Shades of Choices Passed

© 2002 LeRoy Smith
All rights reserved.

Two men atop the battlement searched the dusk-darkened countryside more from habit than to detect any immediate danger. Danger, if it came, would arrive only after full dark. Darkness would find these gray gentlemen wishing for peaceful sleep. Sleep unvisited by the ghosts of their past was a rare thing in the sunset of their battle-scarred lives.

After a lengthy pause Victor continued his questions.

"Do you still have the Power for such an undertaking?"

"Still haven't learned to be careful with your questions," said Benedictus. "And after all I've tried to teach you."

"If you'd answer my questions once in a while," Victor said, "then maybe I'd learn something."

Ben smiled.

"Your question implies that you doubt the strength of your sword arm."

"What does your evasion imply?"

Ben shook his head, looking into his friend's age-faded eyes. It was an old litany between them, unspoken self-doubt being the closest they ever came to the truth. No matter how many times one journeyed around the ever-broadening spiral of Life's Path, self-doubt stayed your constant and closest companion. Every time one caged it, self-doubt escaped and re-emerged in a different guise. No matter its outward appearance, it remained the same monster underneath.

"My friend," Ben said. He raised an arm, placed it across Vic's shoulders, and guided him toward the stairs. "What difference does it make?"

"It's important." Anger tinged Victor's voice. "I don't want to be in the thick of it and find out you can't deliver."

"I will do what needs doing," Ben promised.

Ben watched his friend absorb the promise as they negotiated the darkened steps. The cloudy spring night spared little light. He surprised himself when he noticed how much of his attention he spared to safely descend the stairs. Falls were not as easily brushed off as they once were. Heights from which he once would have jumped without hesitation now required careful consideration. He wondered how much regard he would have to surrender to the simple negotiation of terrain in the coming quest. Could be the distraction would prove fatal. Ben recited the silent ritual he had always used against such thoughts. The closing cage door creaked like his joints on a cold winter's morning. The echo reverberated around his mind.

At the bottom of the stairs, Victor stopped. Always a hard man, he remained so in old age.

"See that you live up to your promise, Benedictus."

Without a 'goodnight,' he turned and strode away across the bailey to his quarters. At least Victor Vladimous Vasarious, hero of the Hiberian Pass and countless other battles, had found a post suitable to his rank. True, he was only a training officer, but such a fine officer he was. The troops he trained carried the reputation of being the best in the Known World.

Ben took a different course across the bailey, to the shack set aside for him. His apartment leaned against the stables and in the shadow of the castle wall. Life had not been so kind to Benedictus Labadious Aurellious, equally a hero of the Hiberian Pass and countless other battles. No one called for magicians in these days. No high posts waited to be filled by a man of proven abilities. None felt gratitude for the things he had done.

That was why the success or failure of the coming venture held far less importance for him than it did for his friend. He was already a dead man. Failure would simply cease his fretting over it. And success? Success would grant a sweet, but all too brief, reprieve from the ultimate sentence of death.

No. The outcome was unimportant to Ben. The doing was significant. The fact that his old friend had sought him out gave him pleasure, a feeling he thought lost.

Closing the door behind him, Ben entered the company of his ghosts. Their presence had never ceased to pain him, although the edge had dulled in recent years. Because no new members had joined their ranks in a long time, perhaps.

His rough quarters were small, with hardly room for a table and stool, a sleeping pad and his few possessions. He wended his way through the cramped quarters, around the crowded entities of his dead past, and busied himself at the brazier. He placed one piece of cordwood on the coals, saving the last two pieces to ward off the morning chill. He had wondered just this evening what he would do about tomorrow's wood.

Flames licked at the fresh fuel, light driving his ghosts into the darkened corners of his room. The race between remembering and sleep began. If he were lucky, sleep would reach him before the light failed. He would rest for a few hours before the shades slunk from the shadowed recesses and invaded his mind. He lay on his pad, eyes captured by the dancing light. Waves of warmth washed over him, carrying away his bone deep pains. He drifted down into sleep.

This night his first tormentor breathed sultry whispers in his ear, an old lover come to call. Ben had never understood why Melissa numbered herself among his ghosts. Their relationship had not been a long one, lasting less than two months. They had shared a mutual passion, but not the consuming fervor either had experienced with other lovers. Neither had been young enough to be fooled into thinking theirs was a lasting love. In retrospect, Ben often wondered if it might not have blossomed into something deeper. It might have, if he had been willing to devote more time. He had been at the pinnacle of his success, and a relationship with a woman in a remote village did not align itself with the goals of his career. The color of regret tinged many of his memories.

Most perplexing of all was the fact that he was not directly responsible for her death. Had the enemy he faced chosen a different path of retreat, she might still live. When an enemy is in retreat, he must be pursued, no matter the path he takes. It had saddened him when he came across her desiccated little village, a burned-out husk beside a dusty road to the border. The senseless act of destruction, perpetrated by an army with nothing to gain, had angered him.

"Melissa? Why do you pester me so?"

Ben would not have bothered to ask, but he was still more than half asleep. He rarely spoke to his phantoms anymore. There had been a time when he screamed in confrontation, demanding of them the reasons why they haunted him. Though they seemed to speak to him, he could not hear their words. No wind erupted from their lungs and no words passed between their lips. His shades relied on cold touch to wake him. Only Melissa aroused him as she had while living. And once he was awake, her apparition reverted to an icy, silent stare.

Melissa appeared to him as she had in life. The others materialized in death's gruesome guise, their specters continuing to decompose in accordance with the processes of the grave. Many of his eldest ghosts had decayed beyond recognition, with only putrid wisps of skin and hair clinging to their worm-polished skulls. It was only through the long years of association that he remembered whom they had been in life.

Melissa, having accomplished her task, retreated to a corner's darkness. His first kill took her place. It had been an honorable kill, or at least, discriminate. A one-on-one confrontation, with the sake of kingdoms in the balance. Du Aubeir's remains had not fared well; only thin tendrils of death-greened flesh clung to his skeletal remains. His bare jaw clacked out a familiar tattoo, his empty chest rose and fell in a caricature of speech. Empty eye sockets glared their hatred.

