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into it, and
into it, and fight amongst themselves the rest of the time.” “Going to Tramora is foolish,” Symurall said stiffly. “My brother stiffly. “My brother has already seen their destruction. Another of us has gone to independently evaluate the situation.” “Don’t take offense, but a lot of people aren’t going to believe what dragons say. They need to see things with their own eyes.” They sat for a while, watching the grey waves against a grey sky. Alanora moved quickly, her breathing matched her steady footsteps, her thoughts calm and focused. So much to think about, and she needed to get home; time to do the former 48 while letting the latter burn away the stress of recent days. Kaylen could certainly take care of himself. Thinking of the captain brought the captain brought a smile to her lips. But she did not
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look back. The
look back. The dunes passed into sandy grassland and scrubby trees. Just to the west, Drakcaern stood dark against the grey sky. For a moment, she considered changing course; she hadn’t seen Tohkay for several months, and she missed the studious lizard’s company. He might even have insights into her dilemmas. But the urgency to get home drove her to continue south, toward her city in a mountain. She needed to reach home before her father learned of the newcomers. His reaction… she hoped she was wrong about her expectations. Lost in thought, she almost missed the huge shadow that passed nearby. Looking up, her blood froze. The dragon passed her, making a leisurely turn. Stopping, pulling the bow from her back, she nocked back, she nocked an arrow, and prepared to make at least one shot if it attacked. The dragon slowed; the delicacy of
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its landing surprised
its landing surprised Alanora, and for a moment, she admired the grace of such an enormous beast. While not as large as Symurall, it was an impressive being, even beautiful, bright turquoise stripes set against rust and tan. The eyes stay fixed on the woman, not blinking, though the iris changed shape. “You are safe, Alanora Ortensa,” the dragon said. “My name is Mahgrurra.” “How…” Alanora lowered her aim for a moment, and then brought the weapon back to bear. “How do you know my name?” “I know much about you,” Mahgrurra stated calmly. “You are the daughter of Oric Ortensa, Lord of Caerelon. You were born twenty-seven years ago; your mother, Elsha, died of frostfever died of frostfever four years past. Since that time, you have traveled often and widely in the company of Norgrim the dwarf and the See’ee’ah named Tohkay Ahtok. Now please
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lower the weapon,
lower the weapon, so we might avoid any annoying accidents.” Alanora stepped back, still holding the weapon at ready. “Who betrayed me?” “No one betrayed you. I have never spoken to Tohkay or Norgrim at length. Nor does Symurall know about your origins, to my knowledge. For the moment, accept that I have friends among your people, and we have worked to keep your secrets.” Alanora shook her head. “No. That’s impossible.” Mahgrurra snorted and laughed. “Did you think it possible to hide forever behind camouflage and masked scents? If I were a threat, your people would have been obliterated long before your birth.” A jumble your birth.” A jumble of racing thoughts refused to become anything coherent, and Alanora simply stared at the dragon. After a moment, she forcibly cleared her mind, returning the arrow to its quiver and shouldering the bow. “What do you
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expect of me?”
expect of me?” she asked calmly and deliberately. “I doubt this is a social call. You want something, so out with it.” 49 Mahgrurra pulled her head up, cocked it to one side, and blinked. “Symurall described Kaylen to me, and now I find myself faced with another human who is fearless.” “Kaylen doesn’t know what he should fear,” Alanora said firmly. “I don’t let fear rule my life.” “Obviously not, or we would not be having this conversation.” “Again: What do “Again: What do you want?” “My colony has spent almost three centuries protecting your people.” “Why?” “Does it matter?” “Yes.” “It was the right thing to do.” Alanora laughed. “That’s it? Pardon me if I’m a bit skeptical.” “It is the only answer to give. I do not wish to see our efforts fail now. Even dragons cannot maintain secrets forever. The survivors of
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Tramora will find
Tramora will find Caerelon. Your isolation will end. You must return home as quickly as possible, and keep your father from making a mistake.” “That’s what I was doing before you interrupted me. If you don’t mind, I have a long way to go.” Alanora started walking forward. A dragon’s paw was extended in front of her, its open palm upward. “You have got to be joking,” she said. “Time is of said. “Time is of the essence,” Mahgrurra stated. “In a few hours, I can save you days of walking.” “I don’t think my father is going to be very happy if I’m hand-delivered by a dragon.” “That is not a problem. I will deliver you to trusted allies near Caerelon. You can travel the remaining distance on your own.” The scaly, clawed fingers wiggled a bit. “A few minutes ago, you could have sent
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an arrow into
an arrow into my eye. I trusted you to think before shooting. Please trust me now.” Alanora took a step forward, hesitated, unsure as to how to mount, finally deciding to straddle the middle finger, legs dangling, her back resting against the palm. The fingers enclosed her gently; the proximity of great black claws made her heart race. The dragon slowly lifted into slowly lifted into the air. Alanora wondered what mechanism made it possible for such an enormous creature to float and fly. “Are you comfortable?” the dragon asked. “I guess so. The swaying is upsetting my stomach. Don’t be surprised if I get sick.” “Do not worry. I am washable.” 50 The dragon flew southeast. Alanora couldn’t decide whether to fear for her life or be thrilled by the view, and settled for a cautious appreciation of her circumstances. From the rapidly-moving perch in
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Mahgrurra’s paw, she
Mahgrurra’s paw, she formed new perspectives on familiar places as they rushed by below: grasslands and forests, fallow fields and crumbling structures, rivers and abandoned roads. A herd of six-legged ekkah-beasts whisked past, warily watching the warily watching the predator. Never in her life had she imagined being carried over the landscape by a dragon – or, at least, she’d never expected to do so outside its mouth. A world she’d traveled for years suddenly seemed much smaller. The reddish mountains of the Sanguine peaks loomed closer with each moment. Grassy plains were replaced by the familiar forests of her home valley. On a foothill of one mountain spur, she recognized a grey stone tower, its ragged demeanor designed to make it appear abandoned and dilapidated. Inside, however, were members of her people, on watch against any incursions of kehklik. Alanora nearly shrieked as Mahgrurra circled
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quickly behind granite
quickly behind granite peaks, and rapidly dove into a small valley. Before she knew what was happening, the dragon had stopped, and let her go. “That let her go. “That was… some ride,” Alanora said, wobbling and a bit dizzy. “At least you did not get sick.” “She wouldn’t. Not her,” came a gruff voice. A tall white-bearded man emerged from the trees, dressed in chainmail hauberk. “Good to see you, Mahgrurra. I must admit, I never expected to see Lord Oric’s daughter arriving in your company.” “Grehn!” Alanora said. “You know this dragon?” “Indeed I do,” he said, walking over to stroke the great reptile’s neck. “We’ve killed quite a few kehklik in our day, haven’t we, old friend? And shared some fine conversation, too, I might add.” “Yes we have,” said the dragon. “I must be going. You have much to tell each other,
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and my colony-mates
and my colony-mates should learn of recent events. The world grows more complicated with each passing moment.” each passing moment.” The dragon fixed its attention on Alanora. “I hope you trust me now. Great events unfold, and we must take care to guide our destinies. If you need me, I will do what I can.” And the dragon flew away. Alanora shook her head, and stood quietly, looking in the direction where the dragon had gone. “My lady…” Grehn began. “Don’t call me that. You’ve known me since I was a toddler. At court, I’m happy to be Oric’s daughter; with you, we’re just old friends, okay?” She gave him a hug. “I’ve missed you.” “The feeling’s mutual,” said Grehn, smiling. “It’s been what? Six months this time?” 51 “Almost,” she said. “I didn’t mean “I didn’t mean to be gone so
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long. You won’t
long. You won’t believe what I’ve seen.” “In the very least, you’ve befriended a dragon who’s taken great pains to hide her involvement in our lives. I can’t imagine what else you’ve seen and done.” Alanora laughed. “No, Grehn, you can’t. The entire world has changed in ways I don’t fully understand.” “Then I’ll break out some good ale and a bit of mediocre food, and you can tell me all about it.” They walked up the hill, toward the old tower. After a quick breakfast, Tohkay grabbed a scroll case and climbed to the top of the keep’s tower, hoping to warm himself. The days had grown cooler, and he wished for clear sunlight to warm his stomach. Still, his stomach. Still, being outside under grey skies was preferable to remaining within the dark keep. As he lay down in a comfortable section of the
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parapet wall, he
parapet wall, he noticed one of the reddish desert dragons nearby. It landed a few miles away and flew away a short time later, clutching something to its chest. Tohkay wondered what it was carrying, and if it was related to the battle on the beach. He was not entirely ignorant of events, having watched the Symurall’s lightning flashes on the horizon; the dragon’s intervention did not surprise him, and was, in fact, quite comforting. Earlier in the day, Kyazura had visited briefly, telling him of Norgrim’s survival. It pleased the lizard to know that the future held more arguments with the dwarf. From one of his pouches, Tohkay extracted pouches, Tohkay extracted his spectacles, looping the chain over his neck and settling the bridge across his broad snout. Much as events on the beach intrigued him, he was enjoying a chance to read his recently-obtained
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books without interruption.
