthor's adversary and saw the man clutching his face and staggering backward, the axe flung aside on the rocks.
"The sand, the wind!" the man-at-arms shrieked. "It is worse than the high desert. We will all be buried alive!"
Canthor turned to face the others, who now approached with hesitation, looking at their comrade out of the corners of their eyes. Then they, too, dropped their weapons and staggered back. One threw up his forearm across his face. The other dropped to his knees, burying his head in his hands. Canthor turned questioningly to Jemidon. As their eyes met, Jemidon felt a sudden rush of skin-blistering wind and the bombardment of stinging sand,
"What is happening?" Canthor asked. "I do not know why I spoke as I did. It is strange what a man will say when he thinks the words are his last."
"Louder," Jemidon gasped. "Speak louder so I can locate where you stand." He staggered forward, arms across his face, hunched against what seemed like a buffeting gale. His ears roared with a deafening whir that almost drowned out all other sound.
"What nonsense is this?" Canthor persisted. "Stand straight and grab a weapon. We are not yet through."
"It is your charm," Jemidon shouted, trying to hear his own voice above the windscream that surged through his mind. "Somehow it worked. Somehow, someway, sorcery has been restored."
For a moment Jemidon heard no reply, and then, above the roar, Canthor's voice shouted back.
"Wait here," the bailiff yelled. "Wait here until I am done. I will release you from the glamour after I have helped the others as best I can."
Jemidon tried to crack open his eyelids, but a feeling of swirling grit and din immediately forced them shut. He sighed and curled into a ball, helpless to do more than await the outcome of the battle.
After some measureless time, Jemidon heard the words that ended the illusion of the blasting sands. He stood and stretched, then blinked at what he saw. It was night, and the moon had nearly set. Upslope, barely a hundred feet from where he stood, ran the crestline of the mountains.
"I remember being led like a blind man and stumbling upward for an eternity," he said. His mouth was dry and felt full of old rags. "What happened? Why are we here?"
"My apology for taking so long to release you." Canthor clasped him on the shoulder. "But others had wounds more greivous than your discomfort. Putting as much distance between us and the pursuit was the primary goal. Enchanting away the pain, when we finally were able to stop, was the next. The royal troops have camped for the night. We can rest here until the dawn."
Jemidon looked about a second time with more care. The trail and pass were nowhere in sight. Below him stretched the downslopes of the mountains. Like the crumpled robe of a master, the ridges and folds disappeared into the blackness. The ground underfoot was smooth and nearly devoid of plants; it curved gently in a flat arc to form part of the rocky spine that ran to the horizon. Except for the camp, there were no other lights. Of Pelinad's band, barely forty remained huddled around two small fires of brush.
"I caused enough confusion with the glamours for the prince's men to fall back and regroup," Canthor answered Jemidon's questioning gaze. "It gave us enough time to withdraw. But by then, Pelinad and most of the others were gone." The bailiff shrugged. "The shirts of mail were too many. We did not attack from the rear as was our plan."
"Ocanar-why did he not appear?" Jemidon asked. "If we had to bear the brunt of three companies, then he would have had to face only one. He should have finished up quickly and scrambled over the rubble to come to our aid."
"It was only byrnies from Searoyal that we saw pouring back through the pass," Canthor said. "Not vests of leather, or scythes and flails. Somehow, despite the strange one's craft, I suspect that Ocanar fared no better than we."
Jemidon wearily sagged back onto the hard ground. "But why did we then retreat into the mountains?"
"There was no open path down the trail in either direction," Canthor said, "and by striving for the peaks, we were more likely to link up with what remained of Ocanar, if he was doing the same. Indeed, his thoughts did run in a similar path to mine. The lookouts on the crest have seen a tattered band on the far-side downslopes. In a few moments more, he will be here."
Jemidon grunted and looked at the dark line that marked the skyward limit of the peaks. Almost instantly, he saw Canthor's pronouncement come true. A triangle of black shadow poked above the crestfine and then, beneath it, a rectangle with gently undulating sides. With a whoosh of air that Jemidon felt from where he sat, Drandor's tent settled on the crest.