Having accomplished his unfathomable task, du Aubeir withdrew, replaced by the next eager phantom. And so it progressed into the night, until the first light of dawn insinuated its way through the thin walls of Ben's quarters. His ghosts fled the arrival of the day, the macabre procession incomplete. It mattered not to him or them. There was always the night to come. With the departure of his ghosts, Ben, at last, returned to the escape of sleep.

The pounding on his door startled Ben awake. No pale phantom this, but a young soldier standing on Ben's threshold. He awoke tired, being used to sleeping most of the morning away. He opened his flimsy door in time to save it from a second beating and almost suffered one in its place.

A great mailed fist arced through the early morning air. The Egis Sequence, a protection spell called upon by reflex, stopped the blow within an inch of his nose. The disappointment he caught in the man's eyes angered him. The Egis Sequence became a surging wall of force. The Power flung the young man fifteen feet through the air, to a backside landing in front of a half dozen of his friends.

Ben regretted his action almost as soon as he performed it. In times past he had been subtle enough with bullies to avoid making unnecessary enemies of them. He watched the young man's anger grow as he pushed himself to his feet in front of laughing friends.

"I can't believe it, Kevin," said one of them around his chortles. "You let an old man toss you around."

"He must be old enough to . . ."

" ... have taught Archimedes to screw!" completed the other half of the wit.

Ben eyed that one. A clever tongue was never something he abided in a man. He had cut more than one simply for wielding a sharp tongue. He stepped out of his apartment, seeking room to maneuver. If his thoughtless action precipitated a reaction, he wanted to give a good accounting.

"I see you've met some of the men, Benedictus."

Victor, in full battle armor and astride a great black charger, rode into the space between Ben and the soldiers. He reigned the snorting, stomping beast to a reluctant stop in front of the old magician. Victor glared from under his raised visor, leaning over to talk in a private voice.

"The young king watches from atop the keep wall. I will not have you spoiling my departure, Ben." Victor's voice dripped with an indignation usually reserved for first-week recruits.

"Sorry. It won't happen again."

"See that it doesn't. Get your gear and join the company." Victor sat up and started to turn to other business. As a second thought he leaned over, looking at Ben's garb. "Is that the best you own?"

"It is," Ben said, looking down at his grease-streaked, sweat-stained, threadbare tunic. It had been a long, cold winter, and it was not yet time for the late spring washing. "All that I own."

Victor looked at his friend, his eyes revealing a mixture of sadness and disgust. Ben watched him remember the old times.

"Well, cover yourself in that great cloak you were always so proud of. You still have it?"

"Of course. Until I die."

Again, Victor turned away and then thought better of it. "I don't suppose you have a horse?"

"If I had a horse," Ben said, "I would have eaten it long ago."

Victor recoiled in horror. The thought of someone eating a horse obviously appalled him. Horses were wealth and status. Without a mount, a noble could be mistaken for a commoner.

"I'll see to it," Victor said. "But only for the duration of this business. Not a moment longer."

Ben nodded and turned back to his apartment. Despite his pride in it, his great cloak had been reduced in status to little more than a blanket. He lifted it from the straw and shook off the residue. He laid it on the table and picked away the pieces clinging to it. Even in the dim light, the woven squares of color—red, brown, green and blue—shone with the same luster as on the day he received it. It was made of the finest wool, with a weave so fine that water rolled from its surface. The techniques of its manufacture were lost to the dim reaches of time.

His cloak made passable, he returned to the area of the floor he called his bed. Under the spot where his head habitually rested, he scooped away the soft earth. With both hands, he lifted a wooden box large enough to hold a pair of shoes and set it on the three-legged stool.

He brushed his hands together, inspected them, wiped them on his tunic, and inspected them again. He worked the intricate locking mechanism, disarming the traps as he went. He raised the lid, revealing the contents. These were the possessions that defined his life. These were the possessions he would rather starve than part with. The sale of any single item would have made the rest of his life comfortable.

There was a silver-chained golden cloak pin and backing ring. He lifted the pieces from the box, studied them, felt the weight of gold in his hand. Laying them on the cloak, he turned back to the box. Next, he removed a red leather belt with a twelve-inch dagger hanging from it. The hilt was inset with a single ruby, as big around as the end of his thumb. An intricate brass setting held the stone in place. The blade still shone, free of rust. The scabbard was made of finely woven, untarnished silver wire. He slipped the belt around his waist and cinched it up. Was a time, toward the end of his career, that his paunch had grown large enough that he could no longer wear the belt. That had not been a problem for a long time now.

Last, he removed a wand. Gold filigree wound intricate traces around the age-browned rosewood dowel. An emerald, cut to the same size and shape as the ruby, formed the capstone. He slipped the wand into a secret pocket on the inside of his cape. He closed the box, placed it back in its hole, and kicked dirt and straw over the top of it. Donning his cape, he affixed the pin. He tried twice to capture enough material to hold the backing ring in place.

There was a long-absent spring in his step when he walked out into the light of day. A stable boy held a chestnut mare for him. Ben took the reins, lifted his foot to the stirrup, and his stomach rumbled. The mare rolled an eye in his direction. More at the growl of his stomach, he thought, than at his weight on her back. Sporting an irrepressible smile, he took his place at the end of the line of fifty men. Victor sat front and center, his black charger tossing its eager head.

"We are ready, Your Majesty."

"Return to me the Orb of Amadian. Or bring me the head of its thief, Stephen du Fedorious." King Gerald leaned out between the crenelations at the top of the keep wall. "I would prefer both if you can arrange it, Victor."

"Both it shall be, Your Majesty."

"Then be on your way. Go with the king's blessing."

Unwilling to watch the troop form and file out the gate, the king turned and disappeared from view. If there was any truth to the rumors Ben heard at the local inn, the young man would return to a bed warmed by a pair of maidens. Resigned to the passing of those days for himself, Ben turned his horse, nudged her in place at the rear of the right column, and followed the soldiers out the gate. The troop cantered past villagers intent on starting their day of work. Few spared more than a quick glance at the soldiers. None were watching by the time Ben brought up the rear. A baggage wagon joined them at the edge of town.

