Among the Powers (8 page)

No, he dared not ask for more in regard to
Lady Sunlight, but a twinge in his belly reminded him of another
concern.

“Well,” he said, “if you have anything to
eat, I’m awfully hungry.”

Geste smiled. Oh, he thought to himself, he
did love these poor people they had found on Denner’s Wreck! They
were so full of surprises. He supposed it had something to do with
the brevity and simplicity of their lives; they didn’t have the
time to fall into firmly-fixed patterns, or the need to close out
most of their environment in order to be able to handle its
complexities. They could come up with the most astonishing
non
sequiturs
. And their lack of material resources kept the basic
survival urges always near the surface.

“Of course,” he said, “I’m sure that I can
give you something that will help.” He made the sign for
acquiescence to another’s wishes with one hand, and the sign for
descent with the other.

His command floater, still invisible,
produced a foil-wrapped packet of concentrate from somewhere. It
fell into Geste’s waiting palm as the platform sank gently to a few
centimeters above the ground.

Bredon stepped back warily as the platform
brought Geste down nearly to his own level, but forced himself to
stop after that single step.

“Here,” Geste said, offering a gleaming
blue-silver packet.

Bredon accepted it gingerly, then stared at
it, puzzled.

“It’s food. You peel the wrapper off,” Geste
explained. “It tears easily and comes off, like the skin of an
orange.”

“A what?” Bredon looked up.

“A fruit. Here, climb up on the platform and
I’ll show you.”

“On the platform?” Bredon eyed the floating
surface doubtfully.

“Yes, on the platform.” Geste tapped it with
the toe of one slipper. “Lady Sunlight isn’t home just now, and if
I know her, if I call ahead she’ll arrange not to be anywhere I
call. It’s much harder to not be there if we go in person, however,
so we’ll have to go find her, and the easiest way to do that is for
you to climb up on the platform and save me the trouble of finding
you any more elaborate transportation. Besides, I don’t want to
stoop, or step down and get my shoes all dirty, so if you want me
to show you how to eat that thing, you’ll have to get up on the
platform.”

Still reluctant, but unwilling to admit it,
Bredon stepped forward. The platform’s top hung at roughly the
height of his knees. He hesitated, then put one foot up, expecting
it to give beneath his weight.

It did not yield at all. It was as solid as
a stone ledge, firmer than the floor of his parents’ house.

Startled, he picked up his other foot and
nearly lost his balance when the platform still remained absolutely
motionless. He
knew
it was floating unsupported on air,
despite what his first step had told him, and he had unconsciously
adjusted for a sinking, like that of a small boat or a well-sprung
wagon, that never came.

He recovered quickly, and found himself
standing on the platform beside the Trickster. His breath caught as
he found himself looking
down
at a Power, mere centimeters
away. The top of Geste’s head was even with his own jaw.

From this angle it was easier than ever to
think of Geste as a man, not an invulnerable, supernatural
being.

But that was wrong, he reminded himself.
Geste was
not
a mortal man, but one of the Powers that ruled
the world. He could be anything he chose; that he chose to look
harmless simply meant he was not to be trusted.

“Here, let me show you,” Geste said,
reaching for something.

Startled, Bredon looked down and discovered
that the mysterious packet was still clutched tightly in his right
hand. He had completely forgotten it, absorbed as he was in
boarding the flying platform and seeing Geste close up.

He held it out. Geste took it and neatly
tore open one end.

Steam swirled out, though the packet had
felt cool in his hand, and a rich, savory odor filled Bredon’s
nostrils. Geste handed the packet back to him; he stared at it in
wonder, then cautiously lifted it to his face.

The smell was irresistable. He took a bite
of the brown gel inside the foil.

He had never tasted anything even remotely
like it. He had no words to describe the taste, nothing he could
compare it to. It was warm, spicy, meaty, with an oily texture that
seemed to vanish into dry crumbliness in his mouth.

It was absolutely delicious, and only after
he had devoured every last trace did he pause to ask, “What did I
just eat?”