Weary fighters appeared on either side, some dragging scythes and others totally unarmed. In twos and threes, they staggered down the slope into Canthor's camp. Silently, they slumped around the small fires.
One of two shirts of mail mingled with the rest. In a clump of lieutenants, Ocanar stomped down the slope, each step a thump of anger rather than the stumble of fatigue. The leader looked about and saw that only Canthor stood, of all of Pelinad's men. Stroking his beard, he approached and squinted in the dimness.
"Pelinad?" he asked.
"They follow me now," Canthor said.
"But you were only the sorcerer," Ocanar said.
"It was my skill as a man-at-arms more than any craft that saved the few whom you see here." Canthor shrugged. "Glamours do not organize a retreat or pick the course of the march. But that is of no consequence. Because of the odds, how we fared should be no surprise. Why are you running along the crestline, too, rather than polishing shirts of mail and bragging to the villagers about your victory?"
"Ask the cold one who claims to be a master," Jemidon heard Ocanar growl. "We would rout them all without the loss of a single man, he said. And so, after the scouts had ridden by, we stood by the mouth of the pass, not even bothering to group into any sort of formation. It seemed amusing to watch instead the elaborate preparations, lanterns and focusing lenses, and the vast expanses of white linen on which some great glamour was to play. The royal troops were to be petrified, frozen in mid-stride. We were to be able to move among them unchallenged and slit their throats at will."
"The rock slide started prematurely," Canthor said. "Three-quarters of the men-at-arms were left on our side of the pass. What upset the timing of our plan?"
"The timing was perfect," Ocanar spat out. "That part Melizar accomplished as we had-" Ocanar stopped and looked at Canthor through narrowed eyes. He tugged at his beard, waiting for the bailiff to say more, but Canthor remained silent. "Yes, prematurely," Ocanar said slowly at last. "I meant to say the rock slide came too soon. Undoubtedly another miscalculation like the rest. It was all Melizar's fault and none of mine. Now he hides in his canvas contraption and awaits my wrath.
"But none of that matters. One hundred men-at-arms slashed their way through the white linen as if it were not there. My men in leather were unprepared. Nimrod tried to rally them, but they did not stand a chance. Of all who waited this morning, hardly a fifth are left alive."
Jemidon followed the wave of Ocanar's arm, as the last of the men came over the crest. He saw his father trudging down the slope, one leg ringed with a dirty rag. He scrambled to his feet and ran to greet the older man with an embrace, relief mixing with guilt that he had forgotten about the perils that Jemilor must have faced.
"Melizar let me ride in his tent," Jemilor said as they disengaged. "Without his assistance, I doubt I could have kept up the pace. But I had followed his instructions well, just as he taught. There should be no blame for me that the sorceries did not work as planned."
Jemilor sagged to the ground and motioned Jemidon to follow. "Listen, my son," he said, pointing at his leg. "The cut is jagged and is slow to close. I am lucky to have gotten this far. An inch to the left, and tomorrow you would be questing on your own once again."
"Do not speak of such things as this," Jemidon chided. "If you can walk away from the battlefield, you will live to see the next. You know the saying as well as I."
"Melizar's apprentice." Jemilor waved away the words. "I want you to promise me now. He is most eager to take on all who will follow his direction without question. Do as he says and you may yet serve my memory with pride."
"But who is he and where is he from?" Jemidon asked. "I want his secrets, yes, but what is his ultimate intent?"
"He fights to overthrow Kenton and his barony," Jemilor replied. "That is enough recommendation for me. Promise me, Jemidon. Without that, I will not rest in peace."
"You will feel much better in the morning," Jemidon said. "And I do not think that the strange one will accept kindly one who sent magic swords swinging through his plans in the grotto."
"Promise me," Jemilor insisted. "After all that has passed, do not deny me one last kernel of hope."
Jemidon looked again into his father's pale face. He sighed and placed his hand on the older man's shoulder. "It is not that I have not tried. Father. Believe me, I want the robe as much as you."
