Lawrence Watt-Evans - In the Empire of Shadow

“Yeah, well,” Pel said, annoyed, “I didn’t mean that. I mean, tell me why, if you’re a wizard and Shadow’s a wizard, why Shadow’s so much more powerful than you are.”

“And who told you, I pray, that Shadow is a wizard?”

“Didn’t you…” Pel hesitated. “Or maybe it was Raven-I don’t know, but somebody told me.”

Valadrakul didn’t reply, and angrily, Pel demanded, “All right, if Shadow isn’t a wizard, what is it?”

“’Tis Shadow,” Valadrakul said with a shrug. “It needs no other name, for there’s no other like it, nor has ever been. What in truth it is, no one knows.”

“Didn’t one of you tell me that it started out as an ordinary wizard?”

“Perhaps,” Valadrakul admitted.

“Then did it start out as an ordinary wizard?”

“So ’tis said. And perhaps ’tis true. ’Tis no wizard now, though-not as we use the word.”

“So what happened, then?” Pel asked. “How come Shadow’s so incredibly powerful, and the rest of you wizards aren’t?”

“Good question,” Wilkins said. “Took you long enough to get it straight, though.”

Pel glared at him for an instant, then turned back to Valadrakul.

The wizard looked thoughtfully at the ground for a moment, and the entire party moved onward a few yards before he spoke again.

“Raven spoke to you of the flow of magic through the world,” Valadrakul said at last.

Pel nodded.

“’Tis not exactly a flow, you understand-nor is it precisely in this world. The exact nature…well, you’ve not the understanding.” The wizard glanced up at Pel.

“All right,” Pel said. “Explain it however you can, don’t worry about getting all the details right.”

Valadrakul nodded. “As you wish.” He gazed about at the surrounding greenery. “If you think of the sources of nature’s magic as springs, from which flow not water but the invisible energies that we wizards wield, you will have but a poor understanding, for the flow is not as water, nor as light, nor as any other thing in the commonplace world. It permeates all the world, yet varies throughout, from the faintest of traces in one spot to a bursting torrent in another. And when a wizard draws upon it, it is not consumed-the well cannot be emptied. There are flows, but they are not streams-more oft, they’re loops, spinning endlessly. And there are points, and lines, and patterns.”

“All right,” Pel said. “I think I have the idea.”

Valadrakul nodded. “Well,” he said, “a wizard such as myself, such as all modern wizards, can draw upon whatever energy might be found in the place where that wizard stands, and no more. I can sense these energies, but only dimly; they are not as light to me, but as, perhaps, faint sounds-I can perhaps tell you, that way there is a great power source, but I cannot tell you how far, nor its exact nature, nor can I in any way draw it nearer. At most, if I find a locus I remember, I can perhaps use its peculiar nature to my advantage-as when I used what might be described as a line of magical energy to send a message to Taillefer.”

“Okay,” Pel acknowledged. “I think I get it.”

“Of old, though,” Valadrakul continued, “there were wizards who had a greater understanding of these forces, who could perhaps see them, and map them, and distinguish the patterns in them. This higher art, these pattern wizards, these are now thought to be lost-though I’d not swear that none might still lurk in the odd corners, hiding from Shadow. ’Twas pattern wizards who provided much of the art that we lesser wizards use; they were more powerful than we, and for that reason Shadow has made every effort to obliterate them, lest they be a threat to its dominion.”

“So Shadow was a pattern wizard?” Pel asked.

Valadrakul shook his head. “Nay,” he said, “listen further. ’Tis said that long ago, there was yet a third tier among those who wield magic-those who could not only perceive the patterns, but could alter them, could alter the flow of energy, could divert one stream into another, could weave the threads of magic as if they were merest wool, could form matrices of magic that they carried about with them-not the mere patterns of spells trapped within their minds, as we yet do in our small ways, but great intricate webs of the raw stuff of magic itself, that might be formed into whatever spells they needed. They had no need to make do with what powers were at hand, but could draw to themselves whatsoever powers they needed, through these matrices they held. Matrix wizards, these magic-weavers were called.”

“And Shadow was a matrix wizard?” Pel asked, remembering what Raven had said about Shadow’s webs and networks.

Valadrakul nodded. “Aye,” he said. “The greatest of them. And Shadow built about itself a structure that stretches out to embrace all the magic in this world-it gathered in all the lines to itself, drew down the wells, absorbed the matrices of all other matrix wizards, and left nowhere untouched If another somehow learned the lost art of the matrix wizards, and sought to draw into himself even the slightest part of the world’s magic, Shadow would sense it, would feel the tug upon its web as a spider feels a fly’s struggles. Should that happen, Shadow would reach out and strike down whoever had dared to tamper with its networks.” He sighed. “Indeed, ’twould seem that that’s why Taillefer would send you nowhere-the portal spell impinges upon Shadow’s matrix, tugs at its web, as it were.”

“Oh,” Pel said. The explanation made sense, he supposed.

Or did it?

“Wait a minute,” he said, as they trudged onward. “If Shadow’s linked to all the magical energy in the world, doesn’t it feel something any time any wizard works any magic?”

“A good question,” Valadrakul said. “But alas, we’ve no good answer. It may be that Shadow senses it as we sense the distant hum of insects, as something always there and not worth the trouble to stop. It may be that our spells are so weak that Shadow sees them not at all, as you and I cannot see the stars in the sun’s daylight.” He shrugged. “We know not the truth of the matter.”

“Oh,” Pel said again.

He was hardly satisfied, but how could he demand that Valadrakul tell him something the wizard didn’t know himself? Shadow’s true nature would have to remain a mystery.

* * * *

The idea that she might be several weeks pregnant with Walter’s child was appalling, but somehow it was a relief, too-it was an explanation, and one that fit all the facts. What’s more, it was one that Amy understood, more or less, and one with a definite end in sight. AIDS could take years, other diseases could be sudden or chronic, but pregnancy was nine months, at most, give or take a few weeks.

And it wasn’t a death sentence. Childbirth was dangerous, certainly, especially if she couldn’t get back to Earth, but she wasn’t going to follow Grummetty and Alella and die horribly in a matter of days.

At least for the moment, having an answer, any answer, was better than nothing. And crying all over Susan and Prossie had helped, too.

Perhaps as a result of her lessened worry, perhaps just because her pregnancy was progressing past that point, she was feeling better. She still felt heavy and clumsy in the stronger gravity of Faerie, still tired easily, but her stomach was no longer cramping, and she felt no urge to vomit.

Thank God, she thought, for small blessings.

And being able to think about something other than her own insides and the possibility of imminent death brought her to wondering just what she and the others were doing. Yes, they had to get back to Earth-but were they really just walking right into Shadow’s home territory, marching right up to Shadow’s lair? Wasn’t that, well…suicidal?