One of the small, gnarled men, clad in a brown and black uniform, sat before a bank of glowing screens. Whether he actually watched any of them was something Mark could not tell from the rear--one of the reasons he disliked using people except in situations such as this where he had no choice.
As he approached, his optic prosthesis hummed, its lens becoming a greenish color as it adjusted to the lighting. The man straightened in his chair.
"Good evening sir," he said, not turning away from the screens.
...Damned sharp senses these fellows have.
"Anything to report?"
"Yes, sir. Two surveillance birds are missing."
"Missing? Where?"
"The village, your own--"
"What happened to them?"
"Don't know, sir. They just suddenly weren't there anymore."
"How long ago was this?"
"A little over three hours ago, sir."
"Didn't you try to maneuver any of the others to get a look at what was happening?"
"It was too sudden, sir."
"In other words, nothing was done. Why wasn't I notified immediately?"
"You had left orders not to be disturbed, sir."
"Yes ... I know. What do you make of it?"
"No idea, sir."
"It has to be a malfunction of some sort. Pull back the others in that area for complete inspections. Send out fresh ones. Wait!"
He moved nearer and studied the appropriate screens.
"Any activity in the village?"
"None, sir."
"The girl has not been out of her house?"
"No, sir. It has been dark for hours."
"I think I may pick her up tomorrow. It depends on how I feel. Plan B, three birds--two for safety escort. See that they're standing ready."
"Yes, sir."
The small man stole a glance at him.
"I must say, sir. The new eye-thing is most attractive."
"Oh? Really? Thank you," he mumbled, then turned and left.
What had he been thinking? The pills must be starting to work.... He wouldn't be in shape by tomorrow. Wait another day. Should he go back and countermand that last order? No. Let it stand. Let it stand....
He wandered down to spot-check a factory, his eye humming its way to yellow.
Lantern-swinging shadows bouncing from his rapid step, the small man passed along the maze of tunnels, occasionally pausing to listen and to peer about abrupt corners. Usually, when he halted, he also shuddered.
It might almost have been easier without the lantern, he thought, back there. And that slab... He did not remember that broken slab at the cave mouth.
He thought back upon the scene he had witnessed immediately after awakening. The man acting almost as if he were talking with that monster, then mounting it and flying off, fortunately leaving his lantern behind. Who could it have been, and what the circumstances?
He turned right at the next branching, remembering his way. There seemed to be no sounds, other than those of his own making. Rather peculiar, in the aftermath of such a battle....
When he finally reached the foot of the huge stair, he left the lantern. He moved soundlessly through the darkness, toward some small illumination above. When his eyes just cleared the top step, he halted and surveyed the hall.
"How long have I slept?" he asked of, perhaps, the tattered tapestry.
But he did not wait for a reply.
As the sun pinked the eastern corner of the sky, Moonbird descended slowly to land upon the last steady tower of Rondoval. Pol dismounted and slapped him upon the shoulder.
Good morrow, my friend. I will call you again soon.
I will hear. I will come.
The great dark form leapt from the tower and drifted across the sky, heading for one of the hidden entrances to the caverns. A green strand seemed to connect its shoulder to Pol's still upraised hand. It faded soon to join the other strands of the world, drifting everywhere.
For several moments, he watched the stars fading in the west, wondering at the strange flying things Moonbird had destroyed earlier, wondering even more at the beast's comment, They had troubled my dreams.
Turning, with a glance to the sunrise, he entered the tower, to make his way down and around within it, returning to the library which had come more and more to feel like home. He hummed as he walked, occasionally snapping his fingers. He finally felt that he belonged--a member of the magic-working, dragon-riding family which had lived here. He wanted to take his guitar into his hands and sing about it, watching the dust depart the surfaces in each chamber through which he strolled, the furniture move itself about, the debris roll into heaps in corners, the strands of power which controlled these operations attaching themselves to, resonating with, his instrument. Rondoval did actually feel more his at this moment than it had at any time before.
When he reached the library, he moved to pour himself a drink, to celebrate. He was surprised to find the bottle empty. He had thought that several inches still remained within it. For that matter, he had thought that some food also remained, though the serving board was now empty.
Shrugging, he headed for the stair. He would charm more out of the pantry. He was ravenous after the night's adventures.
XIV
He had threaded them all through Rondoval; and now, as the day slackened, he was resolved to lie in wait, to learn whether they worked, to see what they snared.
In a small sitting room he had not previously frequented, he seated himself at the center of his web and waited. He had set himself no other chore than thinking during this period, but that was all right. Fine, in fact.
The strands lay all about him, silver-gray, taut. He had strung them throughout Castle Rondoval that afternoon, like a ghostly series of trip wires. He could feel them all, knew where each one led.
By now, he had come to the conclusion that they were not visible to other people under normal conditions. Summoning them, noting them, using them, were all a part of his power--the same power that had led him to this place he now knew to be his home. The others who had dwelled here had also possessed it, along with other knowledge and aptitudes--things about which he was still learning. He wondered about them....
Mor had taken him as a baby, the old man had said, and exchanged him for the real Daniel Chain. If he had been born here and removed at the time of the battle which had so damaged this place, then these depredations had occurred a little over twenty years ago--presuming that time behaved in approximately the same fashion here as it did there. Such being the case, he wondered concerning the cause of the conflict and its principals. All things considered, it would seem that his parents had been the losers and were doubtless now dead.
He wondered about them. There were intact portraits in various rooms, one of which could have been that of the Lord Det, the author of the journals, the man he judged to be his father. The portraits were untitled, though, and he had no idea at all as to his mother's identity.
His wrist tingled slightly, but there were no signs yet from the strands he had laid. He watched the hallway darken beyond the door. He thought of the world in which he now found himself, speculating as to whether he might have been able to see threads in his own, had he known to try. He wondered what it would have been like to have grown up here. Now, now he felt a proprietory attitude toward the place, even if he did not understand its fiill history, and he resented the presence of the intruder.
For an intruder there was. He knew it as surely as if he had seen him lurking about. Knew it not just from the fact that everything edible and drinkable which he left about had a way of disappearing, but from dozens of small telltales--suddenly bright doorknobs which he knew to have been dusty, minor rearrangements of articles, abrupt scuff marks in unused hallways. It added up to a sense of the presence of another. Irrationally, he felt as if Rondoval itself were passing him warnings.