Within an hour's passing, Ben was reacquainted with the rigors of the saddle. Worse; he had never known the choking dust of riding at the rear of a column. A cough raked his throat, developed soon after the ride began. Already his pipes were raw and his chest hurt. During one of his coughing fits, he almost missed the order to halt. One of the officers rode back along the flank of the columns and stopped when he reached the center.

"The parade is over, men." He waited for the cheer to subside before continuing with his orders. "The commander has ordered a dress-down march. Remove your armor and store it in the baggage wagon. Keep your weapons handy. Benedictus, the commander requests your presence at the head of the column. Let's do it, men. You have one quarter of an hour."

Ben moved his horse through the pandemonium of men stripping off their armor and stopped beside Victor.

"Thank you," Ben said. "Thought I was going to die back there."

"I heard you coughing all the way up here." Victor handed Ben his flask.

"It'll be like old times, the two of us riding off to save the kingdom." The old magician sucked a long draught of water, wiped the dribble from his chin.

"I just want to keep you close to hand," Victor said. "In case you get hungry."

"Quiet, old friend." Ben patted the mare's neck. "You'll make her nervous."

The two sat astride their mounts in silence for a time. The trail led northward and would eventually take them through the Hiberian Pass. The way would be rough, their course carrying them through several small kingdoms. Most jurisdictions were hardly elevated above the level of tribes, and few could field an army capable of challenging fifty armored horsemen.

"You're not undressing like your men?"

"Dressing down. It hasn't been that many years since you were a soldier, Ben."

"I don't remember the soldiers' life being so easy. Dressing down isn't a command I recall."

"As I recall," Victor said. "We wore anything we could get our hands on. Leather, padding, mail, anything. These boys wear heavy metal armor. It's harder on them and their horses. 'Dressing down' is a command I came up with."

"Still, aren't you worried they're too soft?"

"I think they're tougher than we were."

Ben considered this for a moment. He picked a straw still clinging to his cape.

"Tougher, maybe. Smarter?" Ben asked. "I doubt it. So, Victor, is there a dressing up command?"

"Of course."

"I was just wondering." Ben caught the testiness in Victor's voice and decided he had pushed his friend's tolerance about as far as it would give. Then again, Ben had never been known for his tact, and Victor was so much fun to rub the wrong way. "So you're not undressing? Down I mean?"

"I may need to impress the locals. We have treaties with most of these brigands. Surely you remember these things."

Victor turned, looked back over his men, and signaled his officer to hurry them along. He nudged his horse forward.

"Let's ride, Ben. They'll catch up."

They pushed their horses hard as the track began to rise into the mountains. Ben was impressed by the little mare Victor had loaned him. She had good wind and sure feet as the trail roughened. His aches and pains seemed to work themselves out, and he felt better than he had in years. He had forgotten what exuberance felt like.

The road entered dense forest, leaving the open farmland behind. By the time they reached the border outpost and galloped past, all of the troops had formed up in good order. The wagon bounced along far behind. Ben imagined the teamsters' curses. As Ben's horse worked herself into a good lather, Victor slowed the troop.

"Time to earn your keep, you smelly old fart," Victor said.

"Who're you calling old?"

"What do you know of the Orb of Amadian?"

"You mean other than the fact that it doesn't belong to our good King Gerald?"

"Someday your tongue will cost you your head."

"Probably be the best bargain I ever make."

"The Orb, Ben."

"It actually belongs to the family Fedorious. They've owned it for generations. It was made by one of Stephen's great-granduncles or somesuch."

"Not a history lesson, Ben." Victor gritted his teeth, very close to exasperation. An exasperated Victor was not a pleasant sight. Nor a safe one. "What does it do?"

"If that's all you want to know, I can certainly tell you."

"Well?"

"It kills. It kills anyone. It works particularly well against knights. It won't matter if they're dressed or undressed down." At the top of a rise the way cleared, presenting a view of jagged peaks still draped in winter snows. The pass looked much closer than it actually was. The sky stretched from horizon to horizon, cloudless and crystal blue. "It will kill you and your men before you're close enough to do anything about it. The family Fedorious will come out of hiding, round up your horses, and have a celebration feast. They probably won't even bury the dead."

"My men are well trained."

"That won't matter."

"I'm not easily ambushed."

"You won't recognize the situation. Not until it's too late." Ben let kindness touch his voice. He called on his old skills to do it. "Just before you're dead."

Benedictus rode beside his friend, letting Victor work through his anger and his fear. He needed his friend to be in the right frame of mind, and it would be best if Victor constructed the frame himself.

"What do we do, Ben?"

"You want to know what to do?"

"I asked, didn't I?"

"Yes."

"Come on, Ben, please."

"My advice?" The trail dropped into the primeval forest again, its shadows close and chill. Ben wrapped his cloak tighter around him. "Don't go anywhere near the thing."

"Really? That's why I brought you along?"

"No." Ben studied his friend's eyes. "You brought me along because I stole the damned thing once before."

This time the silence lingered. Ben wondered if he might not have pushed too far. He had always been better at manipulating things than people. He preferred it. It felt cleaner, no matter how dirty the work.

The surrounding forest grew as silent as their conversation. He inhaled the fragrance of life gone rampant. Pine and cedar trees sported the yellow-green shoots of fresh growth on every limb. Moss luxuriated and grasses, recently escaped from smothering snows, sprouted faster than they could be cropped by winter-starved grazers. Flowers competed with colors and fragrances for the attentions of pollinators. Nature at these elevations pushed through spring with a ruthless vengeance.

Finally, Victor spoke.

"Can you steal it again?"

"I answered that question last night, Victor."

"Reassure me."

"I will do what needs doing."

"Do better," Vic said.

"The last time I stole the Orb, I did it on my own. I didn't have the company of fifty knights alerting the countryside of my presence."

Ben looked at Victor. His friend's resistance surprised him. Victor had always been a dynamic personality, resistant to any suggestion without a thorough scrutiny. His proper frame of mind must still be in pieces, and Ben doubted it would ever fit together.

"I will not be your excuse if you fail."

"If I fail," Ben said, "I won't need excuses. Just a modest burial."

