Nor Iron Bars A Cage (21 page)

“Yes, sire. It will not be my first transference. I’m familiar with both theory and practice.”

The king waved at the military man to his left. “Go on up and guard the stairs now.” When the man had gone, King Faro looked around at us. “So now that we’re here and we beat darkmoon, if only by a few hours, it’s time to make plans. We will of course send scouts out tonight across the area, and man the watch-tower. If the R’gin come through in the dark tonight they’ll need torches or lanterns. We’ll keep watch for any light in the hills.”

“If I were them, I’d wait till morning for exactly that reason,” a man in colonel’s insignia said. “If they’re even coming at all. I’d start pushing through at first light.”

“Yes. And they may also. Or they may have started coming through today. We’ll use bigger mounted patrols tomorrow. But it’s my mages’ hope that we can pinpoint the location more precisely.”

“By calling the ghost?”

“That, at least.” The king nodded to Firstmage.

“We’ll call the ghost and question him again,” the old man said. “We’ll show him maps, and a couple of drawings of the mountains, and try to induce him to mark the location of the tunnel for us. But the hillpeople don’t use maps and never have. If he can’t or won’t give us the information, we have one more resort to try. We will do a transference.”

“A what?” the colonel asked.

A cold feeling started in the pit of my stomach. According to Meldov, there were things that could be done with ghosts besides confining and questioning them. None were simple, and few ended well for either party. He’d never given me the details.

Secondmage spoke up. “In a transference, the ghost entity, the consciousness if you will, is sent into the mind of one of his summoners. For a day and a night, the ghost shares his body and speaks directly to him.”

“What happens after the day and night?”

“We use the spell to banish the ghost, performed at daybreak. The ghost is usually quite weakened by then anyway. The process drains its strength. This is a technique of last resort, because once banished the ghost is gone forever. You can only do it once.”

“You’re crazy if you do it at all!” I only realized I’d spoken when everyone stared at me.

Firstmage said, “I have practice with this spell, young man. It’s delicate and powerful work, but I’ve carried two different ghosts myself. If it’s done right, there’s nothing to fear.”

And if it’s not done right? They were crazy to even think of it!
I kept silent with an effort, but couldn’t help sidling toward the stairs. Tobin moved to keep his shoulder against mine.

Secondmage said, “I will carry the ghost, should it be necessary. Of course, we hope that it isn’t, but if we can’t get the information we need by questioning, I’ll stand ready.”

The general asked, “How much information will you get if you go through with this… transference? Will you know everything that the ghost knows? Can you lead us straight to that tunnel? If so, surely that’s worth simply doing without any delay, messing about with questions.”

“It’s not that straightforward,” Firstmage said. “If we do a transference, the spirit is housed within the host’s body for that brief period. There the ghost is safe from outside influences. It can’t be summoned away by another, cannot be harmed by daylight, and is tied to the host for the duration of the spell. However the ghost will merely speak to the host, mind to mind, much as they speak to us here. They share what knowledge they can be induced to share, a word at a time. It’s an extension of questioning, no more.”

“Then it’s just a way to ask more questions?” The general looked as disappointed as I was relieved to hear it.

“There’s no deep transfer of knowledge, no real touching of minds. Otherwise it might be done more often. Because it’s only an extension of questioning, it’s seldom considered worth the risk. In this case, however, to be able to walk the ghost outside in the daylight and show him the mountain landscape is worth trying. What he won’t or can’t identify on a map, he’ll surely recognize in real life.”

“What are the risks?”

“Few when it’s done right. The host could be overwhelmed by the presence of another entity speaking in his mind, or be confused, unable to do his part. Or even driven mad by the oddness of the situation. In this case, that isn’t a concern.” Firstmage gave Secondmage an approving nod. “Or the ghost’s strength may be too taxed to complete the spell without losing the spirit completely and permanently before the transference takes hold. The process is a strain on both sorcerer and ghost. That’s why this is a last resort. If we try it, and cannot bind Xan to Secondmage, we’ll have no more chances to speak with him.”

“No risk of having the ghost decide to stay in the host permanently?”

