The Craftsmaster paused at the head of the stairs and waited for Celadeyr to come to him. “Did you think you were tinkering with some hydro-powered grist mill back home on Dual? That was your speed, Celo! Primitive machinery for a primitive mind.”
“This contraption . . . do you know it yields forty-three different milling products? Everything from silk-sifted cake flour to the red-dog chaff we feed the hellads. Tracing the circuits of the flour-stream blender to allow for manual operation seemed straightforward enough, but I forgot about the sample analyzer with its additive-injection unit for quality control. Bypass that and you get raw stuff with a funny color and unpredictable properties that brings the bakers screaming. Try to inject the additives manually and you end up with half-poisonous crap contaminated with benzoyl peroxide and potassium bromate and Tana knows what else.”
“This could be tricky, Celo, even for me. Where’s the technician who supervised the robotics before?”
“Jorgensen drowned, with most of his senior staff. They were great sports fans. The fellow that took over was an insolent bastard. Bareneck—untorcable. according to the redactors. Tried to pressure me Me! I zapped him to a greasy smut.”
“That’s useful.”
“Should I have compromised my authority?” Celadeyr bellowed. His face glowed incandescent and his hair crackled with static charges. “That wretched Mukherji thought he had me over a barrel! Said he’d do his job only if I granted him the privileges of a gold-torc! And his seditious trickery was beginning to spread among the other human technicians. Oh—they know very well that Aiken Drum has promised golden torcs to every human who’s compatible—and full civil rights to those who aren’t. I’ve had Boduragol and his redactors deep-reaming all the barenecks and the human golds in Afaliah, weeding out traitors.”
“But I’m a traitor, too, Celo,” The Craftsmaster’s smile was sardonic. “I’m attainted! A deposed High Tabler who shirked his death-offering.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Al. You chose death over exile voluntarily and then you un-chose it when circumstances changed. As far as I’m concerned, you’re still Lord Creator. And to hell with Aiken Drum’s redheaded Lowlife quim!”
Aluteyn laughed. “Oh, no you don’t. You don’t rope me into your traditionalist suicide corps. I’ve learned too much about Aiken Drum in the past months to go against him! I’ll dance at the little gold rapscallion’s wedding in May and drink Slonshal to him and Mercy-Rosmar.”
“You’d accept him as king?’’ Celadeyr cried.
“Why not? Minanonn’s the only other possibility—and he won’t play. I’ll take the kid over Sham-Mes and Ayfa any day.”
Celadeyr gripped the Craftsmaster by both upper arms. Overflowing psychoenergy enkindled a furious aura about both of them. “It’s the Nightfall War that’s brewing, Al! Can’t you see, Creative Brother? What’s coming is the final conflict between us and the Foe—the one we were about to begin when the Galactic Federation denied us our heritage and hounded us to Void’s Edge! Brede forestalled the Nightfall that time when she carried us here with her Ship. But Brede’s gone now, and this poor fool of an Elizabeth can never take her place. You belong with me, Al! We’re of an age, coming up ors three thousand orbits from our birth on poor lost Dual. Pace the Nightfall with me!”
“Celo—”
The Lord of Afaliah gestured down into the courtyard of the citadel, where an armed free-for-all was under way. “We’re getting ready for it! All of the Tanu who are faithful to the old traditions. The loyal members of Nontusvel’s Host are here. Sixteen of them, including Kuhal Earthshaker.”
Aluteyn gave his old comrade a pitying glance. “Low-powerhotheads—and I know all about poor Kuhal.”
“More people join us every day,” Cetadeyr asserted stoutly, but his hands fell away from the Craftsmaster and the glow paled.
“And the wild Firvulag in the mountains are sharpening their blades and stealing your chalikos and wailing for Sharn’s reinforcements before they pounce! . . .Who’s running your plantations now that you fired the human administrators? Quite a few of them stopped off in Calamosk on their way to join Aiken Drum.”
Celadeyr looked away. “My son Uriet and daughter Fethneya are installing Tanu overseers. As we had in the beginning.”
The Craftsmaster snorted. “And don’t I know how much the younger generation’s worth when it comes to hard work! When I ran Creation House, it was all we could do to find candidates for the practical disciplines. For agriculture, husbandry, game management. You’ll find that your children’s cronies are marvels at giving feasts and composing ballads and riding to the Hunt when the quarry’s flea-bitten Lowlife refugees. But to depend on them for production of your staple commodities—? Goddess give you the brains of a nit! This broken-down flour mill will be the least of your worries if the plantations fail.”
