Gaal the Conqueror (40 page)

"You exaggerate the danger," Shagah said quietly. "He won't
die. Not immediately, anyway. But he would open a door
through which you could both pass safely with him into Canada. I am not deceiving you. Call him and you'll see."

Was he speaking the truth? Was this, perhaps the reason Gaal
had summoned them here? Were they once again to "take the
adventure that came to them?" But no, Gaal would never use
Shagah as a messenger. John set his lips firmly and made no
reply. His eyes were on his father who seemed so close. It was
Ian McNab all right, every line on his face dear and familiar.
And only ten yards away. John felt his heart would burst.

He moved slowly to the figure. A barely audible cry broke
from him and he pressed his face against the wall that had
turned to glass-"Dad!" But no! He would not call to him.
Instead he set his lips together again, and in his mind said,
"Never! never! never!" His face was white, and his eyes.

Then Shagah's venomous hatred seemed to triumph. What
followed proved to be the most terrible experience John had
ever undergone. He heard a voice, his own voice, ring out from
behind him. He swung round in dismay to look at Shagah as
the cry, a cry in a perfect reproduction of his own voice,
sounded in his ears, "Dad, Dad, help me! I'm in trouble, Dad.
Come quickly!"

"No!" John was screaming. But it was too late. Ian McNab,
a startled look on his face, was striding quickly across the ice
toward the glass wall, as though nothing could stop him. John
backed away quickly from the wall. "Get back, Dad! Get back!
You mustn't!" His father heard him, but he heard the terror in
John's voice more than the words themselves. He came leaping
through the barrier. Immediately Black Sturgeon Lake disappeared and the wall was like any other wall again.

But no longer was it Ian McNab they saw. Instead an ancient
and feeble man who had lived for seven centuries, blue-robed,
white-haired and bearded smiled joyfully at John. He moved
forward but never reached him, stumbling with arms outstretched to crumple to the rocky floor, his glowing eyes still on
his son.

It was too much for John or any of them to take in, and for
a couple of seconds nobody moved. Then John slipped out of
the Mashal Stone and left it and the picture with Eleanor. He
ran forward with a cry, "Oh, Mab, I mean, Dad! You shouldn't
have come! It wasn't me who called. It was a trick! Don't die,
Dad! Please don't die!" John bent down, putting his head on
his father's chest. The old prophet's uncomprehending eyes
were still on him, but they had begun to glaze. Death's presence
was palpable. Mab's breathing stopped, and his eyes stared
unseeingly.

"Oh, no! Oh, no! John!" Eleanor knelt beside him, droppimg
the Mashal Stone to become visible again.

John lifted his head. "He's dead." He pronounced the words quietly, rose to his feet, and slowly drew his sword, saying as he
turned to face Shagah, "Give me the picture, Eleanor!"

He was trembling and white-faced, his eyes set and hard.
Wondering, Eleanor placed the chain in his left hand. John's
eyes never left Shagah.

"He's dead. That's what you wanted, isn't it, Shagah? That's
your spite, isn't it?"

Shagah neither moved nor spoke. For the first time there was
a hint of worry in his eyes. John was breathing heavily. Beads
of perspiration bejeweled his white face, and the palms that
gripped sword and the picture chain were wet and cold. There
was a chill in his heart also, an icy chill of rage and hate. His
voice was hoarse and venomous.

"You're going to die, Shagah. You're going to die now! I am
about to kill you for killing my father, and there's nothing you
can do when the picture is in my hands." He paused, breathing
heavily. "I shall kill you, not with the picture, but with the Sword
of Geburah, just as I killed the Goblin Prince!"

Authentio stepped forward and placed his hands on John's
shoulder. "No, my lord, no. This is not to be the way. We were
ordered not to kill, but to imprison him in his own picture!"

John never heard him. Slowly he advanced, and as he did so
Shagah raised his hands in a gesture of fear, as if to ward off
his attack. For the first time since they had known him, Authentio seemed discouraged, turning away and covering his face.
Eleanor shuddered but saw what she must do. Acting too rapidly for either John or Shagah to anticipate her action, she
snatched the picture chain from John's grasp, and with one
clean and fluid movement flung it over the hook on the wall.

A shattering roar of thunder and a blinding burst of light
stunned them all. When their eyes recovered they saw that
Shagah the Sorcerer was gone-trapped inside the prison of
the picture frame, the prison of his own devising. Slowly
through a swirl of color his head and shoulders began to emerge against the dark background of gray paint. Nobody
spoke, and only John moved. With an inarticulate cry of rage
he flung the Sword of Geburah at the picture.

But his aim was poor. With its point buried in the wall beside
the picture, it continued to quiver, throbbing a blue radiance
that rivaled the light of the moon.

With a dry sob John dropped his head. Yet even as he did so
his eye fell on the Mashal Stone that lay where Eleanor had
dropped it moments before. Dully he stooped and picked it up.
Like the sword it glowed with blue light, and he stared at it as
he had so often done before, longing to put it on to comfort
him. Drawing in a deep breath he turned instead to Authentio.

