The Wizard of Seattle (25 page)

“Perhaps.”

“What does Roxanne say?”

“She says the pair is unusual, nothing more. There may be a question of loyalty.”

Antonia looked slightly surprised. “Roxanne’s loyalty?”

“She knows more than she is willing to say, Leader.”

“Is that a proven fact?”

Dorcas stiffened. “My impression, Leader.”

“As good as a proven fact then.”

Pleased, Dorcas relaxed. “Thank you, Leader.”

Antonia turned to gaze out of the window once more, but continued to speak to her agent. “I would like to know more of this Seattle, but I am not yet ready to summon the woman Serena. Keep her under observation as long as she’s within the city walls, but don’t make it obvious.”

“Yes, Leader.”

“What of the wizard Merlin?”

“I spoke to the Healer who examined Roxanne. If Roxanne described her injuries accurately, then Merlin’s skill as a Healer is far beyond our abilities.”

That brought Antonia around to face her agent, her strange, pale eyes brilliant. “Is the Healer certain of this?”

“Yes, Leader. She reports that she would be unable to duplicate his success.”

“What else?” Antonia demanded sharply.

“Very little, I’m afraid, Leader. He has spent the last several days in Varian’s palace, so we have been unable
to observe him. He was unthreatening enough the short time he spent in Sanctuary.”

After a moment Antonia turned back to the window. Her voice was calm again when she said, “When he returns to the city, watch him. And report to me immediately.”

Dorcas knew a dismissal when she heard one. “Yes, Leader.”

Alone again, Antonia gazed down upon the city she had created.
Merlin
… Was he the one she had waited for so long, the one who would show her the way to triumph?

Some time later she left the window and went into the adjoining room, which was her bedchamber. There was a mirror hanging on the wall by the door, which Antonia automatically cleared of the flaws left by the Curtain during the previous night. When the polished oval was unblemished again, she studied her reflection, turning her head this way and that.

Flawless. She might easily be mistaken for a woman half her age, no more than twenty or so. Her red hair was still bright and rich in color, her skin creamy, her pale blue eyes vivid. And her figure was excellent, slender but seductive.

Satisfied, Antonia crossed the room and sat down at a small table. She removed the black cloth draping her crystal, softly recited the appropriate spell, and gazed fixedly into the bright sphere as colors began to swirl….

“I’m trained to please, My Lord,” the girl cooed, her hand reaching for him.

Merlin caught her wrist and gently forced her grasping fingers away from the front of his trousers. She was very young and wore only one of the thin white shifts Varian permitted his concubines to wear. But her body was ripe, and the rounded belly proclaimed her to be several months with child.

Not that Merlin was surprised by that; Varian didn’t permit any of his women to seek out other males unless they were first impregnated by him.

He looked down at her, searching her eyes for signs of thoughts or emotions. The moonlight was strong enough up here for him to see her clearly. But, just as he had found in every other powerless woman Varian had claimed for a concubine, there was nothing in this one’s pale blue eyes.
Nothing
. They were as shiny and lifeless as those of a porcelain doll. She stood there, her wrist held in his grasp, a vacuous little smile curving her lips as she waited for him to release her … or take her … or kill her.

He didn’t think it would matter to her.

Quietly he said, “No, thank you—Lasca, isn’t it?”

“Yes, My Lord. Have I displeased you?” Her voice was soft and sweet. She was still smiling.

“No, Lasca. I’m simply not in the mood for … company tonight.” He released her wrist.

As the girl wandered away, Tremayne came out onto the terrace and joined Merlin. “Lasca had a go at you?” he murmured.

Merlin nodded and leaned his elbows on the balustrade as he gazed down at the valley. The Curtain lay heavily below, shimmering from time to time with pulses of energy. He glanced at Tremayne. “Tell me, are all the powerless women here like Lasca? So … simple?”

“You mean so empty?” Tremayne gazed out over the valley. “To varying degrees, yes. The innocent ones, the ones my kinsmen and the other wizards haven’t yet seduced, don’t wander around looking for someone to bed them, they’re merely docile and vacant. But these … well, you’ve seen how they’ve behaved these last few days—and nights.”

