The Crystal Sorcerers (13 page)

Shaken by the encounter, Patrice entered the pit of flames to relax and cherish the fires, being very careful not to overstep the boundaries of the pentacle that opened the gate.

There was no doubt about it: Gorgon was too strong for her. She probably could beat him if he were restrained by the pentacle, but would not be able to withstand him in open combat. Again she felt the desire within her building. To mate, to consummate, with a demon lord like Gorgon--what would it be like?

Reason returned. I must have the remaining Crystals of Fire. Only then will I be strong enough to control him.

She spoke aloud amidst the roar of the fires, "And then I will do what I want!"

The light from the moons came through the open window of Imada's quarters in Jartan's castle, setting up a gentle cross-hatching of silvery hues. Almost spellbinding in intensity, the moonbeams crept across the floor as the moons glided across the sky.

When they touched the figures in the bed, there was a sigh and the woman stirred.

Carefully, the sorcerer within Vena stripped aside the layers of pain that hid her. Vena's memories, the anguish of remembering the screams of her parents as they were burned alive by Sarnak's assault of their village, and her own rape, became a gossamer web that the sorcerer peered through cautiously.

A moment later, she emerged. The body was still Vena, but the spirit that guided it was Ulinda; over 900 years old, filled with the inner cunning that had caused her to rise into Patrice's most trusted circle.

With a touch of her hand she sent Imada into a deeper sleep, and rose from the bed.

Moving gracefully to the open window, she gloried in her new youth and beauty, standing naked in the moonlight.

She raised her arms over her head as if to absorb the light, and triumph raced through her.
To be young again,
she exulted.
No matter what happens, I feel young again.

Dressing quickly, Vena left their room and went down to the garden in the courtyard below. There she walked around as if unable to sleep.

Stopping to sit on a bench under a tree, she seemed to relax while watching the beauty of a large fountain that poured forth water in majestic blues and white. Opening the case that she always carried with her, she took out a harp and began to softly strum a song.

Even the sorcerers on watch thought nothing of her presence, and other than an occasional check to insure her safety, ignored her.

Feeling the touch of the sorcerer on duty move on, Vena seemed to gesture to a bird on one of the lower branches of the tree. Moments later, the bird alighted next to her hand as it stretched along the back of the bench. A short hop to her shoulder, the exchange of the message telling her to proceed, and it was gone.

So.
It is time at last,
she thought. Fear of what she was about to undertake threatened to overwhelm her, and for a moment she considered the possibility of remaining as she was. But the bonds that were upon her were unbreakable, and she found her
body moving toward the passageway even before her thoughts on the matter were
finished.

Realizing the futility of attempting to fight the compulsion, she accepted the course of action and became one with her goal.

Ten minutes later she was at the door of Enaar's room. Very carefully, she probed the latch and entered silently. There she breathed a sigh of relief. Once inside a private apartment she was safe from the scrutiny from the sorcerers on watch.

There on the bed lay Jartan's chief custodian of the treasure vault. Recently widowed, he seemed to radiate such torment even in his sleep that Vena had no trouble assimilating his thoughts.

His late wife had become accustomed to shopping in a store outside the protection of the palace over the last several months. There she had been finding rare and wonderful manuscripts that were of particular delight to her husband, at almost unbelievably reasonable prices. Even the store mistress had become a friend.

The tragedy that had occurred just five days ago had been almost unheard of. The explosion at the lamp oil shop next door had burned down almost half a block and caused a dozen deaths.

The shop mistress' testimony, and Enaar's identification of his wife's scorched crystals, were proof of an unfortunate accident that had shocked the court.

Standing in the bright moonlight, Ulinda used the data she had recently gotten from Patrice's agents in the city, who had interrogated the unfortunate--and still alive--wife, to carefully infiltrate Enaar's subconscious.

Only after about half a turning was she able to start to direct his thoughts. Years of similar efforts in Patrice's pleasure gardens stood her in good stead as she began to exert more and more control over his subconscious.

Stripping off her gown, she crawled in his bed and began to caress
him,
keeping him in a deep enough sleep that he would not awaken, but alert enough that she could control his dream.

Ten minutes later she had the information she needed. A simple dream of his wife trapped in the treasure vault had revealed everything. Not only did she have the code words to silently open the doors and put the ever-alert guard demons to sleep, but she knew the location of Enaar's private passageway.

A touch of her hand and Enaar's sleep deepened, his breath coming slower and slower. There was the faint whisper of his lost love's name, and then the breathing stopped.

It was best, she thought, though to her own surprise she felt a faint touch of pity. She could sense the agony of his loss, and it would appear that his old heart had simply given out from the pain of what he was enduring. Besides, only he and Jartan knew the codes by heart. It'd take time for someone else to get in to run the routine security check, and by then she'd be long gone.

An hour later she was back in her bed beside Imada. The two Crystals of Fire and Horat's massive portal crystal were now hidden in her harp case. There had still been room in the case, so Vena had taken something for herself, too. After all, with the risks she was taking, she deserved some extra compensation.

Carefully she retreated back through the veils of Vena's subconscious until only Vena was left, sleeping the sleep of the innocent.

Disappointed, Ikawa saw the portal's exit point looming up. If given his own way, he would have gladly embarked on an endless tour of Jartan's far-flung outposts, if only for the sheer joy of the jump-throughs.

The sensation of free-fall now gave over to a sense of returning weight and of a slowing down. The cone of light closed in, enveloping him, as if it was now swaddling him in a soft cushion to deaden the fall. He felt his feet touch ground. Rolling aside, he hit the cool turquoise floor of Jartan's main portal room. The glow was behind him now. Hands reached out, helping him to his feet.

