The Long Look, page 5
part #1 of The Laws of Power Series
The Abbot was still smiling. "It’s always a risk to assume, Master Seb," he said, "but I must say you have the gift."
Ω
4 Visions in a cracked glass
Seb made preparations for leaving. It was one of the many things he was good at, though it wasn’t one his natural talents. He’d just had an incredible amount of practice. He made lists of travel stores and made certain that the types and amounts would be available at a moment’s notice. He saw to their pack horses and mounts, making sure they were well fed, groomed, and rested. He checked their belongings, making certain that all necessities were either already packed or quickly to hand.
All was ready, and had been for the last three days. Seb certainly was. Once the notion of leaving had gotten into his mind, there was no way he could find peace in his surroundings.
Yet Tymon would not leave.
He wouldn’t say why, either. Seb knew Tymon had spoken to the Abbot on several occasions after that day in the garden, but there was no sense of urgency about Tymon at all. Seb found himself watching the comings and goings of the ubiquitous messengers with growing unease. Any one of them could have been something other than he or she seemed, sent on some pretext to the monastery with gold in their dreams and assassination on their minds. Tymon listened politely time and again as Seb pointed this out. Then he would say "Not yet," and that would be that until the next time Seb could not hold his tongue.
Has he finally gone mad?
Seb knew that Tymon surely had enough reason. Tymon was at heart a kind, gentle man. The realities and actions the Long Look had forced him into had not hardened him; far from it. Seb understood to the core of his being that, one day, the burden would drive his friend insane, and he dreaded the day when that eventuality unfolded. Yet dealing with Tymon’s gentleness of spirit was simply one more aspect of his mission that Seb assisted him with, where he could. Now he could not help, indeed had no idea what the specific problem was. And yet there was nothing about Tymon that Seb could definitely mark to a growing madness. Tymon seemed as placid as an ox, and with about as much tendency to move, unprodded.
Seb ran over his lists one last time and, because of he could think of nothing else to do, he went looking for Tymon. Seb found him in that same east garden, perched on the wall above the valley. Seb approached cautiously; a startled Tymon could easily fall off and, tempted as Seb might be now and again to push Tymon off a high wall, he certainly didn’t mean to do it by accident.
"We’re not leaving yet," Tymon said, without turning around.
Seb sat on the bench. "I didn’t ask," he said, which was true enough. It was also true that he had been about to ask, as he and Tymon both knew full well. "Perhaps I could be a shade less irritating if I knew why we aren’t leaving when we both know it's dangerous to linger," Seb said.
The question seemed to puzzle Tymon. "Why? Is that what this is about?"
"What else? You’re being enigmatic. I hate that."
"Sorry. I don’t mean to be. You keep asking me if we’re leaving, and I say not yet. You ask when and I say that I don’t know. And that, friend Seb, is no more or less than the truth. We probably should go; I don’t dispute that. Yet I can’t help feeling that I need to wait, that it’s very important that we do not leave yet. I don’t know why."
Seb got up from the bench and scrambled up the wall to sit beside Tymon. "There’s been no Long Look yet, has there?"
"No. Why do you ask?"
"Because I wonder if that’s the problem. When the Long Look strikes you always know what to do. Or rather, what you need to accomplish to prevent what the Long Look is showing you. Plans must be made. Am I right?"
Tymon shrugged. "As far as my understanding goes, yes."
Seb looked smug. "Yet there’s been no Long Look. Consider this, Tymon: maybe without the Long Look you simply have no concept of what you should do about anything. Stay or go, read this ancient tome rather than that one. Climb this wall or sit on that bench. Everything’s a decision, and all directions are your own. It’s complicated, and sometimes frightening. The Long Look has become your compass. Without it, you’re adrift as a merchant ship with a broken rudder."
Tymon looked thoughtful. "You might be right, Seb. It certainly sounds plausible."
"So why don’t we test it? Why don’t we leave? Now?"
