Dworkin paused for a heartbeat, scratched his head, and crossed to the other worktable, where he began his search anew.
“I have come to believe that the reason I had so much trouble walking the Logrus is because it did not quite match the one within me. They are close as first cousins, but not the same. And this new one has begun to emerge in my children, too. Freda has it. Aber and Conner, too. But not Locke, alas, poor boy… or perhaps he is the fortunate one. Ah!”
He pulled what looked like a silver rod studded with diamonds from the jumble, then turned and motioned toward the far corner of his workroom. A small machine full of glass tubes and wires and tiny interlocking gears stood there. I had barely noted its presence before, in the midst of all the other more impressive looking devices. At its center sat a high-backed chair with armrests.
“This is what we need,” he went on. “Sit there. We will start at once.”
“What is it?” I asked dubiously. “Start what?”
“I must see the pattern contained within you,” he said. “Sit. Make yourself comfortable. It takes but a few minutes, and it will tell me how hard or easy it will be for you to walk the Logrus.”
It seemed sensible enough, and yet some instinct made me hesitate. For an instant I had a vision of an altar with a dying man spread upon it, strange patterns floating in the air above him, and then it was gone. Alanar. I recognized the man from Freda’s Trump. What did this little flash of memory mean? Why had I glimpsed a dead man?
A coldness touched my heart. A panic. I did not want to be here right now.
“Sit,” Dworkin commanded.
“I don’t like it,” I said warily, taking a step back. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”
“Nonsense, my boy.” He took my arm and propelled me forward. Almost by reflex, I sat in the chair. “I have done this to all your brothers and sisters… and to myself. It is necessary.”
He stepped back, raised that rod, and pointed at me. I half flinched, expecting a brilliant flash or a burning beam of light—but nothing happened… or at least, nothing seemed to happen. No sounds, no lights, no growl of thunder. The only sounds came from the bubbling cauldrons in the fireplace.
I discovered I had been unconsciously holding my breath, and I let it out with a sudden gasp. Apparently I’d been concerned over nothing. The metal wand either didn’t work or didn’t hurt. I relaxed.
“Just a minute more,” Dworkin said.
“What is it doing?” I asked.
“Tuning itself to the forces within you,” he said. “Hold still. Do not get up.”
He made a few adjustments to the rod, and suddenly the machine around me came to life with a whirring and a creaking of wooden gears. I must have jumped three feet. Turning my head, I peered up into the intricate machinery. Blue sparks ghosted across its surface as wheels and cogs turned. It began to hum like a kettle about to boil.
Dworkin stepped forward and inserted the silver rod into a hole in the center of the mechanism, and at that moment I felt a strange probing in the back of my head, almost like the start of a headache, but not quite. Without warning, memories sprang forth then vanished, images from the whole of my life, the early times with my mother, later years with Dworkin, and even my service with King Elnar. I glimpsed Helda and a dozen other women I’d loved before her.
The images jumbled together in no particular order. Faster and faster they came, and the humming noise of the machine became a deafening whistle that cut through my soul.
Cities and towns—battles and grueling marches—festivals and high holidays—my seventh birthday, when Dworkin gave me my first sword—fighting the hell-creatures—childhood games in the streets—faces of people I’d long forgotten—
Slowly, in the air before me, a pattern began to form, full of elegant sweeps and curves, loops and switchbacks, a twisting geometry like something I might have seen long ago in a forgotten dream. Blue sparks drifted around me. Through everything I could just make out Dworkin’s form, hands raised as he traced the pattern between us with his fingertips. Where he touched it, it took on a ruby glow.
Still the memories surged, more faces, more battles, more times long gone. Faster and faster they came, all blurred together now, and the whistle in the back of my head became an unimaginable screech of sound that tore through my skull. My eyes burned. My skin crawled. I tried to leap out of that seat, to get away from Dworkin’s machine, but I couldn’t move my arms or legs. When I opened my mouth to beg Dworkin to stop, the only sound was an agonized scream.
The machine was killing me.
I tried to block it from my thoughts, but it only hummed louder. Squeezing my eyes shut, I felt my thoughts shredding, the memories fleeing, all thoughts now impossible, only pain—pain—pain—
I gasped like a fish out of water, tried to breathe. Blackness fell like a stone.
Chapter 9
I dreamed.
Flying… floating… drifting… I saw snake-headed monsters and an ever-shifting tapestry of worlds…
Ilerium, under the thrall of hell-creatures…
The Courts of Chaos, just like on Freda’s card, the air overhead pulsating with those weird lightning-patterns, while all around me the buildings moved like living creatures and corners turned in on themselves with angles that couldn’t possibly exist but somehow did…
Then worlds of vast deserts, endless oceans, and virgin forests where no man had or ever would set foot… Come…
Deserts and swamps…
Cities buzzing with movement like the hives of bees… Wind-scoured rocks with no sign of water or life… Come to me…
I felt a chill, a remembered feeling of hate and loathing surging up inside. That voice—I had heard that voice before!
Come to me, sons of Dworkin…
Against my will, I found myself drawn forward like a moth to its flame. I soared through blackness, through vast cold and dark distances, to a world of strange colors. Patterns turned in the air, odd shapes and geometries that drifted like snowflakes, patterns within patterns within patterns. My vision began to brighten, then dim.
Slowly, I turned and discovered a tower built entirely of skulls. A grim shock of recognition swept through me. I had been here before, I thought, long ago.
Come to me, sons of Dworkin…
I could not resist the voice. Like a phantom, I passed through the tower’s wall. A stairway of arm and leg bones circled the inside wall, ascending into shadows, descending into a murky, pulsating redness.
I drifted down. The redness became the flickering glow of torches. They showed an eerily familiar scene, guards in armor who surrounded an immense stone altar. And on that altar a body lay chained and bleeding…
Taine!
Though his face had become gaunt and gray, and he looked ten years older, I still recognized my new brother from the Trump in Freda’s deck. He had a dueling scar on his left cheek just as Aber had drawn it. And he had Dworkin’s face… more so now than when his portrait had been done.
Naked and blood-smeared, he lay spread-eagle on the stone slab. But he lived. As I stared at him, I saw his chest rising and falling steadily.
His arms and legs had been heavily chained, and dozens of long, shallow knife wounds—some days or weeks old, some clearly fresh—marred the smoothness of his arms and face. His captors had made an effort to keep him alive, I thought. While clearly painful, none of the wounds appeared life-threatening. The real risk would come later from infection.
Blood still seeped from the most recent wounds, but instead of falling toward the floor, drops of scarlet floated up around him, lazily drifting through the air. As I watched, first one then another flattened, spreading out and becoming miniature windows into other worlds.