The Last Guardian of Everness (War of the Dreaming 1) (21 page)

Azrael’s astonishment grew as they all settled around a small table to eat, the peasant with the rest of them, and, more astonishingly, the peasant was given a place closer to the salt shaker than was Azrael.

He had been waiting to dine, for there was a fireplace at the smaller end of the large room they were in. The fireplace seemed too small to cook in, and there were no hooks for kettles, but Azrael was impatient to look upon the shape and spirit of fire again; it could tell him more, and more swiftly, than many other forms of divination.

But he was disappointed. They cooked their meal atop a metal box filled with lightning; the lightning was made to course in the sign of the Labyrinth, the spiral that guards the boundary between light and dark, and made a flameless heat to cook upon. Azrael thought then, for certain, that these people had discovered him and were merely toying with him. Why else would they go to such elaborate precautions to deny him sight of a fire?

His suspicions rested when he ate the dinner itself; it was the first meal he had eaten (save for raw fish) in countless turnings of the heavens.

The plates were round as the moon and as fair and fairly made as anything Azrael had ever seen, but without a spot of decoration or glint of gold to add luster to them. Meat was served, even though, to Azrael’s memory, the calendar did not show a holiday; and fresh fruit, even though, to Azrael’s eye, it seemed to be early wintertime outside.

Fair and fine as that dinner was, however, there were no bond maidens or cupbearers to wait on any of them, nor were there dogs to take the scraps. The lares, or hobgoblins of the house, must have put these people under a strict oath, since when he threw his scraps on the floor, the people made much ado, telling him he must have done it by accident (“spilled” was the word they used) and bent to clean it right away with torn segments of paper from a scroll. Why they should do such insult to the scroll, or from what library of an enemy it had been taken, was beyond Azrael’s power to divine. He did not see the paper clearly but saw it had a pattern of flowers laboriously inscribed into it, over and over: work it would have taken monks years to illuminate.

But when they took all their scraps and waste and put them into a lidded vessel, it became clear: they feared to be hexed by some foe who might poison them by drawing runes on bones their lips had touched, and so had to dispose of the bones with such care and expense. Again, he reminded himself not to underestimate these folk.

By now Azrael was impatient to begin his work. He had made many small and large mistakes during the meal, and their hesitations and searching looks showed that even the pretense that his memory had been damaged during his illness was wearing thin.

The peasant took out a small white tube of paper and sucked on it, and then drew out a jewel and summoned fire out of the air. With the fire he burned the paper, and Azrael smelled incense, which the peasant inhaled. Azrael’s estimation of the whole evening was revised; the peasant, like many of his station, had clearly joined the priesthood. Thus he was forbidden to
carry weapons and was immune from the code of dueling; and he had achieved some sort of mastery of fire.

Azrael only had a chance to glance at the little flame before it was snuffed out. That glance was enough. First it told him the peasant was no kind of priest; he did not even have so much magic as an animal, no wards, no defenses. Second, the forces of the Empire of Night were moving against Everness this very evening. Third, that the fairy-girl and the Titan huntsman sent by Prometheus were at Everness even now. (How clever! While Azrael frittered away his time with these underlings, the forces of Oberon were maneuvering to consummate his defeat!) There was another creature at Everness, a being of great power, disguised as a priest. . . no, disguised as a doctor, who . . .

But then the flame was out, and the peasant was breathing incense through his nostrils.

Azrael stood and excused himself, saying he was very tired and that he wished to sleep. Galen’s mother escorted him to his room and spoke with him for a while. (She also was not warded, although signs told him she had spent at least one night asleep beneath the roof of Everness.)

She spoke for what seemed a long time. Azrael was not certain what this strumpet wanted, nor did he much care. But suddenly it came to him. Although she would not say it, she was asking his forgiveness. She blamed herself for leaving him in the care of Galen’s grandfather, causing, so she imagined, what she thought was insanity and sickness.

“Madame,” he said, “I am grateful that you abandoned me to Grand Pa’s care. It is true that the illness from which I have so recently recovered would not have occurred had you not left me there; you are wrong in thinking it has done me an ill turn. No, indeed, I am more pleased than I can say.”

