I have always thought that all men should be free; but if any should be slaves, it should be first those who desire it for themselves, and secondly those who desire it for others. Whenever I hear anyone arguing for slavery, I feel a strong impulse to see it tried on him personally.
—Abraham Lincoln
A white-robed acolyte led them inside, with Karl in the lead, carrying the sewn-leather bag containing Ahira's remains. A distant uneasiness kept his right hand on the hilt of his new sword, a longish saber with a strange leather grip that sucked all the sweat away from his palm. Having the steel quickly available comforted him—just as well he'd kept that skinning knife in hand while Deighton transferred them; it had translated well.
Behind him walked Andy-Andy and Aristobulus, both clutching their leather-bound spell books as tightly as Karl held his swordhilt.
One thing you can say for Deighton, he doesn't equip us poorly. The packs they had left outside lacked only magical implements—Deighton had claimed that he hadn't any left, other than the spell books, and Karl hadn't wanted to argue the point. But they did bear food, and additional weapons, and several puptents, along with other necessities.
Last in their ragged line was Walter Slovotsky, Doria's limp form held chest-high in his arms. Karl turned to see Walter nodding reassuringly to Doria, as though she could see him.
Dark corridors led to a vast, high-ceilinged hall, where the sounds of their footsteps echoed off marble walls and the smooth gray floor. Lit dimly by three ornate candelabra that hung from the ceiling, it was empty, deserted save for a high-backed throne on a white stone pedestal, three-quarters of the way across the room. Beyond the throne, a narrow slit of a window gave them a view of the greenery on the east side of the tabernacle. In the morning, no doubt, it brought more light into the room, but not now, at sunset.
Karl lowered the bag to the floor.
The acolyte nodded. "The Matriarch will see you here," she said, extending her arms for Doria. "And I will see to my sister."
Walter looked over to Karl. Well? his half-shrug said.
We're on their turf, but . . .
"Really," the acolyte said, a half-sneer passing across her smooth face, "do you trust us so little? If so, then why are you here, Karl Cullinane?"
We haven't exchanged a single word, but she knows my name. I'm not going to ask her how; undoubtedly, that's what she's expecting.
"We will heal her, and take care of her. Doria is one of us, now—not one of you," the acolyte said. "I must warn you that you are now prejudicing your case."
That sounded ominous; he quelled the warrior's natural response to a challenge. "Go ahead, Walter," he said. "If they're as powerful as we hope they are, we couldn't put up much of a fight anyway."
The acolyte accepted Doria's slack body, not straining with the effort. Clearly, she was stronger than she looked.
"The Matriarch will be with you shortly," she said, walking easily toward the hall's entrance. And then she was gone.
Andy-Andy put a hand on his shoulder. "Take it easy, Karl—they won't hurt her. Besides," she sighed, "what could they do to hurt her, the way she is?"
Walter chuckled grimly. "And if the little bitch was lying, we can still try and take her apart later. Or frighten the hell out of her, like you did out of Deighton. Nice bit of acting, that—or would you have carved little pieces out of him until he gave in?"
Karl smiled. "I'll never tell." And I'll never know. I know that I could have killed him without any regret; torture is something else. "Apology time, Ari—if I'd leaned on him a bit harder, we might have been able to get better out of him than a couple of spell books."
Clutching the leather-bound volume tightly, Aristobulus' lined face broke into a smile. "You haven't heard me complaining. For someone with no talent for leadership, you haven't done a bad job. Besides, I'm not the one who's wanted in Pandathaway—now I can go back, and qualify for the guild, and—"
"Not necessarily," a low, reedy voice said from behind Karl's back.
Karl turned, his weight on the balls of his feet, forcing himself to move slowly. The throne wasn't empty anymore.
An almost impossibly thin woman sat there, faintly glowing white robes gathered about her. The collar of her garment was different from Doria's or the acolyte's; it covered her head as a sort of cowl, casting her face into shadow, her features, if any, hidden as well as if she were masked. "Greetings. You may approach me." There was an eerie quality to her voice; it had the airiness of an old woman's, but no hint of fragility or weakness. And it was loud; if this was her normal speaking voice, her shout could well shatter stone walls.
Karl bent to pick up the bag containing Ahira's body, then straightened. They all walked across the floor, Karl carrying the bag in cupped arms. "We're here to—"
"I know why you are here."
