Montag! The human was more than intriguing. He was sinister! And how had he come to Vismearc? Perhaps Tsulgax was mistaken. Perhaps this man simply resembled Montag. But no, for that had surely been Montag in the uniform of many pockets. For it not to be him would require nearly impossible coincidences-a Montag in Bavaria, a lookalike in Hithmearc, and another here. No, all three were one man. Kurt Montag.
The crown prince swung his long legs out of bed, wrapped himself in his robe, and had the officer of the guard called. And Tsulgax. When they reached his room, he gave them only one order: "Montag must be taken alive! At whatever cost! Alive and sound! I have questions to ask him, and he must be able to answer. If anyone kills or sorely wounds him, except on my order, that person will replace him in the torments."
Macurdy was captured in the hour before dawn, but when Kurqosz learned of it, he decided his prisoner could wait. He'd awakened with his attention on the coming night, and the sorcery he would work. It must have priority, even above Montag.
It was Tsulgax who reported the capture, and asked to be allowed to kill the German. His master's refusal so upset the rakutu, Kurqosz feared his son's protectiveness might overcome his obedience. So within the hour, Kurqosz sent Tsulgax off to Camp Merrawin, carrying a written order. He was to take command of the rakutur there-a "promotion" that did not fool Tsulgax. Nor did Kurqosz suppose it would. But it enforced his restriction without the odor of punishment.
He'd always been a loving parent.
As soon as he'd sent Tsulgax off, Kurqosz rousted his circle from their beds and ordered them out to run. "It will clear your heads!" he told them. Then he shook Chithqosz awake, and ordered him to roust out his circle, sick and feeble from the destruction of their old stone. Kurqosz himself led them all on a long walk, west out of the clearing, accompanied by two companies of rakutur.
The sorcerers finished with an easy, two-mile lope, by which time even Chithqosz's circle was beginning to look functional. I'll let them eat now, Kurqosz told himself, then lead them in drills to renew their focus.
A few days earlier, he'd sent his third crystal circle to the forward lines at Deep River, to create an umbrella against the storm he planned. It was Chithqosz's circle which would help "tap the aurora." (Actually tap the solar wind responsible for it.) Now he went over his plan with them.
It was midafternoon before he had the prisoner brought to him-hands manacled behind his back, for Kurqosz recalled Montag's talent at casting small fireballs. His only other restraint was a rakutu standing behind him, ready to act.
But Montag had little to say, so Kurqosz had him taken to the lesser of the two rooms flanking his office, where he was blindfolded, gagged, and bound to a chair. A heavy chair, bolted to the floor; he would answer questions later. The crown prince preferred to separate questioning and torture, but either way, he would have his information.
In his small prison, Macurdy was in the watchful care of a rakutu. At supper time the rakutu removed his prisoner's gag, and fed him-a cup of lentil soup, a small corn pancake, and water. Then he gagged him again. Macurdy was in blackness, for night had fallen, and the room's single candle and the snowlight through the window were too weak to filter through his blindfold.
He felt an impulse to meditate, something he'd seldom done since Varia had been stolen from him more than twenty years earlier. Being bound and gagged was not conducive to meditation, but he rationalized the impulse, telling himself it was something he could work at, to pass the time. It went surprisingly well. After a bit he reached a slow alpha stage, which was as far as he usually got. Thoughts, images, fragments of memories drifted through without taking root or lodging. Gradually even they ceased, and his sense of time shut off almost entirely, though awareness remained.
After an indeterminate period, a drum began to beat. In the next room. A small drum tapped with the fingertips in an intricate sound pattern; he could feel it more than hear it. Kurqosz, he realized. It was unlike Arbel's drumming, which produced a reverie for healing. This… this sought to lure… not him, but something.
And now he sensed the crystal; it caught and held his consciousness. The quality of blackness changed. It was no longer an absence of light, but blackness as a presence. He sensed the mind and will of Kurqosz, the synergistic minds and wills of his circle. And he himself was with them, though not of them. An observer unobserved, for they were intent on their procedure.
The state was transitory. Abruptly he was outside the room, in a night without stars, moon, or aurora. There was no land, no trees… but gradually there was light-a dirty magmic red that thickened, became a vast, pulsing, plasmic energy.
Energy with a primitive but powerful sense of its own existence, neither obedient nor resistive, but aware, responsive. Responsive to the minds that acting as one, ruled by one, enticed, molded, manipulated. The energy plasma changed, its embryonic awareness unfolding and growing. He felt Kurqosz's intention flowing into it, infusing it with something like intelligence… and purpose!
From deep within/outside Macurdy, his essence spoke. Powerful! Must not happen, must not continue to completion! Disrupt it! Disperse it! An energy swelled within him-a higher vibration, almost beyond bearing, more intense than the most powerful orgasm. His follicles clenched, erecting his hair; he writhed and thrashed on his chair. And with the energy came intention surpassing anything he'd imagined, pure intention straining for release. Now! he thought. Now! It burst from the pit of his stomach-and the universe exploded. Minds screamed, their agony searing him. His own screamed with them-but in blind exultation, not agony.
38 Reverberations
Macurdy awoke with a groan. It was still night, but now he was on the ground. A fire was burning, tended by a woman. She turned and looked at him.
"You're awake!" Varia said. "How do you feel?"
He was covered with a blanket. With an effort he sat up, leaning on an arm. It seemed as much as he could manage. His head ached badly, and he was nauseous. "Not good," he answered. Then lurched to one side, vomiting thinly onto the dirt, a slime of gastric juices that burned his throat.
After a long minute he sat up and looked around. He was in a crude, three-sided woodsmen's shelter, like the one where he'd tried to destroy the crystal. His manacles were still on his wrists, but the chain connecting them had been cut.
"It's gotten warm," he said.
"Warm enough that the new snow is melting on the brush," Varia answered, then pointed upward. "Look at the sky."
Laboriously he got to his feet and stepped outside. With the branches bare, and the woods thinned by cutting, he had a fair view upward. The aurora was hidden by heavy, roiling clouds that pulsed with reddish light. It shocked him half alert, and he spoke in a near whisper.
"Where's Vulkan?"
‹Here.›
Macurdy turned. Vulkan lay a few yards away. "What happened?"
‹You will remember, when it's time. Suffice it to say, you aborted the crown prince's sorcery, and ended the voitik threat.›
Macurdy frowned vaguely. Aborted? Ended the threat? "How did we get here?"
‹I will leave that for Varia to relate. It was she who handled most of it.›
"I was in the women's room," she said. "One large room. We had no idea what was going on, only that things had gotten strange. We could smell it. And it felt… as if something was wrong with the Web of the World, as if it was choked with something bad. Sorcerous." She looked at the sky. "It still does, but not so strongly.