"We could have served him both together today," Jemilor said. "Setting up the lantern and stretching the sheets you would have found easy enough to do. And your arms are yet strong and your reactions quick. Who could say what the difference might have been as we raced for the protection of the tent?"
"I am a man, full-grown," Jemidon said. "The quest I pursue is now my own."
"Your own?" Jemilor turned his head away. "Was it for that that your sister gave you the coin?"
Jemidon rose and stretched. His father had long since fallen into a fitful sleep. And he had made up his mind. Whatever caution his instincts threw in the way could not stand against the logic of everyone else's counsel. Slowly he climbed the distance to the crestline. Puffs of air skittered around his ankles as he approached the tent. The flicker of candlelight escaped from the hem of the canvas as it danced over the uneven ground.
At the tentflap, Jemidon reviewed what he planned to say. Perhaps stressing what he already knew would be best. He believed in the Postulate of Invariance, even if no one else seemed to give it great weight. Besides, ferreting out the secrets was no longer to be his intent. Despite his reservations, he would ask to be taught. He would find out by direct explanation, rather than by deduction, what he needed to know. He would learn the means to become a master and to cast off at last the burdens that pushed him on.
Nervously, Jemidon fingered the brandel about his neck. He felt the uneasiness in his stomach begin to grow. He could sense how the discomfort would increase as he drew closer to the cold one inside the tent. He did not want to enter, or to offer assistance, when deep inside he felt a distrust that no argument would chip away. Somehow in the end, their objectives could never be the same. But he thought of his father sleeping restlessly down the slope and of Canthor's advice given with no hidden bias. Against their words, he had only vague feelings to argue himself away. Cautiously he pushed aside the flap.
Melizar slowly turned as Jemidon looked inside. "Yes, what more does Ocanar want? I have given him the explanation. It must have been a great attempt at sorcery on the island. Probably far more powerful than this world has ever seen. So great that even here, the intensity was strong enough to force the animation to be the least contradiction. The effect varies as the cube of the distance. It is not my concern if he refuses to understand."
Jemidon tightened his arms around his stomach to quiet the rising discomfort. He saw that the interior of the tent looked much as it had on Morgana. Two small candles provided most of the light. The flap leading to the rear chamber was closed. The now-familiar lattice leaned against one of the supporting poles. Delia's counter was gone. On the bare ground, Melizar had been studying his drums and weights. Except for the buzz of the imps about the cold one's head, there was no other motion.
"You have worked with others before," Jemidon said. "Drandor the trader and Holgon the magician. Do you have available the position for yet another apprentice?" Melizar glided forward until he stood directly facing Jemidon. A slender hand jutted from the flowing robe and poked Jemidon in the shoulder. A wave of intense cold that numbed his arm sent a shiver down his back. He looked from the darkly painted nails, up the draped arm, to the cowl that hid everything but reflections of the candlelight in deep-set eyes.
"But more important than that," Jemidon blurted, "who are you? From where do you come?"
"Inquisitiveness is not the mark of a good follower," Melizar replied as the cowl moved closer in the dimness. "Obedience is the virtue that will garner the greater reward."
"Even if the reward is knowledge?" Jemidon asked.
"Even if the reward-" Melizar stopped and studied Jemidon's face. "I have seen you before," he said at last. "You were the one who tried to imitate the magician in the grotto."
"That is in the past and does not matter," Jemidon said quickly. "We now work for a common cause. Teach me more of the Postulate of Invariance. I wish to learn."
"The Postulate of Invariance! Who told you of that?" Melizar asked softly. "The demon swore on his eggclutch that it was only me and my manipulants. None of the rest were able to follow."
"I deduced it from what I have seen," Jemidon answered. "Sorcery deactivated and another craft in its place." He paused and wrinkled his forehead. "Only now it seems the pendulum has swung back the other way. The Rule of Three possesses vigor. Even Canthor was able to use it to delude the royal troops. No doubt that was why they were able to march through the animations on your side of the pass. They saw only a clever lantern show with no power to enchant."