“No, not at all,” Firstmage said. “Ghosts are ephemeral. They don’t have that kind of power. Unless you’ve summoned a far different spirit, a ravager or wraith, one of the undead, then the biggest problem we have is keeping the ghost around long enough.”

“And we’re sure this ghost isn’t, um, those undead?”

“Positive.”

Firstmage turned to me. “Translator Lyon, if we perform the transference you’ll be required to stay close to Secondmage, since you alone speak Xan’s language. As the ghost speaks to him, Secondmage will render the sounds aloud as closely as he can, and you’ll have to translate. Then when we decide on the next question, you’ll have to render it in
tridescant
for his ears and hence the ghost’s.”

I blinked. “You mean, he’s going to take this ghost into his head and then not understand a word it says?” I didn’t know what the wraith’s first tongue had been, but when it spoke in my mind I’d understood each nuance of its thoughts. Of course, it had used more than simple words, with its hooks set deep in my thoughts. It had been no powerless passenger.

“Transference is very limited. The host only hears what the ghost chooses or is compelled to say. And vice versa. Any closer bonding of mind to spirit is an abomination.”

You can say that again.

I swallowed a surge of nausea and tried to be diplomatic. “I will of course help with any translation I can.” Even though the thought of a ghost in a man’s head made me feel like turning and running. “If Secondmage knows modern
tridescant
, then rendering the sounds of the older tongue shouldn’t be too hard.”

Secondmage shook his head slowly. “I know neither, but I’m skilled in several other languages.”

Tridescant was different though.
I said, “Perhaps it would be wiser to use a host who does at least know the modern version. There are sounds, inflections, the use of sliding pitch, that carry over from the old version to the new. There are three levels to that language— the phonemes, the rhythm, and the pitch. All of them carry meaning.”

“The host must be a sorcerer involved in the rite,” Firstmage said.

The king said, “Do any of you three speak the modern language at all? I know we had Doyd try it before, for fluency, but have you any skill with it?”

“I think you’ll find Secondmage quite capable.”

The translation by proxy idea sounded unwieldy and doomed to failure. I was the only person in the room, apparently, with the language skills needed to effectively host this spirit. I’d rather die first.
Would Tobin expect me to step up and volunteer to help with this madness? Would the king?
I said, “I’ll do my very best with the translations, then.”

There was a pause, as I looked at my feet and hoped fervently that I was imagining their eyes on me. Finally the king said, “So we have a course of action. Patrols are already out. Those of us in this room will meet here again, an hour after sunset, for the summoning. You’re all free until then.”

I didn’t run for the stairs, but I did walk fast. At the top of the steps, one of the King’s Own was waiting. He said, “Translator Lyon? The king has assigned a room for you here in the tower. And for Voice Tobin, of course. He wants to house everyone he needs close at hand.”

I turned toward the main tower door anyway. Outside, the late afternoon sun gilded the long grass. I could smell the cookfires burning, and hear the murmur of soldiers. The guard gestured away from the door toward the stairs, and Tobin bumped against my shoulder lightly. I turned and followed the guard.

He led us up six flights, and then into a short curved corridor, opening the first door on the left. “The tower’s small, and this is what’s available.” The room behind the door was very cramped, with one curved wall, a small window, room for the narrow bed and not much more.

Tobin said, “Better than a patch of dirt in a field. Thank you.”

The guard gave him a little salute and went out. As soon as he was gone I rounded on Tobin. “Did you know what they were planning? This transference insanity?”

He raised both hands, “Lyon, come on, how could I have known? What do I know about sorcerers? If anyone could have expected that twist, it would have been you.”

“The king tells you things.”

“His sorcerers don’t. And His Majesty has been far too busy to be giving me updates.”

“It’s madness. Inviting a ghost into your mind!” I whirled away to stare out the window. It was so narrow and deeply recessed that it showed only a tiny slice of the world outside— a patch of grass, half of a grazing horse, a slice of sky. Narrow enough that no one could come in. It didn’t make me feel safe.

“Firstmage seemed pretty confident it would work.” Tobin hesitated, then asked, “Is it something you’ve heard of, this transference?”