Tymon looked back out over the ribbon of a stream in the valley far below. "Because," he said, "it’s not time to leave."
Seb again considered pushing Tymon off the wall. It was a very serious notion, and Seb liked to think he gave it due consideration. He made himself consider the consequences. Seb also pictured Tymon dwindling from man to speck and then nothing, out of sight, out of life. Seb pictured that last bit for a good long while. He settled for one single swear word as he hopped down to go check on the horses one more time.
§
Takren didn’t like his master’s visitors from the first. The larger one was, in his considered judgment, a well-dressed butcher. He stood by the doorway, thick arms folded, his gaze wandering from Molic to Takren and back again as if the order had already been given and the only thing remaining was to decide was which one of them would be most satisfying to slaughter first.
The other stranger, in Takren’s even more considered opinion, was worse. He was even better dressed than his servant, in fine hose and a satin jerkin. He wore no heraldic device that Takren could see, but there was no doubt he was of the nobility. There was an air of casual command about him; an unaffected manner that only those born and raised to power could carry off well. His dagger and sword were jeweled and of fine make, but far more than merely decorative. The visitors had politely refused offers of food and drink. Now the stranger kneeled before Molic and spoke in a somber, deferential tone, but Takren wasn’t fooled.
Molic, of course, was fooled. He knew no other state of existence.
"This is most exciting," he said. "I look forward to speaking to you again, My Lord."
Another bow, even as the man rose, "Your majesty," he said. The voice did not change. The noble backed away a discreet distance and then turned to go out the door. His servant nodded, absently, and followed. Molic was grinning like a fox.
"It’s going to happen, Takren. The day we have prayed for is at hand!"
Takren listened very carefully until he was sure he heard their guests ride away. "What day is that, My Lord?"
"My army. My subjects have come to my aid!"
Takren swore very softly. "I gather you refer to our mysterious guests, My Lord. Might I inquire their names?"
"They begged leave not to announce themselves until the time is right. I granted it, as it is such a small thing in return for their loyalty."
"Indeed," Takren said. It was all he could do to keep the word from becoming another question. He knew there was no point. Is the time yet set for this marvelous event?"
Molic looked at him a little strangely. "Takren, if such were not totally ludicrous, I would swear I detected a hint of sarcasm in your manner."
"Your Highness is certainly correct," Takren said, "about it being ludicrous in the extreme. I ask only to better serve."
"Well said. Don’t fret, Takren. I promise that, when the time comes, you will be first to know. Or perhaps third. One must leave a certainly flexibility in one’s plans in the early stages."
Takren nodded. "One certainly must."
§
Galan was the first to break silence between himself and Ashesa. "You did not love my brother, did you?"
Lady Margate sat at a distance that was close enough for propriety and far enough for discretion, supposedly sewing. Ashesa and Galan sat together on a bench by the tower window, looking out together at a fine summer morning. Galan wasn’t sure why he asked the question. He considered it a profoundly silly one. The match between his departed brother and the Princess Ashesa was arranged, as all such marriages would be. And nearly everyone had heard of the tantrum Ashesa had thrown when the arrangement had been announced; indeed he incident was growing to nearly legendary proportions.
She must think me a fool.
If Ashesa thought anything of the sort it wasn’t obvious. In fact, the question seemed to startle her at first. She reddened very slightly, but soon that faded and her composure came back. She appeared to give the question due consideration for several long moments, and Galan was a little surprised to see that the question seemed to pain her. "No, Prince. I did not," she said finally. "I would like to think that Daras and I could have come to some understanding in time. Perhaps... perhaps more. I do not know, and fate decreed matters otherwise."
Galan sighed. "I am to be king now. I didn’t want it, but fate decreed matters otherwise there, too. Your father still wants the alliance."
Ashesa looked grim. "And what do you want, Prince?"
"As Crown Prince, I want what my father wanted—the alliance. For myself...." Galan hesitated, but only a moment. Galan knew himself well enough to know, if he did not speak now, he might never speak at all. "For myself, for Galan, I want the marriage. To you."