“Yes.” Merlin had lost count of the women—some hardly more than children—he had politely refused. And he’d had to bar the door of his bedchamber after awakening the first night to find a girl named Gaea naked in his bed, her eyes and smile as empty as Lasca’s had just been. There was something eerie and not a little horrifying about their vacant sexuality.

They made Merlin think of succubi, lascivious female spirits or demons believed by some to seduce men into lustful intercourse during their sleep. Except that succubi
were supposedly so hideous, they
had
to do their seducing while the object of their affections lay sleeping deeply, while the women here were actually quite lovely.

He knew that succubi had more or less been created to explain away the nocturnal emissions most men and adolescent boys experienced, while incubi, the equivalent male demons, had been blamed for the pregnancies of terrified young women who swore they hadn’t had carnal knowledge of anyone and so
must
have been possessed in their sleep by lustful demons. But knowing the source of the tales didn’t seem to make a difference. In fact, he couldn’t help remembering that his own namesake, the great magician and Master wizard Merlin, had supposedly been the offspring of an incubus and a nun.

Merlin startled himself by laughing, which earned him a quick and disconcerted look from Tremayne. Clearing his throat, he said, “Sorry. My mind wandered into a rather ridiculous place. This emptiness of the powerless woman—where do you place the blame for it?”

“It’s the Curtain I believe. The men grew ugly and aggressive while their women grew servile and witless.”

Merlin glanced at the younger wizard again. They hadn’t had much of an opportunity to talk during the past few days, and he took advantage of their being alone on the terrace. “When you look at the rest of what’s happened here, the segregation of this society, where do you place the blame?”

“Isn’t it obvious? The wizards couldn’t live together in a single society. I suppose it hasn’t happened elsewhere because we’re relatively far-flung and not really a community. Here, with the population so small and isolated, distrust became hate and fear, and that naturally led to turmoil.”

How can you convince him we can coexist peacefully when you don’t really believe it yourself?
Serena had asked.

Carefully Merlin said, “Then perhaps the answer is simply to avoid isolating a group of wizards anywhere.”

“Perhaps.” Tremayne shrugged, his expression brooding. “The problem seems almost insurmountable once it’s
taken hold, I know that much. How do you go about changing beliefs so stubborn they might as well have been written in stone?”

After a moment Merlin said, “Tell me to mind my own business if it bothers you to talk about it, but that last question had the ring of personal experience. That person you were looking for in Sanctuary wouldn’t by any chance be a female wizard?”

Tremayne glanced around as if to make certain they were still alone. “Yes, she is,” he replied, seeming a bit pent-up, as if he badly wanted to tell someone about this. He was looking at Merlin steadily. “Her name is Roxanne.”

Given the size of the population and since no one used surnames, Merlin doubted very much that names were repeated. So Tremayne’s Roxanne was undoubtedly the girl they had found near death, the girl whose life he had saved—the girl Serena was with even now.

Roxanne, a female wizard; Tremayne, a male wizard who was definitely interested in her. And wizards never mated among themselves.

Merlin was trying to think, to sort through the possibilities. Has his intervention made the situation better or worse? Had Roxanne died, Tremayne would undoubtedly have grieved—but would he have blamed this splintered society for her death? Probably. With Roxanne alive, he had the opportunity to woo her—but would her wretched experiences of men and wizards place her forever beyond his reach? Possibly—and that would certainly leave him embittered about this society. But if Tremayne and Roxanne actually did leave Atlantis as mates and traveled back to Europa together, would their success in overcoming their natural distrust and wariness of each other have the necessary positive effect on the Council of Elders of this time?

Who could know?

Merlin was very tempted to consult his crystal for a glimpse into the future, but it was his belief—obstinate, according to his father—that knowledge of the future interfered with both human will and fate. Even the wisest would find it difficult to make choices and decisions without
being influenced if he knew what the outcome was
supposed
to be.

He didn’t know if that belief would come back to haunt him, but he was not a man who altered his convictions to suit changing circumstances. Not even during the most unsettled periods of his life had Merlin broken his private vow and gazed into the future for answers.