They stopped in unison, ten yards from her throne. Karl's forehead wrinkled; she hadn't given a command, she hadn't said anything or made the slightest gesture, yet all four of them had stopped suddenly, as though responding to a compelling order.
"The issue at hand," the Matriarch said, "is whether or not we shall honor your wishes. Clearly, the Society is in debt to you to some extent; you have done us a service by protecting one of our own, and bringing her here."
"Then—" Karl started.
"But that is not sufficient payment for what you ask. Reviving the dead is immensely difficult, immensely draining. We require further payment."
Aristobulus took a half-step forward, then stepped back. "What sort of payment? I've still got some spells in my—"
"That is insufficient. Your spells are trivial by my standards, wizard. Did you look about our preserve? Once, the entire Waste was that lush, that fine. I protected this tabernacle against the magic of greater than you."
Walter raised his hands. "Look, Lady—instead of telling us what isn't enough, why don't you just tell us what you want? You want gold? I'll go steal you a few tons. You want diamonds? I'll—"
"Be silent." The Matriarch raised her hands to her face, the first motion they had seen her make. "The one who spoke of you, Karl Cullinane, was correct. You are not terribly bright. But this one, this Walter Slovotsky, is worse." She lowered her hands. "Then again, that is hardly your fault. You are, after all, merely a human."
And what are you, old lady? Karl thought. God? Or is it just that you think you—
"No. And yes. It's simply that . . ." Her voice trailed off into gibberish. She sighed. "But you do not understand the High Tongue, and that is the only language in which I can clearly explain myself. My requirements are so necessary and so obvious—but this Erendra and this English of yours . . . the words do not cover the territory. So I shall speak as simply as I can, so that you each can understand what I require of you, if not why I require it—
* * *
"Aristobulus."
The wizard shook himself. The voice was somehow different now, less . . . diffuse?
"True. I speak only to you, wizard. Only one of the others can hear me, and will know if you decline to offer your portion of the payment."
Aristobulus nodded. Very well, he thought. You don't want what my spells can do for you—what do you want?
"Your magic. All of it. Your . . . Aristobulus-ness. Your portion of the payment is to be but Louis Riccetti evermore. An ordinary human, unable to even read a word—to even see a word—in that book you clutch so tightly. Agree to that, and Ahira may live again. Decline, and he will surely stay dead."
How could she be sure of that? Certainly, the Healing Hand wasn't the only sect in the world; possibly there was some other cleric, somewhere, who could raise the dead.
"No. There is not. And soon, there may be none at all who can."
His aura wrapped him tightly, seething. For James Michael, could he give that up?
"Your reasons don't matter to me. It's . . . the distance between us that makes our communication so difficult, just as you could never teach your cat to fetch. You may give up your magic for whatever reason you wish. Or not. She sighed. "But I see that you will not. You do not see enough worth in your other self, in that engineering nonsense you used to almost worship—"
"Nonsense? Listen to me, you: There's more magic in a suspension bridge than in all these books, and—"
"Then you agree?"
To hell with her. "Engineering nonsense" indeed. "Yes," he snarled. "I'll give it up." And I'll build bridges, here. I will. And horsecollars, and steam engines—
"As you wish." She gestured lightly with one hand, murmuring words that could only be heard and then forgotten.
He changed. Aristobulus' slim form bulged out, the old, dry skin of his body becoming once more firm with youth. It dizzied him; he stumbled . . .
. . . and Lou Riccetti, clad in workshirt and blue jeans, picked himself up off the floor to glare at the Matriarch. He crossed his arms defiantly over his chest. And, to his own surprise, found that he was grinning from ear to ear.
* * *
"Andrea."
"Yes?" Why was she first? That didn't seem fair. After all—
"One of the others has the same reaction. Curious."
Andrea tried to turn her head, to see which one of the others the Matriarch was talking about, but she couldn't move.
I'm not even breathing. She tried to force her lungs to draw in air, and couldn't. Panic burned her throat.
"Be still. Do you need to breathe?"
Well, no—and that was strange. Why didn't she need to?
"You stall. Which is typical of you. You lack commitment, Andrea Andropolous. You wait, and you see, and you never decide until you absolutely have to. Your payment is this: You must agree to decide about something important. Yes or no; in or out; together or apart."