Celadeyr’s face was as lusterless as the parapet stones and his mind had gone shut. He said, in tones of utmost formality, “Aluteyn Craftsmaster, I adjure thee by our sacred Creator Guild kinship to come to my aid. The Nightfall War approaches and the Adversary is nigh.”
The First Comers faced each other unmoving. Then Atuteyn’s ice-blue eyes misted over and the thoughts came tumbling out:
Celo Celo lads we were together fellowinitiates under old Amergan (Goddess grant him rest in light) creators makers doers workers! Never faltering even in pain caring ourpeople’s welfare building sheltering affirming life. I chose Retort when death was proper but now it is right I live castingaside weariness embracing duty. As you must!
“My vision is of the Nightfall War!” Celadeyr said. “Or do you think I’ve gone mad?”
I think Flood loss sorrow ascendence of Foe rage at Ravensdeed have brought you to your own VoidsEdge. Perhaps beyond. We need not accept this as Nightfall! If we swallow pride unite humans we can restrain Foe renew Many-ColoredLand.
So many colors. And now all dark.
Celo our elder generation may not force end when young would choose life.
The Adversary comes! Humanity! Aiken Drum!
No Celo no. He cannot be. Not the Kingmaker’s Chosen.
I had forgotten . . . that.
“Then it’s time you remembered,” said a loud voice from nowhere.
A dazzling point of light hovered a few meters beyond the southern edge of the parapet, where the wall of Afaliah dropped off into the precipitous gorge of the Proto-Jucar. The spark expanded into a radiance surrounding a crystalline sphere. Inside, seated upon thin air with his legs crossed, was a small human wearing a golden suit all covered with pockets.
“You,” said Celadeyr of Afaliah.
The sphere drifted toward them and descended, shivering to atoms as it touched the stone pavement. Aiken Drum doffed his plumed hat.
“Hail, Creative Brother of Afaliah. I’ve been eavesdropping on you for the last ten minutes or so. You really ought to listen to the Craftsmaster’s advice. He’s a touchy old coot, but sensible in the main.”
The old champion was suddenly transformed into a jovian apparition that towered hugely against the sky with one hand portentously upraised. “Die, upstart!” he bellowed in a voice of thunder, and hurled his most potent mindbolt. The resultant detonation and blast of green light caused all the knights down in the courtyard to freeze in their tracks, their mock battle forgotten.
“Battle companions! To me!” Celadeyr called . . . but the voice of the hero was now as weak as the whisper of leaves, and his mind’s cry of balked wrath seemed to echo futilely within the vault of his skull. Celadeyr cast off his illusory aspect and strained to seize the usurper in his physical grip. Not a muscle would respond. He was immobile, helpless, and so were the stricken knights below.
“And we were such good friends on the Delbaeth Quest,” said Aiken regretfully. “Don’t you remember, Creative Brother? Chasing the old Shape of Fire up one Betic and down the next, afraid to take to the air for fear he’d fry our glass-armored scuts?” The Shining One chuckled. “
If we hunted Delbaeth now, we’d have no such worry. My powers have come on nicely, as you can see. One of these days, I hope to have Dionket Lord Healer do my mind-assay right in front of the lot of you, so you can see what manner of lad aspires to be your king.”
Celadeyr’s incandescent face had gone chlorotic. In a raspy whisper, he said, “Free me. Fight like a true warrior.”
“Fight you?” inquired the trickster lightly. “Not bloody likely. I don’t take on cowards.”
“Cowards—!”
Stepping close to the statuesque Tanu, Aiken floated up until the two of them were eye to eye. “You’re a washed-up, worn-out, sad old death-seeking coward. I’m willing to take on the Firvulag. Who cares if they outnumber us ten to one? But the great High Table Lord of Afaliah would rather lie down and die. Or rather—march into the teeth of a mounted ogre battalion with a dotted line drawn on his throat and a tag that says: CUT HERE!’’
The Craftsmaster said somberly, “The kid’s not that far wrong about your deep motivation, Celo.”
“Adversary! Fight me fairly,” begged Celadeyr, his face grimacing in torment.
