II

That night, as I permeated the dead man's body, seeking traces within his brain cells, I learned that his name had been Keth and that he had served one greater than himself. Nothing more. As I slid into and out of higher spaces, as I terminated a rat in a drainage channel in the manner I had recently learned, as I threaded my way among moonbeams in the old tower and slid along rafters in search of spiders, I thought upon the evening's doings and on all manner of existential questions which had not troubled me previously.

The energies of the creatures which I had taken had a bracing effect upon my overall being. I wandered through new areas of thought. Other beings existed in multitudes, yet I had never encountered another such as myself. Did this mean that I was unique? If not, where were the others? If so, why? From whence did I come? Was there a special reason for my existence? If yes, what could it be?

I swirled across the ramparts. I descended to the caverns far below and passed among the sleeping dragons and the other creatures. I felt no kinship with any of them.

It did not occur to me until much later that I must possess some particular attachment to Rondoval itself, else I might long ago have wandered off. I realized that I did prefer it and its environs to those other portions of the countryside into which I had ventured. Something had kept calling me back. What?

I returned to Pol's sleeping form and examined him very carefully, as I had every night since his arrival. And I found myself, as always, hovering above the dragonmark upon his right forearm. It, too, attracted me. For what reason, I could not say. It was at about the time of this man's arrival that I had begun the movement which had culminated in my present state of self-awareness. Was it somehow his doing? Or--the place having been deserted for as long as it had been--would the prolonged presence of anyone have worked the same effect within me?

My desire for purpose returned to me strongly. I began to feel that my apparent deficiency in this area might have been accidental, that perhaps I should possess a compulsion, that there was something I should be doing but had somehow lost or never learned. How significant, I wondered, was this feeling? Again, I was uncertain. But I began to understand what had produced my present attitude of inquiry.

Pol would be departing on the morrow. My memories of a time before his time had already become dim. Would I return to my more selfless state when he left? I did not believe so, yet I was willing to concede that he had played some part in my awakening into identity.

I realized at that moment that I was trying to make a decision. Should I remain at Rondoval or should I accompany Pol? And in either case, why?

I tried to terminate a bat in flight but it got away from me.

The two of them took the northern trail on foot that morning, traveling together through the pass and downward to the spring-touched green of the forest to the place of the crossroads Pol had marked upon the map he bore.

They rested their packs against the bole of a large oak, still darkly damp with the morning dew, and considered the mists which dwindled and faded even as they watched, while the sun became a bright bulge upon the slope of a mountain to their right. From somewhere behind them the first tentative notes of birdsong were commenced and then abandoned.

"You will be out of the hills by evening," said Pol, looking to the right. "It will be a few days before I get down, and then I'll have to climb again later. You'll be basking in the sea breeze while I'm still shivering my ass off. Well, good luck to you and thanks again--"

"Save the speech." said Mouseglove. "I'm coming along."

"To Belken?"

"All the way."

"Why?"

"I allowed myself to get too curious. Now I want to see how it all ends."

"It may well end indeed."

"You don't really believe that or you wouldn't be going. Come on! Don't try to talk me out of it. You might succeed."

Mouseglove raised his pack and moved off to the left. Shortly, Pol joined him. The sun looked over the mountain's shoulder and the gates of dawn were opened. Their shadows ran on before them.

That night they camped within a stand of pine trees, and Pol had a dream which felt like no dream he had ever known before. There was a clarity and a quality of consciousness involved which spun it past his inner eye with a disturbing simulation of reality, while in all aspects it was invested with a foreboding air of menace and yet possessed him with a certain dark joy.

Seven pale flames were moving in slow procession widdershins about him, as if summoning him, spirit fashion, to appear in their midst. He rose up slowly out of his body and stood like a bloodless image of himself. At this, they halted and left the ground. He followed them to treetop height and beyond. Then they escorted him northward, moving higher and faster beneath a sky filled with palely illuminated clouds. Grotesque shapes seemed to fill the trees below, the mountains about him. The wind made a whining sound and black forms flirted out of his way. The terrain rippled in dark waves as his speed increased. The wind became a howling thing, though he felt neither cold nor pressure from it.