Ben wondered what his ghosts would do when they found him transported to the other side of death. Would he, at last, learn the meaning of the messages they tried so hard to deliver? Would they take their revenge on him? These were the only questions in his life he wasn't eager to obtain the answers to.

"Why knights?"

"Pardon?" This time it was Ben's turn to be curious.

"Why are knights particularly vulnerable to the Orb of Amadian?"

"It's a matter of humility."

"Humility? Ah," Victor said. "I see."

"I can save myself," Ben said. "I can probably save you and perhaps some of your men. But the rest of your men, well trained as they are, will ride to their deaths. For the short time he lives, each man will think he is invulnerable, even though he sees his comrades falling all around him."

"That is a gruesome description," Victor said.

"It was intended to be," Ben said. "Such evil does not belong in the world."

Ben wondered if the newly dead would join the ranks of his ghosts. This new dread forced him to a path he knew he must take.

Melissa's whisper in his ear was almost a caress. Her presence surprised and irritated him. Visitations restricted themselves to the hours of night. In daylight he was free of ghosts. It was one of the touchstones in his life, with the power of a bargain or the sanctity of a treaty. If his ghosts could approach him anytime they pleased, then all respite was lost.

Ben's frustration grew. It was one thing to hear her whispers in the night and not know what she said. It was quite another to wander around through his day and still not determine her message. After a while, her whispers faded.

"Benedictus?" Victor said. "Didn't you hear me?"

"Sorry, no."

"You must have been deep in thought. Do you have a plan?"

"I'm open to suggestions."

"What good would my suggestions be?"

"One can hope."

They made good distance in the hours before nightfall. In the last few minutes of the day, Victor called a halt. His troops set about the business of making camp, with a fire and a palisade built in short order. Ben lingered in the radiance of the fire, not so much for warmth but to keep his ghosts at bay. The evening meal was quick, simple fare but Ben found it tastier than anything he had eaten in months. He curled up by the fire and fell into a deep sleep.

Ben awoke at his usual time, more from habit than the persecution of his ghosts. As he suspected, Nature took her course; the long day's ride, followed by a heavy meal, followed by sentry duty in front of a warm fire with little risk of danger, resulted in a standing stupor. No one could have accused the pair of guards of sleeping on watch. They suffered more from a deep boredom, broken only by the wish to return to sleep. It was easy for Ben to deepen their torpor and mask his movements. In short order he readied the chestnut mare and led her out the gate. He walked her well away from camp before mounting and then rode hard into the night. His ghosts did not pursue, satisfied, it seemed, to wait for the end of his journey.

The mountain trail met the gray sky, surrounding him in thick fog. He forced the mare to maintain her pace, leaving the knights as far behind as possible. Victor would not understand his motives or methods when he caught Ben. He must wrest the Orb from the hands of the Fedorians and be well on his way. For as long as possible, Ben must hide his double cross from his friend.

He rode on, concentrating on the trail. He must not miss his turn. About him the fog grew so thick it muffled the sound of the mare's steps.

"Ben? Do you hear me, Ben?" Melissa's clear voice rushed at him from out of the darkness. "Ben?"

"Melissa?" He looked around, his search meeting only the impenetrable gray curtain. He wondered if he might not be dead. "You'd think I would remember something like that."

"You're not dead," Melissa said. Her laugh, lilting and seductive, was unchanged by the years "And neither am I."

Perhaps he dreamed. He still slept in the encampment and had yet to start his journey. He would awaken soon. Melissa was waking him now. That must be why he thought he could understand her words. Why would her ghost say she was not dead? Why would he understand her after all this time?

"Listen to me, Ben. There is not much time."

True enough; he must wake soon.

"Listen. In a short while it will be morning."

"Morning?" He must delay his plan by a whole day? They would pass the shortcut he intended to use during their march.

"You will be much closer to the Castle Fedorious than you expect to be. The sight of it will be less than an hour's ride from where you emerge."

"Emerge?"

"You do not recognize your passage?" Again Melissa laughed. "Look closely."

Ben studied the trail in the darkness. What did she expect him to be able to see? Not see, he thought, hear. The mare stepped out as before, but no sound accompanied her footfall. There was no sound at all, save for his own breathing and Melissa's voice. The mare's hooves did not touch the ground. And the trail fell away behind much faster than he realized. How long had it been since he had heard the mare's steps? Hours? Each stride covered many yards. The distance covered must be the equivalent of many days of hard riding.

"Melissa?"

"Now you believe. Now you will listen. When you emerge into the morning light, stop and rest by the solitary oak. Wait for a young man to come. He will assist you with the remainder of your quest."

"A young man?"

"You will recognize him."

"Melissa, I thought you were dead."

"Yes."

"But your ghost?"

"Not my ghost, Ben. Yours." Melissa's voice came soft, carrying with it a woman's full heart of understanding. "Take care, Ben."

Melissa's presence receded, her companionship made palpable by its absence and with the lifting of the fog. Sounds returned to the world. Hooves thumped into the grass, birds sang. The wind blew through the trees. The solitary oak she had spoken of stood atop a grassy hill. Its shade looked cool and inviting in the heat of the morning light.

Ben awoke, languorous in the heat of the day. The chestnut mare cropped spring grass not twenty feet away. From the look of her rotund belly, she had done nothing else while he slept. He wondered what Victor called her. He should be referring to her by name.

Ben knew he could be thoughtless and self-concerned. It wasn't that he was cruel. He didn't think enough about others to be kind; at least, not kind in small ways. It had to be large enough to catch his attention. Big things were different. The grand selfless acts of his life formed the basis of most of his pride. A contradiction, he knew, selfless pride, but Ben tried to accept what he was. He tried be happy living with it. He was a lonely old man, most likely because he did not think enough to perform little acts of kindness. That was about the extent of his wisdom on the matter.

Ben discovered the man leaning against the trunk of the oak at about the time he began to wonder when the young man would arrive. Melissa had said he would recognize him, and he did look familiar. Ben did not remember him from his immediate past and tried to place him farther back in time. That was hopeless. Ten years earlier and the man would have been a stripling boy, serving his first year of apprenticeship. From the look of him, he might have started as a blacksmith, or a stone quarryman. Hard work layered those muscles on him, but his posture conveyed a relaxed poise, almost feral in its unspoken eloquence. He wore studded leather armor. This one was a fighter, undefeated in battle. Intelligent, humorous eyes gazed back at him.

