Sorcerer's Son (39 page)

He had begun with virgin ore, the greater part gold, with a small admixture of silver for hardness. He had smelted the two together, poured the molten metal into a pair of clay molds and then soaked the resulting circlets in an acid bath before filing, polishing, and buffing them to a mellow luster. His meticulous notes showed the painstaking precision of the process, and the magical essence which had been imbued at every stage, with words and gestures and particularly with every stroke of file, emery, and rouge.

His brazier was ready, packed with coals glowing fitfully with ruddy light. At Gildrum’s instruction, he had put out the original fire lit by her finger and started a fresh, unmagical one with flint and steel. He set the arm ring upon it and the finger ring on his own hand. He had never worn a ring before, and the tiny weight felt odd to him, as if some small animal clutched at his finger, a spider sitting there with legs clasping his flesh. He covered the ring-bearing finger with his other hand and began the chant that would summon his servant.

So hypnotized was he by the steady rhythm of his own words that he did not notice at first that the flames of the brazier leaped yellow before him, sputtering in a column that rose a full arm’s length from the center of the arm ring. He had expected more, a pillar that would brush the ceiling at least, but when it remained diminutive, pulsing like a living heart caught fast by the circle of the ring, he ceased his chant, and with his arms outflung, he cried, “Take your earthly form! I command it!”

The flame wavered and shrank till it seemed no more than a burning twig lying upon the coals, and then it solidified into a creature no larger than a twig, than a flower stem. It stood upright within the ring, mantislike with jointed limbs and large-eyed head; its greenish skin was covered with stubby thorns. Beneath its feet, the coals glowed red and flameless.

It said, “My lord.”

“Inscribe your name upon the ring,” commanded Cray.

In a tiny, crackling voice, the creature said, “It is done.”

Among the coals, Cray could see the spidery script taking form upon the inner surface of the armlet. He pulled his own ring off to confirm that it was there, too. He read the name Yra. He slipped the ring back on. “Welcome to Ringforge, Yra,” he said. “Now I have a question for you, and you must not rest until you have found me the answer.”

“Speak, my lord,” it said, and Cray wondered if the sound came from the tiny throat or from the movement of the serrated legs, like insect chirping.

“You must discover me the name and house of my father, whether he is alive now, and where I may find him.”

“It shall be done, my lord.”

“Go.”

The creature turned back to flame and melted to nothing like golden sunlight before a cloud.

With a long-handled pair of tongs, Cray removed the armlet from the brazier and set it upon the slate surface of the table. He passed his hand above it, and when he felt no radiant heat, he touched the metal and found it merely warm. After inscribing Yra’s name in the appropriate notebook, he dropped the arm ring into a drawer; he contemplated it there, before shutting it away from his sight, wondering if any other ring would ever lie beside it. He felt that the end of his quest—and a portion of his life—was imminent, and though he had felt that way before and been disappointed, he could not resist the sense of elation that made his heart beat hard in his breast and his hand shake a trifle where it rested on the lip of the drawer.

Gildrum brought him dinner, and he said nothing to her of his afternoon’s work. Nor did she ask, but he guessed that she could read excitement in his eyes and that she must know what had transpired; the sconce-demons, at least, would have told her what they had seen.

Later, Cray lay upon his bed, sleepless, staring at his reflection in the ceiling. He watched himself finger his beard, toss his head from side to side, twist and turn upon the sheets, seeking some comfortable position. At last he arose, and there in his bedchamber he commanded his servant to appear.

It came as a flame again, a yellow teardrop shape, burning silently in the middle of the air, shedding no heat. Even the sconces seemed brighter.

“Have you found my answer yet, Yra?” Cray demanded.

In the crackling whisper of flame, it replied, “My lord, I am small and weak. The task you have set me will take time.”

“How much time?”

“I cannot say, my lord. I am doing my best.”

“Of course you are. Continue, Yra, and report to me the instant you have the information.”

“Yes, my lord.” The flame shrank immediately to a pinpoint and vanished.