books without interruption. Especially this book. A See’ee’ah scroll, dark-green symbols claw-scrawled on yellowed paper. Retrieved by Tohkay himself, from deep beneath the layered ruins of Roqat, written before Symurall and his siblings had been born, preserved in a remarkable sealed vault. The author was G’kossa, a legendary scholar whose works had been thought lost to time. And for Tohkay, it was better than a warm shaft from the sun. It was history, written by someone who had lived it. Tohkay knew the Story of Deliverance, as it was taught, beginning when the kehklik had grown aggressive, invading grown aggressive, invading the jungles of Wyvernrift, killing, destroying, leaving the See’ee’ah fearing for their very survival. Joah’tu, a brave and reckless See’ee’ah, rescued the enslaved wyvern Ethris, and together they’d flown across the Black Sea to the land of the 52 First Colony on Artorra. Joah’tu alone
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survived the journey,
survived the journey, and he returned on the back of a very young dragon prince named Garthonnex. Joining forces with his future mate, Narrahnjarra, Garthonnex had fought the enemy back to its home, ending the kehklik threat. Tohkay knew what the legend said, but he was much more interested in what it didn’t say. So many missing details, so many questions about where the kehklik had originated, why they had been peaceful had been peaceful for so long, and how the conflict had begun. The kinds of questions that Tohkay had once asked, and been told not to ask any more. He had come a long way from home to look for answers. He unrolled the scroll and began to read. Traveling east, Sytherek sang to himself; it was a composition he hadn’t worked on in decades, yet it flowed again. Serendipitous possibilities fed a dozen
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threads of thought,
threads of thought, opening long-forgotten reflections and deliberations. The music was the pleasant result of interacting considerations, and it pleased the dragon. He let the song trail off as he spied an ancient human ruin – the city of Tornaval, sprawled across the bluffs overlooking the wide River Evvon. Sytherek remembered the city as the city as it had once been, its streets filled with people, caravans moving on the cliff-side road between town and harbor, sounds of human industry and life drifting upward. Centuries after it had been assaulted, invaded, and abandoned, the human presence lingered in the rectangular shapes of roofless walls and the neat streets that curved up to the ruins of the central citadel. The observation fit well with the dragon’s ruminations; the depth of his thoughts almost masked the arrival of another. “Hello, brother,” said Kyazura, who slowed to hover beside
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him. “Greetings, sister,”
him. “Greetings, sister,” he replied. He pointed downward with one great claw. “Your dwarves have a camp below. I smell a hundred of them at least. More explorations of the past?” “Yes. I am here to see them.” “The humans will “The humans will be moving here, will they not?” “How did you know?” Her voice held an uncharacteristic tone of abject surprise. “I saw part of the battle. Our brother can be quite impressive when he unleashes his powers. And bringing them here is the obvious solution, if we do not simply eat them all.” “You are not angry?” 53 “Hungry perhaps, but not angry. Did you expect me to be?” When she didn’t immediately reply, he continued. “Of course you did. It would never occur to you that I might find Symurall’s actions both commendable and illuminating. It is time that he realized how
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foolish the Sanctagora
foolish the Sanctagora meetings are.” Kyazura remained silent as the two of them hovered above the ruins. Sytherek turned the ruins. Sytherek turned away and said, “I have not seen Vallahnoka and my family for many days. I am going home. Good fortune, sister. Tell Symurall he has my support.” Sytherek quickly left sister and ruin behind him, crossing the river to fly over wide grasslands. Remnants of abandoned roads drew faint lines across the prairie; a few ragged structures stood like tombstones in remembrance of long-dead villages and farms. He wondered how long it would take the new humans to rebuild – if they had the chance. A herd of horses galloped away at his approach; a quick hunt solved his hunger problem. The land beneath him was drier now, the soil brown, supporting only scattered scrub brush and stunted trees. Great pinnacles and plateaus
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of red and
of red and brown arose from the landscape, from the landscape, carved by constant winds. Sytherek soared, gliding, savoring every nuance of the air as he weaved between the monoliths. A bright spot on the horizon caught his eye, and soon resolved itself into a familiar form. The approaching dragon performed a barrel role, and then turned to parallel Sytherek’s course. “Tyreon!” Sytherek called with joy. “And what brings you out this way?” “I missed you,” the young metallic-lavender dragon said. “You were gone a long time. Mother sent me to look for you.” “Only so you would leave her in peace,” the father laughed. “Perhaps.” “I am glad you were a pest. Now show me how fast you are!” They raced toward distant mountains. Kyazura watched her brother recede in the distance. She then descended in circles toward in circles toward
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Tornaval. The ruins
Tornaval. The ruins lay neatly along the river’s bluff; in their center stood a hill, atop which lay the remains of a sprawling castle. She flew slowly around the curtain wall once, and settled into the courtyard. Around her, a few dozen dwarves were busy at tasks Kyazura only vaguely understood. A few stopped working for a moment to greet the dragon. “Lady Kyazura!” a gruff voice called. Two female dwarves approached from the direction of the largest structure. The older was dressed in a heavy leather apron covered in 54 dirt and soot, her long grey hair held in multiple beaded braids that ran down her back. The other, much younger, with brilliant red hair, wore red hair, wore a deep blue dress of heavy denim. “It is good to see you, Dorna,” Kyazura said, addressing the older woman. Nodding her head a bit, the
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dragon added. “Greetings
dragon added. “Greetings to you as well, Kalinda. I did not know you had joined your mother this year.” “I couldn’t keep her away,” Dorna said with false exasperation and a grin. “Kalinda takes after her father. Stubborn.” Mother and daughter laughed in unison. “I bring news of your mate,” Kyazura said. “He is nearby, to the northwest.” “Now there’s no surprise. He and Tohkay are visiting that brother of yours, aren’t they?” “They were. Norgrim is now assisting human refugees along the coast.” “Human?” Kalinda asked. “Did you say human?” “I did.” Everyone in the courtyard fell silent. On the beach, On the beach, Symurall raised his head. “My sister is coming.” Kyazura landed gently, in the surf, and walked slowly toward the man and her brother, water splashing high at her steps. “I spoke with Dorna at Tornaval,” Kyazura said. “She was curious, annoyed,
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and very understanding
and very understanding of the situation. They will help you.” “My wife never did like unexpected guests,” said Norgrim, who ambled up to the group. “Even if they are exotic.” “Exotic?” Kaylen laughed. “That’s one word no one has ever used to describe me. And what’s this about your wife?” “My lovely lady is Chief Archaeologist in the northlands.” Norgrim’s voice and posture displayed considerable pride. “Your daughter Kalinda is at Tornaval as well,” Kyazura continued. “They will prepare the river docks and assist in and assist in creation of shelters. Along the coast, we’ve seen a sufficient number of ships for carrying your people to the city.” “Possibly…” Kaylen said, starting to consider the logistics. “I have also met Sytherek,” Kyazura added. “Our brother observed your defense of the humans, and sends his support.” Symurall froze in place for a moment, his eyes growing slightly
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larger. A grumble
larger. A grumble started deep in his chest, and he opened his mouth; Kaylen and Norgrim jumped back. The sound 55 was reminiscent of vast boulders bouncing down a hill, crashing into each other in a chaotic rumble. “I’ve never heard him laugh like that before!” Norgrim yelled as the sound subsided. “Few things amuse me this much,” said Symurall. “My said Symurall. “My brother can still pleasantly surprise me after thousands of years. Did he explain his reasoning?” “No,” Kyazura replied. “I am simply pleased to find us united on this matter. With Mahgrurra’s support, we will have a majority –” Loud and angry voices came from the direction of the main camp. Kaylen started running. Drawing closer, he slowed to a trot. A crowd had divided into two nearly-equal groups; Jahsha and Jennur stood in their midst, toe-to-toe. “…my ship!” Jahsha was bellowing as
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severed one of
severed one of the creature’s legs, but didn’t slow it down. Climbing, the kehklik turned to make another pass at Kaylen; again it spat, and a black, tarry glob splashed against his leg. The cloth smoldered. Before he could swing, the attacker flew up and circled away. “Get down!” a female voice called out. Kaylen dropped flat on his stomach as the kehklik came at him again. He heard the twang of a bow, and barely had time to cover his face as the sand in front of him erupted. After a second, he opened his eyes, and saw a kehklik’s head only inches away, an arrow through one of the mirrored eyes. “You can get up now,” the woman said. “They’re dead.” He slowly rose to his feet and saw the
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“mute” woman kneeling
“mute” woman kneeling nearby, examining the body of a kehklik. She’d changed clothes since he’d last seen her, into brown leather and dark cloth, a large quiver on her back, a long, thin black bow in her hand, a short sword and knife hanging from her waist. “You don’t have two or three days,” she said. Her pronunciation of Erashi was odd, the vowels too aspirated, the constants clipped sharply. “Tonight. They’ll be here tonight.” She looked at him. “The correct response to having your life saved is ‘thank you’, by the way.” 33 The sand around her feet exploded. The jaws of a burrower clamped around her calf; Kaylen lodged his sword in its skull, pinning it to the ground.
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Its jaws sprang
Its jaws sprang open. The woman pulled away, cursing loudly. “Now we’re even,” Kaylen said, twisting his blade, just to be certain it was dead. “So who are you, and why didn’t Norgrim tell me about you?” “My name is Alanora,” she said. She pulled an arrow from a dead kehklik and returned it to her quiver. “Norgrim is just keeping my secrets.” “Like your ability to speak?” “If I’d have spoken, people would have known I wasn’t one of you.” “You’re the one who was watching me at the dragon’s lair.” “Yes.” She searched the horizon. “We’ve just bumped into a probing party.” “Symurall said we had several more days before the kehklik attacked.” “Dragons are arrogant,” she said bitterly. “They just think they know everything.” “Symurall doesn’t know about you, does he?”