"Melissa said I would recognize you."

The young man nodded and smiled. As Ben thought it would, the smile included his eyes and the crows feet at their corners. Ben felt he knew that smile.

"Yes. She would have said that."

"But I don't. Not really."

"It'll come to you."

"You won't be forthcoming?"

"Think of it as a game, Benedictus."

"Give me your name, at least." Ben stood, studying the sweat pattern his body left on his cloak. "Or is that part of the puzzle?"

"You don't like puzzles?"

"At the proper time." He bent down, lifting his cloak from the grass. He was suddenly very thirsty. "For the proper reward."

The other stood, offering him a water skin. Ben squirted cool water into his mouth.

"Joshua. My name is Joshua. My friends call me Josh."

"Well, Joshua, what's your part in this?"

"Melissa thought I could be of assistance."

Ben stoppered the skin and handed it back. Joshua tossed it among the roots of the oak. It landed on its bottom and collapsed slowly so as not to pop the cork. The act spoke to Ben of a natural competence. No one practiced that sort of thing.

"Have you known her long?"

"You would not think so."

He was tired of the riddles, but the young man held information Ben wanted. In spite of his impatience, his excitement grew. He experienced joy. It had been so long since he felt such an emotion he had to plumb his memory to name it.

"She really is alive?"

"Very much so."

"Where is she?"

"That must remain secret for a while yet."

"Enough!" Ben shouted. "No more riddles."

"I'm sorry, Benedictus. It was her order."

"Order? Who has Melissa become that she commands such as you?"

"Melissa is as you knew her."

"The Melissa I knew lacked the Power to carry a man and his horse across mountain ranges and compress many days of travel into the passage of a single night. The Melissa I knew did not command fighting men. She was little more than the village soothsayer. A dealer in herbs and predictions." Ben scooped up his saddle and blanket and charged off toward his horse. He stopped, looking back at the younger man. What was it about the eyes that he remembered? "Nothing to say?"

"It would sound like a riddle."

"Retrieve your horse," Ben barked. "You do have a horse?"

A sharp whistle erupted from Joshua's pursed lips. A neigh answered, followed by galloping hooves. While waiting for the horse, the young man gathered some things from under the oak, including the waterskin and a six-foot staff.

"Aren't you a little young for such things?"

"Actually, Benedictus, I brought the staff for you." Joshua smiled, held it out with both hands. "It is intended as a gift."

The horse galloped over the shoulder of the hill. A magnificent animal, the red charger stood a hand and a half taller than Victor's brilliant black. It bounced to a stiff-legged stop at Joshua's left. An unadorned shield hung from the saddle. A belt, slung from the saddle horn, held a long sword and dagger.

"Thank you." Ben took the staff, hefting it. It would make a fine cudgel if nothing else. An essence to its weight spoke of something more. "I'm sorry I yelled."

Ben set about the business of saddling the mare. He cinched her up three times, at last satisfied when she passed a tremendous fart. He tested his weight on the stirrup.

"I guess you owed me that one, girl. Return payment for my growling stomach." He swung into the saddle with an ease he had not expected. "Castle Fedorious is but an hour's ride. At least that's what your mother said."

"She spoke true, Father."

"Ah. Touche." A riddle solved, only to be confronted by another surprise. The two men smiled across the distance separating them. "At least you come by your evasiveness honestly."

"Father?"

"You inherited it from me." Ben wasn't sure he liked someone who called him father. He had lived many years without missing it, and could have traveled the short time left to him with out ever hearing it. Now, he supposed, he'd have to act like a father, and bestow wisdom and other such garbage. Hell, he'd never had an apprentice, let alone a son.

He wondered at his reaction to his sudden fatherhood. He knew himself well enough to know that his emotions ran deeper than surprise. Ben knew fear when he felt it. He knew the true face of self-doubt. How would he be expected to respond to this change in his life? Could he even generate a response? What should it be?

Often, in his experience, learning the reasons for an emotion he felt did much to alleviate its affect. This time, the knowledge did little to help.

Ben nudged the mare forward, letting her settle into her gait. There would be time enough to push her after she worked off some of her gorging. He glanced over at his son and his heart stopped beating. Nothing dangerous; it just needed to swell to its new dimensions.

Their ride took them over open terrain but close to the forest edge. When forced to, they crossed ridgelines quickly, avoiding the skyline as much as possible. They stayed away from paths and any sign of human habitation. Within an hour, they arrived undetected at the top of a wooded ridge across the valley from Castle Fedorious.

The walls of the castle stood atop rough-hewn cliffs of blue stone. The course of a river had been altered to encircle the base of the bluff. The only approach, other than climbing the cliff face, was a long, well-guarded incline. It ran up the slope of an adjacent hill to a drawbridge spanning the river chasm. Ben's recently expanded heart sank.

Even in his youth, the cliffs had been an arduous climb that almost saw him dead. He could never hope to complete the climb now. The village of Fedoria, during the intervening years had grown into a city, filling the valley and surrounded by its own wall. The hills opposite the castle had been denuded of trees to construct the homes and businesses of Fedoria. There was, in short, no way to approach the castle without being detected. If they were detected, they were dead.

Ben and Joshua sat on their haunches and studied the castle and the valley. They sat that way until sunset. They continued their unmoving study until well past dark. Father and son sat through the changing of the guard. Then Ben rose on popping knees and wrapped himself in his cloak.

"I set Vigilants, Josh, to warn us against intruders. Let's get some sleep."

"Yes, Father."

The young man had sat beside his father the whole time and never uttered a sound. Ben found a comfortable-looking spot between tree roots and settled to the ground. Sleep did not find him for some time. A short distance away he heard his son's deep, regular breathing. His son's breathing; what did that mean, exactly? Ben had never been a father before. Well, that was not precisely true. He'd been a father for over twenty years. Why hadn't Melissa contacted him and let him know he had a son? It was thinking of Melissa that reminded him that there were no ghosts tonight. Was his son's presence enough to keep them at bay?

