Sorcerer's Son (47 page)

Behind him, Elrelet laughed. “I suggest you tell your slave to toss the powder into one of the lava rivers of Fire.”

“Do that, Yra!” said Cray.

The humanlike figure vanished then, as if it had never existed, replaced by the flames of the demon, which raced about Elrelet’s house, scooping up the powder like a damp cloth collecting dust. When it was all gathered up, hidden within the demon’s flame, Yra soared out the door and dwindled rapidly in the distance.

Cray swam to the kiln. In front of its doorway, where Yra had transformed to the ball of flame, floated the ring that the statue had worn. Cray slipped it over his own wrist to carry it to the alcove and deposit it in one of his saddlebags. By the time he had done that, Yra was back.

“Shall I resume the new form, my lord?” the demon asked.

“Yes,” said Gray. “I’ve barely had a chance to see you in it.”

The flame lost its roundness in favor of an elongated spindle shape which sprouted limbs of flame and then coalesced into the solid shape that Cray had fashioned. The flesh, of a reddish hue, was smoother even than the clay had been, and no seams showed where the parts had been reassembled. Cray sighed. Only a heavy cloak with a deep hood, he knew, would allow this creature to pass unnoticed among mortals.

“Well,” said Cray, “I was not expecting my first attempt to yield untrammeled success. Come, Yra, let’s see how those awkward arms hold a sword and shield.” In the alcove once more, at the bottom of one of his saddlebags, well swathed in cloth, he found the corroded armaments that Gildrum had carried as the young knight. Rust was thick on the steel surfaces; it smeared off on his hands when he touched them, floating like a spray of darker terra-cotta in the still air of the alcove. Cray tossed the sword and shield toward Yra, instructing the demon to catch them. He remained in the alcove a little longer, to gather up his own sword and shield and his suit of chain.

He had not worn it in years, of course. Even the padding felt strange to him, close and warm against his skin. It had no weight, though, nor did the chain, and he was amused to see the skirt, below his belt, float upward with one of his motions, as if it had been made of thinnest gossamer. He found a few leather thongs among his bags and laced them through some links of chain, to keep the flapping hem under control. He donned his helm.

Yra held the sword and shield under one arm, like parcels waiting to be passed to someone else. Cray showed the demon a proper grip on the sword hilt and slipped the shield into place for it.

Yra gazed at its own arms and at Cray’s with some curiosity. “What are these things, my lord?”

“This is a sword,” said Cray, “and this is a shield. With the sword you will try to stab or slash me, and with the shield you will ward off my stabbings and slashings. It’s quite simple, really. Look, I’ll show you.” Very slowly, he raised his own sword and cut at Yra’s shield; the blade met the rusty steel surface and rebounded, driving Cray backward along with it. Scissoring his legs, Cray returned to Yra and stabbed the demon lightly in the stomach. The point did not penetrate the demon’s skin but sprang away; this time Cray was more ready and he did not drift as far.

Elrelet said, “You cannot harm the demon body, Cray, but Yra can hurt you.”

“That is what my shield and chain are for. Come, Yra, strike me. But gently.”

Yra stared at him. “I have heard, my lord, that humans are quite fragile. This blade is sharp as an ice demon. Will you be harmed if it pierces you?”

“I will,” said Cray.

‘Then I cannot use it, my lord. A slave may not harm the master.“

“I don’t wish you to harm me, Yra. This is a sport, not a war. We will spar, no more. You will aim your blows at my shield and I will aim mine at yours.”

“A sport?” said Yra.

“A game, you against me. You know what a game is.”

“Yra knows one game,” said Elrelet

“Well, imagine that game, then,” said Cray, “but without any wagers.”

“What would be the use,” said Yra, “of playing the game without wagers?”

“Just for the joy of playing.” Cray shrugged, grinning. “No, I suppose the joy is bound up in the wagering for you demons. Well, there are other kinds of games, and this is one of them. Strike at me with your sword. Go on, strike, Yra.”

Hesitantly, the demon made a clumsy sweep at Cray’s shield; Cray did not even have to move to deflect it. Yra floated slowly sideways with the force of the blow.

