She saw some of the others glancing uneasily at one another; she saw Wilkins making a familiar, hated gesture to Marks, the clawed finger-wiggling sign used to tease telepaths, the sign that meant “freak” or “monster.”
“If you could,” Susan said.
“I’ll try,” Prossie said. She sat up straighter and closed her eyes-which was just for show, not necessary, but it seemed to be called for in this instance.
She didn’t say anything to Wilkins, didn’t acknowledge his gesture, but inside she hated him with an intensity she had never before allowed herself, a hate that was hot and crawling in her skull, a hate that was the cumulative effect of a thousand memories collected throughout her lifetime, from infancy right up to now, of being loathed just for what she was, regardless of what she did, or who she was.
Maybe she wouldn’t try at all; why should she help Wilkins and his like? How would anyone know?
But it had been Susan who asked, not Wilkins. Prossie wondered why anyone cared, why they thought of it just now-she hadn’t been listening to the conversation at all, she realized.
But whether she tried or not made little difference, really; it was up to Carrie, and as she sat, mind open and receptive, she realized that Carrie wasn’t listening, wasn’t sending, wasn’t there at all as far as Prossie could tell. No one else made contact, either.
She opened her eyes and started to speak, then caught herself.
Why were they asking about rescues?
The only possible reason was that they were hoping to go back to the ship and be rescued themselves.
There were monsters back there. Shadow would have taken an interest in the ship by now. To go back there would be insanely dangerous. And even if by some miracle the Empire really had sent a rescue party, which they had certainly had no intention of doing when she was last in contact with Carrie, Prossie did not want to go back and be rescued.
“No rescue,” she said. “They’ve decided not to risk it. We’re on our own.”
It was a lie-but who cared? These people would never know unless they returned to the Empire, and Prossie would never go back there, never go back to the hatred and oppression, the rules and limits, the constant barrage of thought.
Right now, though, she thought she had better pay closer attention to what was being said.
* * * *
“I just want to go home,” Amy said.
“Me, too,” Pel said.
“I want to wake up,” Ted said. “I’m tired of this.”
“Same thing,” Pel told him.
“I’m not real interested in staying around here, either,” Wilkins said. “The question is, what we can do about it?”
“If nobody’s rescued the lieutenant,” Sawyer asked Prossie, “what has happened to those guys?”
“I don’t know,” Prossie said. “I don’t have any way to find out; they’re cut off, no communications.” She looked Sawyer in the eye.
Sawyer frowned, obviously unhappy with the answer-or with Prossie’s behavior.
“I’d send you all home,” Raven said, “if ’twas in my power. Alas, ’tis not. Think you, then, on what you’d have in the stead of that-would you join me in the fight ’gainst Shadow? Though in truth I’d rather the weapons of Earth, yet would willing hands be welcome e’en without.”
“You won’t reconsider?” Pel asked Taillefer.
The wizard shook his head. “Nay,” he said. “To open a portal would be to die at Shadow’s hand, and I’ve no wish to die.”
Pel looked at him, then back at Raven, then around at the others, at Ted and Amy and Susan, Ted with his bandaged head, Amy leaning weakly against Susan, who stood clutching her big black purse. The wizard Taillefer, the only one here who could get them out of this storybook world and back home to Earth and sanity, but too afraid of Shadow to try; Raven, who wanted guns to fight Shadow; Ted, who thought he was dreaming; poor sick Amy; Susan, with the revolver in her purse…
Suddenly, the pieces fell into place for Pel, as he stared first at Susan’s purse, then at Taillefer and Valadrakul.
Wizards.
Or rather, he corrected himself, “Wizards,” the movie by Ralph Bakshi.
While he had been thinking of all this as something out of a story ever since Grummetty first stepped from the basement wall, ever since he first heard Raven speak, up until now he hadn’t settled on just one story. He had thought of Tolkien and “Twilight Zone” and a dozen others, but none of those had shown him a way out, back to real life.
“Wizards” was another matter.
Of course, this wasn’t just a story, this was real life, but still…
And there was something else. Taillefer was the only one here who knew the portal spell, but there was someone else who knew it even better, someone who just might not be quite the villain it was painted.
Of course, convincing anyone else to try that would be difficult. The gun was easier.
“Listen,” he said, turning back to Taillefer, “if Shadow were dead, you could send us home, right?”
“Aye, surely,” Taillefer said, mystified. “Were Shadow dead ’twould be as a new dawn, and all would be different indeed; I’d have no fear of its creatures, if any even survived. More, methinks the death of Shadow would wreak great change upon the flow of magic through all the world, and all who study the arcane arts would find new strengths to draw on, were Shadow’s web sundered. A portal would be but the least of spells, surely, and gladly would I perform it.”
“Friend Pel,” Raven said, “an Shadow were dead… welladay, ’twould be glorious beyond measure; ’tis the end I’ve sought all my life. But how to achieve this miracle? Shadow’s life has spanned centuries; it draws unnatural vitality from its nets of power, that it ages not. How then, think you to end this? A blade is as naught; no spell can touch Shadow; no mere mortal can hope to outlive it.”
“All right, Shadow can’t be killed by anything from this land, but what about a weapon from another world?” He pointed at Susan.
Raven followed Pel’s pointing finger, and Pel knew from his expression that he had understood Pel’s plan immediately.
So did most of the others.
“Would it work?” Susan asked. “I mean, it’s just a bullet, this isn’t any sort of big magic.”
“It might,” Pel said.
“And how would you administer this ‘bullet,’ Messire Pel?” Taillefer asked. “Need you enter Shadow’s fortress? I’d not risk a farthing ’gainst all the gold in Goringham for your chances, then.”
“We’d need to get pretty close, yeah,” Pel admitted.
“’Tis not to be done, then,” Taillefer said, with clear finality.
“No?” Pel demanded, challengingly. “How do you know? You ever tried it?”
“I yet live, do I not?” Taillefer retorted. “No, I’ve not made the trial.”
“Then how do you know?” Pel repeated. “I say it’s worth a try-at least, for some of us.” He hesitated, then plunged on. “In fact,” he said, “I think it might be time for some of us to go see Shadow even without the gun. After all, if you won’t send us home, maybe it will!”
Raven stared at Pel, mouth open in dumbfoundment; Taillefer stared for a moment, then burst out laughing.
“Oh, foolish man,” he said, when he could speak again, “think you that Shadow will do your bidding, an you walk up to the fortress and ask ever so politely? ‘Oh, please, destroyer of kingdoms, ravager of nations, master of all the world, send me home, though I’ve nothing to pay, and no reason to give that you’ll not better to strike me dead this instant.’ Is that what you’d say, brown one?”
“Something like…no,” Pel said. He put his hands to his hips and glared at the wizard. “No, not like that. Listen, you may be a sworn enemy of Shadow, but we aren’t.” He waved an arm to take in both Earthpeople and Imperials. “All we know about it is what we’ve heard from you, and from your friends. How do we know Shadow’s any worse than you are? And who says we have nothing to offer it?”