Smiling, Ikawa looked around. Shigeru stood to one side, green-faced, looking about anxiously as if in sudden need of a bathroom.
Walker was by the wrestler's side, unable to contain a teasing smile.

"I love that part when we slammed through the dimensional gate,"
Walker chortled, holding his hands up and waving them about as all flyers do. "It's better than pulling off a power dive."

"Do you want me to change the color of your tunic?" Shigeru groaned. "My stomach will be happy to oblige."

With mock horror
Walker stepped back, to the good-natured laughter of the Japanese and Americans who stood clustered together.

Ikawa strode up, still smiling. It was hard to believe that only three days ago they had stood here, tension knotting their bodies, prepared to jump into what had nearly been their end.

"First thing I want," Saito announced, "is to get this damn poison capsule removed from my mouth. I haven't been able to eat right since they put it in."

"Ditto on that," Goldberg rejoined.
"That, a hot shower, and a good rub-down by Shara, that masseur on Jartan's staff."

"You mean the little blond,"
Walker laughed. "I wanted a rub down from her myself, and not just a back rub if you get my meaning."

"What would that sorcerer, Suda Codi, say?" Goldberg interjected playfully. "The reunion you two had was rather audible to all of us last night."

"You should talk,"
Walker snapped, smiling wickedly. "You're talking about getting that rub down--what about this granddaughter of Macha we've been hearing about? Hell, Macha's got a grudge against Mark as is. I'm tellin' ya, he won't take lightly to your two-timing his precious granddaughter."

"Let's just get to the showers," Ikawa announced. "You fellows can sort out your little rendezvous later."

There was a chorus of agreements and the group headed off. Ikawa noticed there was a certain swagger to them, and as they passed out of the portal room and back up to the readying area, everyone they passed nodded respectfully, calling out greetings and compliments which the party revelled in. Laden down with battle gear, unshaved, and obviously a bit gamey, Ikawa felt a certain pride in the image they must project of hardened warriors back from a short but brutally tough campaign--an image that would be talked about throughout the palace and enhance their prestige even further.

Discarding their gear in the readying room, the men smiled with relief as the poison capsules were defly removed.

"To the shower and steam room!"
Goldberg cried. "Last one there gets Matan's sister for the rub-down."

Matan was near legendary back at Landra: a two hundred and fifty pound bath attendant with hands like bear traps and a look to match.

Pushing and laughing, the group poured into the hallway, Ikawa in the lead. Stunned, he came to a stop, and was nearly bowled over by the men pushing in from behind.

"Imada!"

Unbelieving, Ikawa saw the young soldier standing before him, a lovely wisp of a girl standing protectively by his side, looking a bit fearful at the sudden rush of men moving toward her.

The boy nodded, trying to force back tears, and coming to attention, he saluted and bowed.

"Private Imada reporting, sir."

Grinning with delight, Ikawa returned the military salute he had not given now for what seemed like a lifetime, and then rushed forward to grab Imada by the shoulders and shake him with delight. The rest of the Japanese swarmed around the two, laughing and shouting, while the Americans stood to one side, grinning at the joy of their friends for the return of a comrade given up for dead.

"Now, how did you come back? What happened?"

Imada looked at the circle of his friends. "I'll try to explain what I can remember," he said shyly, "but it'll have to be Vena who does most of the talking." He nodded to the girl who still clung to his arm.

As if noticing her for the first time, the Japanese stepped back slightly, smiling at her, respectfully mumbling their greetings.

"And Yoshida?"
Ikawa asked softly.

Imada lowered his head, and shook it sadly.

The group fell silent.

"Well, at least one of us has come back," Mark said softly, coming up to shake Imada's hand. He looked at Vena closely, smiling a greeting and noticed how she looked to Imada with a loving gaze. Yet somehow there was the ever so faint sensation that the gaze was a bit
too
intent, as if she was putting it on for the group's benefit. Their eyes locked for a second, and Vena quickly looked away.

"The showers can wait," Ikawa announced. "Let's go back to our
quarters,
I want to hear everything that happened to you."

"I'll be happy to share our story with you, Captain Ikawa." Vena whispered softly. "Imada has told me so much about you."

The group gathered in around Imada and Vena and continued down the corridor while Mark and the Americans fell in behind.

"Lucky guy,"
Walker said, coming up to Mark's side. "The kid must have been through hell, it's been months since he disappeared."

"Yeah, a long time," Mark replied quietly.

"Allic!"

The demigod strode into the lounge area, nodding good-naturedly at the enthusiastic greetings. He could not help but feel a ripple of pride at these warriors who had added so much to his power and prestige, besides proving themselves loyal friends as well.

Inwardly he stiil rankled at how his father had used both him and these men. Even gods can make mistakes, and his timing for the counterstrike had been a little too close for comfort; it was still a wonder to him that at least one of the men had not broken and poisoned himself the moment the shielding went down.

Mark strode forward, hand outstretched in greeting. Allic looked at him closely--yes, Mark had recovered from his fears, and inwardly the demigod felt a sense of relief. He would have always protected the man, out of memory of his service in the war against Sarnak, but a proud warrior, if broken, would have continued on as merely a shell.

Allic thought on that for a moment, and how too often of late he needed yet another drink to steady himself. It was just a phase, he kept telling himself. But for one who could live for thousands of years, he knew far too many such as he who lived out a long twilight hidden away, lost in memories of other ages, burdened by life from which escape came all too slowly.