"Of course," Melizar said slowly. He grabbed the cube at his waist and fondled it with his fingertips. "The sorcerer with the deceit that his powers were still whole. I had dismissed him entirely. He must have tried a glamour in the battle, just before the animation was to begin. Not many leagues, but only yards away. I was close enough for the shift to take place."
Melizar paused, head bowed for a moment, and then turned his attention back to Jemidon. "But the words would not be enough. Merely mouthing the charm without producing the effect does not give any contradiction."
Jemidon frowned, trying to follow the train of Melizar's thoughts. "It was the Song of the Shifting Sands," he said, "and Canthor threw a handful of dirt into the face of an assailant as he spoke."
"As simple as that." Melizar's voice took on a soft tinkle, like that of a delighted child. "I need not embellish my original plan. There is not some great sorcerer against whom I must pit the excuses for masters that I have. A simple animation will be more than enough to make the charms down the slope the smaller contradiction."
Melizar waved his arms at the drums. "The surface is merely dimpled. Two weak glamours, at most three or four. I will awaken Drandor to perform the animation and another to witness the effect. It will be enough within the confines of the tent."
"My apprenticeship," Jemidon said as Melizar started for the rear chamber. "You have not yet answered to the reason why I have come."
"The Postulate of Invariance is not the concern of any manipulant," Melizar said. "To him, such information is utterly of no use. And the fact that a metalaw holds interest for you harms, rather than abets, your suit. Wait patiently. I will decide your fate when the more important task is done."
Jemidon frowned as Melizar disappeared behind the flap. For a moment, he debated whether or not he should follow. But before he could decide, the strange one returned, stroking the cube at his side.
"They will be fully awakened in a moment," Melizar said. "Time enough for the part that I must perform." He unlatched the cube from his waist and began to twist it as he had done the day before.
Jemidon started to reply, but suddenly he felt the queasiness in his stomach grow and he sagged to the ground. Once again, his thoughts began to take off on their own, running through chains of discordant logic that he could not control. Events and random facts danced in his head. Pieces of the puzzle, all perceived at once, somehow fitted into a coherent whole. Morgana, the center of sorcery, on the night of celebration before the awarding of the prize…Pluton and the vault in the grotto-taking away tokens and then adding to them with more…Stopping the pumps before Holgon worked his transformation with the dove…The rebellion in the wheatlands-Melizar's being delighted that thaumaturgy was so strong, after he had told Ocanar that his goal was for it to stop…
The mental brew frothed and bubbled, growing in intensity and carrying Jemidon farther and farther away from where he willed. He imagined a box of secrets with the lid cracking open and the scent of its delights swirling out, to mix with the other experiences he had witnessed along the way.
Through glazed eyes, he watched Melizar finish his ritual with the cube. Dimly and uncertainly, he perceived someone-Drandor, perhaps-manipulating what might have been animated projections. But as before, the scenes blurred in streaks of light and dark. He felt as if he were on some great beast, charging across a featureless plain, or like the shot of a catapult arcing across the sky, a monolith of energy that crushed whatever was in its way. He cried out, trying by sheer will to force the plummet to stop. The last of his senses whirled into incohesion.
Then, after an indefinite time, and with a lurch that shook his body in a giant convulsion, Jemidon darted his eyes open. The feeling that had built so intensely was just as suddenly gone. Everything was clear and in focus. All senses were restored. From outside the tent, he heard a cry of pain and, following that, another louder than the first. Instantly he knew what had happened. "Sorcery again is gone," he mumbled. "Canthor's soothing charms are no more."
He looked quickly around the tent, hoping to see what he wanted. "Delia!" he exclaimed as her slender form caught his eye. He felt his heart race with a surge of pleasure. "You are here, as I suspected. And Drandor-"
Jemidon stopped short as he looked more closely at the trader, now standing beside a small lantern and a scatter of transparent images on the floor. One arm dangled at his side, flat and shapeless, like an empty glove. His face sagged to the side, lips curving down to where the firm line of the jaw should have been; the cheek was only a loose bag of flesh.