Geste glanced at the empty wrapper before
tossing it up into the air, where it vanished with a brief flicker
of white light.

“Michaud’s Delectation #3, Burgundy style,”
he said.

“What’s Mish... Misho’s Delegation #3?”

“What you just ate.”

Bredon was not satisfied by this answer, but
before he could ask anything more, Geste said, “I’ll take care of
those injuries, if you like.”

“Injuries?” Bredon was sincerely startled;
he had already forgotten the various scrapes and bruises, which
were far less serious than he could expect to receive any time he
went after big game.

“Yes, the bruises on your nose, and those
cuts, and that shoulder looks stiff, the way you’re holding it.
Here, take my hand.”

Cautiously, Bredon reached out and took
Geste’s right hand in his own.

A strange tingling sensation brushed lightly
across his palm, and then vanished.

“There,” Geste said, smiling. “That should
take care of it; I’ve put a whole microscopic repair crew in your
bloodstream.”

Bredon had no idea what he was talking
about, but thought better of inquiring.

For one thing, he had just noticed that the
platform had not remained still while he ate, and while Geste did
whatever it was he had done to Bredon’s hand.

He had felt no motion, no acceleration, but
when Bredon looked down he saw that they were flying over the
grasslands, a dozen meters above the ground, so fast that the land
beneath was a blur.

They were streaking westward, toward the
mountains, and moving so swiftly that the mountains were growing
perceptibly larger with each passing instant.

Not only that, but the soreness in his
shoulder was dissolving, and his nose had suddenly stopped hurting;
he had no longer been consciously aware of any pain, but its abrupt
cessation certainly registered. A tentative touch found no
tenderness at all, in either his nose or his shoulder. He glanced
at his left arm where he had scraped it on a root and saw the red
marks fading away, as were all his other injuries, major or
minor.

He blinked, blinked again, and then turned
away and simply watched the scenery flying by; he was too
frightened to ask any more questions.

Besides, he knew that if he did ask, his
voice would tremble, and he refused to give Geste the satisfaction
of knowing how frightened he was.

“
The Lady of the Seasons spends every year in
search of her lover—though who that lover might be differs
depending on who tells the tale, I fear, for the facts are not
known to those of us condemned to someday die. Some say that it’s
Geste the Trickster, whose wandering soul cannot be held even by
the love of a Power greater than himself. Others maintain that it’s
Rawl the Adjuster, and that his sense of justice drives him forth
for three seasons each year, to correct the wrongs of mankind and
to return only during those bright wakes of spring when all’s right
with the world. Still others say that it’s not one lover she wants,
but many, and mortal—that each year she picks anew, but that those
she chooses cannot survive her attentions for long.

“
Whatever the truth is, in the summer she dwells
in the north, holding back the cold and wind, waiting patiently for
her love to return. When he comes not, and she grows angry at his
dawdling, she moves to her western home, and her rage blasts the
leaves from the trees, withers the crops, and drives the sun away,
bringing autumn upon us.

“
When her fury can no longer be sustained she
yields to despair and flees to the south, where she can weep
unseen, and the whole world lies cold and dead beneath unchecked
winter.

“
And there, at last, her love finds her again,
and takes her to their bower in the east, where their love brings
springtime back to the land...”

—
from the tales of Kithen the
Storyteller

“Where are we?” Bredon asked shakily as the platform
finally slowed and began its descent. They had soared up across the
mountains, across peaks wrapped in snow despite the lingering
summer, across heights Bredon had never imagined and drops—into
canyons, over cliffs, down rubble-strewn slopes—that he had only
considered in his worst nightmares. He had lived his entire life on
the plains; to be able to look down at treetops, without so much as
a railing between himself and kilometers of empty space, was
terrifying—but oddly exhilarating, as well.

Most strange and wonderful of all, he had
felt not the slightest gust of wind or change in temperature the
entire time. This dealing with Powers was an awesome thing.

