trip and stumble when attempting the simplest of rituals in Rosimar's guild? Third, the skill of Melizar-how does the stranger change the very fabric of existence to move from one law to the next? Somehow, with certainty, he can direct where reality is to go.'
Jemidon started speaking faster as he realized where his thoughts were leading him. 'And lastly, the Postulate of Invariance. If there is one metalaw, can there not be others as well?
'Yes, yes, Augusta. There is a way for me to be a master yet. I need to learn just a little more of how to guide the laws to ones that fit. My quest goes on. It is of Melizar I must learn more. From him, I will extract what I need to know.'
Jemidon looked into Augusta's eyes and stopped. He sighed and then spoke softly, almost not believing the words as they came forth. 'The cold one travels to the wheatlands; the high prince must be warned. And, and- there is a slave girl who must be freed. The reasons are too great, Augusta. I must be gone.'
'You speak nonsense,' Augusta said. 'How can such a course compare with what I can give you here?'
'It is nonsense,' Jemidon agreed, shaking his head. 'I do not fully understand the feeling, but I know it cannot be denied.' He touched the cold, unresponsive metal of the changer and felt a longing swell. 'I must follow the nodes of the lattice until I find one that is meant for me. I must return, Augusta, return home to the wheatlands, to discover what Melizar means when he speaks of contradictions.'
Augusta looked intently at Jemidon, searching for some hint of doubt, but he stood unmoving, his decision firmly made. Finally she drew him close, turning her head away.
'Indeed, there has been change in you, my gentle one,' she said at last. She looked back at him and smiled weakly, batting away a tear. 'But no matter; I am still mistress of the grotto and will have a wide selection from which to choose.'
Her cheeks trembled as she struggled to broaden her smile. 'You will need the means for your passage, shelter, and food. Let me refill your purse for services rendered.'
'There is no great need,' Jemidon said. 'As a scholar, I can-'
'Hush.' Augusta put her finger to his lips. 'One of the traders here, Martin, I think, has said that in three days' time he sails for the Arcadian mainland. No other leaves before him, And I am sure he will be happy to take you along, provided you have the means to pay your way.'
'Augusta, if it were not for the master's robe, I-'
'You stomp and shout about riddles and robes,' Augusta said, 'but I wonder. How much of your quest is for them and how much for this slave girl whom you mention the last of all?'
PART THREE
The Axiom of Least Contradiction
CHAPTER TWELVE
Spring Harvest
JEMIDON walked down the deeply rutted path, guided only by the moonlight. Little was different in his native village, despite seven years' absence. As he walked, he pondered the logic that had brought him home.
Two months had passed since he had left Pluton. The lingering winter rains had slowed his journey; the accompanying chill had made travel a definite displeasure. And Melizars path was as cold as the weather. Nowhere could he find anyone who remembered the passage of a cloaked stranger in the company of a small band of men-at-arms.
And so, when he had learned that the high prince also journeyed to the wheatlands, he made the royal party his quarry instead. Along with everything else, the regent should be warned of what Melizar had done and of the stranger's interest in unrest and plunder. Perhaps, with the minions of the prince looking as well, Melizar would be found all the sooner.
But then the random factors must have aligned for him to catch up with the prince when he visited the barony of lord Kenton. Now there was no reason for Jemidon not to visit his father's hut as well. Indeed, it probably was no less than his duty. But what would he say? Could any words match the expectations and finally obtain forgiveness for what had happened so long ago? He would have to be assertive and somehow cast an image that emphasized accomplishment, rather than additional failures along the way.
Jemidon wrenched his thoughts away to something less distasteful. Having the conversation with his father once would be enough. For perhaps the hundredth time, he turned back to another puzzle, one that he had played with ever since he left Pluton, Augusta and Delia. Where did his true feelings really lie? If it were not for the quest for the robe, which, then, would he choose? Augusta had made very clear her feelings for him. In her eyes, he was already what he wanted himself to be. And she was intelligent and perceptive-perceptive enough to suspect that Delia was more than a casual interest,
But why should Delia be more? He had known the slave girl for a few days only. True, she showed courage and independence. She probably had the makings of a great sorceress as well. But a deep-felt relation built on so little acquaintance was substance only for the sagas. In life, it would have to take much more.
Jemidon suddenly recognized a familiar structure and broke out of his reverie. His father's hut stood to the side of the path. It seemed unchanged from the image painted by the wash of memories. As before, the tattered curtain which served as a door fluttered against its lashings in the quickening wind. The feeble wisps of smoke from the tin stack indicated that the fire inside was little more than smoldering coals. The light of a single candle winked through a high window stuffed with rags.
Jemidon hesitated. Then he gathered his cloak tightly around his chest and decided that it was foolish to stand in the unseasonal cold any longer. He sighed and approached the cloth-covered opening.
'Jemilor, freetoiler jemilor, are you there?' Jemidon called out. 'The air chills deep, and I ask to share your fire.'
A moment passed, and then a hand that was beginning to show the blotches of age fumbled with the thongs holding the curtain closed on one side. The drapery fell open and Jemidon looked into watery, blue eyes. The cast of the chin was like his own, but the face was deeply lined with rows of coarse furrows that remained, regardless of the expression.
'Father,' Jemidon said, as the other squinted and did not speak. 'It is your son. At last I have returned home.'
Jemilor's face moved almost imperceptibly in recognition and then hardened. He reached out a hand and ran his fingers over Jemidon's new cloak. 'Freshly woven, but without the logo of a master,' he said. 'Your status is little different from what it was when you left.'
'Father,' Jemidon said, 'it has been almost seven years. There is much that I have learned. Much that I want to hear from you as well. A scribbled note reached me on the shores of the inland sea. Mother was failing. No more have I heard.'
'She is with your sister, almost two years past.' Jemilor motioned toward a small patch of rocky ground to the left of the hut. 'Daughter, wife, son-they all have passed beyond the need for me to care.'
He turned without saying more and shuffled back toward the dimly flickering fire. Jemidon watched the hunched shoulders retreating and followed into the hut. 'But I am here,' he said. 'And with a far better future than when I left. Isn't seven years enough to mellow the keenest disappointment?'
Jemilor slowly settled onto the small stool before the fire, lowering himself as if the slightest miscalculation would result in a broken bone. 'Your sister gave her life so that you might have a chance, Jemidon. A chance to find the means for the rest of us to break free from lord Kenton's bonds. Each year he has grown more oppressive. Each year his masters come forth with more abuse of the craft. Before you left, there was only the ripening. Now there are even harvest cages and sadistic amusements in the keep.
'But if not by thaumaturgy, then with one of the others, you said. Not immediately, but perhaps next season or the one after that. For seven years I have waited. When you return again a failure, then I am entitled to keep my judgments.'