She didn’t say anything for a while, and Galan stumbled on, "I am not my brother. I’m not as handsome, nor as bold and brave. My hand turns better to a pen than a sword, albeit I can use either at need. I will be king, the Powers willing, but most of all I would wish to be what will make you happy. I wish that more than anything."
Ashesa stared out the window. She might have smiled a brief, sad smile. Galan wasn’t sure. "I don’t know what will make me happy, Prince," she said. "But if you are not your brother, well, that isn’t altogether a bad thing. If Daras was brave he was also reckless. If handsome he was also vain in his way, and I do not think he cared for me at all. No matter. I’m not looking for happiness now; I'm not sure it exists. But if my wishes mean anything to you, know that I have no objection to the marriage. You may tell my father as much for me, if he asks."
It wasn’t exactly a tearful expression of undying devotion, but to Galan it was more than he’d dared to hope.
"I hope I never give you cause to regret this, Highness."
"Nor I you," Ashesa said. She did not look hopeful.
§
Ashesa continued to stare out the window long after Prince Galan took his leave. Lady Margate concentrated on her sewing, and waited.
"What do you think of Galan?" Ashesa asked finally.
Her nurse warmed to the subject. "He’s not so ill-favored as he seems to think, even measured by Daras’ lofty standard. Green, yes, but time will cure that if he isn’t a total fool. He’s well spoken, polite and respectful. I rather like him but, more to the heart of the matter, I think he’s completely besotted with you. That is a good quality in a husband-to-be, to my mind, politics and necessity aside."
Ashesa blushed slightly. "I like him, too. I didn’t really expect that."
"Why not? Once you got past your anger you may have even found Daras not so bad. Pity."
"More than you know," Ashesa said softly.
"You’re being mysterious, child. Save that for your betrothed. There’s something you’re not telling me. A secret? Yes, of course. We all have them. Some are best discarded; this may be one."
Ashesa smiled. "If I solve that particular puzzle, Margy, I promise you your share of it. For now, I think I’ll keep it right where it is."
§
Tymon missed sleep, or rather, the parts of sleep having to do with oblivion. He remembered those, perhaps through the haze of nostalgia, as being the best parts and now gone forever. It had to do with his art, he knew. Deep, untroubled sleep was something not so much lost as paid out as part of the price of his quest for mastery.
This night the sacrifice seemed a bit excessive.
Tymon waited in a place that didn’t really exist as part of the material world. He knew he was asleep, or rather unconscious. His body lay in his quarters at the monastery, breathing yet inert, because whatever could be said to be Tymon himself—soul, avatar, spirit—sat on something that looked like a stone bench, beside what looked like a flowing willow, beside what looked like a dark, slow stream, and he waited, because in that infinitely distant place there was nothing else he or anyone else could have done. That was the reason for it being there, wherever ‘there’ was. He knew the signs. He had been summoned. It wasn’t the Long Look. It was much worse.
"I am here," he said.
YOU THINK I DON’T KNOW?
Amaet appeared beside the willow tree. Tymon had thought her beautiful when he had first seen her many years ago. Now he knew that his perceptions were correct but still not to be trusted where she was concerned. She was beautiful, yes. Her hair was blacker than a cold, starless night and almost as long. Her face and form together was a masterpiece to shame even the best human artists. All this was true, and all unimportant. Amaet looked the way she did because she chose to. She could choose otherwise. Tymon had seen that, once. He wasn’t sure he could do the same again and keep what few shreds of sanity he still cherished.
"You teach me my place yet again, Amaet."
Amaet sighed, and somewhere in the real world a lover’s heart broke. "Such a self-infatuated thing you are, Tymon. Not all the music plays for you. Not even the song of the lash."
"Yet I still find myself beneath that lash. Metaphorically speaking."
"As is everyone, Magician."
"Even you, Amaet?"