At last, a huge, dark form loomed before him, set halfway up a mountainside, dotted here and there with small illumination; walled, turreted, heavy, high, it was a castle at least the size of Rondoval and in better condition.

There followed a break in his dream-awareness from which he recovered after an eon or a moment to a feeling of cold, of dampness. He stood before a massive double-door, heavily ironbound and hung with huge rings. It was inscribed with the figure of a serpent, spikes driven through it; the crucified form of a great bird hung above it. Where it was located, he had no idea, but it seemed suddenly familiar--as though he had glimpsed it repeatedly in other dreams, forgotten until this instant. He swayed slightly forward, realizing as he did that the chill he experienced hung about the Gate itself like an invisible aura, increasing perceptibly with each tiny movement he made toward it.

The flames burned silently, sourcelessly, at either hand. He was overwhelmed with a desire to pass through the Gate, but he had no idea as to how this might be accomplished. The doors looked for too formidable to yield to the strength of any solitary mortal....

He awoke cold and wondering, pulling his covering higher and drawing it more tightly about him. The next morning he remembered the dream but did not speak of it. And that night it was partly repeated....

He stood again before the dusky Gate, with the recalled sensations but few specific images of his journey to the place. This time he stood with his arms upraised, pleading in ancient words for them to open before him. With a mighty creaking they obeyed, moving outward a short distance, releasing a small breeze and an icy chill along with tendrils of mist and a sound of distant wailing. He moved forward to enter....

On each night of that first week on the road, he returned to that dream and traveled further into it, losing his flame-like companions when he passed beyond the Gate. Alone, he drifted across a blasted landscape--gray and bronze, black and umber--beneath a dark, red-streaked sky where a barely illuminated, coppery orb hung still in what could be the west. It was a place of shadow and stone, sand and mist, of cold and wailing winds, sudden fires and slow, crawling things which refused to register themselves upon his memory. It was a place of sinister, sentient lights, dark caves and ruined statues of monstrous form and mien. Some small part of him seemed to regret that he took such pleasure in the prospect....

And the night that he saw the creatures--scaled, coarse monstrosities; long-armed, hulking parodies of the human form--sliding, hopping, lurching in pursuit of the lone man who fled before them across that landscape. He looked down with a certain anticipation.

The man ran between a pair of high stone pillars, cried out when he found himself in a rocky declivity having no other exit. The creatures entered and laid hold of him. They forced him to the ground and began tearing at him. They beat at him and flayed him, the ground growing even darker about them.

Abruptly, one of the creatures shrieked and drew back from the ghastly gathering. Its long, scaly right arm had been changed into something short and pale. The others uttered mocking noises and seized upon it. Holding the struggling creature, they returned their attention to the thing upon the ground. Bending forward, they wrenched and bit at it. It was no longer recognizable as anything human. But it was not unrecognizable.

It had altered under their moist invasions, becoming something larger, something resembling themselves in appearance, while the beast they held to witness had shrunken, growing softer and lighter and stranger.

Nor was it unrecognizable. It had become human in form, and whole.

Those who held the man pushed him and he fell. In the meantime, the demonic thing upon the ground was left alone as the others drew back from it. Its limbs twitched and it struggled to rise.

The man scrambled to his feet, stumbled, then raced forward, passing between the pillars, howling. Immediately, the dark creatures emitted sharp cries and, pushing and clawing against one another, moved to pursue the fleeing changeling, the one who had somehow been of a substance with him joining in.

Pol heard laughter and awoke to find it his own. It ended abruptly, and he lay for a long while staring at moonlit clouds through the dark branches of the trees.

