Golden Torc - 2 (12 page)

"They are our shadow-brethren," Olar told her. "We are obliged by the most ancient precepts of our way to rear them to term and subsequently turn them over to their own folk."

And then hunt and kill them?

You will understand one day littleSistermind. It is our way. If you would survive it must become your way.

"And now," Olar spoke out loud, "we will visit the Lady Tasha-Bybar."

Behind her mental screen, Sukey cried out.

"The procedure is very brief, but it is usually some weeks before the menstrual cycle reasserts itself normally. We will take care of this small matter before beginning your apprenticeship so that there will be a minimum of delay in your initiation."

Keeping a firm grip on herself, Sukey said, "I-I protest. To be used in this fashion."

Peacecalmsolace. "It is your lot. Accept it. There is so much joy to be gleaned in compensation! And the Lady Bybar is very skilled. You will feel no pain."

Olar stood still for a moment, fingers resting on her golden torc. She nodded, smiled, and took Sukey up a winding stairway into one of the high turrets. The room at the top was fully thirty meters in diameter, commanding a fantastic view of the surrounding countryside and the misted, glaring salt. In the middle of the polished black floor was a long golden table surrounded by small trolleys with jewel-bright objects gleaming on their open shelves. The reflector dish of a huge lamp, unlit, hung above the equipment.

"The Lady Bybar will first dance for you, Gwen-Minivel. She does you great honor. Wait here now until she comes, and comport yourself with a dignity befitting your silver torc." With that, Olar left her alone.

Hesitating and fearful, Sukey approached the central table. It was! There were clamps and stirrups. And the jewel-bladed things were just what she had suspected.

Tears blinded her and she stumbled away from the apparatus.

She cried out secretly: Stein I would for you.

Or she could still run...

Olar's mind-grip caught her. She was forced to stop, to turn around, to watch in stunned incredulity as Tasha-Bybar entered and began her dance.

The human body was as pale and as lush as that of an houri and so exaggerated in its sexuality that Sukey's instinct told her it must have been artificially enhanced. There was hair only upon the woman's head, and this flared like a blue-black cloak when she spun and leaped, and rippled almost to her knees when she was momentarily still.

All that she wore was bells, and the golden torc. The bells were small and round, fastened to her living flesh in graceful twisting patterns. They had differing notes; and as the dancer's muscles flexed and extended, an elfin melody born of the movement itself sounded in the huge, nearly empty room. The rhythm was that of Sukey's pulse. She stood frozen and helpless as the dancer approached in great fluid leaps, arms beckoning as they wove their eerie song, feet stamping with an accelerating insistence that compelled Sukey's heart to beat faster and faster. The dancer's sunken eyes were as black as her hair. Nearly colorless lips drew back in a rictus above her teeth. Around and around Sukey the dancer spun, increasing the tempo of the music until Sukey was dizzy, nauseated, trying in vain to close her eyes and ears and mind to the flashing chiming gyrating thing that seized her and whirled her into oblivion.

7

"YOU'VE FIXED IT! YOU'RE A BONNY BOY, MY SHINING ONE." Mayvar the Hag watched in delight as the tiny figures on the timepiece came sliding out on their tracks and circled one another. The turquoise-and-jet dragon flapped golden wings and lunged, clashing its jeweled fangs. The knight in opal armor fended off the little monster, then raised his glittering sword and struck; once... twice... three times. The clock told the hour. The dragon expired, chopped into three sections revealing ruby entrails. The entire turntable at the front of the timepiece revolved, carrying the tableau back inside golden doors. Aiken Drum stowed tools back into pockets. "It wasn't that hard to fix. Crud in the drivetrain, a worn tooth on one of the little gears. You ought to have a glassblower make a dome to cover it, sweets. Preventive maintenance."

"I will," the old woman promised. She lifted the elaborate toy from the table where Aiken had been working on it to a safe place on a high shelf. Then she turned to him and held out both hands, grinning.

"Again?" he protested. "Insatiable old bag, aren't you?"

"All we Tanu women are," she cackled, pulling him toward the bedroom, "but there's few that can rise up to Mayvar and live, my Shining One, as you should know by now. So when I find such as you I must test and prove him. And if he lasts-ah, then!"

The room was very dark and cool and the awful old woman only a shadow waiting. Free of the golden suit, floating in the air, he came to her and was devoured. But there was no fear in him or cringing-not after the first time had shown him what lay beyond the repellent husk.