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priorities. She
priorities. She had no trouble get- ting the duty sergeantPs attention. MIPm looking for Detective Barney Matthews.N She gave him her answers-only smile. MCould you direct me to him, please?N She found him on the second floor, homicide squad room. He engulfed her in a hug. MItPs the mermaid!N That had been her nickname when they worked the streets on opposite sides. They never locked horns on the street L she had too classy a clientele, and like any mermaid she could find the ocean easily. She helped him a couple times, though, when somebody was hurting people and needed to come off the street. And there were — 134 — the moments when he returned
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the favor. She hugged
the favor. She hugged him back. MAnd you. Still the big old whale.N She squeezed him tightly, kissed the side of his face. MSome things never change.N MYouPre still a beautiful lady.N He laughed with his own pleasure. MMy Missus should see me now.N Rachel joined in the laugh, hugged him hard. MRachel, this is my partner, Tom.N He looked at Tom. MOld friends, Tom.N He winked. MAnd if this ladyPs here, then therePs a reason.N MMy brotherPs missing.N Rachel wasted no time supplying her reason for being there. MSince when?N MLast night.N She paused. MWhen he didnPt ar- rive on his one oPclock flight from New Orleans.N
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MWell he could
MWell he could have -N MI came here, Barney, because you wouldnPt give me that Ocould haveP crap.N She stared hard at him and his partner. MI know my brother very well. WePve been in touch for a long time now, and often, at least twice a week. If he couldnPt make it, he would have let me know.N MWrite down his name and address.N It was the young partner, Tom. MIPll get it on the Telex. We should get something back in an hour.N MI like your partner, Barney.N She smiled. MHowPd he end up with you?N Barney gave her a look. MGive me that, Tom.N He took the paper and wrote in a priority code and
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addressed it to
addressed it to someone on the force there who owed him. — 135 — Tom went to get some coffee while Barney and Rachel went into a vacant office. He could see she was troubled and tried to keep it light. There was a lot for the Mermaid and the Whale to talk about, the old days. The talk only took the edge off RachelPs intuition. Barney eventually moved to the point. MItPs probably nothinP, sweetheart. Relax. Your brother probably met the love of his life.N It didnPt wash. MSomethingPs wrong, Barney. I know it. Oth- erwise Robert would be
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here or else
here or else I would have heard. I know it.N Her eyes gathered conviction. MIPm going, Barney.N MWait for the Telex.N He put his gnarled old hand on hers, buried her long, soft fingers in his palm. MLet the police handle it. I know youPll hit me if I suggest youPre overreacting.N She didnPt answer; let her eyes talk. He read it, smiled, and leaned back, ready to respect her insight. She was a gutsy lady L he knew that, knew she could take care of herself. MWait a bit, baby. LetPs see what we get back first.N MOkay, poppa.N His eyes locked in on her, the only person she knew who could call her baby
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and not end
and not end up cas- trated. MYouPve got it.N She acquiesced. MIPll go to the club and wait for the Telex.N She took her hand from under his. MBut if I donPt get something, IPm going.N MGood. WePll wait and see. No need to get sud- — 136 — den here, not yet.N He paused. MBetter yet, IPll call Le Clerc, the cop who owes me. IPll contact him personally. No need to wait for the Telex.N He reached for the phone as she stood up. MThanks, Barney.N MGo to the club and relax, the cops are on your case, again.N
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A long, low,
A long, low, rambling house, the front relieved by cornice and architrave, and an immense portico from which white stone steps, wide and worn by many feet, lead to the lawns and gardens, which are gay with bright flowers, intersected with old-fashioned serpentine walks; one would call it not inaptly a garden of roses, such were their number, such their variety and beauty. Great masses of rhododendrons, with the fragrant honeysuckle, sweet-briar, and lauristina lent perfume to the air. Some fine oaks, with beech and graceful locusts, gave beauty to the lawns; stone stables, with farm and carriage houses at the back, with paved court-yard, and kitchen-garden luxuriant in growth, a very horn of plenty. \ A lovely spot, an ideal home,\ said numerous passers-by to and from the modern Babylon. Alas! that the interior should be a
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very inferno; in
very inferno; in the library are assembled the family, for a family talk. Miss Villiers, to whom did we not give precedence, would trample on some one to gain first place. Timothy Stone, her maternal uncle, and Elizabeth Stone, his sister and Aunt to Miss Villiers; the latter by sheer strength of will, since her babyhood, has ruled at Broadlawns, even though, owing to disastrous speculation, the whole family were penniless, save for the large fortune of her step-mother, Miss Villiers lived for, moved and had her being for kingdom. Intensely selfish, and totally devoid of feeling, an apt pupil of her aunt and uncle, she regards all sentiment, romance or disinterested acts of kindness as mawkish, unpractical foolishness. A word of her looks. In height, five feet two, round shoulders slightly high, thin spare figure, a brunette
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in coloring; stony eyes
in coloring; stony eyes of piercing blackness, always cold and searching as though planted closely in the forehead to read one through, as to whether any of her dark secrets have been discovered; a hook nose, thin, determined lips; hair black as the wing of a raven; the back of her head covered with short, snake-like curls, the front was drawn back in straight bands, thus giving prominence to features already too unclassically so. As far as a man can be said to resemble a woman, so did, in looks and character, Timothy Stone his niece, save that his once coal-black hair is now white; his fishy eyes sunken, though keen as a razor; in height, five feet ten; of spare, alert figure, active as a prize racer, knowing as the jockey who rides him. Elizabeth Stone is
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an older counter-part
an older counter-part of her niece, save that she wears that fashionable mantle of to-day–the cloak of religion, in which, unlike her brother, she is so comfortable as never to allow it to fall from her angular shoulders. The library, an old-fashioned, cold looking room, furnished in black oak, everything being in spotless order, from books biblical and secular, to Aunt Elizabeth s hands, folded just so on her stiff gown of black silk, as to cause one to long for deshabille somewhere other than in the principles of those present. \ The only one whom we have to fear is Sarah Kane, and you, Margaret, will keep her about the place in spite of all I can say,\ said her uncle, in crabbed tones; \ mark my words, you are housing a rod for your own back
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by your abominable
by your abominable self-will.\ \ I am no fool; did I dismiss her I should convert her into a deadly enemy at once; but, as I have before had occasion to remark, Uncle Timothy, that, thanks to your tuition and blood, I am quite able to take care of myself, and minus your interference.\ CHAPTER VII. 58 \ Don t squabble with her, Timothy, when the man Providence is sending her as a husband may be in our midst at any moment; as you heard at the hotel, he is now in the city.\ \ Oh bosh, Elizabeth, keep that tone under your church hymnal, as I do; between ourselves it is slightly out of place,\ and he
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smiled sarcastically. \ No,
smiled sarcastically. \ No, Timothy, in spite of the sinful example you set me, I shall keep my lamp trimmed and burning; providence is very good to us in laying low of fever, at Montreal, Hugh Babbington-Cole, thus giving him time to repent, as also preventing his presence at the wedding of Margaret.\ \ At which you have been making mountains of mole hills,\ said her brother, grimly. \ Babbington-Cole could not possibly remember what Margaret and Pearl looked like in eighteen-seventy.\ \ Your memory is as usual convenient, Timothy, relentless time would have shown him the difference in years, of a girl just of age, and a woman of thirty-nine.\ \ Enough, Aunt Elizabeth,\ interrupted her niece, pale with rage, \ I simply won t allow you to
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There was, indeed,
There was, indeed, a kind of boyish compact between us, that we should support each other through all difficulties. This, as I remembered, dated back to our prep school-days and had been reinforced by a fearsome oath, inspired doubtless by some dark fiction that had captivated our youthful imaginations. His failure to tell me of his summer abroad or of his interest in the Hollisters when I had afforded him so excellent an opening by my reference to the Asolando emphasized the seriousness of his plight. His reserve hid, I knew, a diffident and sensitive nature, and it was wholly possible that if his affair with Cecilia Hollister had not prospered he had fled to his ranch there to wrestle in seclusion with his disappointment. My mind was busy with such speculations as I sped toward Katonah, where I found the trap
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from Hopefield Manor
from Hopefield Manor awaiting me. \ It s rather poor going over the hills; about five miles, sir,\ said the driver, as we set off. This sort of thing was wholly usual in the nature of my vocation. The flues in country houses seem much more willful and obdurate than those in town, a fact which I have frequently discussed with architects, and I had been met in just this way at many stations within a radius of fifty miles of New York, and carried to houses whose chimneys were provocative of wrath and indignation in their owners. This was the first week in October. There was just zest enough in the air to make a top coat comfortable. The team of blacks spoke well for Miss Hollister s stable, and the liveried driver kept them
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moving steadily, but eased
moving steadily, but eased the pace as we rose on the frequent slopes to the shoulders of pleasant hills. The immediate neighborhood into which we were wending was unknown to me, though I saw familiar landmarks. I am not one to quibble over the efforts of man to supplement the work of nature, so that I confess without shame that the Croton lakes, to my cockney eye, merge flawlessly into this landscape. It is not for me to raise the cry of utilitarianism against these saucerfuls of blue water, merely because the fluid thus caught and held bubbles and sparkles later in the taps of the Manhattaners. Early frosts had already wrought their miracle in the foliage, and the battle-banners of winter s vanguard flashed along the horizons. I rejoiced that my business, vexatious enough in many ways, yet afforded me so
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charming an outing
charming an outing as this. Presently we climbed a hill that shouldered its way well above its fellows and came out upon a broad ridge, where we entered at once a noble gateway set in an old stone wall, and struck off smartly along a fine bit of macadam. The house, the driver informed me, was a quarter of a mile from the gate. The way led through a wild woodland in which elms and maples predominated; and before this had grown monotonous we came abruptly upon an Italian garden, beyond which rose the house. I knew it at once for one of Pepperton s sound performances; Pepperton is easily our best man in domestic Tudor, and the whole setting of Hopefield Manor, the sunken garden, the superb view, the billowing fields and woodlands beyond, all testified to a taste which
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no ignorant owner
no ignorant owner had thwarted. The house was Tudor, but in no servile sense: it was also Pepperton. I lifted my eyes with immediate professional interest to the chimney-pots on the roof. It occurred to me on the instant that I had never before been called to retouch any of Pepperton s work. Pep knew as much as I about 15 flue-construction; I had an immense respect for Pep, and as my specializing in chimneys had been a subject of frequent chaffing between us, I anticipated with a chuckle the pleasure I should have later in telling him that at last one of his flues had required my services. My good opinion of Miss Hollister did not diminish as I stepped within the broad
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octaves. As the patterning