They rode one day in the wagon of a farmer and his son and accompanied a pedlar for half a day. Beyond this--and encounters with a merchant and a physician headed in the opposite direction--they met no one taking the same route until the second week. Then, a sunny afternoon, they spied the dust and dark figures of a small troop before them in the distance.

It was late afternoon when they finally overtook the group of travelers. It consisted of an old sorcerer, Ibal Shenson, accompanied by his two apprentices, Nupf and Sahay, and ten servants--four of whom were engaged in the transportation of the sedan chair in which Ibal rode.

It was to Nupf--a short, thin, mustachioed youth with long, dark hair--that Pol first addressed himself, since this one was walking at the rear of the retinue.

"Greetings," he said, and the man moved his right hand along an inconspicuous arc as he turned to face him.

As had been happening with increasing frequency when confronted with manifestations of the Art, Pol's second vision came reflexively into play. He saw a shimmering gray strand loop itself and move as if to settle over his head. With but the faintest throb of the dragonmark he raised his hand and brushed it aside.

"Here!" he said. "Is that the way to return the greeting of a fellow traveler?"

A look of apprehension widened the other's eyes, jerked at his mouth.

"My apologies," he said. "One never knows about travelers. I was merely acting to safeguard my master. I did not realize you were a brother in the Art."

"And now that you do...?"

"You are headed for the meeting at Belken?"

"Yes."

"I will speak with my master, who no doubt will invite you to accompany us."

"Go ahead."

"Who shall I tell him sends greetings?"

"Pol Detson--and this is Mouseglove."

"Very well."

He turned and moved to catch up with the bearers. Pol and Mouseglove followed.

Looking over the apprentice's shoulder, Pol glimpsed the old sorcerer himself before the man addressed him. Swathed in blue garments, a gray shawl over his shoulders, a brown rug upon his lap, it was difficult to estimate his size, though he gave the impression of smallness and fragility. His nose was sharp, his eyes pale and close-set; his cheeks and forehead were deeply creased, the skin mottled; his hair was thick, long, very black and looked like a wig--for his beard was sparse and gray. His hands were out of sight beneath the rug,

"Come nearer," he hissed, turning his head toward Pol and squinting.

After he did so, Pol held his breath, becoming aware of the other's.

"Detson? Detson?" the man asked. "From where have you come?"

"Castle Rondoval," Pol replied.

"I thought the place deserted all these years. Who is lord there now?"

"I am."

There was a stirring beneath the brown coverlet. A big-jointed, dark-veined hand emerged. It moved slowly toward Pol's right wrist and plucked at the sleeve.

"Bare your forearm, if you please."

Pol reached across and did so.

Two fingers extended, Ibal traced the dragonmark. Then he chuckled and raised his eyes, staring at Pol, past him.

"It is as you say," he remarked. "I did not know of you--though I see now that you are troubled by more than one lingering thing from out of Rondoval's past,"

"That may well be," said Pol. "But how can you tell?"

"They circle you like swarms of bright insects!" Ibal said, still looking past him.

Pol consciously shifted into his second mode of seeing, and while there were many strands in the vicinity, he detected nothing which resembled a circling swarm of insects.

"I fail to observe the phenomenon myself. ..."

"Most certainly," the other replied, "for it has doubtless been constantly with you--and it would of course seem different to you than it does to me, anyway, if you could detect it at all. You know how sorcerers' perceptions vary, and their emphasis upon different things."

Pol frowned.

"Or do you?" Ibal asked.

When Pol did not reply, the old sorcerer continued to stare, narrowing his eyes to tight slits.

"Now I am not so certain," he said. "At first I thought that the disorganization of your lights was a very clever disguise, but now--"

"My lights?" Pol said.

"With whom did you serve your apprenticeship--and when did you undergo initiation?" the other demanded.

Pol smiled.

"I grew up far from here," he replied, "in a place where things are not done that way,"

"Ah, you are a Madwand! Preserve us from Madwands! Still... You are not totally disorganized--and anyone with that mark--" He nodded again at Pol's right arm "--must possess an instinct for the Art. Interesting ... So why do you travel to Belken?"