For five days, Ben and his son lingered in the forest above the valley. They committed timetables and sentry routes to memory. So thorough were they that they gave nicknames to some of the guards, especially the more slovenly ones. Names like 'Cocked Hat' for one who wore his brimmed helmet far back on his head, 'Slow Walker', 'Wall Leaner,' and 'Frequent Pisser.'

Using Eyrie Transcendence, they scouted, in a noncorporeal form, possible paths to the vault containing the Orb. The castle was a warren of hidden passages, some so ancient and forgotten they were only disturbed by the feet of spiders and rats. None of these paths afforded even the promise of safety. All proved to be death traps, waiting for an unwise step. And every trap, either sprung or disarmed, triggered an alarm. Roving Vigilants, wards, the like of which Ben had never seen, wandered the corridors. They were like drunkards weaving their way home from the tavern. It was impossible to predict where they would go or where they would be.

"We must be about our business, Father."

Ben set aside his dagger and wand, the sources of his magic, and grabbed the leg and thigh of a chicken. He took a big bite, savoring the taste, letting the juices flow over his tongue. He was always so hungry and tired after using magic. It seemed as demanding as physical labor. Ben had questioned the fact when younger, but his own instructor in the Arts had not known the answer.

"I would be about it if I had but the slightest clue."

Their camp lay deep in the forest, allowing the safe use of a cook-fire. Josh obtained and prepared the food. Josh took care of the horses and did everything else. Josh was never tired after using the Power, and he had no small skill in its use. Ben was beginning to suspect that there was more to Josh than he had first guessed. This one was not just a fighting man, but also a powerful magician.

"We must do something soon. Victor is only two days away from an encounter with the Power of the Orb. The Fedorians know of his approach."

"Two days? How is that possible?"

"Victor is not without his own resources. You are not the only out-of-work magician he's acquainted with."

"I'm becoming well aware of that." Ben chewed another bite of chicken. "Edwards? He's little more than a charlatan."

"True. He does not have your command of the Arts."

"He'll march them to their deaths."

"Not if you do something."

"How do you come by this information? Have you been in contact with your mother?"

"No, Father."

Ben chewed. He chewed facts, guesses, and observations along with his chicken.

"It was you who brought me here."

"Yes." Josh stood, paced, and squatted back down. There was an eagerness to him that he was barely able to control. "I used your Power to do it."

"It was you who connected Melissa to me."

"I completed the connection. You were already reaching out to her."

Ben swallowed a conclusion. Then a last one. They sat like cold lumps on his stomach.

"You're more Powerful than I am. You don't need me."

"I cannot do this alone, Father. No one could."

"You need my help?"

"Yes."

"What must I do?"

Josh stood, unable to contain his excitement any longer. He clapped his hands together with a loud smack.

"Are you ready to learn new things, Father?"

"Ah." Ben arrived at the proper frame of mind. The last piece clicked into place in time with his realization. He had built the structure himself, with very little help. "Again, touche."

Ben smiled, shaking his head and marveling at the beauty of it. Still, a token resistance was called for. Mustn't let the boy think such things were obtained too easily.

"I'm too old to be learning new things."

Josh looked crestfallen. It pricked Ben's heart to see the boy so disappointed.

"Are you ready to die?"

"No." Ben remembered his ghosts. He was not ready to face them.

"Then you're not too old to learn."

"So, teach me what I need to know."

A broadly smiling Josh squatted down across the fire from his father, ready to impart the accumulated wisdom of his twenty-plus years of wandering the Earth. His excitement translated into broad hand gestures and intense vocalizations.

"First of all, Father, your entire approach to magic is completely wrong."

"It is?" This was going to be painful. Very painful.

But Ben endured. And in the end, he was happy to have done so. And more proud of his son than ever.

"Do you see it in your mind, Father?"

"Yes. It's like a lighted tunnel."

"That is the Conduit. You can control the size of the opening. Squeeze it off."

"Like this?"

The tunnel, with its massive flow of energy, constricted down to the diameter of a sewer pipe. Then down to a water pipe. A pinprick. Then it was gone.

"Excellent."

Ben reveled in his son's praise.

"Is it just me, or does the Conduit seek out certain diameters?"

"True, Father. I call them steady states. Almost all the energy used to control the Conduit is either expended to keep it full open, something you have always done, or in changing from state to state. Full open is very wasteful. You don't need that much flow to restore the energy to the devices you carry, such as the dagger, the wand, and now, the staff. And all that ritual you go through is unnecessary."

"I understand that. I just think what I want to do, control the flow, and do it."

"Mostly, that's correct."

"It has to comply with those natural laws you told me about."

It saddened Ben to lose the necessity of ritual. The ritual involved discipline, learning, and art.

"I've become a blacksmith or wainwright of magic."

"But you'll be able to do so much more, Father. It will become more beautiful. Now you control the flow instead of it controlling you."

What his son said was true. Ben felt the same wonder as a child on the day she discovers the chicken from the market comes from someplace else. The day she discovers the chicken ultimately comes from an egg.

"That is why you are always so tired on the mornings after your ghostly visitations."

"What are you saying? No. No. No." Ben stood, taking his turn to pace. Here was the tip of a truth he should have stumbled over himself. "My ghosts are real."

"Of course they are. They live in the fabric of a reality you made for them."

Could ghosts exist without minds to believe in them? Don't we all make our own specters? Ben, with more power than most, had lent his ghosts more solidity and persistence than others experienced. He had even succeeded in creating a ghost of someone still living.

"I didn't choose to make them."

"Didn't you?" Josh stood, tossing a log on the long-forgotten fire. "Who better to punish you?"

"What did I need to punish myself for?"

"You tell me."

"I don't know. I had a decent career, at least early on. I think I lost confidence somewhere along the way."

"Lack of confidence doesn't seem an adequate reason to haunt yourself."

"I don't know why." Ben paced, his chest constricted under the weight of despair. A few short minutes ago, the feeling had been joyous wonder. How many years—how many decades had it been since he had felt joyous wonder? "I don't know."

"Look back over your life, Father."

"What do you think I'm doing?"

"You spoke of your career. Is that all that was important to you?"

"Yes, I think so. Yes."