Jemidon's eyes darted back to Delia and scanned her body from head to toe, searching for additional disfigurements. But except for the vacant stare produced by the animation, she was apparently whole. She wore the same gown in which he had seen her last. A band of iron still circled her left wrist. He let out his breath and finally looked back at Melizar as the strange one put away his cube.
"What has happened to him?" he asked, pointing at Drandor. "Was he exposed to the fighting as well?"
"My helpers, my manipulants," Melizar responded, accenting the last word. "No, they are too precious to waste in such a manner. But negligence cannot go unpunished." He swept his arm in Delia's direction. "This second one should never have been allowed to get away. Nor did the pets I gave him thrive under his care."
"By all the laws," Drandor slurred, "stop him before he does more. The cave beneath the tent, the sleepers, the sucking! I can feel the dissolving inside. Stop him before there are more."
"Silence," Melizar commanded. "Silence, or the manipulants shall have fresh marrow before it is needed." He turned and faced Jemidon. "You spoke of apprenticeship. There is more than one way that you can serve."
Jemidon rose groggily to his feet. Something significant had just happened. It was another fact to add to the other thoughts that his insides insisted were important. "Your sorcery with the animations," he said. "Now it has the basis of law, and not the other."
"This woman was the first to experience it," Melizar said. "The enactment was simple, but it was sufficient to tip the scales."
Another moan pierced the canvas walls of the tent. Jemidon thought of what it must be like to have pain suddenly return. The first crisis must have been in surprise as much as in anguish. As Melizar said, a simple performance of the animation and then sorcery was no more.
Jemidon sucked in his breath at the thought. First must have come Drandor's performance, and then afterward there was no more sorcery. Just as Canthor had flung the rocks before there was any effect. Animation preceding the Rule of the Threshold. Blinding with pebbles because the words did not yet work. The action and then the law.
Suddenly everything fell into place. The whirling events of the past marshaled in step and left him with no doubt.
"Contradictions," he said. "You speak of contradictions and which ones are the least. When things are drifting, when somehow the laws are cut loose, the seven that will be chosen will be those that best explain what is happening-the seven which leave the least contradictions outside their scope. The node of the lattice will be the one which best fits the happenings around it. Enactments of others become exceptions and wither away.
"And you performed the unlocking with the cube," Jemidon rushed on. He had to articulate it all before the thread faded from his grasp. "Yes, an unlocking, a release of the grip which holds the laws as they are. With the cube, you control when the change has an opportunity to take place. Only when you set the conditions can the various laws compete for dominance.
"The unlocking is easier when you are near the power of the crafts, but once it is done, you want it the other way. Otherwise things will remain exactly as they are. On Morgana, you must have decoupled during the performance for the prince; and then at the celebration afterward, when all the masters were filling themselves with ale, Drandor enacted his animations on the beach. It was what I saw from the cliff top-a single glamour that would have power according to the new law, but far closer to you than any sorceries is Procolon across the sea. It was the least contradiction; the law that explained more then was the Rule of the Threshold, not the Rule of Three.
"And in the grotto, you had Trocolar add the additional tokens to the vault holdings so that the strength of magic would be stronger and the disconnection easier to make. Many magic tokens; that is why you had Drandor seek the sorcerer's prize. But before Holgon walked through his ritual, the pumps were stopped and al! the tokens safely secured in chests out of sight, so that no one could see. Again the new magic was the one that held sway.
"Later, when I returned with the sword, you were sure to have three instances of the Maxim of Perturbations to two for that of Perseverance."
"You are not speaking like a manipulant," Melizar said. "You have thought about things too much."
"And these first attempts have no real power at all." Jemidon ignored the interruption. "Drandor's initial screening used some natural property of the eye to simulate motion; Holgon's sleight of hand in the vault moved the dove. They were contrived to be as close to the new laws as possible, even if they were shadows of what would come to pass. They were boosts to shove things from one node in the lattice in the direction you wanted, rather than in a random drift you could not control.