"To learn... some things."

The old sorcerer chuckled.

"And I go for self-indulgence," he said. "Call me Ibal, and accompany me. It will be good to have someone strange to talk with. Your man is not a brother of the Art?"

"No, and Mouseglove is not really my man--he is my companion."

"Mouseglove, did you say? I seem to have heard that name before. Something to do with jewels, perhaps?"

"I am not a jeweler," Mouseglove replied hastily.

"No matter. Tomorrow I will tell you some things that may be of interest to you, Detson. But it is still over half a league to the place where I intend to camp. Let us move on. Upward! Forward!"

The servants raised the litter and moved ahead with it. Pol and Mouseglove took up positions behind it and followed.

That night they camped amid the ruins of what might once have been a small amphitheatre. Pol lay troubled for a long while, in fear of the dreams that might come to him. He still had not spoken of these, for in daytime the things of sleep seemed far away, but when the stillness descended and the fire dwindled the deeper places of shadow seemed filled with faces, as if some ghostly audience capable of seeing beyond the cowl of sleep had come together here to watch his journey into the place of baleful lights and screaming winds and cruelty. He shuddered and listened for a long time, his eyes darting. He knew of no magic to affect the content of his dreams. And he wondered again as to their significance, partly with the mind of one whose culture would have seen them in psychopathological terms, partly with the freshly tuned awareness that in this place another explanation could as readily apply. Then his thoughts began to drift, back to the encounter with the sorcerer who had tried to kill him at Rondoval. The dreams had begun almost immediately after that, and he wondered whether there could be a connection. Had the other laid a spell upon him before he had died, to trouble his sleep thereafter? His mind moved away, lulled by the steady creaking of insects in the distant wood. He wondered what Mark would have done. Looked for some drug to block it all out, perhaps. His mind drifted again....

The movement. Now a familiar thing. The fear was gone. There was only anticipation within the rapid and disjointed series of images by which he moved. There was the Gate, and...

It stopped. Everything stopped. He was frozen before the image of the partly opened Gate. It was fading, insubstantial, going away, and there was a hand upon his shoulder. He wanted to cry out, but only for a moment.

"It's all right now," came a whisper, and the hand left him.

Pol tried to turn his head, to sit up. He found that he could not stir. A large man, his face more than half-hidden in the shadow of his cowl, was rising from a kneeling position beside him, passing through his field of vision. Pol thought that he glimpsed part of a pale moustache and--impossibly--a shining, capped tooth.

"Then why can't I move?" he whispered through clenched teeth.

"It was far easier for me to lay a general spell upon this entire camp than to be selective about it. Then I needed but arouse you and leave the others unconscious. The paralysis is, unfortunately, a part of it."

Pol suspected that this was a lie but saw no way to test it.

"I saw that your sleep was troubled. I decided to grant you some relief."

"How can you see that a man's sleep is troubled?"

"I am something of a specialist in that matter which confronts you."

"That being...?"

"Did your dream not involve a large door?"

Pol was silent for a moment. Then, "Yes," he said. "It did. How could you know this unless you induced it yourself?"

"I did not cause your dream. I did not even come here for purposes of releasing you from it."

"What, then?"

"You journey to Belken."

"You seem to know everything. ..."

"Do not be impertinent. As our interests may be conjoined, I am trying to help you. I understand more than you do about some of the forces which are influencing you. You make a serious mistake, wandering about the world announcing yourself at this point in your career. Now, I have just taken great pains to remove the memory of your name and origin from the minds of Ibal and everyone in his party. In the morning, he will only recall you as a Madwand traveling to Belken. Even your appearance will be a confusion to him. If he should ask your name again, have another one ready, and use it in Belken, also. Rondoval still has its enemies."

"I gathered something of this with the attempt on my life."

"When was this? Where?"

"A little over a week ago. Back home."