Aiken lowered himself to the pavement. “I fight with the weapons I have. It’s the only sensible way.”And he waved one hand.
In the air out over the gorge now hovered an armed and mounted host of some four hundred knights, with the brilliantly glowing forms of Culluket, Alberonn, and Bleyn poised in the van. Behind them were Tanu and hybrid warriors representing all five of the Guilds Mental, the strength of their auras confirming the power of their minds.
Respectfully, the rainbow army lifted their weapons. A resounding salute rolled over the battlement. “Slonshal, Celadeyr! Slonshal, Lord of Afaliah!”
“We’re not here to fight,” Aiken insisted, and the warm cajolery seeped into Celadeyr’s brain willy-nilly. “We’re here to demonstrate that there’s hope for us all if we unite against the Foe. I had to leave most of the fighters at home in Goriah, but I did bring this bunch for you to review—and there’s also my new elite guard of human golds down on the ground just outside your city’s north gate, if you’d care to give ’em a far-eyed once-over.”
Celadeyr extended his mental vision. There seemed to be at least a thousand troops out there . . . and the gale of Afaliah was opening to them. The ranks of mounted men and women were led by officers with metapsychic auras. Some of the rank and file glowed and some did not—but all were collared in gold and bearing most peculiar armament.
“Go ahead,” urged Aiken. “Take a really close look at their weapons. Our late great Battlemaster might have talked a good game about abolishing Lowlife technology, but he wasn’t stupid enough to follow his own principles. Like you were, Creative Brother! The cellars at my Castle of Glass in Goriah were stuffed with seventy years’ worth of contraband—including the things you see. Zappers. Stun-guns. Solar-powered blasters. Double-barreled Rigby .470 elephant rifles. Air guns with steel-pellet ammo. Sonic disruptors. Just about every kind of portable proscribed weapon you can imagine smuggled past the unsuspecting officials at Madame Guderian’s establishment by sneaky time-travelers who wanted a small advantage over their fellow Pliocene exiles . . . And there may be other caches besides the one I found. Do you have one, Celo? No? Then perhaps we’d better put the same question to your son Uriet and daughter Fethneya.”
Celadeyr’s eyes came back into focus. A sad smile played over his lips. “No, I didn’t know about the contraband caches. But it would help explain something that puzzled me—rumors that the Foe had developed fearsome new weapons after they destroyed Burask. The late Lord Osgeyr was notoriously covetous, and it would have been just like him to have stored away the forbidden arms instead of destroying them.”
Aiken said, “Thanks for the tip. I’ll check into that.”
The army of sky-riders was on the move, their chalikos trotting smartly on air over the city rampart, and then beginning a slow spiral down into the great courtyard. The knights of Afaliah formed into an involuntary honor guard.
“I had another reason for coming,” Aiken said.
Celadeyr discovered that he was free at last. He made no move to threaten the gold-clad youth. “I think I know.”
Aiken wagged a finger “Now—don’t jump to false conclusions! We’re all in this together, I told you. United against the Foe! No—I came because the wedding invitation we sent you seems to have gone astray.”
Celadeyr could not help an incredulous obscenity.
The golliwog was all sincerity. “We never heard a word from you. Mercy was desolated. So was I. How could I celebrate my nuptials without my old friends from Afaliah? My comrades of the Delbaeth Quest? So I’m here to reextend the invitation. Personally.”
“Come on, Celo,” said Aluteyn Craftsmaster gently. “I had to choose life. Now it’s your turn.”
Celadeyr stood there, hands at his sides, feet wide apart. His fingers clenched once and relaxed. His eyes closed, cutting off the physical image, at least, of the Adversary. The reluctant affirmation came.
Aiken fairly sparkled with pleasure. “Kaleidoscopic! You won’t regret it, Creative Brother. There are tots of ways we can help each other in these tough times. For instance—” Aiken snapped his fingers.
Another astral bubble materialized and wafted down to the parapet. Inside was a samurai warrior in full Muromachi panoply, wearing a golden torc. The sphere evaporated and the warrior bowed.
“Lord Celadeyr, Craftsmaster—I want you to meet d new friend of mine named Yosh Watanabe. A technician of great ingenuity! That armor of his used to be made of hundreds of little iron plates—but he replaced them with tabs of mastodon hide and melted the iron and made himself a blood-metal sword. He’s lived free almost from the first day he came through the time-gate—and yet he couldn’t wait to join up with Me! Celo— you and Yosh want to get together for some serious consultation. Back in the Milieu, he was a pretty heavy robotics engineer. And he also flies a mean kite.”