"Wasn't enough. Was it, Father?"

Ben collapsed to his knees, his face buried in his hands. His body wracked with sobbing spasms. Age-old barriers exploded in the light of truths. The same truths he had imprisoned behind walls of his own construction ruptured forth, racing over the thoughtways of his mind. A truth: A career is easier to deal with than the vagaries of life. What had his choices cost him? The love of a woman? Melissa? Maybe. There had been other women. The love of one of them certainly had been lost. He had chosen none of them, because his fear had driven him to place career above any relationship.

It was not evil to choose a career over the risks of love. The evil lay in letting fear be the deciding factor. That path led to a lonely old age, populated by ghosts of his manufacture.

He was much better with things than with people. He need only look to his creations for verification. What had he created? Decaying caricatures, unworthy of the people they personified, unable or unwilling to actually communicate.

There was one thing he knew for certain his choices had cost him: The wondrous joy of watching his son grow into the man he had become.

Ben cried for a long time. Only slowly did he become aware of his son's arm across his shoulder. It felt warm and strong and comforting. An arm any father would be proud of. He let it rest there a long time after he actually needed it.

"Are you ready, Father?"

"I think you know the answer to that." Ben smiled, rubbing away the last of his tears. "Do you have a plan?"

"You and I fly over to the vault. We open it. Steal the Orb. And fly out."

"It's not quite that simple."

"No. I need to ask something of you."

"You need me to rid myself of my ghosts. I think I'm prepared to do that. I think I would be happy to do that."

Ben stood on his own. In his mind, he opened the Conduit to the size of pinprick. He only needed to restore energy borrowed from his wand. He picked the wand because of its suitability as a badge of his chosen profession. He was a magician. He was by choice a magician because he loved doing what magicians did. Truth be told, it was a lousy choice of careers.

The ghost he had long ago named du Aubeir materialized before him. No flimsy spirits were Ben's ghosts. He brought them into the world solid, corporeal. This should have provided him the clue to their origins, he realized. His ghosts had never been ethereal or semi-transparent. His ghosts had been substantial from the beginning.

"Ah, du Aubeir, I have not done you justice. Let's restore you to your former glory."

Flesh once again covered du Aubeir's bones. He looked as if blood flowed beneath his skin. In turn, Ben called forth all his ghosts, restoring to them their former appearance. Last, he summoned Melissa.

"Is that how my mother looked?"

"She is as I remembered." Ben smiled at his final ghost. "She was a beautiful woman."

"And still she is."

"And still she is," repeated Ben.

They stood before him, thirty spirits, the hauntings of an old man's nightmares. How many times had he conjured them up, until his nights seemed empty without them? Would he miss them, these reminders of poor choices? Well, if he ever needed them, he knew where they would be. The haunted Castle Fedorious would probably be abandoned, leaving his specters free to wander unimpeded.

"I never made them do very much, I'm afraid. They just wander around and move their lips."

"It'll be enough, father. Every trap they spring, every alarm they set off will add to the confusion."

"Let's be about our business, shall we?"

Things went nearly according to plan. They flew across the valley with Ben's ghosts in tow. It took Ben a few seconds to become comfortable with the idea of lying prone on air, but he adapted quickly. His cape fluttered behind him like a giant bat wing. Looking down on Fedoria was like looking down at an elaborately carved toy city. Few lights lit the darkened streets. The dark forms of livestock loitered in their corrals. Almost no one wandered the streets at this late hour. Only a few dogs took barking notice of their passage. They passed over the cliffs and the walls of the castle.

Joshua took the path directly to the vault. Ben flew a more circuitous route to post his specters at points along the way. He dispatched his ghosts one by one, a perverse corporal of the guard, assigning disruptions instead of sentries. Several triggered traps and sounded alarms before he reached the end of his route. The sleeping castle walls reverberated with the peal of warning bells and orders shouted in confusion.

Ben snickered at the pandemonium.

"Wake up. An old enemy has come to call."

He saved the posting of du Aubeir and Melissa until the last, setting them to wander a high-walled garden. The place he chose held little strategic importance; he selected it simply for the setting.

"It occurred to me, du Aubeir, that I might have interfered with your death's repose," Ben said, looking on the restored countenance of the first to haunt him. "I doubt it, since I made my own ghosts. Still, I feel I owe you a pleasant walk."

Last, Ben turned to Melissa. "Do you hear me through this caricature I made of you? What a lovely thing you are, whispering sweetness in my ear. I should have done things differently."

He set them to walking with a sweep of his arm, knowing he would miss them. They provided him with a macabre comfort, a testament that he had not wandered through life without leaving some impact.

He watched for a few seconds, knowing they would walk the path he set them. They would tread his course beyond its endurance. The path would wear away, the castle walls crumble around them, and still, they would continue their rounds. If struck down they would rise again, fully restored. Only the Sequence Disrupta would cease their tread. There were not many in the world with the Power to speak those words.

He turned away and headed for the vault. When he arrived, he found Joshua working with the final latch.

Ben noticed the trap. He almost appreciated its cunning placement, set into the joints between the stones. The tip of a spring-loaded spike pierced a thin layer of mortar. Poised. Ready to fly as its intended victim concentrated on tripping the lock's last pin.

The point vibrated in sympathy with Joshua's picking. The young man's posture changed from concentration to success. His tool had found the leverage it needed. He was but a breath away from success. A breath away from death.

Ben rushed forward, shoving Josh aside. The shaft took him in the chest. Ben collapsed.

"Father!"

He heard his son as from a great distance, but when he opened his eyes, Josh's face floated just above him.

"No time, Son." Ben didn't know which hurt worse: the pain in his chest from the spike or the pain in his chest from losing his son all too soon. "Get the Orb. See to its destruction."

Josh went away. It was the last thing Ben wanted. It was the most important thing he had ever accomplished. From the moment Victor had informed him of the theft he had known what needed to be done. The Orb was a great evil. It did not belong in the world. Ben knew this quest offered him the redemption of a misspent life. At the outset, he had no conception of what form redemption might take. At the end, he found himself happy to pay the price.

Warm breath carried sultry whispers to his ear. An old lover come to call.

"Melissa, why do you pester me so?"