octaves. As the patterning force of the “All,” Solí has everything to do with personal identity and gender. His patterning force provides the vibratory harmonic upon which, each and every individual receives gender through a specific Runic Force, while at the same time, receiving personal identity. In this way, although the “Sound Essence or Hamingja is of the spiritual planes beyond the realms of dualism, it nevertheless takes on either male or female characteristics upon its transition into the material worlds of dualism. For this reason, a conscious entity will develop from one species to the next, then from one ascension or incarnation to the next as either male or female. Sometimes one’s past actions and/or attitudes necessitate a life experience in the opposite gender. Such a situation is often the root, or karmic cause of homosexuality. Therefore, when someone feels that he or she is
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trapped in the
trapped in the wrong body, it is probably true. As I stated in chapter eight, we often have to deal with karma that is not ours, so the individual may not even be at fault. As regards the creation of biological forms, there exists information which describes how quanta manifest DNA and cellular structures. I will dispense with the details, because they are embroiled in physics-related terms such as 1) Universal Unified Field; 2) Dimensional Unified Field; 3) Universal Merkaba Field; 4) Outer Auric Levels; 5) Morphogenetic Chakras; and 6) Morphogenetic Seed Crystals. We’ll suffice it to say here, that from the bodies we inhabit, to the planetary spheres in all dimensions, to solar systems, galaxies, and even the universe itself, electromagnetic (E.M.) fields serve as more examples of Soil’s structural patterns. Specifically, we are talking about how the tonal pattern of incoming energy (electro-tonal identity)
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enters the Seed
enters the Seed Crystal, and manifests itself in the DNA blueprint. The process is eventually described in terms of how the energy-identity enters the “auric capsules” of the body, and is then drawn through the lower chakras (hvels) and into the energy meridians linked to the body’s nervous system. From the nervous system, this energy passes into the endocrine system, the blood, and the cellular structure, to manifest form. Biological form is created and sustained through this continual process of energy flow from the multi-dimensional, Unified Field. Therefore, as more highly evolved entities, we inhabit bodies made up of other entities, or intelligences inhabiting the cells of the body. The quantum physics are certainly real, but they offer very little in the way of understanding who we are, and what makes us what we are; therefore, it is of great significance to understand the structure
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of the various
of the various dimensions that we call planes. Herein lays the source of the “subtle bodies” making up the Auric Field (known in Old Norse, as the Hugr). These subtle bodies make up the mind, the subconscious/ unconscious, and the storehouse of our lower emotional passions. This is what is generally left out of discussions such as the one above, regarding incoming energy-identities. The DNA blueprint mentioned above exists as a shroud around the physical body. Psychics, who claim to be able to view this, call it the “Etheric Body,” and state that it is the innermost layer of several, constituting the “aura.” This is actually a Sound Matrix serving as a DNA template, from which the physical body is patterned, with DNA also manifesting in the cellular structure. The Old Norse term for this is ‘Hamr.” At a more subtle vibratory frequency
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where there is a
where there is a mill, was once a famous spot for smelts, where they were caught by large casting nets, used at night by torch-light, but the town sewage has effectually spoiled the smelting. The pool below the New Mills was also a place where the smelts were caught in large numbers, but it is not so good now.\ [Picture: Thorpe Gardens] Presently we came to Thorpe, where a bend of the river has been cut off by two railway bridges, and a straight new cut made for the navigation. We took the old river, and Wynne was charmed with the view which then unfolded itself. The long curve of the river was lined on the outer bank by picturesque houses, with gardens leading to the water s edge, while behind them rose a well-wooded bank. In
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the autumn of
the autumn of 1879 this reach was found to be swarming with pike, and it speedily swarmed with anglers, who had generally good sport until, apparently, all the pike were caught. At intervals since, there have been similar immigrations of pike to this reach when tides unusually high or salt drive the fish up from the lower reaches. At the lower end of the reach is a favourite resort on summer evenings, a waterside inn, known as Thorpe Gardens, where we pulled up. Here there are also boat-letting stations, where cruising yachts can be hired. II. Just through the bridge, {29} we joined the main river again, and noticed several yachts moored against the bank, amongst which was ours. Wynne stepped on board, curious to inspect a Norfolk yacht, and
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he freely commented
he freely commented on her enormous counter, short keel, great open well, and tall pole-mast. In a short time we stowed all our belongings, and set sail–mainsail, jib, and topsail–the spread of canvas rather startling Wynne, who had only been used to sea yachts. There was a light north-westerly wind, and we glided swiftly away before it. But ere we had sailed a 9 couple of hundred yards, Wynne insisted on our stopping to sketch the White House, at Whitlingham, which, with the trees on the hill, the wood-shaded reach of river, and the huge brown sails of the wherries, formed a picture we might well wish to carry away. Wynne often stopped in this way, to the intense disgust of our man, who liked to make his passages quickly, and had no sympathy with artistic
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picture. In the spring
picture. In the spring they pulled the house down, for, as people said, it was a ruin. One could see from the street right into the room with the hog s-leather hanging, which was slashed and torn; and the green grass and leaves about the balcony hung quite wild about the falling beams.–And then it was put to rights. \ That was a relief,\ said the neighboring houses. * * * * * A fine house was built there, with large windows, and smooth white walls; but before it, where the old house had in fact stood, was a little garden laid out, and a wild grapevine ran up the wall of the neighboring house. Before the garden there was a large iron railing with an iron door, it looked quite splendid, and
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people stood still and
people stood still and peeped in, and the sparrows hung by scores in the vine, and chattered away at each other as well as they could, but it was not about the old house, for they could not remember it, so many years had passed,–so many that the little boy had grown up to a whole man, yes, a clever man, and a pleasure to his parents; and he had just been married, and, together with his little wife, had come to live in the house here, where the garden was; and he stood by her there whilst she planted a field-flower that she found so pretty; she planted it with her little hand, and pressed the earth around it with her fingers. Oh! what was that? She had stuck herself. There sat something pointed, straight out of the soft mould.
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It was—-yes, guess!–it
It was—-yes, guess!–it was the pewter soldier, he that was lost up at the old man s, and had tumbled and turned about amongst the timber and the rubbish, and had at last laid for many years in the ground. The young wife wiped the dirt off the soldier, first with a green leaf, and then with her fine handkerchief–it had such a delightful smell, that it was to the pewter soldier just as if he had awaked from a trance. \ Let me see him,\ said the young man. He laughed, and then shook his head. \ Nay, it cannot be he; but he reminds me of a story about a pewter soldier which I had when I was a little boy!\ And then he told his wife about the old house, and the old man,
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and about the
and about the pewter soldier that he sent over to him because he was so very, very lonely; and he told it as correctly as it had really been, so that the tears came into the eyes of his young wife, on account of the old house and the old man. \ It may possibly be, however, that it is the same pewter soldier!\ said she, \ I will take care of it, and remember all that you have told me; but you must show me the old man s grave!\ \ But I do not know it,\ said he, \ and no one knows it! all his friends were dead, no one took care of it, and I was then a little boy!\ \
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the door stood a
the door stood a guard watching the battalion entrain. \ May one get aboard?\ Stewart inquired, in his best German. The guard held up his hand for an instant; then the gold-braided station-master shouted a sentence which Stewart could not distinguish; but the guard dropped his hand and nodded. Looking back, the American saw a wild mob charging down the platform toward him, and hastily swung himself aboard. As he dropped into his seat, he could hear the shrieks and oaths of the melee outside, and the next moment, a party of breathless and disheveled women were storming the door. They were panting, exhausted, inarticulate with rage and chagrin; they fell in, rolled in, stumbled in, until the compartment was jammed. Stewart, swept from his seat at the first impact, but
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rallying and doing
rallying and doing what he could to bring order out of chaos, could not but admire the manner in which his bearded fellow-passenger clung immovably to his seat until the last woman was aboard, and then reached quickly out, slammed shut the door, and held it shut, despite the entreaties of the lost souls who drifted despairingly past along the platform, seemingly blind, deaf, and totally uninterested in what was passing around him. Then Stewart looked at the women. Nine were crowded into the seats; eight were standing; all were red and perspiring; and most of them had plainly lost their tempers. Stewart was perspiring himself, and he got out his handkerchief and mopped his forehead; then he ventured to speak. \ Well,\ he said; \ so this is war! I have always heard it was warm
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work!\ Most of
work!\ Most of the women merely glared at him and went on adjusting their clothing, and fastening up their hair, and straightening their hats; but one, a buxom woman of forty-eight or fifty, who was crowded next to him, and who had evidently suffered more than her share of the general misfortune, turned sharply. \ Are you an American?\ she demanded. \ I am, madam.\ \ And you stand by and see your countrywomen treated in this perfectly outrageous fashion?\ \ My dear madam,\ protested Stewart, \ what could one man–even an American–do against a thousand?\ \ You could at least—-\ \ Nonsense, mother,\ broke in another voice, and Stewart turned to see that it was a slim, pale
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surround us. Redeem us, Master, from death s strong hand, Thy grace from sin us deliver; Enlighten us till with Thine we stand, And make us Thy servants ever. Lord, lend us Thy counsel and speed our days, The light of Thy grace surround us. Then shall with praise we seek repose When day unto night hath yielded, And safe in Thine arms our eyelids close To rest by Thy mercy shielded. Lord, lend us Thy counsel and speed our days, The light of Thy grace surround us. Sthen s hymns all breathe a meek and lowly spirit. They express in the simplest words the faith, hope and fears of a humble, earnest Christian. The following still beloved hymn thus presents a vivid picture of the meek and prayerful spirit of its author.

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O Lord

O Lord, my heart is turning To Thee with ceaseless yearning And praying for Thy grace. Thou art my sole reliance Against my foes defiance; Be Thou my stay in every place. I offer a confession Of my severe transgression; In me is nothing good. But, Lord, Thou wilt not leave me And, like the world, deceive me; Thou hast redeemed me with Thy blood. Blest Lord of Life most holy, Thou wilt the sinner lowly Not leave in sin and death; Thine anger wilt not sever The child from Thee forever That pleads with Thee for life and breath. O Holy Spirit, guide me! With wisdom true provide me; Help me my cross to bear. Uphold me in my calling And, when the night is falling, Grant me

Thy heavenly home

Thy heavenly home to share. Most widely known of all Sthen s hymns is his beloved \\ Lord Jesus Christ, My Savior Blest\\ . In its 9 unabbreviated form this hymn contains eight stanzas of which the initial letters spell the words: \\ Hans Anno\\ ; and it has become known therefore as \\ Sthen s Name Hymn\\ . The method of thus affixing one s name to a song was frequently practiced by authors for the purpose of impressing people with their erudition. The meek and anxious spirit that pervades this hymn makes it unlikely, however, that Sthen would have employed his undoubted skill as a poet for such a purpose. The hymn is thought to have been written at Malmø at the time its author encountered his most severe trials there.

