Jo Clayton: A Gathering Of Stones

Simms’ mouth tightened as he struggled to control his surging emotions; he was afraid of scaring Maks off like he’d driven away so many others. He set the hone aside, took a bit of leather and began polishing the steel. “Maybe he don’ know ‘bout me. Think of that?” He held out the knife. “Maybe steel c’n cut spell.”

“No no, not steel. Take him out if you can, but don’t kill him, there’s no reason to kill the man, he’s only trying to protect what’s his.”

“A’ right, gimme a sock.” Simms tapped his foot. “I got no spares.” He laughed at the look on Maks’ face. “Sock an’ sand, whap, whiff ‘em, out like blowing out y’ candle.”

Simms brushed his fingertips up the vertical diagram, stopped at the top. The seventh level. “Here,” he said. He closed his eyes, but he got nothing more than the location, no smells, no sounds, just an itch so intense it was painful. “I don’ know what he doin’, but he there.” He scratched at the parchment, his fingernail moving across the highest level in the tower. He left the vertical and drifted his fingers across the floor plan of that level. He touched each of the rooms indicated, stopped at one that looked south toward the serried mountain peaks beyond the valley. “Here,” he said. “This room.”

Maks took the plan, read the glyphs. “His bedroom. Do you get the sense he’s sleeping?”

“I… hmrrt…” Simms closed his eyes, focused inward, slid his thumb over and over his fingertips. “No… I don’t… I can’…’f I hadda guess, he awake an’ waitin’.”

Maks slid the sheet into the wallet, tied the strings, got to his feet. “Let’s not keep him waiting.”

The Magus struck at Maks before they touched foot to floor, exploding time-energy around him, ripping reality into wheeling chaos that manifested as blinding color and extreme form-distortion-and a discarnate hunger that sucked at him, struggling to dissolve him into that chaos.

The attack ignored Simms. He came down behind Maks, his aura masked by the sorceror’s .lifeglow, a fire that spread nova strong, nova bright, about Maks, made visible by the whirling forces that filled the room. Simms dropped to his hands and knees. He relaxed, smiled; the floor was familiar, comfortable to his reading-touch. Polished wood, then a velvety carpet. He didn’t try to comprehend what his eyes were showing him, he simply ignored it and took his direction from the carpet. He began edging toward the Magus.

Instead of trying to block that chaos, Maks sucked it into himself, stripped away the force in it and slowly, painfully recreated an area of normality about himself, gaining strength as the Magus expended his.

Still unnoticed as the two Primes hammered at each other, Simms circled wide and came round behind the wavering distorted figure. Reality twisted and tore about him, time-nodes exploded, but none of it was directed at him, it battered at him but the blows were glancing, he was rocked but not seriously hurt. He kept crawling. He came up behind the Magus, a dark column broken into puzzle pieces as if there were a glass of disturbed water between them.

Simms slipped the knotted sock from his coat pocket and sat on his heels peering at the column, trying to resolve it enough to find his target. Black and white, blurs of pinkish brown swaying swinging, changing rhythm suddenly, never still. Hands, he thought after a moment. He got to his feet. He could have reached out and touched the shifting uncertain figure, but he was careful not to. Finally he caught a glimpse of pinkish brown higher on the column, only a glimpse, it was swallowed a moment later by an amorphous blob of black. Must be the face, has to be the face. He set himself, swung the sock with carefully restrained force. He felt it slam against something, heard a faint tunk.

The confusion vanished instantly.

A man lay on the carpet at his feet, white and black robes spread around his sprawled body, an angular black and white striped headdress knocked half off his bald head. He was tall and lean, with a strong hooked nose and a flowing white beard.

Maks wiped sweat off a gray face. He found a chair and dropped into it. “Lovely tap, Simmo.”

Simms looked at him, dazed. There was something throbbing in him that distracted him, even in his anguish at Maks’ distress. He licked his lips, tried to say something, but he couldn’t. He dropped the sock, turned slowly so slowly, until the string tied to his gut whipped tight and began reeling him in.

Step by slow step he went to the head of great four-poster bed, touched the post on the left side. It was at least six inches square, deeply carved with the interlacing geometrics of Rukk reliefwork. He stroked his fingertips up and down the different faces of the post. There was a click. A part of the post slammed against the side of his hand..A shallow drawer. He pulled it open and looked into it. Shaddalakh lay there, dull white, sandpapery sand dollar. He lifted it out. It was like touching a lover, warm, accepting. He held it, tears gathered in his eyes, though he didn’t cry. He smiled instead.

Maks’ hand closed on his shoulder. “May I have it?”

It was the most difficult thing he’d done in his twenty some years of life. He turned slowly, held out the talisman. Maks took it, there was a sadness in his face that told Simms his lover understood the gift he’d just received, but at the moment that didn’t help lessen the ache from the loss. “Time to go,” Maks said. “We…”

Darkness swallowed them.

Simms heard Maks cursing, something was wrong, he didn’t understand…

HARRA’S EYE CHURRIKYOO

Roaring with rage, Settsimaksimin landed on one point of a Hexa star; Simms came down at his feet. Maks clutched at Shaddalakh and gathered himself to snap out of this place wherever it was.

He was frozen there, Shaddalakh vibrated in his grip, but something blocked his access to the talisman. He gathered the remnants of his strength-threw all he knew and all he was into a bind-shatter Chant. His Voice was there. It made the dust jump. Nothing changed. The confusion of hums and whistles and other small ugly noises went steadily on around him. He’d never seen anything like this place. He understood nothing he saw, even less what he heard.

The dull gray light shuddered. Sparks came pouring into that dusty gray hell, shrieking as he’d shrieked. Geniod. He remembered them from the cavern.

Something caught them, something prisoned them in a glitternet of force lines above the dusty gray throne chair beside the Hexa. They quieted, he thought they were doing what he’d done, looking around, weighing their chances, deciding how to attack and free themselves.

The light shuddered again.

Palami Kumindri, her Housemaster Callam Cammam, another female figure. Simms gasped. “Esmoon,” he whispered. Finally the simulacrum of Musteba Xa, holding Massulit clutched against his bony chest.

Something snatched Massulit away from him, brought it swooping around to hover over Maksim’s head. His souls spun from the stone and fled back into him, swirling round and round in him, turning him dizzy with the euphoria of the Return.

When he recovered, the four of them were gone and the sack above the throne was jerking and jolting and brighter than before.

The light in that decaying dreadful room shuddered.

Brann appeared on the Hexa-point at his right, Tak WakKerrcarr standing behind her, his staff in one hand, his other hand resting on her shoulder. Massulit swept away from Maksim and rushed to her. She looked startled, caught it, stood holding it. “Maksi,” she said, “so this is why you didn’t answer the call-me’s.”