“That’s Autumn House ahead,” Geste said,
pointing. “It’s just about the time of year when Sheila opens it
for the season, and I thought Sunlight might have come to help. She
often does. And if she hasn’t, Sheila still might know where
Sunlight is. If Sheila’s here, that is.”

Bredon followed the pointing finger and saw
a rambling structure that straggled down from a hilltop in a
succession of wings and terraces. Autumn House was larger than his
entire village. Even if Lady Sunlight were somewhere in it, he
thought, it might take hours to find her.

The prospect of seeing Lady Sunlight again,
of perhaps speaking to her, was, like the ride through the air,
both frightening and exhilarating. His memory of her beauty stirred
his lust for her anew, and he forced himself to stay calm and think
of other things. “Who is Sheila?” he asked, his voice a little
steadier this time.

“I believe you call her the Lady of the
Seasons,” Geste replied.

“Ah.” Even Bredon had, of course, heard of
her. She was a major Power, who lived in the east in the spring,
the north in summer, the west in autumn, and the south in winter.
She was said to control the weather, among other things; the spring
rains did not come until she had moved from south to east, the
grass did not turn brown until she had gone from north to west, and
so forth.

Bredon had always considered this to be
unlikely, but he had never argued the matter or come up with a
better explanation for the turning seasons. He had accepted the
Lady of the Seasons as a metaphor or a symbol, and had left the
question of her existence open.

It had never occurred to him that she might
not only exist, but would have a name, as well as a title, and he
would certainly never have guessed she might bear so simple a name
as Sheila.

Of course, that name might just be a
nickname Geste used.

It had also never occurred to Bredon that he
might someday meet her.

He was reminded again that he was here, in
mid-air, dealing with the Powers directly and familiarly—not just
people with mysterious powers, but
the
Powers. This was not
just
an immense mansion, it was the supposed home of autumn
itself. He stared at Autumn House for a moment longer, then stole a
glance at Geste.

Geste was whispering, though there was no
one on the platform save the two of them. Bredon thought for an
instant that Geste was talking to him, then that Geste was talking
to himself, and finally decided that he was talking to someone or
something that mere mortals could not see or hear, a familiar or
spirit of some sort.

“We could call ahead now and tell Sheila
we’re coming,” Geste said aloud. “And if Sunlight is here she
wouldn’t be able to slip away without our seeing her—at least, not
easily—but I think it should be fun to surprise them. I’ve arranged
for our approach to be silent and unheralded, no courtesy
announcements or alarms or anything. I haven’t done anything very
fancy, so I suppose the guards will spot us, but they know me, and
we shouldn’t have any trouble in just walking in.”

Bredon nodded. It was all the same to him,
however they approached. He had no idea what the proper protocol
might be, or what might best win Lady Sunlight’s favor; he was
simply following Geste’s lead. He was trusting the Trickster with
his life—but then, could the Lady of the Season’s guards be more
dangerous than flying through the air on an open platform? He had
already trusted himself to that.

Well, yes, he supposed they
could
be
more dangerous, but he was resolved to trust Geste.

The platform passed smoothly over the roof
of Autumn House and settled gently onto a broad stone-paved
terrace, a few meters away from a wide-open doorway. Bredon saw no
guards, nor any sign of life whatsoever. On two sides, the north
and south, he saw forested mountains in the distance and nothing
else. To the west he had a magnificent view of foothills tumbling
downward, row after row, and sinking at last into a vast, desolate
plain—not a grass-covered prairie like his home to the east, but a
golden expanse of wasteland. He was too far up to make out any
details.

On the fourth side, the east, stood the
stone and timber walls of Autumn House, broken by several large
openings into the dim interior.

The air around them, which had been utterly
still, was suddenly moving across them in a cool breeze.

“Come on,” Geste said, stepping off the
platform and beckoning.

Bredon, breathing deeply of the fresh
mountain air, followed the Trickster across the terrace and through
an open doorway into the largest, most luxurious room he had ever
seen.