Tymon didn’t know he was going to say that before he did. He wondered why he dared. Perhaps it was the frustration of waiting so many weeks when every instinct he possessed told him it was now the time for doing, and might soon be too late to make a difference. The world was in motion now, as it always was, and Tymon knew he could not escape his part in it by hiding in the Abbot’s garden, however pleasant that might be.
She looked at him. Tymon thought she smiled. He wasn’t sure then or later. "Especially me, mortal. You carry a rock; others carry mountains and can no more discard their burdens than you. Everyone serves as strength allows. It wouldn’t hurt for you to remember that now and again."
Tymon kept silent and, because he could still do no less, he waited.
"It’s time," Amaet said. And she told him what he needed to do.
Tymon listened, and then he nodded. "I understand. But why didn’t you send the Long Look instead?"
"Because I don’t send the Long Look," she said, "You do. And I did grow weary of waiting." And then she disappeared.
After a moment or two the bench, and the stream, and the willow, and then Tymon himself began to do the same. He sighed, thinking of all the questions that would again go unanswered, only now there was a new one. No matter. Tymon knew that, for now, this was all the explanation he was going to get.
§
Seb paused by the saddle packs, resting for the moment from the chore of packing for travel, feeling yet again as one trying to push twenty cats into a ten-cat sack. "Will you tell me again why we’re leaving now?"
Tymon yawned though as far as Seb knew he’d done little for the last two days except sleep. He was like a cat himself that way. Tymon blinked. "Oh. Sorry. We’re leaving now because that will give us just enough time to reach the bridge over the Ald River by sunset of the third day from today."
"You’re too literal at times," Seb said. "I know you don’t do it to annoy but, trust me, it often does annoy, and very much indeed. Now then: why is it important that we reach said bridge on said day?"
"I don’t know."
"Any thoughts on what we might do there once we arrive? Should I pack something for a picnic lunch or something for a battle?"
"Again, I don’t know. Sorry, Seb. I do know this isn’t much help to you, and sometimes I consider making things up, just to have something to say to you when these things happen. But I don’t. I’d mean well, but it just doesn’t feel right to me, and more often than not ‘feeling’ is all I have to go on. All I can say is that I have reason to suspect that the proper course will be revealed at the proper time. If not... ."
"If not, what?"
"I don’t know that, either."
Seb sighed and, at least figuratively, reached for another cat.
§
Unlike most of his friends who were born on the small farms and fishing villages on Borasur’s coast, young Koric had always wanted to see more of the world than the parts of it he knew by heart. When Lord Molic’s old servant came to him one evening after chores to say he had a special task for him, the lad was overjoyed. Now, two days later and much farther from home than he had ever been in his life, Koric was no longer quite so certain that his joy had been well placed.
The road north had been rising steadily all day and, after the previous two days, Koric was discovering that walking around Lord Molic’s farm on his daily routine and walking hour after hour down a hot, dusty road was not the same thing at all. Oh, the scenery varied somewhat, but it was hard for a farm lad like Koric, more than passingly acquainted with trees and rocks, to become too enthused about more trees and different rocks. Especially when he was hot and thirsty and had so very far to go, and nothing was quite as, well, different, as he had expected.
"It’s as if everything’s different, and yet nothing is."
"Rather heavy thought for such a weary traveler."
Koric looked around, startled. A large oak tree spread magnificent shade in a small meadow just beyond the road, and seated in that shade with his back to the oak was another traveler. He was dressed all in black, though the sable was somewhat muted by road dust. His clothes were of fine make, as was his pack and the sword and scabbard leaning against the tree. He wore a wide-brimmed hat pushed forward on his nose so that Koric couldn’t quite see his face.
"Your pardon, My Lord, I didn’t see you there."
The stranger pushed his hat back. The man’s hair and eyes were even darker than his clothes, though the smile he turned on Koric was friendly enough.
"My name is Aktos and I am no one’s ‘lord.’ Some days even I don’t obey me," he said.
Koric couldn’t stop from smiling. "I often have that problem. I give myself good and considered advice, but seldom take it."