“You can do better than that, demon slave,” said Cray. “Try something more like this.” He slashed toward the demon’s legs, but when Yra made no move with the shield, Cray twisted his arm and let the stroke slide past. “You mustn’t let the blade touch you,” he said, “If it touches you, you lose the game. That’s what the shield is for, to keep the blade from your body. Your turn now.”

This time Yra jabbed toward Cray’s waist, and Cray tapped the blade away with one edge of the shield. He could see, though, that the jab would have ended short of his skin, far short.

“Better,” said Cray. “Better, but it must be better still.” He slashed toward Yra’s head, and the demon raised its shield clumsily to ward off the blow; chips of rust flew when Cray’s blade touched that tired old surface, and the strap that held it to the demon’s arm snapped, rotten after fifteen years of rain and snow. Elrelet hastened to the human world for replacements, fresh, shining arms that any knight would be proud to bear. Yra admired their sheen, “like the surface of Ice where Water meets it.”

Cray spent the rest of his waking day laboriously instructing his demon in the rudiments of swordplay. By the time he was exhausted, he had learned that the demon could handle a humanlike body without weight far better than he could but that, in spite of such skill, Yra was a dismal failure at single combat.

“Still,” Cray said, “it is better than fighting a wooden post.”

The Free, who had not left their places at the invisible walls since Cray’s strange activities had begun, whose numbers had in fact augmented with the passing of time, were still there when Elrelet darkened the walls for Cray’s sleep. And they were there still, or again, scattered about the walls like water lilies on a pond, when those walls waxed transparent with Cray’s wakening.

“Human,” said one of them with a deep voice like distant thunder. “Human, what is this you do with your demon?”

“You heard my explanation,” Cray said, yawning and stretching,

“All humans spend their time in this manner?” asked the demon.

“Many,” said Cray. “It has a certain popularity.”

“We would see more of it,” said another demon.

“Well, you may go to my world and seek it out if you like.”

The clouds shrank, drew together into a knot, physically cringing from his suggestion. “Time enough to go to the human world,” said one of them in a high-pitched, breathy wail, “when we are summoned.”

“Well, I must return to my studies,” Cray said. “I can’t spend all my time in pleasure, much as the thought appeals to me.”

“Will you play this game again soon?” inquired the deep voice.

“I don’t know. Sometime.” Cray swam to the alcove, selected a book from among the many floating there.

“We would watch again,” said the demon.

Cray smiled toward the voice. “I don’t believe in overtaxing my slaves. Yra has served sufficiently for now and deserves a rest. Don’t you think so?”

A wind, like the night breeze about tall towers, whistled among them, and they said nothing more. Cray focused his attention on the book in his hands, and when he glanced up again, the Free were no longer visible. He inquired of Elrelet soon afterward and was told that they had gone.

“And glad I am to see an end to them, if only for a little while,” said Elrelet. “I lived a quiet life until you came to me. The Free have never paid so much attention to my home as they do now.”

“Well, they’ve failed in distracting me,” said Cray. “I think, rather, that I have distracted them.”

“From the game, yes. And that is not a bad thing, Cray. I have often wished the game could be abolished; and there are many other slaves who, looking back on their own lives, wish it had never existed.”

“Steal the cubes,” said Cray. “They would at least play less often if they had to keep taking time to replace them. They might become discouraged altogether.”

Elrelet chuckled softly, and a small piece of cloud detached itself from the demon’s body and floated toward Cray’s face, halting a short distance from his nose. In a moment it had lost its rounded formlessness and solidified into a fist-sized gray cube with characters on every face. ‘It is only air,“ said Elrelet. It turned slowly before Cray’s eyes, displaying all its sides and then abruptly swooped back to the demon and merged there, cloud once more, indistinguishable from the parent body.

“You are more versatile than I thought,” Cray said.

“We have our bodies, and we have Air itself,” said Elrelet. “They are enough for our needs.” The demon expanded slightly and streamed toward the kiln, wrapping a tendril of cloud about it. “Will you be using this again soon, or can I remove it to some less conspicuous place?”

“The clutter of material objects doesn’t please you, does it, Elrelet?”

“I must confess it does not. I prefer comfortable emptiness, myself.”

“Move it, then. I’ll not need it soon. In fact, I may not use it again—I’m not sure. A smaller furnace will do for smelting the rings, and I have been thinking of working with the other sorts of demons, that need no kilns for entering their new bodies.”