“You probably think I’m mad,” Tremayne muttered after Merlin’s silence had stretched into minutes.
“She
thinks I’m mad. And why shouldn’t she? Why shouldn’t you? I’m beginning to have doubts about it myself.”

Merlin shook his head. “No. I don’t think you’re mad, but I do think you’ve chosen a difficult path. Perhaps even more so than you realize.”

“What do you mean?”

The first intervention had been accidental, Merlin reminded himself; he hadn’t really stopped to consider the possible consequences of his saving Roxanne’s life, at least not until it was too late to worry about it. But if he went on now, if he did anything at all to help or encourage Tremayne to believe that his desire for a female wizard could be resolved happily, then the intercession would be a deliberate one.

Not only that, but Merlin knew he was running another kind of risk in telling Tremayne what had happened to Roxanne. In most primitive (and many so-called advanced) cultures, the woman was blamed for the crime committed against her, and was almost always afterward considered “spoiled” and completely unacceptable by other men. If Tremayne felt that way, he would certainly turn away from Roxanne, no matter how much he had wanted her.

Merlin had to weigh the possible benefit of Tremayne’s knowing what had happened (influencing how he would likely approach a woman who had been so terribly hurt by males) against the risk of his blaming and rejecting her because of what had been done to her. Merlin’s instincts told him Tremayne was not stupid, irrational, or insensitive enough to do that, but he couldn’t be sure he was right about it.

Christ, he couldn’t be sure about
any
of it—and the future was at stake. How much could he risk when there was no way to be certain whether he was right? And if he did take the risk of interfering, was it even possible for him to advocate something that made his own deepest instincts cry out in alarm?

How can you convince him we can coexist peacefully when you don’t really believe it yourself?

Because he had to. For the sake of the future, he had to. And for the sake of the terrifyingly fragile bond still connecting him and Serena. These days away from her had convinced him of one thing beyond doubt—that she occupied a place in his life and in himself nothing else would ever be able to fill. He felt half alive without her, incomplete, and their awkward leave-taking had left him with an aching sense of loss.

Lose Serena? The possibility of that stirred in him emotions even stronger and fiercer than those created by an ancient taboo. No, he couldn’t lose her. He had to find a way. Not to merely coexist with her, but to tear down the wall primitive fears and mistrusts had raised between them and build a true and lasting bond with her. He needed that, though until this moment he hadn’t realized it.

His hesitation lasted only an instant, though it seemed much longer. Turning his thoughts with difficulty away from Serena and obeying his instincts about the other man, Merlin quietly told Tremayne about how he and Serena had found Roxanne that first morning. He didn’t go into detail about her condition, but what little he said made it very clear what she had gone through at the hands of powerless rapists.

“I tried to heal more than her body, setting the pain and trauma at a distance for her, but it isn’t something she’s ever going to forget,” he told Tremayne. “Even if she doesn’t blame you personally for the situation the male wizards here have created, I doubt that she’ll feel very … agreeable toward any man.”

Tremayne didn’t say a word. He was utterly still, apparently gazing out over the valley below as if the view
interested him. He didn’t even appear to notice when Merlin eased away from him.

With half the length of the terrace between them, Merlin stopped and watched the younger wizard with the wary gaze of a bomb expert handed a ticking package. He saw Tremayne’s aura become visible, a shimmering halo that was at first different colors but quickly turned an angry red.

What he was seeing was anger, rage. And Merlin knew better than to intrude while the powerful emotions ran their course. Though Master wizards never displayed their auras, simply because they had learned to control all aspects of their inborn power, lesser wizards sometimes allowed their emotions to overwhelm them. Tremayne’s fury over what had happened to Roxanne was perfectly understandable, and Merlin sympathized, but there was nothing he could do to make it easier for the younger man.

He stood by silently, waiting, and when white-hot threads of energy escaped Tremayne’s aura like a shower of sparks and rained down on the garden below the terrace, Merlin instantly doused the tiny flames ignited. He was careful not to allow his own energy to touch the younger wizard’s, saving them both a nasty jolt, and kept a wary eye turned toward the house because he hoped he wouldn’t have to explain this to his host.