“The emotions become compelling, do they?” Gar asked, somewhat detached and clinical.
“I hunger for them,” the sorcerer said, grinning, and some of the other ghosts chorused agreement, magicians, hulking bandits, old roues still handsome in age forever fixed, and sly evil-looking courtiers.
“Compelling, yes,” Gar said thoughtfully. “I might even say addictive. So if a mind reader directs anger against you, the feeling is too intense. What would happen if you didn’t flee from it? Would it shake you apart?”
“You’ve no need to know that, foolish mortal,” the sorcerer bellowed.
“You’re right, of course,” Blaize said to Gar, though his gaze was still on the ghosts. “I am learning a deal of magic tonight.”
“Not least is that you are apparently a projective empath, and a powerful one,” Gar said. “That means you feel what others feel and send out your own feelings to waken them in others. That’s why the ghosts come flocking whenever you summon them—because you send out emotion, whatever emotion you’re feeling at the time, whether it be fear or curiosity or joy. They come soaring to taste.”
“Would you really flee if I felt anger at you?” Blaize asked. “You? Not likely,” the sorcerer said scornfully.
“It’s a matter of strength, boy,” Conn explained. “That woman with you, now, she’s been hurt sometime in her life and hurt badly, and it’s left her with a river of fury likely to spill over its banks at the slightest insult. When she feels anger, it cuts like a whiplash. You, lad, if you want feelings that will do us any harm, think about folk who have wronged you or wronged people you love, then aim it at whatever ghost you want to shake apart.”
“Traitor,” the sorcerer hissed.
“I never swore allegiance to you or your kind,” the outlaw retorted, “and I never asked to become a ghost.”
“Something in you did,” the magician snapped, “or you’d never have twisted a wild spirit to your likeness.”
“You mean if I can make my anger intense enough, I can scare ghosts away?” Blaize asked.
“Well, we wouldn’t really go very far,” Conn temporized, “just thin enough and far enough away so you couldn’t see us.”
“Aye,” said Ranulf. “Then we’d coast along beside you, like a hunter stalking a stag, waiting for you to fall in love or taste a delicious meal or look out at a beautiful sunrise.”
“Or lust after a beautiful woman,” the crone snapped, glaring at the magician.
“That’s why ghosts come so quickly to me?” Blaize asked. “Because you can tell I’m going to be feeling deeply?”
The ghosts fell silent, glancing at one another.
“You’ve guessed rightly,” Alea said. “The more mental energy a person gives off, the more these creatures are attracted to that person—and as Gar said, you’re an empath, unusually talented.”
“Perhaps also gifted with an unusual sensitivity. What you feel, you feel very sharply and deeply.”
Mira’s gaze snapped to Blaize, but the boy only said, “Do I?”
“You do make quite a racket, when you’re calling for help or even just company,” Ranulf admitted.
“Not one word more! Not one!” the sorcerer thundered, fists on hips. “He is our quarry, not we his!”
“Congratulations,” Gar told Blaize. “You’re a natural resource.”
“Don’t you mean a supernatural resource?” the magician sneered.
“No, that’s you—or the stuff you’re made of, anyway.” Gar looked up, spectacularly unintimidated, at the ghost who towered over him. “You do know, of course, that people with his talent are rare.”
“Of course we know that!” the magician said contemptuously.
“If they were not,” the sorcerer said with scathing scorn, “how would they gain power among their fellow humans?”
“In the usual ways,” Gar said easily. “Power is power, and its abuse is an old story.”
The sorcerer huffed up and the magician’s eyes narrowed, but the crone cackled.
“Such talent is even more rare, however, among the people of Terra, from whom your ancestors came,” Gar said, “so rare that few people believe there really is such a thing. How did these gifts develop among your people?”
Silence fell over the ghosts; they looked from one to another, startled—the idea had never occurred to any of them before.
9
Finally Conn turned back to Gar. “No one here knows, mortal.”
Gar stared at him for a moment. Alea watched, frowning, wondering what he was thinking, then realized what it must have been: the ghosts had obviously conferred with one another, but in a way she and Gar couldn’t hear—telepathy on a different set of frequencies, perhaps? Or in a different mode?
Gar said, “None of you here? But there are some who do, many miles away?”
“There are,” the crone said, eyeing him warily.
“Tell him nothing more than he needs to know!” the sorcerer barked.
“Why not?” Gar asked. “After all, your ghost leaders have already discovered this for themselves.” He looked up at Conn. “Would you do me the courtesy of getting in touch with one of those first ancestral ghosts and asking him my question?”
“Not for a second!” the sorcerer snapped.
Conn gave him a glance of annoyance. “To spite you, I might.” He turned back to Gar. “It’s not so easily done, fellow. I can’t talk to one so distant mind to mind, after all.”
“Not one so distant?” Gar looked thoughtful. “There’s potential there.”
Conn frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Nothing that we can do right now,” Gar said. “It would take a great deal of thought and planning, then a string of very boring experiments—and I gather you have all had your fill of boredom.”
The ghosts gave a start of surprise; then the magician said warily, “What makes you say a thing like that?”
“Why else would you be so eager to flock to a person like Blaize, whose feelings overflow for you to sense?”
“Don’t answer that,” the magician snapped.
“I’ll answer what I please,” Conn snapped back. “When will you shadows of power learn that you have no authority past the grave?” He turned back to Gar. “I might be interested in these experiments you speak of, mortal—at first that is. If they become boring, of course, that would be another matter.”
“Could you find me someone to take up where you left off?” Gar asked.
Conn exchanged a glance with Ranulf. “Yes, that should be possible.”
“Let me work it out,” Gar said. “I’ll let you know as soon as I’m ready to try it.”
“Try what?” the sorcerer asked suspiciously.
“A sort of message relay, like couriers on horseback.”
“We’re not your servants!”
“I never said you were,” Gar said easily, “but if some of you choose to relieve your boredom by testing an idea, I won’t turn your courtesy away.”
The magician fixed him with a gimlet glare. “You are far too glib, mortal.”
“Yes, I know what you mean,” Gar sighed. “Sometimes I don’t even trust myself. But I’ll let you know when my divertissement is ready, and you can judge my worthiness then.”
“I know it now,” the sorcerer said.
“But, I don’t.” Conn grinned. “Let me know when you’re ready to begin, Magician.”
“Maybe then.” Ranulf yawned elaborately. “For myself, I find this exchange is growing dull. Good night, mortals, and may good fortune speed your amusements.” He flickered like a candle in a draft and disappeared.