"Because you have slept most of a week away, Ben. And because you have a caller."

Vague memories fluttered just beyond recollection. Strong arms held him during another gray traverse. A bright day pained his eyes, though the warmth felt good on chill limbs. Softness and sweet murmurs enfolded him.

Ben's eyes popped open. He was in a bed. The bed was in a bedroom. It didn't look the way a grave should look. Which was the best he could remember hoping for.

"Joshua?"

"Busy. You'll see him later."

"Melissa?"

Yes, the woman with the gray hair was Melissa. Her ghost did not do her justice. Someone stood behind her. A tall man still dressed in full armor. Didn't the man ever undress down? He didn't look angry, but then it was sometimes hard to tell with Victor.

"Benedictus. I see you took good care of my horse. For that I thank you."

"I kept trying to fatten her up." The laugh that followed turned into a cough. His right hand pressed against the ribs where the spike had entered.

"Best keep to one-word sentences for a while," Melissa said. She gave him water to drink. It felt good going down. "I know it will pain you worse than the wound to keep your trap shut. I may be only a purveyor of herbs, but you had best listen to me."

"He told you."

"He didn't have to. I've always known what you thought of me."

"I was wrong," Ben said.

"About a lot of things," Melissa said. "I know."

"The Orb, Benedictus, tell me of it." Victor moved straight to the point, impatience dripping from his voice.

"Destroyed," Ben said. If not in fact, it soon would be.

Ben looked to Melissa, who nodded and completed the tale of the Orb of Amadian, "Thrown into the fiery pits of Bergunlund beyond the raging torrents of the Crones Grief River. Never again will it harm man or beast."

Joshua burst into the room, a wave of energy barely contained. He wore no brass-studded leather armor. His uniform consisted of dirty workman's pants, covered like the rest of him in stonedust and sawdust and sweat.

"Father. You're awake. I want to show you what we're building here."

"He's still too weak, Josh."

"Sorry, Mother." Disappointment lowered his eyes. "I thought he could see it from the window."

"Help me up."

"Ben."

"I'll argue."

"Oh, very well."

Melissa bent forward and helped him to sit. Josh stepped forward to help.

"Not you. You're too dirty. You shouldn't even be in here in such a condition." She turned to Victor with an order. "Help me with your cantankerous old friend. Take his other arm."

They dragged him to the window. Ben took the opportunity to lean on Melissa a little more than his wound required. A plain stretched away from the window, populated by a little village. Beyond the village stood a large structure under construction. Ben had never seen such a building. There was no curtain wall, no towers, or battlements of any kind. The walls he could see were more window than wall, and light shone clear through the structure. It would be impossible to defend.

"What is it?" Ben asked.

"It's a library, Father. It will be a great collection of books. The greatest collection the world has ever known."

"You built it?"

"The Brotherhood is building it. I am one of its founding members."

"A Brotherhood?" Ben said. "Sounds chaste."

"Some choose that path, Father. Others do not. I will soon be married. You will like her. Soon you will have grandchildren bouncing on your knees and asking questions of the world for which you will have no answers."

"Sounds exciting."

"It will be, Father. And I'm depending on you to teach them well. They will be the fathers and mothers of kings and queens. Their sons and daughters, many times removed, will be the kings and queens who will rule the Seven Kingdoms of the Known World."

"There are more than seven kingdoms in the world."

"That's true, and it will continue to be true for several hundred years. Eventually there will be seven kingdoms."

Ben smiled at his son. Barely a father and too soon a grandfather. It made his head swim and his vision blur. He felt inadequate. But he would try. He would try very hard.

Melissa and Victor helped him back to bed. He was grateful for the softness, the warmth of a blanket. Then Melissa turned on the other men.

"Out with you two. He's done and seen enough for one day."

"Victor?"

"Yes, Ben?"

Melissa looked as if she wanted to argue, but thought better of it. She ushered Joshua out the door with a few quiet words. Then she lingered there, like a guard at her post.

"Are you leaving, Victor?"

"Yes. Today."

"The young King . . .Gerald will not be pleased with you returning empty-handed."

"Not so empty. The Fedorians were wandering around, trying to find where you went."

"You didn't."

"I did." Victor glowed with a broad smile. "Captured the lot of them."

"We've served so many kings, Victor. Gerald is far from the best."

"I might not stay in his service. This place looks interesting. They will need someone to defend that library place. It'll never stand, the way they're building it."

"I noticed."

They were silent for awhile. Victor had never been a great conversationalist. Ben was saving what was left of his lung power for someone else. And his newly found need for truth dampened things. Victor and his old ways would not be needed to guard the library, but Ben lacked the courage to tell his old friend.

"You stay out of trouble 'til I get back." Victor turned away, then turned back. "Why don't I leave Ginger here? You've taken good care of her so far."

"That would be nice. Ginger. Thank you, old friend."

Victor nodded to Melissa as he left. She walked over to the bed. She wrung a cloth out in the washbasin, mopped Ben's sweaty brow.

"There now, happy? You've probably set your recovery back a good week."

"Yes, I'm happy." He watched her sit on the edge of the bed. He wondered where such a thing would eventually lead. Perhaps they could be friends this time around.

"Is there any truth to what Josh says, or is it just a young man's enthusiasm?"

"Don't know about truth, but it is prophecy." She wiped the rest of his face, returned the cloth to the basin. "At the outset at least, they're one and the same."

"You did a fine job with him, Melissa."

She smiled, looked away. He wondered what she thought, regretted his lack of involvement. He realized he had no way of knowing what she thought, what she remembered of her son's life. What was important between them? Where had the turning points been?

"Thank you, Ben." She stood. "Now you must rest. I'll bring soup later."

"Wait. There's so much I don't know. Where have you been? How did you live? I must learn these things."

"You think there won't be time to learn these things? I'll tell you all the stories about Josh there are to tell."

"And about yourself?"

"If you like."

She stood and walked across the room. At the door she stopped, she smiled when she turned back.

"You can sleep now, Ben."

"Yes."

Ben found himself alone. No ghosts would haunt his dreams. He drifted down into a peaceful sleep. Which was more than anyone his age had a right to ask for.

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