O amazing Hag with your hidden cauldron of near-deadly rapture! You'd take the entire measure of life-force if I'd let you-snuff me after I'd fed your ancient nerve-fires and stoked them to youth again! But I won't die, Hag. I won't burn out. I'm up to you, old Mayvar, and beyond and above you, drawing you along with me while you scream. Come along and don't falter, Mayvar! Cry to die, Mayvar! Then burst and tumble down when you've had your surfeit of the Shining One who meets your test again and laughs...

The golliwog put on his golden boots and gave her ugliness a touch of pure affection. "You know, you're pretty good yourself, Witch."

"Once the Thagdal said the same." She uttered a long sigh. "And my darling Lugonn, that I had such hopes for before he died." She showed him the way it had been, back at the Ship's Grave, when all of them had first arrived in the Many-Colored Land.

"What a funny race you are," Aiken said. "Not civilized at all. You'd be in a fine mess by now if humans hadn't come through the time-gate and organized things for you. You should be grateful instead of resenting us!"

"I don't resent you," Mayvar said complacently. "Come close, my bonny boy." She took it from under the pillow and held it out to him.

"Do I need it?" he asked her, mouth quirking with the old mischief. "Would you have even more of me, glutton Mayvar?" But this time she was serious. "You've still a way to go and a way to grow before you're a match for the greatest of the Host, Aiken Drum. There are those who can kill you-make no mistake. If you're wise, you'll go about this prudently and follow my counsel. Take it."

He settled the twisted golden ring around his neck and snapped the ends shut. Mayvar's gnarled fingers unfastened the old silver torc and dropped it beside the bed.

"I'll do as you say, Witch dear. And savor the fun to the fullest every step along the way."

She got up from the bed and he helped her to don the purple robe. Then they went out into her sitting room, where he combed her white hair and called for refreshment, which they both stood in need of.

"You've proved yourself to me," Mayvar said at length, "but you must also prove yourself to them. They must freely accept you. This is our way."

A tinkling fanfare came from the golden clock on the shelf. Once again the dragon slithered forth and the knight came stalking him; and this time, the bejeweled prey was hewn into four sections to mark the striking of the hour.

"You want me to go and do likewise," Aiken observed. "Show all the folks what a grand barbarian warrior I am by making good on my monster-killing boast."

"It'll be a significant proof, the slaying of Delbaeth." She began to rock back and forth, chortling, hands clasping bony knees through the fabric of her gown. "Oh-you caught their attention with that offer, lad! Tana herself must have put the notion into your mind."

His response was laconic. "Your High King was so loud broadcasting his anxiety about the spook that it was impossible to resist."

"Ah! But, you see, there'd be talk of how the Thagdal himself should deal with Delbaeth! And since he's really too old, he'd have to ask Nodonn to do it. And that would obligate him to the Host, and-ah, you'll know about the politics soon enough. But as for Delbaeth-this Firvulag is one of the most powerful sort. He's a giant, not one of the little kind. He's been rampaging around burning up plantations outside of Afaliah, on what you'd call the Spanish mainland, for nearly a year now. Much of our provisioning here at the capital comes from the Afaliah region, and we also count on those farms for the extra supplies needed during Grand Combat time. Now, Afaliah's Lord is Celadeyr. He's a First Comer and a feisty old shit-kicker of a Creator-Coercer-but no match for Delbaeth.

None of us are-if you match power for power. Old Celo's tried to Hunt down the Shape of Fire, but he gets outwitted every time when the Firvulag runs off and hides in the caves of the Gibraltar Isthmus. Things are getting serious, with the Grand Combat nearly on us, and Celo has demanded the assistance of the High King. The Thagdal is obliged to respond." Aiken nodded. "I get it. But the King is getting a bit long in the tooth for that kind of adventure. Rogering maidens is more his style these days."

"He may properly designate any champion as his agent to deal with Delbaeth. But you forced him to send you! Do you see how galling it must be? An outsider-a human!-taking on a job that's defeated Tanu stalwarts. And all by accident, you've put one up Nodonn, too, since he was too wily to volunteer before the King asked him! If you succeed in killing Delbaeth, wearing the gold and all, you tell the world that you think you're as good as any of them."

"Just as Gomnol did?"