Still, Cray could not sleep, so he fetched the sword and shield from their cabinet and spent the remainder of the night beheading invisible enemies. Gildrum found him so, sweating and panting, when she brought him breakfast. She stood by while he ate, and more than once he fancied she was about to speak, but apparently she thought better of it and held off. She left, as she had come, in silence, and for all the rest of that long day she did not come near him save to bring him food. He could not have spoken to her if she had, for his mind was a-rush with anxiety, and every beat of his heart was a club striking his flesh, every flicker of sconce-flame a knife blade feinting toward his throat. He could not sit still, he could not pace the floor. He began a thousand tasks and put each aside unfinished. Even sword and shield could not divert him now, as he marked endless time with the singing of his nerves.

That night, haggard and red-eyed, he hunched over his desk, scribbling aimlessly, correcting notes that were already accurate, elaborating drawings that were already sufficient. His hand could hardly hold the pen, his script was nigh illegible and the drawing no better, but he could hardly tell, for his vision swam with the light and dark of exhaustion. Once, he looked at himself in the mirrored wall, and the face he saw so close to his own was alien to him, tired, old. He shook his head sharply to clear the vision, but the image remained, for it was a true picture of himself. He shut his eyes to blot it out, and he could scarcely open them again; he felt heavy with years, with hope, with desperation. The sconce lights danced about him, and he found himself peering from one to another, trying to determine which was the creature he commanded. He asked his question of them, his voice slurred beyond comprehensibility, and when none answered, he groaned and slammed his fist against the desk. He rose, tumbling the chair backward, and staggered to the center of the room and stood there, surrounded by all his selves. He raised his arms above his head, though they seemed weighted with steel.

“Tell me!” he shouted. “Tell me!”

And then the steel was too much for him, and he sagged beneath it. The floor was hard against his knees, his hip, his shoulder. His hand struck the floor with a loud clack—the ring, gold against bronze. He rolled over onto his back, crusty eyes blinking dimly. At last even that effort was too great, and he let his lids shut. He slept.

He woke in bed and knew that Gildrum had carried him there. A covered meal waited on the desk; a bowl of rich stew, fresh bread and butter—it had the look of supper. By that and the emptiness of his stomach, he guessed that he had slept till evening, though without a window he could not confirm that guess with a glance at the sky. Nor did he care. Whatever the time might be beyond the walls of Ringforge, his morning would come with his demon.

As the stew soothed his growling stomach, he realized that his anxiety was gone. He felt himself suspended in time and space, without future or past, only an unpredictable present; he existed only to see the yellow flame of his servant, nothing else mattered. He had no responsibilities, no desires, no thoughts until that moment. He could not even summon the concentration to call the demon to him; he could only wait. He lay down after eating, and he floated like a leaf upon the sea, bobbing in and out of shallow slumber, thinking nothing.

And his calm was rewarded.

The crackling whisper brought him to full consciousness.

“My lord, I have your answer.”

Cray sat up slowly, staring at the butter-yellow flame of his servant. The words he had needed to hear fell on his ears like the tolling of a huge bell. He shivered suddenly, feeling a wild impulse to flee. Confronted with the imminence of truth, he found himself shrinking from it. Too many years had passed, too much effort, too much sorrow. Abruptly, he saw the truth as a burden. He had always thought it would free him; now he realized that it would bind him instead. Deep within his breast a voice cried out that as long as he didn’t know, he couldn’t suffer more than he had already.

He bent his knees up to his chest and clasped them with both arms. He wished, for a moment, that his mother could be near to hold him tight. He dug his fingers into the flesh of his own arms to reassure himself that he was truly awake, that this experience, that these feelings were not simply part of a nightmare. His voice was very low when he said, “Tell me.”

The demon replied, “Your father is Lord Smada Rezhyk of Ringforge.”

Cray felt himself blanch. “What?”

“Smada Rezhyk, master of Ringforge, my lord.”

“That’s not possible.”

“Yes, it is, my lord. There is no doubt. You are flesh of his flesh.”

