The Unwelcome Warlock

“Sterren’s gone; no one’s seen him since early this afternoon, and most of his luggage is gone.”

“Gone? Still? Gone where?”

“I have no idea.”

“He should have...his luggage is gone?”

“Yes.”

“That sneaky little traitor — he must be behind this. Wants my empire for himself, probably.”

“Behind what, your Majesty?”

“I had...I dreamed...” He looked baffled and furious. “Someone put a spell on me, Hanner.”

“What kind of a spell?”

“A dream. A Calling nightmare.”

Hanner blinked. “Why do you think that’s a spell?”

Vond had been looking around the room; now he turned to glare at Hanner. “Because the Calling is gone, idiot.”

“How do you —”

“You think it’s another Calling? That my power has its own Call?” He shook his head. “I went and took a good close look at the source of my magic, Hanner. I flew right up to it, and all around it. There’s a powerful protective spell, so I didn’t actually touch it — maybe I could have gotten through that spell if I wanted to, but why should I? I might damage something. I might have destroyed my own magic. So I didn’t force it, and I didn’t need to — I was right there, less than fifty feet from the source. I could feel it all through me. I could see its power all around me. I saw and heard everything there was to see and hear, and I know that there wasn’t any Calling. It wasn’t alive. It didn’t have any more consciousness than a rock — and I don’t mean some wizard’s gargoyles, I mean an ordinary rock. There was no Calling. None. And if I couldn’t hear any right there, fifty feet away, I don’t believe for an instant that I could be hearing it now, on the far side of the Gulf of the East.”

This was interesting. Hanner hadn’t realized that Vond knew exactly where his power came from, let alone that he had visited the source. “Maybe it was asleep when you were there, and now it’s woken up?”

“It wasn’t asleep. It was dead. It was never alive, any more than the Tower of Flame is alive. It’s a construction, a device, a big magical device, and it isn’t Calling anyone.”

“Then maybe your dream was just an ordinary nightmare, dredging up your memories of the Calling.”

That stopped the warlock for a moment; he cocked his head in thought. His lips thinned.

Then he shook his head. “I don’t think so,” he said. “I think it was a wizard trying to trick me. Isn’t there some spell they use to send dreams?”

“The Spell of Invaded Dreams,” Anra volunteered. Hanner glanced at her, startled; her face looked strange in the orange light.

“There, you see?” Vond said triumphantly.

“That a wizard could have sent the dream doesn’t mean one did,” Hanner replied.

“Well, it certainly doesn’t mean one didn’t.”

“Why would a wizard send you a Calling dream?”

“To frighten me, of course! To make me afraid of using my power.”

Hanner had to admit to himself that Vond’s theory was not completely absurd, but he was not about to say it aloud. “How realistic was it? The dream, I mean. Was it like a real Calling nightmare?”

“It was exactly like a real one! That’s another reason I know it wasn’t from my new source — it was too much like the messages from Aldagmor, and the one in Lumeth is completely different.”

“Maybe you’re somehow still hearing the thing from Aldagmor, then.”

Vond sneered. “You know better than that.”

“I know I can’t hear it anymore, and none of the other Called warlocks, but we don’t have any magic anymore. Maybe your new power makes you more sensitive.”

“You know it stopped,” Vond said. “You were there. You felt it stop. We all did. It Called, and it was answered, and it stopped calling.”

“It could have started again,” Hanner said, knowing even as the words left his lips how weak that sounded.

“Why would it? It was rescued. Its...its friend came and got it, and they flew away together. It doesn’t need to call for help anymore.”

“Maybe it’s another one of those things, trapped somewhere else — out beyond the Great Eastern Desert, perhaps. Maybe it’s been there all along, but no one’s ever been sensitive enough to hear it until now. You are the most powerful warlock in history.”

“Yes, I am, but still, that doesn’t fit. I don’t hear any whispering, I don’t feel the slightest tug when I’m awake, but the minute I’m soundly asleep I have a full-sized Calling dream? You know it doesn’t work like that; we don’t reach the nightmare threshold until long after we’ve heard the whispers and felt the urges, and the early dreams aren’t anywhere near as detailed and powerful as this one was.”

“Your mind is accustomed to the nightmares, Vond — you were already Called once.”

He shook his head. “I don’t think so. I don’t hear any whispers, Hanner. I don’t hear anything but pure, clean power from the source in Lumeth.”

Hanner wondered what that felt like. He had been a warlock for seventeen years, but his magic had always had a certain mysteriousness to it, a dark edge, a slightly unclean feeling, even before he began to consciously feel any urge to head toward Aldagmor. What would it be like to have a warlock’s power without that taint?

For a moment he was tempted to see if Vond would teach him to draw on the Lumeth source, but the urge passed. He didn’t need to be a warlock. His previous experience of that magic had cost him his uncle, his title, and in the end, his marriage and seventeen years. This other source might be different, but it might have its own hazards, and it very definitely worried the Wizards’ Guild. Hanner had no desire to annoy the Guild, especially when he had already agreed to accept their money to talk others out of precisely the temptation he was now facing.

“It could still be your own memory playing tricks on you,” he said.

“Maybe,” Vond admitted. “But I think a wizard’s spell is more likely.”

“Can you be sure it was a wizard?” Anra suggested from her bed. “Other magicians can use dreams, too.”

“Can they?” Vond asked, turning to her.

“Demons can send dreams,” Hanner said, thinking back to the years he had spent researching magic for his uncle. “I’m not sure, but I think some gods might, as well.”

“And witches,” Anra offered. “They use dreams to soothe sick children.”

“And...and...” Pirra murmured.

Hanner had almost forgotten she was there. Startled, the other three all turned to look at her.

Intimidated by their gaze, she pulled her blanket up to her chin. “Dancers,” she said over the satin-wrapped hem. “Ritual dancers say they can make happy dreams. My mother told me that.”

“I don’t think that’s real,” Hanner said. “Dancers make a lot of claims they can’t prove.”

“Why would any of them want to?” Vond demanded. “Either Sterren hired someone, and he’d probably go to a wizard, or the wizards are angry with me for creating my empire — they banned warlocks from the whole area, you know. This could be part of their campaign.”

“What campaign?” Hanner asked.

“To keep anyone from using the source in Lumeth! Sterren knew about that — they warned him a dozen years ago, he said. Maybe he didn’t have to hire anyone, maybe it wasn’t his idea at all, but they could have warned him again, and that’s why he left, so he wouldn’t be involved. That must be it — it’s the Wizards’ Guild that’s behind it. If Sterren had wanted the empire he wouldn’t have come here with me in the first place.”

Hanner found it interesting to hear Vond thinking this through out loud. The nightmare, or spell, or whatever it was had clearly shaken him — he had reacted instinctively at first, smashing his way up through the ceiling, and then had realized that, just as he had explained, the dream couldn’t be a genuine Call. The mere fact