She said, “You know, your father was always the one abandoning us, going away on tours of duty for months and years. I always thought we were especially close. But I have nothing to apologize for! He was so abusive to me, did you know that? Not physical, of course, he would never raise a hand to me, but mentally abusive. He never cared about your education like I did.
Your Grampa could afford such a fine school. It would look so good on your resumé. If you ever made up a resumé like I’ve been telling you.”

Azrael could not follow the thrust of these ramblings. He guessed that her assertion she need not apologize meant the opposite; he assumed Peter’s lack of beatings had spoiled her; he was pleased she recognized the education Galen’s grandfather could give.

Then insight came. This woman, unfaithful as she was, still loved and cared for her little boy, whose place Azrael had cruelly usurped. And who was he, with his black crimes behind him, and worse crimes still in contemplation, to judge a woman’s weakness? She had betrayed her lord, it was true, but what was that compared to the treason of Azrael?

He took her hands in his and bowed his head. “Perhaps there is forgiveness for all of us, my mother. I pray that it is so. For otherwise there is nothing but darkness ahead; darkness to cover us all.”

She rose, kissing the top of his bowed head. “Don’t be so gloomy! The positive-thinking book I read told me never to give up hope. I kept visualizing how you’d come home from the hospital and be well, and look! Now you’re back. Even if your father doesn’t care about you, I’m glad you’re back. Get some sleep!”

And she walked out.

He had seen the lines on the palms of her hands as he held them, and he knew, beneath all her complaint and idle talk, that she dearly loved her son, a boy who was, albeit many generations removed, Azrael’s son as well.

He blinked, and he wondered to find that the tears he had prophesied for this evening were his own.

III

Wilbur Randsom, was, in general, a happy man, happier than he deserved, he thought. At his age, he had never expected a young and pretty woman to love him. And, after the marriage, he never expected her to be so clever with
the checkbook and family finances. She was always thinking ahead, always shopping for the best deal, and she tried, and succeeded, to make his life comfortable, pleasant, and happy.

Only a few things marred that happiness. One was the hulking brute who formed her ex-husband. Wil should have known a woman like Emily was too good a catch not to have other men interested in her, including her ex. Another blemish was her lunatic son. Wil tried his best to make sure that no one ever guessed how much he loathed the gawking, mumbling, shy, and dreamy figure of Galen slouching around the house, or how much he rejoiced when the kid was shipped off to the grandfather.

But he never showed it. No, Wil always treated the kid with a friendly older-brother heartiness he was sure hid his true feelings. There was nothing he didn’t do for that kid. Wil was sure everyone was fooled.

If the kid knew how he felt, the sullen anger and distaste that hung about the kid like a bad smell would be justified, but since he didn’t, it wasn’t. The kid was just unfair. A spoiled brat. Which justified, Wil thought, Wil’s hatred of him.

As Wil was coming back from the bathroom, not five minutes after Galen had excused himself to go to sleep (when he obviously wasn’t tired, the little liar), he heard the noise of argument and rancor building up in the den at the end of the hall. Emily’s voice was shrill, growing toward shouts, and Peter’s sarcastic grunts were swelling with it like counterpoint.

At that point, Wil was even with Galen’s bedroom, and a line of light was showing under the door. It wasn’t that he was a coward; it was just that Wil wanted to avoid a scene like the last one. Besides, it was a good time to go in and say hello to the boy.

“Hey, sport! How ya been, boy? You asleep in there . . .uh. . .”

It seemed for a moment as if Galen were asleep in midair, armored knights made of silvery light to either side of him, in some vast presence- chamber made all of moonlight and shadows, whose pale roof, carven with images of crescent moons and many-rayed stars, was upheld by mighty silver pillars, and whose wide windows and balconies opened out onto a wild,
wide sea; an ocean made of shadow and silver waves. Only Galen, fully clothed, sleeping with his head toward Wil, atop a four-poster bed, had color.

Then Wil realized he was looking at the mirror that had been on the back of the closet door, now propped up above the Galen’s bed, covered with lines and shadings in some white crayon. It was a delicate, complex drawing, all in perfect perspective, like an architect’s conceptual plan. Galen was on his bed, atop his covers, his head toward the door, eyes closed, arms crossed, so that his reflection was perfectly framed in the line drawing of the four-poster hovering in the glass above him.

And yet, for a long, strange moment, Wil was convinced the figure on the bed before him was the reflection, and that the figure reclining on the four-poster was the reality.

Galen opened his eyes.

IV

Wil shrank back, startled by the look in Galen’s immobile face. Galen said nothing but looked at him with a cold, majestic contempt that went beyond mere hatred.

Wil, having quailed under that gaze, could not allow himself to simply back out without saying anything. Wil straightened and forced a friendly grimace onto his face. “Hey there, fellow! Feeling better, huh? I’ll bet we are.”

Galen had not moved a muscle, but his cold eyes bored into Wil’s.

“Look, sonny boy, you know I didn’t mean what I said out there at the dinner table, right? That was just all in fun. Just because your Dad can’t take a joke . . .”

Silence.

“Hey, ha ha, neat drawing. I didn’t know you could do something like
that. Looks like a room in your grandpa’s house, you know? One of those funky, weird rooms.”

“It is the chamber of middle dreaming, in the dominion of Hermes the Herald, under Capricorn, in the northern wing of the High House of Everness. You shall not speak ill of it before any image of it; all such images have power. The world shall see that I am oathbound to rebuke those who dishonor my house; I have done so.” And he lapsed into his calm, dark silence once more.

“Hey, look, pal. I mean, I’m sorry.”

“I accept your apology; I shall take what wergild shall suit me at the time of my own choosing. The world shall see that he has consented.”

Wil had the strange feeling that Galen was talking to someone else. Wil realized that Galen had finally cracked, that the hospital stay had unhinged him. It gave Wil a feeling of pleasure and relief; now he could get Emily to finally agree to cart the kid off to an institution, where he belonged.

So now he smiled a sharp, hard smile, self-possession restored, and put his hand on the doorknob. “Galen, I really didn’t mean to wake you up, boy. Sorry.”

“I accept again. A second wergild shall I take when so I will, as the world sees.”

“Yeah, uh. But I didn’t think you could really fall asleep so quick. I wish I could conk off that quick, you know? But you get some shut-eye . . .”

“I grant you your wish!” And Galen, with a kick of his legs, vaulted upright, off the bed. He stepped forward and took Wil by the elbow in a surprisingly strong grip. Galen’s unblinking gaze never wavered from Wil’s own.

“Hey, uh . . .”

Wil was pulled forward into the square of moonlight falling through the window. Galen had drawn a five-pointed star on the glass with a white crayon; the pentagonal shadow fell across Wil’s chest and face as he was pulled forward.

“Stare into the Moon,” said Galen in a low, commanding tone, pointing
to where the full moon hung above shadowy trees, in the perfect center of the five lines of the pentagram. “Do you see it?”

“Yes . . .,” muttered Wil, his eyes wide and blank.

“Her secret name is Sulva, and she is the queen of all night-magic, dreams, delusions, and shadow creatures. Have you never wondered at her sterility, her barren, airless plains of ash, her seas of frozen lava slag? What sin was done by the Adam and the Eve of that pale world that has been so much more severely punished than our own? Even the light reflected from her cold face brings madness. How much worse to walk her lifeless steppes and granite peaks? Yet I have flown there on a storm wind to wrest the five secret names which govern all lesser dreaming from the Black Masters of Uhnuman the Blind Ones serve. Behold this pentagram! Here is the gate to lesser dreaming; here the five names!”

Galen pointed in turn at each of the angles of the star, whose white lines seemed to glow and shiver with the moonlight Wil stared into. “Morpheus! Phantasmos! Somnus! Oneiros! Hypnos! Each crown governs an aspect of the dreaming. Here is Morpheus, who casts instantly into sleep those caught within his web, as you are now instantly asleep, as you have wished.

“Here is Phantasmos, who robs the judgment and makes all strange images seem familiar. Thus, nothing I do or ask shall seem odd or unfamiliar to you. You are convinced all things are as normal.

“Here is Somnus, who governs men’s motive humors that they may not walk abroad while sleeping, whose power I now suspend. You are a somnab- ulator; talk and walk and move as if you were awake.