“You would do well to keep it, Cray,” said Elrelet. “You may not need containment for the heat if you work with the other sorts of demons, but you will need protection from the violence of their transformations.”

“Is there so much violence?”

“Not from water demons. They only soak the clay until it sloughs away as muddy water. But we air demons erode the clay from within, and when we reach the surface, we spray a fine powder of terra-cotta like a desert sandstorm. And the ice demons, who freeze the form until it is brittle, shatter the clay with considerable force, too. You could be injured if you were struck.”

“Ah, but what demon would harm its master so?”

“Inadvertently,” said Elrelet “I know of one demon-master who carries scars to this day and curses every time he sees his reflection. Your mother, I think, would also be unhappy if you were scarred. The bricks of the kiln, you see, can protect you from more than heat.”

“Very well,” said Cray. “I will remember your advice.” He grinned. “Your many pieces of advice.”

“You were warned,” said Elrelet “I am an endless source.”

“No wonder the Free seldom came near your house before I arrived.”

“True enough,” said Elrelet, “although none of them ever listened as carefully as you.” The tendril of cloud tightened about the kiln and swung it slowly toward one wall, pressed it there, slithered across the bricks, and pulled away. The kiln remained still, as if nailed to invisibility. “This is another alcove, like the one you use for your possessions. It will cushion you if you should happen to strike it. Better than bare bricks for soft human flesh.” The tendril disappeared into Elrelet’s body. “You spoke of smelting rings. Are you near ready for that now? I can fetch the ores and implements immediately, if you wish.”

“No, no,” Cray said. “I would not have you clutter your house further, with no real need. I am not ready. Do you wish I were?”

“I wish this whole terrible business were finished.”

“Is it so terrible, Elrelet?”

“It will be, I think. And I am glad that I will not be involved in the battle itself.”

Cray sighed. “Perhaps you had best bring me a little ore now, just a little, and a quern. It will take time to grind all I need, and I might as well begin as soon as possible.”

“As you wish, Cray.”

When the demon had gone, Cray covered his face with his hands. He rubbed at his skin, as if to wipe away the age and exhaustion he felt there. He had lost track of time completely, could not guess how many weightless sleeps he had known, how many days measured only by his own wakefulness. A lifetime? Sometimes it seemed so, especially when he counted the books he had read, the pages he had written, the constant repetition of words and gestures that made the heartbeats that were his only measure of time beyond sleep blur into one another.

He pulled his hands from his cheeks and looked at them. They were smooth and sinewy, not an old man’s hands, not liver-spotted or clawlike, no veins standing out like blue ropes. They were young hands, and he had to smile at them, but only softly, only the slightest flick of the corner of the mouth. His hands were young. It was his heart that was old.

Cray had slept by the time Elrelet returned with a canvas bag of greenish ore, the fragments small, about the size of lentils.

“Where did you find this?” Cray asked. “It looks to be of high quality.”

“So you know copper ore?” said Elrelet

“Oh, yes, I know copper very well. For gold and silver I shall have to trust your judgment, but I know copper only too well. And tin, which I hope I shall never have to use again.”

“I found this in one of the richest mines of the human world.”

“And you have done nothing to alter its purity?”

“Nothing. I merely removed it from the mine floor, where It had been left by human miners as being too insignificant to remove. I then transported it to you. I knew my task, Cray. I served my master in the very same way, and he always made fine rings.”

“Very well. I’m sure you know as much about this part as I do. Where is the quern?”

A wooden box, roughly cube-shaped; with a crank handle protruding from one side, floated out of the cloud that was Elrelet. A cord was looped about the thing, and Cray caught at the free end and tethered it to his belt. It was a small quern, of the sort commonly used for grinding salt He opened its lid and coaxed a handful of the ore inside, slamming the lid shut before the greenish fragments could rebound from the innards of the quern, and float back out. He commenced to crank the handle with the slow, steady rhythm that Rezhyk had taught him—one of the few things, he had discovered, that Rezhyk had taught him properly. The ore yielded with less alacrity than an equal amount of salt, and Cray opened a book to read while he kept up the regular circular motion. Occasionally he switched hands.