She half-closed her pouched eyes, simultaneously projecting a vision of the long-ago triumph of the human Lord Coercer for Aiken's study. She looked out over the White Silver Plain where it had happened. "Gomnol would have aspired higher," she said softly, "but I spurned him, even though he could have sated me. Sterile! Or more correctly, so riddled with lethal genes that even the science of your Galactic Milieu had been powerless to correct his faulty plasm. The Kingmaker rejects such offal... Needless to say, I've already determined that you have no such deficiency."

Hands on hips, he threw back his head and laughed. "What a cold-blooded witch you are! And I thought it was all for sweet passion's sake."

Destiny rules passion in us both ShiningOne.

"You weird old crone!" he cried. "Meddling old bag of bones! Power-hungry ballbreaker! Get your stringy old ass to Redact House and crawl into the Skin and have them make you young again. We'll go and screw 'em all together, Lovie!" Grasping one of her hands, he spun her tall figure around, then stopped short at the expression on her face and the vision that accompanied it.

"I've been lucky, Aiken. Most of my kind are only able to choose once. But I picked the Thagdal, and I chose his successor as well-although Tana's will took dear Lugonn before my choice could be made manifest. After he was gone, I waited these thousand years, weighing the hopefuls as it's my duty to do. But all of them fell short in one way or another. And so I had settled on the best of the rejected, Nodonn Battlemaster of the Host. His mind is stupendous and his heritage is acceptable but ah what a meager flame he kindles, for all his jealous pride! What a poor stick to the engendering of a race of heroes! But he was the best we had until..."

"Silly Hag."

The knotted fingers stroked his golden torc, sending sweet fever rushing through him.

She crooned, "Lucky Mayvar! To see the third one come after all. Ah, but I've reached my limit with you, bright laddie! Three thousand three hundred and fifty-two of your years I've lived and done the love testing for the Tanu. You'll be the death of me, Aiken Drum. But not, please Tanu, until I've seen you safely installed."

"First things first," he said, divesting himself of her mental caress with some reluctance. "This Delbaeth. You realize that I don't have the faintest idea how to go about killing him? I talk a good game, but when push comes to shove, the spook might just burn the fewkin' gold britches off me! Wouldn't that be a nice end to our schemes?"

Mayvar gave a gay titter. "Would I send my own Initiate away unprepared? You'll be taught to use your powers properly before you go on the Delbaeth Quest. Two weeks under my tutelage-and that of mighty Bleyn, and Alberonn Mindeater, and the mistress of illusion, Katlinel the Darkeyed and you'll be more than a match for this Firvulag... And to be on the safe side, I'll give you something else as well. What you would call an ace in the hole."

"Witch!" He sniggered. "What is it?"

"You'll never guess! No true Tanu would dare to use it because of the mortal danger to himself. But it'll be harmless to you, my bonny boy, and it'll dispose of Delbaeth if you but track him down. You must keep it secret from the others if you love your life-but with you as clever as I know you are, it should be no problem."

"What is it, for God's sake?" He grasped her by her bony shoulders and shook her as she continued to tantalize him, dangling a small mental image just out of reach.

At last she sobered. "Come along to the cellar, then, and I'll show it to you."

Stein was in an uneasy and dangerous mood, his great hands white-knuckled as he gripped the railing and pretended to watch the apprentice fighters larruping each other out in the arena.

The upper level of his mind listened obediently to the running commentary of the Lord of Swords, who pointed out the technique or lack of it-displayed by the young gray-torcs. Beneath the veneer, however, Stein was raging. Bluff Tagan, preoccupied with his exposition of martial arts, never noticed; but the gold-torc human woman who had been delegated by Mayvar to shepherd Stein on a tour of Muriah was all too aware of the giant's growing impatience. With a farspeaker's tact, she insinuated herself.

FriendStein are you weary of viewing fighterscnool? Had hoped it would amusedistract.

Something wrong Sukeywife. What WHAT Lady Dedra I will know!

"... and observe that young ox in the rust-colored kilt, Stein. Kurdish stock. Splendid musculature and as game as they make 'em, but he won't last five minutes in a Low Melee if he doesn't learn to stop telegraphing his ripostes. You don't need a torc to read that one's mind! Now, if you want a real study in finesse, keep a close eye on those two Maasai types sparring with vitredur lances. That's the kind of work that makes an old fighter's blood sing ..."