\ Fair Toronto
\ Fair Toronto is also herself richly robed and jewelled, her necklet being of picturesque villas, in Rosedale and on Bloor Street; under her corsage, covered with beauteous blossoms from her Horticultural Gardens, her Normal School grounds, etc., her heart throbs with pride as she thinks of her gems, the spires from her one hundred and twenty churches glistening in heaven s sunbeams; of her magnificent University of Toronto, with its great Norman tower, which cost her nearly $500,000; her handsome Trinity College, in third period pointed English style; her Knox College, her hotels, her opera houses, her stately banks; with her diamonds, of which she is vastly proud, and which are her great newspaper offices–the most valuable being those of first water, viz., her Church papers as finger-posts, with her Sentinel as guard; her independent, cultured Mail; her
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mighty clear-Grit Globe;
mighty clear-Grit Globe; her brilliant, knowing Grip; her often-quoted World; her racy town-cry News; her social Saturday Night; her Life, her Week, her Truth, with her Evening Telegram, the whole set being so valued by fair Toronto, that she would as soon be minus her daily bread as her newspapers. \ It would take too long to enumerate the many attractions fair Toronto offers–some of those within her walls having throats full of song, others in the Harmony Club, others elocutionists, with orators and athletes; her Cyclorama of Sedan, her Zoo–to which only a trifle pays the piper–her interesting museums, her fine art galleries. \ And again, one word of her pet river, her picturesque Humber, where lovers meet, poets dream, and fairies dwell; yes, as Imrie says: \ Glide we up
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the Humber river,
the Humber river, Where the rushes sigh and quiver, Plight our love to each forever, Love that will not die. \ Such, dear Mr. and Mrs. Dale, is my lay of Toronto, which I hope you will like well enough to come and sojourn here awhile. You say, Mrs. Dale, that you have willed to go to an hotel, if so, I shall say no more of my wish, for a woman s will dies hard on the field, or on the sward; but when your will is carried out, should you sigh for home-life come to me–even then Holmnest will have open doors. You may be grave or gay, you may be en deshabille in mind and robing, or you may have your war-paint on for the watchful eye of Grundy, be it as you
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will it, you
will it, you are ever welcome, only tell dear Diogenes not to come in his tub. I can give you both amusement enough in many subjects or objects at which to level your glass, for Toronto society is in many instances an amusing spectacle, a droll conglomeration. \ Yours as always, \ ELAINE GOWER.\ CHAPTER I. \ Well, Buckingham, what think you of fair Toronto?\ asked Dale, as he finished reading. \ I think that, though unusual, a Fair Matron has had ample justice from a fair woman.\ \ I want to-morrow and Mrs. Gower right now,\ said Mrs. Dale, \ as Garfield says when he is promised a treat.\ \ Toronto must be a fine city, and covering a
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large area,\
large area,\ said Miss Crew. \ Mrs. Gower has a taste for metaphor; I never heard her in that style before, that is to any extent,\ said Buckingham. 34 \ I am intensely practical,\ said Dale; \ but confess Toronto described in metaphor sounds more musical, at all events, than in plain brick and mortar style.\ \ Emerson says,\ said Buckingham, \ men are ever lapsing into a beggarly habit in which everything that is not cyphering is hustled out of sight, and I think he is right.\ \ We cannot help it, it is the tendency of the age; but what have we here, Buckingham? What s the excitement about?\ \ Oh, we are only nearing
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Hanlon s Point;
Hanlon s Point; the ladies had better come outside; every scene will be in gala dress. Miss Crew, can I assist you?\ \ Where the blue hills of old Toronto shed Their evening shadows o er Ontario s bed,\ said Dale, coming with the crowd to view the scene. But since Moore so sang, the hills of the noble red man have disappeared, save as a boundary to our fair city; the pale faces, in the interests of progress and civilization, would have it so; and Bloor Street, to the north, is now reached by a gradual ascent of one hundred and fifty feet above the lake level. But now the stately and comfortable palace steamer, Chicora, with a goodly number of souls on board, is rounding Hanlon s Point, and entering our beautiful
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had found himself
had found himself inserting his leg through the bar’s jemmied window, and watching it vanish into the darkness beyond. He remembered thinking, as he hauled the rest of his body over that legal Rubicon, that he had become involved in something all too real. He remembered thinking that the time had come to do something definitive to stop it. But now, in the sprawling late-morning light, he found it hard to recapture that sense of urgency. Anyway, what exactly was this definitive thing he wanted himself to do? Go to the police? Now, on the strength of what he had? That would be ludicrous, an exercise in sheer bad taste. At best he would be
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laughed out of
laughed out of the station. At worst it would open a procedural Pandora’s box that didn’t bear thinking about. Still, he couldn’t just do nothing. Could he? No. As the only remotely normal person present at last night’s meeting, he had a certain duty to the broader community. His felt that instinctively. But a duty to do what? And when? On concrete questions like these, his instincts supplied no answers. Maybe they would supply them when the time was right. Maybe it would all happen naturally. Maybe when the plan had attained the appropriate level of reality, he would start feeling seriously alarmed enough about it to act. Or maybe
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the crime would
the crime would just incrementally go ahead and happen, unless at some point he made a conscious decision to become seriously alarmed about it. Maybe he should have made that decision already. Maybe he should be making it now. How he wished she could see him like this! Here and now, ruggedly confronting his moral destiny. What about telling her, then? In the abstract, the idea appealed to him. It always had. Telling her that her boyfriend was a terrorist: as a means of advancing his own interests, it still felt like the best, perhaps the only, wea- pon he had. And arguably it was now even the right thing to do, after last
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night. Let her
night. Let her decide whether or not the plot was real. And if she believed it was, let her try and talk the hairy madman out of it. She could only be better at doing that than Fenton was. In fact she would almost certainly, for reasons he preferred not to think about, succeed. The plot would be dissolved, if you accepted that it was solid. Lego’s life would be saved, if you accepted that it was really in danger. Decorum would be restored, all without the gaucherie of involving the police. 103 On the face of it, it was the ideal solution. But only on the face of it. In practice, it would be ideal only for Ivan Lego. From Fenton’s point of view it
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would be a
would be a calamity. Consider: when she confronted Gus and hosed him down, she would have to betray Fenton as her source. And that would be that. His cover would be blown. He would be out of the cadre on his ear. His days of pretending to be a Maoist would be over. The ladder by which he was ascending to her balcony would be gone, and he would be falling away from her through space, howling goodbye to the best chance he’d ever had of making her his. Compared with that, the prospect of Ivan Lego’s liquidation started to lose a good deal of its horror. Compared with that, the liquidation of Ivan Lego started to look downright palatable.
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Professor Newton has
Professor Newton has been kind enough to furnish me with the following note on the Terns. \ Larus cinereus of Aldrovandus (and afterwards of Jonston), is said to be of three kinds: one with red legs, apparently the Black-headed Gull, and figured by Jonston, the second with yellow legs and a slender curved black bill, the third with a pointed scarlet bill. Both these last were most likely Terns–and all these were grey above and white below. Gesner quotes Turner for Sterna, and there is no doubt that his bird of that name was a Black Tern; but Gesner says that it is the Stirn of the Frisians, and figures a white and grey bird with a black head only (most likely a Common Tern, but possibly one of the larger species), as Sterna, thus using the word in a
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more general sense,
more general sense, and it may have been so used in Browne s time. I see no impossibility in people having thought of eating Terns in those days [as to that see Note 7, p. 6 ante]. The Common Tern was most likely very abundant, and we know that the Black Tern was exceedingly common in certain reed-beds, as stated by Turner, and noisy beyond measure.\ The Great and Lesser Terns still nest in one or two localities on our coast, although as the result of great persecution in very reduced numbers. The Black Tern, or Mire Crow, has quite ceased to do so. Larus alba or puets in such plentie about Horsey that they sometimes bring them in carts to norwich & sell them at small rates. & the country people make use of their egges in puddings &
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otherwise. great plentie thereof
otherwise. great plentie thereof haue bred about scoulton [mere struck out] meere, & from thence sent to London. Larus cinereus greater & smaller, butt a coars meat. commonly called sternes. Hirundo marina or sea swallowe a neat white & forked tayle bird butt longer then a swallowe. The ciconia or stork[14] I have seen in the fennes & some haue been shot in the marshes between this and yarmouth. [See also third letter to Merrett and Appendix D.] [14] Although it has been met with in Norfolk, more frequently than perhaps in any other part of England, the Stork was never other than a rare spring and autumn visitor to Norfolk. Turner writes of it in 1544 as unknown in England, save as a captive, and Merrett a hundred years later says it rarely
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flies hither, which
flies hither, which is equally true at the present time. Hewittson (\ Eggs of Brit. Birds,\ Ed. 3, ii., p. 309; under Crane) was evidently misled by some remarks made by Evelyn, who visited Sir Thomas Browne in Norwich in October, 1671, and says in his diary that he saw Browne s \ Collection of the eggs of all the fowl and birds he could procure; that country, especially the promontory of Norfolk, being frequented, as he said, by several birds which seldom or never go further into the land–as cranes, storks, eagles, and a variety of water-fowl.\ From this Hewitson infers that the Stork bred in Norfolk, a construction which the somewhat ambiguously worded passage will certainly not bear. I imagine collections of eggs were not very common in Browne s time. [Fol. 8.] The platea or
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see your reaction.
see your reaction. Your people have no magic, and believe it to be a myth, do they not? (“Stay on topic,” Norgrim chided.) I’d love to get some questions answered before he gets himself killed. (“Just get on with it.”) Oh, very well. No one is quite certain how magic entered human society, but when it did, they became something different. At first, a very few humans used their arcane skills for minor tasks – growing more crops or curing minor ills. But as time passed, their mastery of the 18 energies improved. Three great sorcerers emerged: Angaval, Sevren, and Eshohvah were their infamous names, and their benevolent guidance turned into despotic rule.