"I was not aware of this. Then it has begun. You should be safe for a time, if you remain incognito. I am going to rinse your hair with a chemical I have here, to conceal that white streak. It is too distinctive. And then we must hide your dragonmark."

"How?"

"A relatively simple matter. How do you see manifestations of the Powers when you are working a spell?"

Pol felt moisture upon his scalp.

"Usually as colored strands--threads, strings, cords."

"Interesting. Very well, then. You can imagine me as wrapping your forearm with flesh-colored strands--so closely as to entirely mask the mark. It will in no way interfere with your workings. When you wish to uncover it you need but go through an unwrapping ritual."

Pol felt his arm taken, raised.

"Who are you?" he asked. "How do you know all these things?"

"I am the sorcerer who should never have been, and mine is a peculiar link with your House."

"We are related?"

"No. Not even friends."

"Then why are you helping me?"

"I feel that your continued existence may serve me. There. Your arm is nicely disguised."

"If you really wish to protect me from something, you might do well to tell me somewhat about it."

"I do not deem that the most fitting course of action. First, nothing may happen to you, in which case I would have exposed you to information I'd rather not. Second, ignorance on your part may actually benefit me."

"Mister, someone's already gotten my number. I don't like the notion of being suddenly engaged in another sorcerous duel."

"Oh, they're all right if you win. That was the nature of the assassination attempt?"

"Yes."

"Well, you're still intact."

"Just barely."

"Good enough, my boy. Keeps you alert. Now, perhaps we'd best coarsen your features a bit and lighten your eyes a trifle. Shall we have a wart beside your nose? No? An interesting scar on your cheek then? Yes, that should do it...."

"And you won't give me your name?"

"It would mean nothing to you, but your knowledge of it might trouble me later."

Pol willed the dragonmark to life, hoping his disguised arm would mask this from the other's second sight. The man voiced no reaction as the throbbing began. Pol sent the force up and down his right arm, freeing it from the paralysis. Then his neck. He had to be able to turn his head a bit... Best to leave the rest as it was for the moment. Catalepsy, he knew, is hard to fake.

The hands continued to move over his face. The other's face remained out of his field of vision. Pol summoned a tough, gray strand and felt its ghostly presence across his fingertips.

"Now they'll all think you've been to Heidelberg. ..."

"What," Pol asked him, "did you say?"

"An obscure reference," the other offered quickly. "A really good sorcerer has knowledge of places beyond this place, you know--"

Pol let the energy pulse through him, breaking the paralysis entirely. He rolled onto his side and directed a flash movement of the gray strand. It snaked upward and snared the man's wrists. As he tightened it, he began to rise.

"Now I will ask my questions again," Pol stated.

"Fool of a Madwand!" said the other.

The strand writhed in Pol's hand and a feeling like an electrical shock traveled up his arm. He could not release the thing and the dragonmark felt as if it were on fire. He opened his mouth to scream, but nothing came out.

"You are very lucky," was the last thing he heard the man say before the storm reached his brain and he fell.

Dawn had just bruised the eastern heaven when he opened his eyes. It was the voices of Ibal's servants which had awakened him, as they moved about packing their gear, making ready to decamp. Pol raised his hands to his temples, trying to recall how much he had drunk....

"Who are you? Where's Pol?"

He turned his head, saw Mouseglove standing arms akimbo, staring at him.

"Is there a scar on my cheek?" he asked, raising his fingertips to search it.

"Yes."

"Listen to my voice. Don't you recognize it? Is the streak in my hair gone, too?"

"Oh ... I see. Yes, it is. Why a disguise at this point?"

Pol got up and began gathering his things.

"I'll tell you about it while we're walking along."

He searched the ground for signs of his visitor, but it was a rocky place and there were none. As they followed Ibal's servitors back toward the trail, Mouseglove paused and pointed into a clump of withered shrubbery.

"What do you make of that?" he asked.

Three mummified rabbits hung among the tangle of branches.

Shaking his head, Pol walked on.