Dave Smeds - The Schemes of Dragons

"Keep your mind calm, and open your eyes," Janna said.

He did so. The first glimpse of the scene before him nearly jostled him out of his trance, but unlike the previous day, he kept his attention steady. Only one week after his arrival in Headwater, he already had the confidence vital to successful spellweaving.

He viewed the temple amphitheater, the Oracle of the Frog God, as if he were sitting on top of the great statue's head. His back rested against the ridge of one of the frog's eyes; Janna leaned against the other. Below, petitioners shuffled forward in their line. A crone dropped two copper errons in the pool and asked whether she would live to see another spring. The oracle did not reply. The woman spat in the water and stalked away. From the vigor of her angry steps, Toren guessed she would survive twenty more cycles of the seasons.

They watched for a few minutes. The wandering glances of the people in the line proved they could not see Toren and Janna. Yet Toren felt as if he were actually there. He moved normally, except that he made certain not to break contact with the priestess. The stone on which he sat resounded with cold substantiality. When he peered too far over the nose of the frog, vertigo teased him.

Gradually he noticed that the entire top of the statue glowed with a faint network of bright lines. The tendrils emitted a fragrance of thaumaturgy. On a hunch, he tried to thrust his hand beyond their perimeter. His fingers encountered a soft but definite barrier. He strained, pushing an inch or two further, until the resistance grew so firm that it hurt his hand.

Janna smiled at him. "Good. I was hoping you'd notice that without my help." She resumed the position she had occupied when they had first materialized. "Time to go back. Your control is slipping."

Her words rang true. Toren shook unsteadily as he sat back. He closed his eyes.

An instant later he opened them, and saw Janna's dome. An octopus and a pair of sea snails clung to the transparent wall, presenting a dramatic perspective of their suckered appendages. The divan cradled him. Across from him, the glazed look left Janna's pupils.

"Good!" she cried. "Much better! How do you feel?"

"Light-headed," Toren replied.

"You should be. That was a great deal of progress for one session. Go rest for the remainder of the day. Tomorrow Struth will adjust your energies a bit more, and you and I shall try the same journey with your eyes open. And after you've become used to that, you can work on projecting all by yourself. Now, any questions?"

"Yes. Were we there, at the oracle, or not?"

"No. Our bodies were here the whole time. Only our awareness travelled. It's the same technique Struth uses to listen to the supplicants."

"She sends her voice, too?"

"Yes. An adept can even send a visible image. If you continue at your present rate of advancement, I'll teach you that next week. Struth uses the technique not only at this oracle, but to visit her temples in other cities."

"Is there no limit on distance?"

"Not really, though it's a little harder to project oneself to the other side of the world. The handicap is that you must have visited your destination at least once in the flesh, otherwise you won't know where you're going. And, of course, there must be a reception zone ready to catch your projection."

"Like the net on the statue's head?" he asked.

"Exactly. It took sophisticated sorcery, and a great many days, to create that. There was no choice, however. I know of no person or being so powerful as to be able to project himself to a random location. At least the zones are permanent once woven; they last until the weaver dies."

Janna slid her hand from his. His skin tingled where she had touched it. Hints of his earlier arousal returned.

"More questions?" Janna asked, blowing the sweat between her fingers dry.

"No," Toren said, startled. At her gesture, he excused himself. He found the door using his magical senses-a test Janna had foisted on him earlier in the week-and took his leave.

Deena found Obo sitting in a gazebo inside the garden of Struth, one of the many small hideaways tucked within the temple grounds. On the table before him steeped a pot of tea, and next to it sat three empty cups. A chunk of honeycomb oozed on a small plate. The wizard put away the scroll he had been reading and filled two of the cups.

She smiled as she sat down. She had missed the ritual of her quiet conversations with him. How many times had they shared tea in this spot during the months before she had left for the Wood? Ten? Twenty?

"You're losing the look of the traveller," Obo said, giving her a glance that, in a younger man, might have been called admiring.

"Thank you," she said, self-consciously picking a piece of lint from the smocking of her dress. She folded her arms so that they concealed the scar on her forearm.

"You've kept out of sight a great deal since you arrived. Any particular reason?"

His fatherly eyes saw too much, she thought. "I just needed some time alone. The quest proved to be quite a strain."

"Yes," he said, nodding. He blew over his cup to cool the contents. "You conducted yourself well, from all accounts."

"The mission was important to me," she said. "But you compliment me too much. My only real accomplishment was to have survived."

"That's no mean feat," he countered, and briefly his glance focussed on some distant place. Remembering Ivayer, she guessed. "Toren has been asking about you," he added abruptly.

"Oh?" she said, feigning calm.

"I told him you had stopped by while he was asleep, learning the High Speech. It's been five days since he woke up. Are you avoiding him?"

"No," she answered instantly. "He's just been very busy. I understand Struth and Janna have started teaching him how to use his abilities. I haven't wished to disturb him." She carefully steadied her hand, and added a dollop of honey to her tea. She licked a drop off her thumb. "How is he doing?"

"He's progressing even faster than we had hoped. It's now easy to understand why Struth was so adamant that we locate him in spite of the incredible distance. Had we found him as a child and nurtured that talent as he grew… well, let's just say he's doing the best that can be hoped for in spite of the lack of proper shaping, distinctly better than the previous candidates. He may not be quite right for the gauntlets, but he's close. Very close."

"How long before he's ready?"

"That's not the question. We only have about two months, whether he's ready in that time or not. The Dragon's army is becoming too entrenched in the East. The situation in Cilendrodel is deteriorating. We have to set our strategies in motion and hope for the best. The uncertainty at this point is Toren's motivation."

"What more incentive does he need?" Deena remarked sarcastically. "We stole him from his land, ripped out his ancestors' spirits and then alienated him from them. Surely he is hopping with eagerness to help our cause."

Obo chuckled humorlessly. "Geim said much the same thing only yesterday. But it's not entirely hopeless. Though Toren believed in his tribe, his life in the South was not happy. I glimpsed pieces of his life, just as he did of mine, when I gave him my ability to use the High Speech. His shaman was jealous of him, and I have no doubt the man worked behind Toren's back to eat away at the tribe's opinion of him. Toren was a fabulous scout, and yet he was given the least desired missions and was seldom acknowledged for his successes. At the very least, his shaman kept him from developing his sorcerous talents. A man of Toren's abilities could never have prospered among the Fhali. I think the boy is beginning to realize that, beginning to see that his culture was so tradition-bound by the weight of all those generations of ancestors living inside every adult that an aberration such as he could only be stifled and shunned. And wasted. I am not guilty for what we've done. I know how I would have felt if my family had denied me the chance to study with the master wizards of Acalon."