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Empires expanded… (“They even
Empires expanded… (“They even attacked us,” interjected Norgrim. “Dwarves were forced –”) Yes, we know, they fought with everyone, and did terrible things. But as you said, I need to stay on topic. Dragons intervened for the good of all Syraquans, and dictated an end to the humans’ squabbles. On the surface, it appeared to bring peace – yet, in truth, the wizards put aside their differences to conspire against the dragons, combining their knowledge, exploring deeper and darker aspects of their arts, going to great lengths to hide their activities. In time, the mages began coordinating toward a single end: the destruction of dragons. Amazing, no? Proof that magic corrupts everything it touches, driving its practitioners mad. My people have never taken much interest in such
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things. Even the
things. Even the dwarves restrain themselves, devoting their efforts to more mundane technologies – (“Less moralizing and more history,” Norgrim grumbled.) History is often woven around lost morals, my friend. That certainly is the case here, where human wizards formed an alliance of convenience, keeping their magical experiments secret while pretending to follow the will of the dragons. Symurall and his siblings, wise as they are, did not foresee the cunning plans being made against them. The sorcerers launched a surprise attack, corrupting the crystalline energies known to the dwarves, projecting titanic forces into the principle lairs of three great dragons. We do not know all of the details; we only know the results. The attack on Kyazura’s colony failed when the tonal engineer Shengrim –
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had slowed
had slowed his Oreo assault to the mop-up stage, but kept at it between tokes. Bobby was stoned. He took the time to close his eyes and drift out of it. Not much time had passed before Howie shouted from the quarterdeck. Bobby figured hePd been in the engine room, and was feeling very needy about getting to it. He had very little time — 91 — before the new Lloyds man, Robert Forster, ar- rived with his little black book. From that point on, Howie actually did some- thing, took care of the miscellany, closing off loose start up circuitry, lashing down or removing
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any- thing unattached.
any- thing unattached. Bobby and Gomez spent the best part of their time taking turns dropping under the slime in the engine room to feed chain through the underside of the propeller shafts. It was sizable, heavy link chain, about as large as could be procured and still be workable. It had to be wrapped both ways, starting at the stern and working forward. Then the same procedure was repeated from the point where the shafts ran into the engine housings. Howie belched unrequested commentary be- tween demands for more effort in less time. Bobby thought his personal wiring was fried worse than the engine roomPs. Probably was, long
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before it happened
before it happened to The Lady Inca. Neither he nor Gomez paid him much atten- tion, both too strung out to put effort into any- thing but getting the shafts chained and getting themselves out of the slime. Two hours had passed quickly. Robert Forster had only been waiting on shore for a few minutes before Howie entertained him with an unceremo- nious plunge into the water on his way to pick him up in the life raft. The spectacle wasnPt high on anybodyPs list of things to watch, and it was hu- morous to Forster until he realized he would be — 92 — riding back to the ship with the guy. Neverthe- less, Robert Forster was acquiring his
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own sense of what
own sense of what lay ahead. He watched the raft approach as he changed into his work clothes, sliding the strap for his wa- terproof document case over his head. He could hear Howie jabbering in his very own inimitable voice as the raft pulled close. Forster looked through the string of profanities immedi- ately, and quickly categorized Howie, confirming his own suspicions. He put his focus into the task at hand as he made his way carefully through the knee-deep water. Really slippery, like Howie, he thought
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say
say L Howie wasnPt the first idiot hePd shared a raft with. MShePs good, real good! No need to worry Obout nothinP! ItPs a real inconvenience for ya Robert, I know. Sorry to hear Obout George. We could as easy sign the papers back at the office, save ya going to all this trouble for nothinP. Take my word for it L she looks bad, but shePs real tight L tighter than a nunPs pussy!N Howie laughed. MIf ya know what I mean!N Howie turned for a response and threatened to capsize the dinghy, Robert nodded in under- standing of the metaphor L he could see he was
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frustrating Howie.
frustrating Howie. He also knew guys like this didnPt give up easily. MIPm tellinP ya, youPre wasting a lot of valuable company time and youPre gonna make a real — 93 — fuckinP mess out of yourself just gettinP on board.N MI appreciate your concern, but the company insures my person and my property.N Robert fixed his focus on the approaching rope ladder. MItPs all part of the job.N The more Robert heard the man talk, the more thoroughly he wanted to do the inspection. He smiled at the hole Howie was digging for himself, at how easy it was to read this one. He expected to be offered cash. MWhatPs so funny?N Howie
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\ That the
\ That the mission was in danger of being found out so I set the city on fire to confuse the issue?\ Before Aviler could reply, Galen Dubell said quietly, \ It was unavoidable.\ \ Dr. Dubell.\ Aviler acknowledged him stiffly. \ It s a pity you couldn t have returned sooner and avoided this consternation.\ \ That was my intention, my lord, but my plans went somewhat astray when my household was murdered and I was abducted.\ Dubell said it with such good grace that Aviler was actually caught off guard. \ So Galen Dubell is a diplomat as well as a scholar,\ Renier said softly to Thomas as Aviler recovered his composure. \ He was something of a recluse when I knew him, but I suppose
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years of academic
years of academic infighting at Lodun will give anyone eyes in the back of his head. It s good he s returned.\ Thomas wasn t about to admit he missed Dr. Surete, who had held the post of Court Sorcerer since he could remember and had died suddenly last month of pleurisy. Surete had been seventy years old, had called every man under the age of sixty \ boy,\ and had been the terror of the court for his ability to use sardonic invective like a bludgeon. Thomas said, \ Let s hope Dubell s not anxious to get back to Lodun soon. We re going to need his help.\ Dr. Surete s assistant Milam had been killed in an accident before Surete himself had died, and since then there had been nothing but argument
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over who would
over who would receive the appointment while lesser talents like Dr. Braun vied for attention. Renier looked at him thoughtfully. \ Lose anyone?\ Thomas s expression betrayed nothing. \ Does it matter?\ Renier said softly, \ Forgive him, Thomas. He s a boy and he was angry.\ \ I thought you d given up on the priesthood,\ Thomas answered, thinking, If His Majesty Roland wants me to die in the line of duty, it s his business, but he could have chosen a better time. If he doesn t see that Grandier is a danger to the state… At Renier s look he added, \ It isn t my place to condemn him or forgive him. But tell me, did Denzil suggest the plan to Roland, or was it someone
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else?\ Renier stiffened
else?\ Renier stiffened visibly. \ I know of no plan.\ The double doors into the Privy Council Chamber beyond the anteroom opened and the Bisran ambassador stepped out, his expression grim. He was an older man, with the olive skin and hawklike profile of the Bisran Chapter Two aristocracy. Ile-Rien and its capital and court were alien to him, and his disapproval was evident. The excessive formality of the Bisran Court made it stagnant and stultified, while in Ile-Rien landlaw had 17 traditionally permitted high officers and even personal servants to address kings and queens as \ my lord\ or \ my lady,\ and to forgo obeisance in informal circumstances. The ambassador s dark plain clothing and simple
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have the power
have the power to keep us from realizing the divinity within; they will not have the power to prevent our attainment of spiritual freedom, and they will not have the power to thwart our escape from hell. In an earlier chapter, I discussed just briefly, the fact that Dominion’s archangels placed allotted karma upon us during a previous stay in an astral center. Sometimes our inability to achieve all that we would like to achieve in life, is due to this allotted karma, while other times, it is due to that which rightfully belongs to us. Developing our inner power is actually a matter of coming to terms with the Higher Self, and meeting his or her requirements for manifesting that which we either need or desire in life; so we should realize, then, that the Higher Self can assist us in taking control of our destiny through
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the release of
the release of Dominion’s constraints. As for our own karma which has been incurred naturally, the Higher Self can see to its purification, and in this way, our destiny is changed. Developing our inner power is one thing, but keeping it is certainly another, as we have seen. At this time, I feel the need to dispel the illusion of wisdom and stature which so easily overcomes us when we realize our potential in transcending that which in the past has always kept us deaf, dumb and blind. The next chapter will serve as a foundation for our development beyond the confines of hell, so it is all about creation. Before we come to it, however, I want to warn the reader that it is highly technical. I don’t expect many people to comprehend very much of it, nor do I think that it constitutes any great masterpiece. Allow
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me to explain.
me to explain. Dominion has kept us trapped here for a very long time, separated in consciousness from the Higher Self. Our I.Qs are extremely low in comparison to those living elsewhere in the universe (outside hell), and we believe in simple fairy tails. We can increase our vibratory frequencies, purify the seeds of karma, purify the lower emotional passions, release our psychic time loops, and defeat all of Dominion’s traps. We can escape hell, but of what use will we be in the universe? Considering our low I.Qs, and our lack of knowledge, we are like retarded children. Please don’t try to tell me that the “R” word is politically incorrect, and that I should have used the phrase mentally challenged. The word retarded is a legitimate term to be used in reference to any form of retarded development, whether we are referring to physically retarded development,
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a retarded spark
a retarded spark in a distributor, spiritual retardation, educational retardation, or mental retardation. When a retarded child is born here on Earth, adults must care for it throughout its entire life. In the rest of the universe, people understand quantum physics, and they operate with very high I.Qs. Just a simple working-class Zeta Gray has an average I.Q. of at least 250 or better. The Nefilim, Anunnaki, Dracos, Andromies, and others are of greater mental stature than they are. Most of humanity on Earth cannot even comprehend their existence. To them, we are just animals. How can we expect to escape hell, and then function effectively, beyond the third dimensional realm? Could an ape escape his zoo, then fit into our society? Imagine a baby trying to crawl across a busy freeway, totally incapable of comprehending the technology it is dealing with. Without knowledge of quantum physics
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wondered why
wondered why no one had stolen it. Usually therePd be a fight over it. They must have missed it beneath the filth and black char. He polished the edges, spoke aloud to the nameplate, MIPll call you The Lady IncaM. He con- sidered it an introduction. It was good to be on a first name basis with a lady of the sea, no matter how bad she had been mauled. Bobby stayed with the thought until the dull, ongoing repetition of the van horn extracted his attention. Howie the dynamic. Bobby wasnPt looking forward to the bullshit, but if there was — 86 — food he could tolerate a lot at the
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moment L even Howie. He
moment L even Howie. He pulled on his pants and dragged his fatigue topside, to the highest point on board besides the bridge amidships. The heat hit him as soon as he stepped over the coaming; hot and dry, not a trace of air moving anywhere. He watched the van careen and recoil in and out of the dirt tracks, wisps of smoke shooting off the wheels every time the low riding chassis struck a high spot along the rutted mudflat. He didnPt know what Howie had in it, but knew hePd find out while he unloaded it. As he crossed to the quarterdeck, he saw Gomez for the first time in a couple of hours. HePd
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come topside earlier
come topside earlier to jury-rig a loading platform. From the distance it looked respectable, almost professional. GomezPs initiative lifted BobbyPs spirits con- siderably. The sight of his accomplishment drew the energy for a shout and a clenched fist ac- knowledgment out of Bobby. Gomez gifted Bobby with his large, toothless grin and a thumbs-up. As Bobby slid himself down the railing onto the well deck, he got a closer look at GomezPs ap- pearance. He was only wearing pants, his upper body covered with filth and his face etched deep with fatigue. Bobby saw death for an instant and swept the specter aside abruptly, figured it was just a mirror anyway. Eat something, and theyPd both get
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better. Bobby slapped
better. Bobby slapped him easy across the back. MMuy bien!N Pulled back a step to admire the cre- — 87 — ation and returned the thumbs up. MMuy bien, hombre.N Gomez smiled and patted the boom like a favourite pet. That was all the communication they indulged in. Turning in unison, they let the deck rail take their weight and watched Howie slither up through the drying mud of the low tide line. The engine hadnPt died before Howie was out of the van, clean clothes all around, and a black baseball cap pulled down tight. Spiffed. He was still a
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little
little ragged in the face, but otherwise greased and racing, his mouth moving on auto- matic. MAhoy, me hearties! Avast!N He swung the rear doors open. MLetPs get the boom down here.N HePd noticed. MUnload. You boys bin workinP your tails?N He pulled equipment from the van, drop- ping it indifferently onto the mud, tiring quickly. MGet down here! Help me unload this shit!N Bobby stepped on the coaming, gave Gomez a look the Mexican understood and enjoyed without benefit of the language. He smiled. MIs okay, Bubby. If it break, it break when Howie on it, si?N Bobby intensified his concentration. GomezPs smile turned into a chuckle
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as
as he grabbed the winch line, pulling the cargo netting up close enough for Bobby to step onto. Bobby shook his head and pulled himself up on the bulwark, he grabbed an overhead line to balance himself while he tested some tentative footing on the shifting netting. — 88 — Gomez let the winch line out slow. MAdios, amigo.N He started cranking. Bobby had no solid footing, and could feel him- self starting a body spin off the overhead line. He grabbed a second line and suspended himself by his arms while he got his feet wedged in balance between opposing squares
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He hovered, savoring
He hovered, savoring the possibilities, wondering again why so few of his kind appreciated the elegance of the kehklik. He saw them as a remarkable work of nature, neither insect nor reptile nor mammal, but all of those, combined; one species, morphable 16 into so many forms, more diverse even than dragons. Boney carapaces covered strong, warm-blooded, six-limbed bodies, and upon occasion, they showed glimmerings of true intelligence. Sytherek could not understand how others dismissed these incredible creatures as mindless insects. It will be over quickly, Sytherek concluded, almost with regret. “I watched from the tower,” Tohkay said as Kaylen and Norgrim entered the library. “It
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is unwise to
is unwise to anger a dragon. That goes double, maybe triple, for Sytherek.” “Be thankful he still believes in protocol,” Norgrim said. “If that ever changes, we’re all in big trouble.” “Protocol?” Kaylen asked. “Dragons live by a code of behavior,” Tohkay injected authoritatively. “Protocol is stronger than law and enforced by traditions older than any other race. A near-immortal species needs such arrangements, I suspect. This castle belongs to Symurall, as do the surrounding lands. Even Sytherek will respect that.” “I hope you’re right. How many dragons are there?” “I’ve never counted!” said Norgrim. He started adding numbers out-loud. “Approximately four hundred,” Tohkay stated, interrupting the dwarf’s calculations. “In these lands, that is. I know of many more living on another landmass, but have no estimate of their numbers.