Yosh winked at the Lord of Afaliah, who stared back at the samurai with a wild surmise.
Aiken said, “Now, the rest of my gang and me have to be moving right along. We’ll spend the night, but then we’re off for Tarasiah and a few other places on an inspection tour . . . and to deliver a few more messed-up wedding invitations! But Yosh will be glad to stay on here for a few weeks to help you with your problems. You can bring him back to Goriah when you come up for the wedding. And the other fun and games.”
“I see,” said Ceiadeyr faintly.
“That okay with you, Yosh?” Aiken inquired.
“Whatever you say, Chief,” said the samurai affably. He turned to the Lord of Afaliah “What say we take a little survey of the balls-up right now?”
Celadeyr didn’t move. But the Craftsmaster put an arm around his old friend’s shoulder and began drawing him toward the stairway.
“That’s a good idea,” Aluteyn said. “And I think I know where we can find some of the special tools and components needed for me repair job Celo—is Treonet’s lab still intact?”
The Lord of Afaliah nodded.
Aluteyn explained to Yosh. “One of my late guild-brothers was a keen fosterer of Elder Earth microprocessing and other electronic doodads. His mansion has an attached lab and one of the biggest technical libraries in the Many Colored Land. We’ll go there, set you up in style, son. You can shuck your fancy rig-out, too, and get into some more practical clothes . . . I don’t suppose you’d mind if I watched while you worked?”
“My pleasure,” said Yosh.
“See you all at supper,” said Aiken, and vanished like a blown-out flame.
Celadeyr shook his head “And that would be our king.”
“The idea,” Aluteyn Craftsmaster observed, “might grow on you.”
4
SHE CAME OUT INTO THE EVENING CALM FOR A LAST BREATH of air before summoning the women. The moon, pregnant as she was, hung new over the Strait of Redon. It would not mature until May Day, which was an excellent
portent for the Loving; but Mercy’s time had come.
The balcony of her tower suite was broad, with shrubs and flowers planted in golden urns. She rarely went out there now, for the amethyst faerie lighting installed by Aiken-Lugonn seemed chilling and melancholy to her. How different it had been in Nodonn’s time! Then the jewel-lamps strung along the crystal balustrade and in the angles of the opaque glass walls had gleamed warmly rose, and she had only to will it and the daemon lover himself would appear beside her to share the setting of the sun behind Breton Island, flame tones sinking at last to star-studded violet. On a night such as this one, they would make a joint wish upon the shy crescent moon.
And now the bones of the glorious Apollo rested in the New Sea’s mud. “But mine will lie here,” she told die babe inside her, “in this land of Brittany where I was born six million years from now. And one day, Georges Lamballe and Siobhan O’Connell will wander along the beaches and headlands of Belle Île and find a stone with a thin film of carbon and phosphor streaking it. And it will be me.”
The fetus leaped, sharing the pain, and she was overcome with remorse.
Peace darling Agraynel peace Grania veinofmyheart. Tonight you will be freed.
The unborn relaxed Mercy tried again to fathom her child’s mind; but under the easily perceptible surface emotions the personality was ungraspable, a fearsome bright otherness, hungering. The preconscious of the Thagdal’s hybrid daughter was a humming vortex impatiently waiting to suck a new world of physical sensation, no longer comforted by the limited stimuli available to the womb-bound. The infant yearned without knowing for richer inputs than waterborne sounds of maternal heart and lungs and digestive tract, or the dim redness seen through filmed eyes, or vague tactilities dulled by her fetal coating of vernix caseosa unguent, or the omnipresent taste and smell of amniotic fluid. More! the inarticulate telepathic voice seemed to cry. And the mother replied: Soon.
Agraynel’s ultrafaculties (as those of all term fetuses, whether potentially operant or latent) were totally oriented toward love-need. She beat with her weak psychokinesis against the uterine prison; plucked at Mercy’s consciousness with feeble redaction; strove to create an unbreakable bond between the two of them, even as she tried to gain freedom; coerced most strongly of all. And thereby was forged that commonplace miracle, the metapsychic link between every normal mother and child.