“No. Although I was still in the early stages of my education when, when Meldov was lost.”
And also when he died. Six months later.

“This sounds different from what you, um, described.”

“Yes.”

“More limited”

“Yes.”

“So it could be safe.”

“He’s going to have a thousand year old ghost in his head. In what way does that sound safe?”

“Well, if it’s just for a day. With nothing more than conversation.”

…the dense, smothering feel of the wraith’s thoughts as it spoke to me, eager, wanting, hungry— “Say yes…”

“It was far more than conversation for me.”
My hand rising without my control, against my desperate will, to slip the open cuff off my wrist…
I took a deep breath and reminded myself that the wraith was long destroyed. Well, long gone, definitely… I leaned into the window. There was no glass in it, and the smell of the wind carried heather and grass and woodsmoke to my nose. I took another breath.

Tobin sighed. “I’m a simple man. I don’t understand sorcery. If my king and Firstmage tell me it will work, my place is to stand behind them.”

“I’ve never been one to take orders.” I liked to know the whys and wherefores, to question and doubt and test things out. The mark of a true sorcerer, Meldov had once said. Although he’d added,
“Or a true librarian.”
He’d claimed the difference was the courage and will to make the bold experiments. Something I’d clearly lost along the way. I didn’t want to see this experiment happen, ever, to anyone.

I asked, “Tobin, what is it you see in me? Besides the old friend who kept you from falling through Widow Baker’s roof?”

“I don’t know what you’re asking. You’re my friend.”

I shook my head roughly. “That’s no explanation.” I turned to face him, putting the rough stone of the tower at my back. “Look at you. You’re strong and patient and kind, and brave. I’m such a coward that I can barely get through each day. I’m useless, a sorcerer who won’t do sorcery, a fay man who won’t… I’m a librarian. Not even that, because if a patron came to ask me where to find a book, I’d probably hide behind the desk.”

“There’s nothing wrong with librarians. I like a good book. But there’s more to you than that.” Tobin reached out to lay his hand against my cheek, his rough palm warm and steady. “Sure, you’d been hurt until you hid inside your stone walls and iron bars. But you were winning your way back, even before I came. You replaced bars with glass, and started going to town.”

“Baby steps that took me fifteen years!”

“And look at you now. I asked you for help, and here you are, speaking with kings and hobnobbing with the most powerful sorcerers in the land, riding badly-named horses, and letting me kiss you.” He did so, a swift peck. “And kissing me back.” He waited, and I wanted to kiss him, more than I wanted to prove him wrong.

But when our mouths separated, after a long satisfying moment, I said, “There has to be something more. You protect me and help me and keep me going.”
And make me feel, make me want, when I thought that was gone forever.
“What do I do for you?”

“You make me see,” Tobin said. “You always have. When we climbed a tree as boys, I’d rejoice at how high up we were, but you were the one who’d look out beyond the branches and see some tower, or a bird soaring in the sky, or a woman burying something in her yard. And you’d show me, and make up a story about it. Or speculate.
What’s she burying? Could it be money? Perhaps her husband drinks, and she has to keep their money hidden. Or her ne’er-do-well son is coming to town, and might steal it.
A hundred explanations you had sometimes, and each more fanciful than the last, and yet with a grain of sense.”

“I talked a lot.”

“Well, yes. But I liked it. You made me look beyond the immediate thing to the larger world, to a realm of possibilities. I liked that.”

“And now?”

“And now? You still do. With your talk of languages and cultures, of books and sorcery. Worlds I know nothing of.”

“You’ve traveled far more.”

“If you’d been with me, I’d have seen all those places better. I thought of you sometimes, when I was far afield, and tried to imagine what you’d have noticed.”

“I’ve done almost nothing in my life.”

“You survived. You overcame darkness. You sacrificed and won your freedom. And then you recovered enough to find your way back.” He kissed me and said, “Also in the meantime you got damned pretty.”

“I’ll show you pretty.” I bit his lip, and then his neck, hard enough to leave a mark.

He laughed. “Desirable. Fine. Strong.” He fended me off and kissed my throat, and then my chest. “Edible.” He slid down my front to his knees. The friction of his body down mine was sweet pain.