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Those, however, are
Those, however, are almost never seen in Syraqua.” “Are all of them like the two I’ve seen?” Norgrim jumped in before Tohkay could answer. “Only a dozen or so are elders like Symurall. The rest vary in age and size, from newborns to young adults. A few ancients reside in remote places.” Kaylen paced for a moment, and then walked toward the door. “I need to go.” “Go?” Norgrim asked, following. “Where?” “To the coast. The other survivors –” Norgrim shook his head. “And do what?” Kaylen stopped and was thoughtful for a moment. “Someone needs to warn them about what they’re getting into,” he said finally. He pointed to a pair of swords mounted over the fireplace. “Do you mind if I borrow one of those?” Norgrim shrugged. “Maybe I’m an old fool,
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the King s
the King s Bastion, which loomed above the Old Courts and the Mews. As they climbed, the surroundings began to show rapid signs of improvement, the rough stone softened by hangings and overlaid by carved paneling. The ancient cracked tiles had been recently scrubbed and polished, reflecting the light from hall lanterns of stamped metal and glass as soft pools of gold. They passed Cisternan guards posted on each landing, and began to hear the bastion s hum of activity, never still at any time of night. At the fourth level, Thomas led them out of the older stairwell and across the landing to the carved-oak Queen s Staircase. They were in the heart of the bastion now, and the men posted here were Queen s Guards. Dubell paused on the landing, looking up at the wide staircase with its dark
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wood carved into
wood carved into flowing bands and banisters set with fragments of mirror glass. Then he shook his head as if at his own folly and said, \ It has been a long time.\ The old sorcerer had been led this way the day of his exile ten years ago, to see the Dowager Queen and to hear his sentence, which so easily could have been death. Thomas acknowledged the guards salute, and thought it fortunate all around that Ravenna had been lenient with Galen Dubell. Chapter Two 15 The top of the staircase opened into a vestibule, the first room in the Dowager Queen s State Apartments. The King s State Apartments were on the opposite side of the bastion, and the young
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Queen Falaise lived
Queen Falaise lived in another suite on the floor just below. They passed the young pages waiting in the vestibule and went in to the Guard Chamber, a long richly paneled room lit by several glass drop chandeliers. Gideon was already there and several Queen s guards surrounded him, demanding to know how the night s work had gone. They called greetings as Thomas entered, and he went forward to ask Gideon, \ Did you see Lucas?\ \ Yes, and he spoke to Ravenna. But the Bisran ambassador came in and demanded to see her. They re in the Privy Council Chamber now.\ \ Damn. What does he want at this time of night?\ \ Who knows?\ Gideon shrugged. The ambassador was a diplomat, not a soldier, and the young lieutenant
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didn t think
didn t think him a matter of much importance. Thomas considered a moment. Something to do with Grandier? If it was, then there went all hope of keeping the River Quarter incident quiet. \ Queen Falaise has been asking for me.\ Gideon looked uncomfortable. \ Will you need me anymore tonight?\ Thomas eyed him a moment, but said, \ No, you can go on.\ As Gideon left, Thomas saw Dubell was taking his leave of Dr. Braun, who had apparently decided not to brave an interview with the Dowager Queen. The other guards were watching the sorcerer curiously, which at least meant that news of their adventure hadn t flown too far ahead of them. There were also two young Albonate squires waiting self-consciously in the corner. So Renier is already
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that not being
that not being of the world means not to indulge in the “sinful” activities of the world; but we must consider the fact that any aspect of life that interferes with that which is required in escaping hell, should be considered in that same light. We live in this world, but in order not to be of the world, we must surrender our life to the Higher Self. This is what it means to walk in the spirit. Such surrender is conducive to mastery over our own destiny, because it is a surrender of the self to the Self. In his book, “Living With the Himalayan Masters”, Swami Rama includes a section entitled: Meditation through self-surrender, where he describes the same process that I am talking about. Following, is a quotation from what he wrote, interspersed with comments of my own: “There is one method of Yoga in
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which neither postures
which neither postures nor techniques of concentration and meditation are involved. This is self-surrender, the highest of all the Yogas. The twentieth-century age Sri Aurobino and his followers call self-surrender ‘Integral Yoga’. It is described by Lord Krishna in the eighteenth chapter of the Bhagavad-Gita. According to this method one should surrender the body, mind, intellect, and ego entirely to the ultimate reality in order to bring down into one’s daily life the peace, purity, truth, consciousness, and bliss of the supreme Self”. He goes on to explain that the peace referred to is a peace which permeates all aspects of life. It fuses our mind, actions, and speech, keeping us balanced and harmonized. He states further, that purity means to accept no influence other than the influence of the divine. At this point, allow me to point out the fact that Swami Rama uses seven different
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terms in reference
terms in reference to the Higher Self throughout his writings. These are: 1. The Ultimate Reality; 2. Supreme Self; 3. The Divine; 4. Innermost Consciousness; 5. The Atman; 6. Divine Force; and 7. The Self. In continuing, he states: “Two other qualities of action characterize the life of the aspirant whose method is self-surrender: faithfulness and sincerity. Faithfulness is to admit and to manifest no movement other than that which is prompted and guided by the innermost consciousness. Sincerity requires the lifting of all movements of mind, body, and action to the level of the highest consciousness, where there is no individuality, duality, or body consciousness. Sincerity is the unification and harmonization of man around that one central will, the divinity through which we speak, hear, think and feel”. Finding the Kingdom of God within as Christ recommended, then, is what it means to be in the world,
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but not of
but not of the world. Swami Rama says: “For example, consider the life of an unenlightened man. He lives in the world much like an animal, expressing only his own mind, action, and speech, satisfying only his own wants and desires. An enlightened man, on the other hand, establishes himself in divinity and then brings forward that divinity from the innermost place inside himself, expressing it through mind, action, and speech. This is a sacred process, but it does not require any effort other than self-surrender”. The concept of living in the world but not being of the world, then, takes on much greater significance in this context, than it does in the context of simply obeying a few rules. We do not develop our inner power by spending our entire lives obeying the rules established by those who have assumed authority over us. When
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certainly never intended
certainly never intended to appear in their present form, and failing their use by Merrett which never took place, the information they contained was, as we know, of great service to Ray and Willughby. 10 Browne s correspondent, Dr. Christopher Merrett, was born at Winchcomb, in Gloucestershire, on the 16th of February, 1614. He graduated B.A. at Oriel College, Oxford, about the year 1635; M.B. 1636; M.D. 1643. Was elected Fellow of the Royal College of Physicians in 1651, and was made first Keeper of the Library and Museum; he was Censor of the College seven times. Having entered into litigation with the College with regard to his appointment, which was considered by that body to have terminated when the Library was destroyed by the great fire, he was defeated, and in 1681
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expelled from his
expelled from his fellowship. He died in London in 1695. (\ Dict. of Nat. Biog.\ ) Merrett was the author of several works on various subjects, as well as of the Pinax, and a translation of the \ Art of Glass\ referred to further on. His Pinax Rerum Naturalium Britannicarum, said to have been brought out in 1666, contained the earliest list of British Birds ever published, but it is little more than a bare list. Copies bearing the date of 1666 are very rare, and it is believed the edition was burned in a fire at the publishers; but Professor Newton (\ Dict. of Birds,\ Introduction, p. xviii.) says that in 1667 there were two issues of a reprint; one, nominally a second edition, only differs from the others in having a new title-page, an example doubtless of what Wilkin
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severely condemns as
severely condemns as \ that contemptible form of lying under which publishers have endeavoured to persuade the public of the rapidity of their sales.\ Merrett was contemplating a new and improved edition of his work when, as Wilkin happily puts it, \ in an auspicious moment he sought the assistance of Browne, whose liberal response is evidenced in the [drafts of the] letters still fortunately extant, but either superseded by the more learned labours of Willughby and Ray, or laid aside on account of the perplexities in which Merrett became involved with the College of Physicians, the Pinax never attained an enlarged edition. Had Browne completed and published his own Natural History of Norfolk, he might have contended for precedency among the writers of County Natural Histories with [his friend] Dr. Robert Plot,[F] who published the earliest of such
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works–those of Oxford
works–those of Oxford and Staffordshire, in 1677 and 1686 respectively. He seems, however, to have preferred contributing to the labours of those whom he considered better naturalists than himself; and in his third attempt thus to render his observations useful he had somewhat better success. He placed his materials, including a number of coloured drawings, at the disposal of Ray, the father of systematic Natural History in Great Britain, who has acknowledged the assistance he derived from him in his editions of Willughby s Ornithology and Ichthyology, especially in the former. But Browne, it seems, found it more easy to lend than to recover such materials; for he complains, several years afterwards, that these drawings, of whose safe return he was assured, both by Ray and by their mutual friend, Sir Philip Skippon, had not been sent back