“But how can it be?” He stared through the flame, eyes focused on nothing. “Rezhyk, the handsome young knight my mother loved? Never! He might have disguised his body, but never his heart. She knew him from years past; she would have recognized his coldness, his bleakness. She wouldn’t have let his outward appearance sway her

” His gaze was stark, and he shivered as he began to wonder how well he knew his mother after all. “Surely, she would have sensed magic in his semblance. Surely

” He turned to the nearest wall, focused on his own face, searched it for some aspect of Rezhyk. He had his mother’s features, chiseled to manhood but unmistakable. Of either Rezhyk or the young knight, there was no trace.

He looked back at the demon’s steady yellow flame. “There is no doubt at all?”

“None, my lord.”

“Why, then? Why did he father me?”

The flame fluttered at the edges, wisps dancing as on a ball of pitch alight. “My lord, the demon world is full of facts, and if one searches far enough, one can find them all. But motives are another thing apart. I cannot search inside a human heart.”

“Go then. I need you no longer.” And when the flame had winked out, Cray raised his voice to a shout: “Gildrum!”

She came too swiftly, as if she had been waiting nearby for his summons.

He directed the door to close behind her, sealing them alone together with their multitudinous reflections. “You knew,” he said tightly. “You knew all the time.”

She looked down at the floor and made no reply.

“No need to shrink from speaking, Gildrum. I have the truth now. I made my conjuration and formed a servant to bring me my answer.” He slid off the bed and padded, barefoot, to her, and he took her slim shoulders between his hands, as if she were a human girl, and he shook her hard. “Why did he do it, Gildrum? Why did he want a child? He hates me, I know it well; he has used me ill, Gildrum, not as the child of his flesh should be treated, and he has taught me nonsense and tried to divert me from a proper master to prevent me from knowing the truth. He will never claim me. Why do I exist, then?”

She let him shake her with a tightening grip that would at last have made a real human girl scream in pain. “Master Cray,” she murmured, “this is a subject which I may not discuss.”

“I would think not, Gildrum! It wasn’t me he wanted, was it? It was my mother. And the coward had to go to her disguised. Was he afraid to try in his own form, afraid she’d spurn him for the cold, unfeeling man he is? And so I am the fruit of his vile deception. When did he make the shirt, Gildrum—before or after he deceived her? After, was it? In case she should discover him and vent her anger?”

“Master Cray, I can tell you nothing.”

He pushed her away, and a real girl would have staggered and fallen from the force of the gesture, but Gildrum only stepped back lightly. Cray’s hands curled into fists, as if he would strike her, but he wheeled away instead, took two long strides, and stood rigid before the cabinet that held his belongings. In its bright surface, he saw his face, saw sweat streaming from his forehead, though the room was pleasantly cool. To the bearded man who was his weary self, he said, “And after Lord Rezhyk had slaked his passion with my mother, he left her, and left a false trail of death for her to find, just one more lie among the many he had given her. Perhaps he thought he was being kind.” He spat the words out now, like the bitter kernels that hid in the pits of sweet apricots. “Of course he dared not train me. He dared not let me learn the truth.” He raised his fists to the cabinet door and leaned his forehead upon them. “And you knew, Gildrum,” he rasped. “You knew. All these years, what have you thought of me?”

Very softly, she said, “I have thought that someday perhaps you would hate him as much as I do.”

He took a deep breath. “Hate? No. I am too empty for hate. I thought someday to give my mother the gift of her lover’s identity. But now

” He shook his head, eyes closed. “How can I give her this? How can I sully her memories with truth?” His fists loosened, and the fingers interlaced upon the brass. “Does he love her, Gildrum? Did he ever love her?”

She was silent a moment, and he thought that his question had trespassed on forbidden territory, but she answered at last: “I don’t know, Master Cray. I don’t think I understand human love.”

“You were his servant

when it happened. His oldest, his best

”

“Master Cray,” she said, “there is only one way you can find out what I know of those events. Give me my freedom, and I promise you I shall not keep anything from you.”

His arms fell limp at his sides. “I cannot blame you for hiding the truth. You are only his slave.” He shook his head. “Keep your knowledge, Gildrum. I want no more. I have stayed overlong in Ringforge already.” He pulled the cabinet doors open and clawed at his belongings. The sword and shield clattered to the floor, the mail spilled after like water tumbling over a precipice.