took the staff of power even as the wizard let the Miphon-body sag toward the floor.
'No!' screamed Blackwood, as it happened.
But for Ebonair, it was easy. Easier than taking over the Miphon-body. Almost as easy as seizing the Hearst- body. Memories now. A quick scan – nothing, after all, to be gained from the mind of a peasant. Sky. Blue sky. Sky? Is that all?
Sky, blue sky, the colour of my lover's eyes; Leaf, young leaf, her hands no softer.
The transfiguring vision. A trick, surely. A trick of perception. An illusion. Like a drug-trance. Like a mystic's starvation delusion. Not true. Not real. No!
And Ebonair screamed: 'No!'
Locked in the Blackwood-body, Ebonair collapsed.
A poet may, on occasion, see the world transfigured by visionary perception yet still come to terms with the world. A man such as Blackwood may see the world that way constantly, day by day, and survive by isolating himself as much as possible from human society, evading the pains of the world by immersing himself in scholarship and study.
But Ebonair, viewing himself through the lens of visionary revelation, saw how his entire life had been devoted to killing, distorting, maiming or repressing the flame of life which persists in every entity; worse still he saw the damage he had done to himself.
A saint may live with such visions; an ordinary man, with some effort, may survive them. For Ebonair, they threatened madness. He had to escape. He thrust the staff of power out to touch the supine Hearst-body. The next moment, Ebonair occupied that body: but in such a panic that the body was thrown into spasm.
The head of the Hearst-body slammed against one of the inert metal machines from the Days of Wrath, and was knocked unconscious.
Miphon came to slowly. He was groggy, dizzy. His head hurt. He blinked at the sunlight streaming into the tower of Ebber. He half-expected to see spectators crowding the entrance: surely many people in Selzirk must be able to see the doorway to the tower of Ebber was open. But there was nobody. Of course. They were afraid of it. And clearly there were good reasons to support their superstitious dread of the place.
Quickly Miphon checked both Blackwood and Hearst. Both were unconscious. So where was the wizard? Ebonair: yes, that was his name. Miphon had learnt a little from his enemy even as his enemy was learning from him: he knew to look for the staff of power. Which was on the floor of the tower. By Hearst. Which implied that Ebonair was trapped for the time being in the unconscious Hearst-body. Which meant there was a simple way of getting rid of Ebonair: kill Hearst, then burn the staff of power for good measure. But no, he could not do that! Or could he? Hearst would not have hesitated, in his place. It was the only way.
To delay the decision, Miphon sat back and tried to remember what Ebonair had discovered when rummaging through Miphon's memory. Mostly images of sickness and healing. Discovering Miphon to be a member of the order of Nin, an animal-caller and a pox-doctor, Ebonair had not looked very deeply.
There was certainly something he had overlooked.
The sleeping secrets: occult strength of the order of Nin.
The sleeping secrets: power too terrible for any human being to be trusted to live with, power sufficient to overwhelm the established order of the world. In the depths of the Shackle Mountains, in the shadow of thunder, in the place between darkness and light, they were taught by the book of Nariq, and then they were taught to forget.
Was this the time to recall the sleeping secrets? To open, as the saying went, the Book of Nariq?
No.
First, because the problem could be resolved by a simple act of murder. And second, because the sleeping secrets, whatever they were, might not be suitable for overcoming Ebonair without killing Morgan Hearst.
Miphon stood over Hearst's body. It would take only a moment: he knew where to put the blade. He could say afterwards that an evil spirit killed Hearst: the story would be true enough in its way. Hearst would have killed, if necessary.
But Hearst… yes, Miphon remembered how he himself, on a ship at sea, drunk with battle, had sent whales again and again to batter Alish's ships. Hearst had thrown a bucket of water over Miphon, to save the life of a man he had once counted as a friend. Yes, in Miphon's situation, Hearst would have killed if necessary – but if there was another way, he would have tried that first. Could a wizard do less than a Rovac warrior?
Yet it was an improper way to use the sleeping secrets. They were meant for the occasion of greatest danger. And what would Morgan Hearst have said to that? Miphon could imagine the answer: i dare!'
And, if Hearst died, there would be no chance for Miphon to present him to the Confederation of Wizards at the Castle of Controlling Power in a bid to resolve the age-old enmity between the wizards and the Rovac.
Miphon, consoling himself with the thought that he worked in the interests of the greatest good, began the Rites of Recall, and was soon lost in a trance of remembrance.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
Miphon opened his eyes and saw the Hearst-body studying him intently. It held a leather bag which, Miphon knew, contained the death-stone. 'Hearst?' 'What do you think?'
Everything about Hearst-body was subtly wrong: the carriage of the shoulders, the angle the head was held at, the way the feet were together instead of shoulder-width apart.
'Ebonair,' said Miphon.
'Precisely,' said the wizard of Ebber, gloating. 'You know what I hold here?'
'The death-stone,' said Miphon. 'Careful how you use it. It brings stones to life.'
'But not the stones of a wizard castle: they've no minds left to animate. I saw that much when I scanned your memories. From here, I could destroy Selzirk without the slightest risk to myself.'
'But a mad rock might charge the battlements!'
'Ah,' said Ebonair. 'But from this warrior's memories, I see the death-stone repels the rocks it animates. I also see… that with this death-stone, I might become a god.'
'Heenmor killed himself experimenting with the death-stone.'
'I'm not Heenmor,' said Ebonair. 'Besides, I have an advantage he never had: your mind. You can read the thoughts of rock and stone. Isn't that right? A fascinating ability. It may help me much in my research.'
And Miphon thought:
– This has gone on long enough.
– So do it! And he did.
The order of Nin cultivated the ability to read and influence the minds of things that live wild. The powers of the sleeping secrets were the powers to read, understand and control both the minds and bodies of humans, and to change the same. This power could operate at a distance of up to ten leagues.
Miphon closed his eyes. When he closed his eyes, he saw the world around him in terms of life-energies. The stones of the castle were dead, inert. Monstrous powers glowered in the silent machines from the Days of Wrath. Blackwood's mind was a dull red glow, still unconscious. Hearst's mind was another dull glow, but in that glow was a web of green energy, which could be unravelled by… yes, Miphon saw how it could be done.
Miphon stood up. Wrong: his ghost stood up. He looked down on the bodies of flesh and blood. With hands that had no substance, he grasped part of that web of green energy and pulled. The green web started to unravel.
The wizard Ebonair felt his mind disintegrating into the nightmarish turmoil of a bad drug-dream. But in his agony he realised this was no dream: this was his own destruction. He used the last resource available to him. He used the Ultimate Injunction.
'Segenarith!' shouted Ebonair.
Miphon's view of a world of life-energies disappeared. His sensation of inhabiting a ghost-body was gone. He was back in his own flesh. He stared at the swaying Hearst-body. The echo of that shout still rang in his mind:
