The dead Queen lay on a table at the construct's heart. U ponher breast lay the monster she had died to bring into the world. Outside, the wizard worked on.
He called his creation the Winterstorm, though it had nothing to do with weather or season, but, rather, a dead magician's mathematical way of looking at sorcery. It was a gate to powers undreamt even in Shinsan. It had enabled the destruction of the Princes Thaumaturge in times of yore.
Like so many evils, it was terribly beautiful.
For a week Varthlokkur had labored, taking no rest, and little food. Now his hands trembled. His courage wavered. His sense of morality recoiled. The thing he was trying to create would be more evil than he. Darker, possibly, than the incalculable evils of Shinsan. What it did to the world would be determined by his ability to control it-especially in the critical moments approaching. If he failed, he would be just the first to die a grisly death. If he succeeded only partially, it would be but a matter of time till he lost control.
Success had to be complete and absolute. And he was so tired, so hungry, so weak....
But he had no choice. He couldn't stop now. Nor could he turn back. He was committed.
On the edges of his consciousness, out where his heightened senses met the Beyond, he heard the Lords of Chaos chuckling, whispering amongst themselves, casting lots for him.... He wasn't that kind of wizard. He refused to make deals. He increased the might of the Winterstorm and compelled them to respond to his will. He ordered, and they performed.
They hated him for it. And forever they would wait, tirelessly, patiently, for his fatal slip.
His fiery wand touched several floating symbols. Those beings on the edges of his senses screamed. Agonized, they awaited his commands.
The symbols blazed brighter. Colored shadows frothed over the barren walls. The dark cloud shuddered and swirled round the stronghold. The people of Baxendala locked their shutters and doors. The handful of castle servants huddled downstairs. They would have fled if Gjerdrum had let them.
The Marshall had told him not to let anyone leave till he heard otherwise. The news was to be stifled till Ragnarson had stabilized the political response.
Gjerdrum was devoted to his Queen and Marshall. Though wanting nothing more than to flee himself, he kept his flockinside. Now, with the howl above redoubling, he again prepared to block a rush toward freedom.
Varthlokkur raised his arms and spoke softly to the denizens of the netherworlds. He used the tongue of his childhood.
Those things would respond to any language. But the old tongue, shaped by the wizards of ancient llkazar, was precise. It didn't permit ambiguities demons could exploit.
He commanded.
The things on the Other Side cringed, whined-and obeyed.
The Queen's corpse surged violently. The terrible infant, englobed in a transparent membrane, still in a fetal curl, levitated. Its head turned. Its eyes opened. It glared at Varthlokkur.
"You see me," the wizard said. "I see you. I command you. You are my servant henceforth." For seven days he had been shaping its hideous mind, teaching it, building on the knowledge of evil stamped on the thing's genes. "Henceforth you shall be known as Radeachar, the Unborn."
The name, Radeachar, meant only "The One Who Serves," without intimations of actual servitude. It had overtones of destruction, of sorcery held ready as a swordsman holds a ready blade. In olden times those sorcerers who had marched with Ilkazar's armies had been entitled Radeachar. The nearest modern equivalent was the shaghun of Hammad al Nakir.
It fought him. The things he compelled to aid him battled back. He pitted his will and power against the Unborn....
He had to win beyond any shadow of compromise.
It lasted thirteen hours.
Then he collapsed.
But not before Radeachar had become his lifelong slave, virtually an extension of his own personality.
He slept, unmoving, on the cool stone floor for two days. And, though the blackness had freed the castle, and spring silence reigned, no one dared waken him.
The distraction of Varthlokkur's undertaking allowed Nepanthe, and those who followed her, to slip through the Gap during the time the wizard slept.
Varthlokkur never sensed the nearness of the woman who meant more to him than life itself.
She was married to his son now, but he and she had an agreement. When Mocker died -unless Varthlokkur himself were responsible- she would become his wife. The bargain. woven on the looms of Fate, had made it possible to destroy Nu Li Hsi and Yo Hsi.
He awakened almost too weak to move. From amongst his paraphernalia he secured a small bottle, drank it dry. A warm, temporary strength flooded him. He lay down again, let it work. A half hour later he went downstairs.
"You can turn them loose now," he told Gjerdrum. "What needed doing is done. And Ragnarson has finished in Vorgreberg."
"I haven't had word from him yet."
"You will."
Gjerdrum considered. Varthlokkur was probably right. "Okay. I won't tell them they can leave. But if they get away while my back is turned, that's all right."
"They won't go far. They won't be welcome in Baxendala. They'll stay around till you're ready to leave for Vorgreberg."
Varthlokkur insisted on showing Gjerdrum his masterwork.
Eanredson took one look and retched.
Varthlokkur was hurt. "I'm sorry." He had been proud, forgetting that it took a peculiar breed to appreciate his artistry.
"Come, then," he said. "We'll be needed in Vorgreberg."
"You're going to take that.... That.... With us?"
Puzzled, Varthlokkur nodded.
"Better do it on the quiet. The very damned quiet, else you'll start a revolution. The black arts aren't popular with the man in the street."
Varthlokkur's feelings were bruised again. His greatest work had to remain hidden? "All right. I'll leave it here."
"Good." Gjerdrum glanced at the Unborn. This time he forced his gorge down.
"You'll get used to it."
"I don't want to. It should've been killed when Wachtel saw what it was."
"You're being very narrow...."
Gjerdrum refused to argue. "If we're going, let's go. I've been away too long. That foreigner, Prataxis, has probably screwed everything up."
They left that afternoon. Gjerdrum kept going through the night. They reached Vorgreberg the next evening, exhausted. Gjerdrum had to invoke the wizard's reputation to keep the servants from scattering with their horror stories.
Gjerdrum and Varthlokkur got no rest. Prataxis dragged them to the Marshall's office immediately.
"About time," Ragnarson said. "You got Derel's letter?"
"No," Gjerdrum replied.
"Must've crossed paths. Just a note telling you to get your butt home."
"I was waiting on him."
"Everything taken care of?"
"I still have to make the servants forget," the wizard replied.
"Won't be necessary. The news is out. The Thing elected me Regent. They're already forming a committee to consider royal candidates."
"There're some things he should make them forget," Gjerdrum growled.
Ragnarson glanced at Varthlokkur.
"I performed a few sorceries. They upset him. Before we left, I performed a divination. Very unclear, but two names came through. Badalamen. The Spear of Odessa Khomer."
"Meaning what?"
"I don't know. Badalamen may be a person. The Spear sounds like a mystical weapon. It isn't one I've heard of. And that's unusual. Those things are pretty well known."
"Neither means anything to me," Ragnarson said. He related recent events in Vorgreberg, concluding, "I've prepared for mobilization."