"Authentio," he held out the chain from which the mysterious blue stone dangled, "this goes to you now." The words
were extraordinarily difficult to say, and the stone was extraordinarily difficult to give. But he gave it, feeling as though he was
giving away everything he had and was. Open-mouthed and
speechless, Authentio stared at the marvelous thing. But John,
all his rage draining out of him, sat down numbly by the prone
figure of Mab.

For several minutes he sat white-faced and staring, holding the old prophet against him. Before long he began to rock
backward and forward, his face slowly filling with pain, muttering, "You shouldn't have come! Oh, Mab, Mab, Mab, why did
you come?" He began to cry and soon was sobbing softly, but
hopelessly and inconsolably, his eyes hot and tearless. He remembered how he had discovered his dead grandmother only
a few months before.

Eleanor forced herself to leave him to his grief. She looked
at the picture and its brass plate. Letters had formed themselves
on the brass. Slowly she began to read.

"What do you think it means?"

Authentio examined the words, still visible in the bright
moonlight, words that had appeared mysteriously, where none
had been before. He shook his head. "Perhaps its meaning is
that no one can move it until the time comes to move it. Did
not Lord Lunacy say that would be the Sword Bearer or someone from the Sword Bearer's household?" They glanced back
at John from time to time. Neither Eleanor nor Authentio
meant to be heartless, but they did not know how to comfort
him.

John was in another world. His rage and hate had quite
drained from him until it seemed to him that he had no feelings at all. His mouth was dry and he felt at the same time both
very wide awake, yet with a sensation that everything around
him seemed unreal. The fingers of his right hand clutched his
father's blue velvet robe, while those of his right hand stroked
the white hair mechanically. Eleanor turned from the picture,
staring at him uneasily. Then-she moved close beside him, and
after a moment Authentio followed suit.

They were still there when Gaal came half an hour later on
the back of Pontificater. John barely acknowledged his presence as he walked into the room. He was still fingering the dark blue velvet robe his father wore, the robe that brought back so
many powerful memories from their time together in Anthropos. When at length he glanced up at Gaal he said, "It's your
fault." He spoke quietly. If there was bitterness in the words
there was none in his voice, which was dead, devoid of emotion. Gaal made no reply, but stared at the little group with
infinite sadness.

"If you'd come earlier, this wouldn't have happened," John
continued. "It's all your fault. We took care of your old sorcerer.
But look what it cost. Did you know this would happen?"

"Have you learned nothing here, John?" Gaal's voice was
gentle. John did not reply. Gaal sat down facing them across the
body of the prophet. He took the old man's limp hands in his
own. "Look at me, John. I talked to you about death by Rapunzel's tower. Do you remember?" John nodded but said nothing.
The hopeless expression on his face did not change.

"What did I say?"

John shrugged. "You said you'd conquer death."

"And did I?"

"I suppose." After a moment he looked up at Gaal. "I knew
Dad would come back I just knew it. And I didn't want him to."

`John, I have conquered death."

John's voice was low. "Yes, Gaal, I know." He wondered why
Gaal could not understand. "Oh, Gaal, listen to me! Dad and
I had such a good time in Canada. He took me places. We had
fun together. Why didn't you come sooner, Gaal? I wish-"
Feelings began to well up in him again.

"John, listen to me." John continued to stare, his face struggling against grief. "What would you like me to do, John?"

"What would I like-?"

"Yes, just now you said, `I wish-' and then you stopped.
What do you wish?"

"I wish he'd never come back. That's what I wish." His voice,
which at first had been low and hopeless became agitated and tearful. "I'm sorry I said it was your fault, though in a way it was.
But Gaal, why? Why weren't you here? If you'd been here it
wouldn't have happened!"

"So what would you like me to do?"

Again John shrugged and remained silent, so that Gaal had
to repeat his question more than once. At last John said, in a
dead and hopeless voice, "There's nothing you can do, is there?
You can't turn time back. And now he's, he's-he's-he's
dead." He said the word softly and breathily as though it
burned his tongue.

Gaal's face was grave, but there was a lighter note in his voice
as he replied, "I seem to remember someone who said, 'Oh,
don't be silly! Dead's dead. It can't be changed. You don't fool
around with things like that.' Remember?"

John did remember. And so, apparently, did Eleanor. She
smiled, her lips parting with dawning wonder. John's memory
began to produce pictures and sounds. He remembered the
sense of hopelessness he had felt during the long night when
Gaal's body lay under the stars on the altar of Bamah and the
shock of finding a living Gaal after the earthquake. Gaal had
rebuked him then. He looked at his father and began to tremble. When next he looked at Gaal, hope and fear struggled
together on his face. "What do you mean? You mean-"

"I mean I'll restore him to life if you'll ask me."

John's tremor increased, and he rose to his feet. His breath
came in gasps and his eyes were wide. "Do it then," he said
hoarsely. "Do it now. Can you? Oh, please!"