Fine. But what "something important"? I have to say yes without knowing?
"No. You neither have to say yes, nor commit yourself without knowing. But an important promise will be made here, perhaps. Your payment is to agree to participate, or to reject participation in that promise. Without hesitation; without time for contemplation; without stalling. Will you make payment? Or will Ahira remain dead?"
She shrugged mentally, irritated at the way her shoulders refused to move. I can't see that that's such a big sacrifice—and I can't see what you're getting out of it.
"True. Will you make payment?"
Yes, but— The thought cut off as she heard the Matriarch and Walter.
* * *
"Walter Slovotsky."
I'm first. I knew I'd be first.
The Matriarch chuckled. "You are always first, are you not? The center of your pitiful little universe. Your portion of the payment will be that egotism, that idiotic notion that everything centers on you, that as long as all is right with you, all is right with the world—and that always, all is right with you."
He wanted to reach up and scratch his head while he puzzled that out, but his arms hung limp by his sides. No, not limp—unmoving, that was all.
"Time works somewhat differently around me, when I so command it. Your mind is free, but the nerve impulses won't reach your arms until we have finished our conversation."
Well, then, we can finish it quickly. I gave up on seeing myself as some sort of superman back in Lundeyll. I'll tell you—a knife in the shoulder can do wonders for your perspective. Is that what you wanted to hear?
"No. That is what I wanted to know."
* * *
Karl's ears buzzed with the sounds of the Matriarch carrying on three conversations at once; with Riccetti renouncing his wizardry, Andy her indecisiveness, and Walter his self-centeredness. But it was as though Karl had three separate sets of ears, three separate minds: The words didn't jumble together; each word, each thought, stood out from the others, with crystal clarity.
"Karl Cullinane," the Matriarch said. "It is your turn to offer payment. Or not."
Payment? How was all this payment? What possible benefit could she get from this? I just don't see what she's gaining from—
"True. You do not see. And, quite probably, you never will. Are you prepared to make payment, or will Ahira remain dead?"
Of course he was prepared to do something for her—but what did she want? Some of his possessions?
"No."
The sacrifice of some of his abilities, like the way she had made Aris—
"No."
A portion of his psyche, as with Walter?
"No."
That left some sort of commitment, like the way she had made Andy agree to decide about something or other. Does that have something to do with this?
"Correct. And what will you commit yourself to?"
What do you want, Lady? Why don't you just come out and ask?
"Because I have limitations that you can never understand. I am far wiser, far more intelligent, than you can ever hope to be, but the perspective . . . limits me."
Wonderful. Power doesn't just corrupt, it limits, too. Eh?
"You stall, dilettante. You delay. Answer my question."
There was something strange about this whole payment business, as though the other three had gained, instead of lost—
"True."
Lou Riccetti had always been sort of an oddity, a misfit. No real self-respect, back in the days when he used to trail around behind Jason Parker, like some sort of obedient spaniel. But that had changed when he was transferred over to this side, when he became a wizard.
No. It hadn't. Aristobulus was just the other side of the same coin, seeing himself as worthwhile through his magic. Only through his magic.
And that was it. Lou Riccetti hadn't seen himself as worthwhile until the moment that the Matriarch had required he give up his wizardry, turned him back into a normal human being.
"Again correct. Go on."
Now, Walter was a different case. Slovotsky had always seen himself as worthwhile, perhaps too much so. Until Lundeyll, Walter hadn't understood his own mortality, his own limitations.
And the Matriarch wanted Walter to know that mortality, to see those limitations.
But what did that imply? So what if Walter knew he could hurt?
"Perhaps he can now truly understand that others can hurt, as well."
Karl nodded mentally.
And then there was Andy-Andy, who forestalled committing herself. Which sounds a lot like me, actually. Psych major, soc major, bridge player, gamer, et cetera and ad nauseam. If she's got a mild case of indecision, then I'm close to terminal.
"Precisely."
Then what do you want me to decide to do? I can see that you want me to agree to do something, but what?
"That which you have enjoyed most. That one thing which has made you feel most alive. To agree to do that, for the rest of your life, is your payment."
Karl let his string of former majors and hobbies run through his head. No, none of those. The Matriarch had hardly gone through all of this to get him to agree to finish his acting degree.