"And even Canthor in the pass! You unlocked the laws when Ocanar and Pelinar met. That was responsible for the drifting feeling I felt-the feeling I experienced each time the laws could be shifted from one node in the lattice to another. Only this time you planned to wait until after the insurrection had spread before nudging the transition on its way-until the practice of thaumaturgy had fallen to a low enough level that the shift could be easily made. But by chance, Canlhor's attempted glamour came first. His words and the tossing of the sand were an example of a traditional charm. Without the planned animation, of the Rule of the Threshold there was none. The Rule of Three dominated, and sorcery was restored.
"It fits, it fits, all of it. There is a second metalaw. The, the-the Axiom of Least Contradiction, you probably call it. Yes, the rule follows from the example. That is how you have manipulated all the transformations that have swept sorcery and magic away."
Jemidon paused for breath. His skin tingled with excitement. Coming to Melizar directly had not been such a bad idea after all. The closeness of the cold one and the swing back to the Rule of the Threshold together had catalyzed the synthesis that had been building in his mind all along.
"You asked to be an apprentice," Melizar said in a whisper that Jemidon could barely hear. "Perhaps it is indeed better that you serve." He waved his arm over his head, and imp light twinkled into tiny points of brilliance. The air in the tent grew chillingly cold. "I demand complete obedience. When lithons soar close to one another, there is no margin for less. The three metalaws are for my concern. You must forget the two you have learned."
"Your plan is to change them all, isn't it?" Jemidon asked. "One by one, until only your minions can perform any of the crafts. The thaumaturges, the alchemists, the magicians, the sorcerers, the wizards, even the archmage, all will be powerless against you. Despite what Canthor says, it is not men-at-arms who hold the balance in their hands. One who has exclusive command of unknown crafts would rule the world against the sharpest blades."
"This world, the stars, your whole universe," Melizar said. "Ocanar sulks in defeat; but for me, the battle has accomplished almost as much as I planned. I now know why the animations did not work and have no great sorcerer with whom to contend. Tomorrow, with the help of some simple animations, the villagers will believe in a setback of the royal troops, despite whatever else this Kenton may say. The timing is right; the passions will be inflamed. In a fortnight's time, the plains will vibrate to the stomp of thousands of scythes and flails. More than four companies from Searoyal will have to come. And with the harvest stopped, thaumaturgy will be easy to push aside.
"I will have gone from a single greedy trader, from a dozen men-at-arms, to a whole kingdom at my command. Alchemy will be next and wizardry after that. In the end, everything will be mine."
Melizar paused and jabbed Jemidon on the shoulder. "Yes, be my apprentice. The choice is a wise one. Serve without failure and you will be rewarded well."
Jemidon held his breath. The goal that motivated his coming to the tent had been achieved. Even more, he now understood not one metalaw but two. But the disquiet that had impeded him before was still there.
He looked at Delia, who was still staring blankly into the distance, and fingered the coin around his neck. He thought of his father sleeping on the downslope and what the old man would say. With one decision, he could exorcise all the ghostly burdens and be close to what he wanted for himself as well. Perhaps with time, when Melizar realized his true worth, he could learn more and complete the last pieces of the puzzle. He glanced at the cold one's cube and then looked up to stare at Drandor's slack-jawed face.
But at what price was he willing to pursue his quest? The robe of the master was supposed to bring the respect of peers and followers-a proof that he, too, was a man. Would it be there, if won by treachery and guile? If the order of all things were destroyed in the process? If he were the lackey of one so cold and strange? Jemidon drew his lips into a firm line. He wanted the robe, but not if he lost everything else in exchange.
"No," he said quietly, his voice as soft as Melizar's own. "I have changed my mind. It is too much power. The laws were not meant to be altered."
"Whence I came, the laws were not meant to stay the same." Melizar stepped forward. "But no matter. By one means or another, you will serve. Seize him, Drandor. If he chooses not to offer his mind and muscle to me, then the manipulants will enjoy his marrow."
Jemidon stepped back, wishing that he had a weapon. As he did, he saw the imp light about Melizar's head brighten to a fiery incandescence. Too late, he tried to dodge a handful of dust that Melizar splashed into his face. He felt the beginning of a numbing torpor. Then nothing.