Lawrence Watt-Evans - The Reign of the Brown Magician

But he had magic, damn it. Nothing would go wrong. He could bring her back, safe and sound, in this recreated body. He could do anything -he held Shadow’s matrix, controlled all the magic, all the creative energy, of this entire universe.

He knew he could.

He took a deep breath, clenched his fists, then unclenched them and let out his breath. He gathered in the magic, sucked in energy through the matrix-he didn’t want to fail by not putting enough effort into it. He wanted to get it right the first time, he didn’t want to go through this again. He had saved out part of the hair and a toenail clipping and some powdery residue he was fairly sure came from hair or skin, but he didn’t want to have to use it.

Most especially, he didn’t want to have to destroy a botched attempt.

For a moment he thought about calling Boudicca or Athelstan back into the room to advise him, or even just Susan, for moral support, but then he clenched his fists again and quashed the idea. He would do this himself. He didn’t want anyone else seeing Nancy like this. He didn’t want anyone else watching if something went wrong. He didn’t want anyone else around, inhibiting him, if everything went right. He didn’t want to worry about distractions or explanations or anything else.

He would do it alone.

He drew in the energy, filled the chamber with a thick roiling fog of magic, so dense that the colors seemed like liquid currents in the air, deep orange and blood red and seething molten gold.

He waded through them, feeling the viscous electric force prickling and oozing across his skin, and approached his recreated Nancy. He moved around to the foot of the table and stood there, looking down at her, at toes and legs and the tight curls of hair, and he wrapped the magic around her, felt it soak into her, permeate every part of her.

This wasn’t just raising a fetch this time; he wound the pattern of energy in her spine and brain, but at the same time he drew the pattern from the flesh itself, and did something he couldn’t describe in words, reaching out in one of those directions that wasn’t really there, but which magic gave him access to. He somehow knew that he was reaching through the portals of death itself, to find Nancy’s soul and draw it back.

He pulled and wove and pushed and embraced, all at once, all through the matrix-his own hands never touched her-until he felt the power flowing of its own accord, the heart beating strong and steady, the brain waking, the eyes seeing. The flesh warmed, blood surged, muscles tightened and relaxed.

She blinked, and turned her head, first to one side, then the other.

For a moment he held his breath; he let the magic pull away, let her life free itself from the matrix.

“Nancy?” he breathed at last.

She blinked, raised herself up on her elbows, and looked at him.

“Is that my name?” she asked.

* * * *

“Shadow is dead?” Best asked, startled. “You’re sure?”

“Man, where have you been these three days past, since the news first came?” The innkeeper set down the wooden mug of thick, foul-smelling beer. “Aye, Shadow is dead, destroyed at the hand of one Pelbrun, styled the Brown Magician-we’ve the word of half a dozen travelers on it, one of whom spoke to a man who had been in the very throne room of Shadow’s fortress, and had spoken there with Lord Pelbrun.”

Best picked up the mug warily, then glanced first at Begley, then at Poole, finally at Morcambe.

Morcambe shrugged.

“It’s…I mean, ’tis a hard thing to believe,” Best said to the innkeeper.

“I’truth, it is!” the innkeeper agreed. “Yet all who come hither from the west attest it true, and it pleases me well to hear it. ’Tis to be a kinder reign, methinks, for Pelbrun’s orders have come down to us, that there shall be no more hangings for aught but murther, and that we may serve the Goddess an we choose.” He gestured toward the window; Best looked, and saw the gallows in the town square.

He had seen it before, when he and his men had arrived in the village-it seemed a perfectly ordinary gallows. Judging by the stains and general wear it had seen considerable use.

It was empty now, though, and perhaps that was what the innkeeper meant to point out. Presumably, when Shadow was running things, there was usually a criminal or two suspended there.

“What if it’s trickery?” Best asked, doing his best to imitate the barbaric local accent, with its flat, harsh vowels and archaic phrasing. “What if Shadow still lives, and is only testing your loyalty?”

The innkeeper shrugged. “What would you have of us? What could Shadow have of us, an it yet lives and rules? We’re but plain folk; if ’twould destroy us, it may, and what’s to be done? Why strive to deceive, when ’twas long said that Shadow had the power to see within every heart, should it trouble itself to do so?”

“What if…” Best paused, struggling to phrase his questions. This seemed too good to be true, that the superhuman enemy of the Empire had conveniently died, but he couldn’t very well explain that to this brew-soaked barbarian. It seemed more likely that it was all part of some elaborate scheme, perhaps directed at the Empire.

And who was this Brown Magician?

“Enow, good sirs, I’ve others to tend to,” the innkeeper said, after Best had groped unsuccessfully for words for a few seconds. “’Tis a wonder indeed, that we should live to see this day, and I’ll give you time to think upon it, and to resolve what you’d say. Drink heartily, and give voice an you’d have more.” He turned away and stumped off.

Best looked at Begley. “What d’you think, Bill?” he asked.

“Sounds genuine to me,” Begley answered.

“I don’t know.” He hesitated, then motioned to Morcambe. “Sid,” he said, “you finish up, and then head back to the landing site-they’re supposed to drop a ladder every four hours, but I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re off schedule. When they drop it, you climb back and tell them what we just heard.”

“What about you?” Morcambe asked.

“I’m going on to Shadow’s fortress,” Best said. “I intend to see for myself, get a look at this Brown Magician if I can.”

Begley shifted uneasily.

“If you and Poole want to back out, we’ll talk about it,” Best said. “Chances are I’ll send you back with reports before I get that far anyway.”

“Yes, sir,” Begley said, trying unsuccessfully not to look relieved.

* * * *

Shock, Pel told himself. The shock of her death and resurrection had damaged her memory, but it would come back with time, he was sure.

“Yes,” he said. “Your name is Nancy Brown. You’re my wife.”

She sat up, legs still straight out in front of her, and stared at him.

“All right,” she said.

“Don’t you remember?” he asked.

She frowned slightly. “I’m not sure,” she said. “I know things, I remember things, but it’s all sort of vague.”

“Do you know who I am?” he asked hopefully.

She squinted at him. “No,” she said. “Except…you created me, didn’t you? You’re the magician who created me?”

Why would she think of magicians? That didn’t sound right. Pel was suddenly afraid that something had gone very wrong. “I’m your husband, Pellinore Brown,” he said, “and I didn’t create you-I’ve brought you back from the dead.”

“Was I dead?”

Pel nodded; his throat suddenly felt thick and clogged with emotion, and he couldn’t speak.

“I don’t remember that,” she said. She cocked her head and looked at him, smiling sweetly, the movement and expression heart-wrenchingly familiar-though it was something Pel hadn’t seen since a few days before Grummetty had walked out of the basement wall. His doubts vanished; that gesture was Nancy’s.