But she said that I have to take up—what was it?— "that one thing which has made you feel most alive."
And then, it all clicked into place. Normality. Commitment. Lack of self-centeredness. The commitment to understanding that there were others out there, that they had feelings, and that those feelings counted.
Jefferson's words swam in his brain: "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal—"
And in this world, they didn't hold that self-evident. Ellegon was a person, if not a human, and he had been left chained to a rock in Pandathaway just for the convenience of the rulers of that city. And in the slave markets, whips cracked and flesh parted. Ohlmin and his slavers had chained and abused them, because people were property here.
And the last piece: The two things in my life that I enjoyed most were the time that I freed Ellegon and when I got us away from Ohlmin and killed those bastards.
Matriarch, that's to be my payment. Free all the slaves. But how? Slice up all the slavers? Break all the chains? How?
"That is your problem. Do you commit yourself?"
"Of course." Karl tried to spread his hands, and found to his surprise that he could. "But that isn't a sacrifice."
"But it is payment, in the only coin I will accept."
The others stirred around him. Andy-Andy glared up at the Matriarch. "And you can count me in on it, too. Is that a quick enough decision for you?"
"Yes." The Matriarch's voice held a hint of amusement.
Lou Riccetti, arms crossed over his chest, smiled. "I'm in."
Walter Slovotsky raised his hands and shrugged. "You'll probably get us all killed trying, but . . ."
Karl threw an arm around the other's shoulder. "But he's in, too. Now, about Ahira . . . ?"
"We have accepted payment. It will take slightly more than a year to effect his revivification."
Walter shook his head. "We can't hang around here; there's a price on Karl's head, at least, and the Pandathaway Guilds' Council has already managed to nail him with a Location spell once—"
"That could not happen here. This preserve is . . . defended. But," the Matriarch sighed, "I could hardly have the four of you within the tabernacle for that length of time, making noise and—ahh. Of course. Length of time, indeed." She gestured, and spoke, the words vanishing as they left her mouth.
Through the window beyond the throne, night fell, the darkness only momentary as the sun rose like a glowing balloon across the sky.
And darkness, again. And light, and darkness. And light and darkness. Andlightanddarkandlightandark as the days strobed past.
And then it slowed, until a brilliant sun hung motionless, casting bright light into the hall, with its empty throne.
Karl brushed a year's accumulation of dust from his shoulders. "Is everyone all—"
"I'm fine, in case anyone's interested," Ahira's voice rasped behind him.
Ahira?
Karl turned. The dwarf glared up at him, hands on hips, head cocked to one side. "Well," Ahira said, "don't I get a hello?"
"James!"
It was physically impossible for all four full-sized humans to hug the same dwarf at the same time, but they tried.
"And I have arranged some company for you."
Karl turned to look at the empty throne. He had heard her voice, but the Matriarch was nowhere to be seen. "Nor will you see me again."
"Now wait—" he started. "What if we need some help? Won't you—"
"No," the voice answered, coming at him from every direction. "Never will the Hand aid you again. I'm . . . sorry, Karl Cullinane, but we . . . can't."
"I don't understand."
*True. I told her you were a decent person—for a human, that is—but I never claimed you were intelligent.*
"As I said, I've arranged some company for you." A huge, triangular head peeked in through the door. "Ellegon!"
*Yes, I'm Ellegon. And you are Karl Cullinane.* A paw slapped against stone. *And this is a floor . . . *
"Enough. I take it you're the company."
*Very clever. I am also transportation. We will camp on the edge of the forest tonight. Just in case you're interested, I've spent a good part of the past year ferrying some of your possessions here, things you left at the base of Bremon. Including one red mare that emptied her bowels all the way across the Waste. I don't think she likes me. But she does look tasty.*
We are not eating my horse. And are you certain you can carry all of us?
*No. Actually, I just want to see how high I can get before we crash. Any other stupid questions?*
"Well, I wanted to ask the Matriarch about—"
*She wouldn't answer. You are on your own.*
"Isn't that we?"
*No. Not until you introduce me to the other three. I already know Walter Slovotsky.*
"And then?"
*Karl, it took me three centuries of being chained in a cesspool to learn what you found in months. You just may be able to do it.*
"You call that an answer?"
The dragon's head cocked to one side. *As a matter of fact, I do.*