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all
all I heard – an incessant buzzing in my ears that made no sense whatsoever. All the time, First Sergeant Woodward was observing the operation of his sergeants with grim satisfaction. He leaned over to his right to say something to Captain Powell. Mr Powell kept looking at the show as he nodded in Mr Woodward‟s direction. “Okay, boys. Let‟s get this thete registered,” Mr Woodward tersely ordered. Mr Jarmon handed him a card from the index box in front of him on the desk. “Well, well, well,” said Mr Woodward bobbing his head forward as he looked at my card and repeated my name over and over, ostentatiously committing it to memory. “So you want to be
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an Acropolis cadet?” “Very
an Acropolis cadet?” “Very much so, sir!” I exclaimed with all the enthusiasm I could dredge up after the onslaught of the sergeants. “What?” he asked, looking closely into my eyes. At this point, Herm‟s idea that you could look your comrades straight in the eyes offered me no comfort. I had the distinct feeling that these gentlemen did not view me as a comrade – at least, not yet. “I don‟t recognize that answer. A thete has only three answers for an upperclassman: Yes, sir; no, sir; and no excuse, sir. Do you think you‟ve got that?” “Yes, sir,” I answered obediently. “No, no, no,
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no,” he replied
no,” he replied calmly. “I haven‟t given you permission to answer. Wait till I say pop-off. Do you understand now?” “Y-y-y..” I caught myself before completing a reply. “Very good, thete.” He leaned forward, stretching out his thick muscular neck and placing his mouth right next to my ear. “Now, pop-off!” he commanded in a booming voice. “Yes, sir!” I replied in a voice to match his in volume, if not in confidence. “Excellent!” He turned to his sergeants and proclaimed, “He‟s all yours, gentlemen.” 19 And the grilling continued. Somehow
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in amongst
in amongst the yelling, I found myself holding an athletic uniform consisting of dark blue shorts and a white shirt with “The Acropolis” emblazoned across the front in a blue that matched the shorts. I also possessed a card with my white-on-blue name tag and a silvery metal 4 attached to it and a room number written on it. The sergeants continued yelling in my face, ears, and the back of my neck. Then there was silence and the distinct feeling that one of the orders screamed at me was supposed to be followed. But they had all merged into one loud drone. “Move it!” came back in a chorus, “and
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others died… I
others died… I don’t have an answer for either of us.” Lost faces came to mind, and he sent them away. “On the other hand, maybe I didn’t survive. I never paid much attention in temple, but you bear a remarkable resemblance to illustrations in some religious texts. Perhaps I’m in heaven or hell, where dragons are gatekeepers.” “You are in neither heaven nor hell,” said the dragon. “I am not a gatekeeper.” “I gathered that. Not enough demons or angels.” Kaylen laughed. “Well, I never believed the priests anyway. I always wanted beautiful women and limitless liquor in the afterlife, but that was probably asking too much. As for dragons… are you one of those the priests talked about?” 5
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“Perhaps others share
“Perhaps others share your good fortune?” asked Symurall, pointedly ignoring Kaylen’s question. “Maybe. I hope so. The only creatures I’ve seen so far are you and that bug on the beach. But then, I haven’t had a chance to look for anyone else.” He drank deeply again. Trying to sound both casual and sincere, he added, “Thank you for saving my life. Now I don’t suppose you could point me toward the nearest town?” “There are no human towns here, only abandoned ruins. The men of these lands were extinguished long ago.” Symurall’s tone sent a chill up Kaylen’s spine. The man cleared his throat. “The priests of Rhysthyn preached that damnation lay in these lands.” Kaylen looked directly at Symurall. “So am I to be extinguished or damned?” The dragon chuckled,
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a rolling, resonant
a rolling, resonant sound that dislodged a few stones from the top of the curtain wall. “Foolish and arrogant humans once lived here.” The dragon made a broad arc with one taloned foot. “From places like this, they waged war, creating doom for many. I will not see their like again.” “You didn’t exactly answer my question.” “You could be what they were.” Symurall stood, and straightened to his full and impressive length. “I will return by evening.” “So I’m free to go?” Symurall’s huge, almond-shaped eyes bore into Kaylen’s soul for a moment; then the vast creature leaped, spread his wings, and flew over the wall, leaving the man with dust devils and questions. Symurall swooped down along the bluff, over the
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pure form. So,
pure form. So, yes. Empty Pages is, as you suggest, an implementation, a putting-into-practice, of the notion of meanability. The book rejects, more rigorously than any book before it, the tyranny of the written word. It shuns the possibility of particular or definitive meaning in order to embrace instead the meaning of possibility. It declines to privilege any word, any language, any thought, any genre, any character, over any other. It entertains all possible themes, characters, plots, modes, styles, situations, political stances, and disallows none. Naive critics will allege that the book says nothing. I reply, pre-emptively, that it says everything. Virginity, yes. Certainly. But sterility, no.” “You fraud!” cried a stricken voice from the theatre’s rear. Ivan Lego looked up with a mildly quizzical frown. The audience too looked
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around. And there,
around. And there, near the back wall, at the centre of a widening space in the crowd, stood Robert Browning, with one quivering index finger pointing right down the length of the hall at Lego. Security personnel hurried towards him from all points. The guard who had let him in was back at his side already, gripping his elbow and making a firm but non-violent attempt to steer him back out. Browning ignored him. “How can you all just sit there?” he yelled. Sections of the crowd were hissing to drown him out. “Rise up! Walk out! Lynch him! Do something, for Christ’s sake!” Four guards were on him now, one on each limb, bearing him out supine like a stretchered corpse. “He’s taking you for a ride!” he
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shouted, fully horizontal
shouted, fully horizontal now, lying eerily still, putting up no physical fight. “Are you all insane?” Ivan Lego, with moderate interest, watched him go. “Don’t swallow it!” Browning cried finally from beyond the open door. “Don’t let him – ” But then the door was slammed, and whatever he said afterwards went unheard. A hiatus in the official proceedings followed. The crowd stretched and whispered, shaking off its long silence like a dog shaking off water. Lego and Salient were on their feet, conferring with a woman who wore a complex set
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82 of headphones
82 of headphones with an angled mike arm that veered down to the corner of her mouth. Perhaps it was she who had been saying things into Salient’s ear. Off to their left, a crouching stagehand was working with ten or twelve variously sized sheets of ply- or balsa wood. The insides of these wafer-thin panels were untreated, raw. Their outer surfaces, on the other hand, had been painted a rich red-brown and inlaid with an ultra-realistic false grain, so as to resemble hearty slabs of high-quality timber. The stagehand, with uncanny speed, was slotting them together to form the hollow simulacrum of a long and stately mahogany desk. When he was done, he picked the whole thing up with one hand and conveyed it to
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a pre-determined position
a pre-determined position behind Lego and Salient, where another stagehand had just lined up a trio of empty chairs. Already making his way towards one of these was a small man of about seventy, wearing long baggy shorts and a Hawaiian shirt whose armpits were darkened by twin South Americas of sweat. His skin bore an all-over tan no less mahogany-coloured than the exteriors of the imitation desk. He had a grey moustache as limp and wispy as floating seaweed, and wore a red beret identical in every respect to Quentin Salient’s. Although he looked like the kind of man whose proudest cultural attainment is an ability to raise his lower lip over his nose when posing for photographs, he was in fact Vladimir Vonk, Conceptual Sculptor in Residence,
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to know whether
to know whether you fellows are bent upon seeing this thing through?\ Densham and Harcutt exchanged glances. There was a moment\’s silence. Densham became spokesman. \ So far as finding out who they are and all about them,\ he said, \ I shall not rest until I have done it.\ \ And you, Harcutt?\ Harcutt nodded gravely. \ I am with Densham,\ he said. \ At the same time I may as well tell you that I am quite as much, if not more, interested in the man than in the girl. The girl is beautiful, and of
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course I admire
course I admire her, as every one must. But that is all. The man appeals to my journalistic instincts. There is copy in him. I am convinced that he is a personage. You may, in fact, regard me, both of you, as an ally rather than as a rival.\ \ If you had your choice, then, of an hour\’s conversation with either of them—-\ Wolfenden began. \ I should choose the man without a second\’s hesitation,\ Harcutt declared. \ The girl is lovely enough, I admit. I do not wonder at you fellows–Densham, who is a worshipper of beauty; you, Wolfenden, who are an idler–being struck with
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her! But as
her! But as regards myself it is different. The man appeals to my professional instincts in very much the same way as the girl appeals to the artistic sense in Densham. He is a conundrum which I have set myself to solve.\ Wolfenden rose to his feet. \ Look here, you fellows,\ he said, \ I have a proposition to make. We are all three in the same boat. Shall we pull together or separately?\ Harcutt dropped his eyeglass and smiled quietly. \ Quixotic as usual, Wolf, old chap,\ he said. \ We can\’t, our interests are opposed; at least yours
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