"The blind have ways of seeing. Besides, it's not a difficult matter to
guess that after what you have been through--"
"Just what do you know about me?" Kesley interrupted. "Who are you,
anyway?"
"I was," Daveen said softly, "for many years, poet and singer to the
Court of Duke Winslow. Five years ago I participated in the first
of your many rescues--the first time Winslow attempted to have you
killed." He chuckled musically. "Poor slovenly Winslow. Every time you
fall in his clutches, some blind man comes along to lead you to safety."
"You rescued me? From what?"
"That I cannot tell you yet. The Duke warns me that I must be very
careful with you, that I must not swamp your mind with too much
information at once."
Kesley looked around at the bare, luminescent walls, at the smiling
figure of the gaunt-faced, old, blind man sitting opposite him. "Which
Duke?"
"The Antarctican Duke. The man who has searched so long and patiently
to bring both of us together. You see?"
"Yes," Kesley said faintly. "_He_ brought us here. But where were you?"
"I fled from Winslow, five years past, after doing what I did. I sought
refuge in Scandinavia and sang for the Duke there until Winslow's men
found me and forced me to fly. I returned to North America, lived for
a while at the Colony--I believe _your_ odyssey brought you there as
well--and when life there became unbearable, I vanished."
"Where? How?"
"There are ways," Daveen said. "When one knows the arts of the mind,
one can do many things. I went into hiding. It was the only way for me
to remain alive. Winslow sought me with desperate urgency, for I had
betrayed him. Miguel had my daughter."
"I know."
"I continued to live in North America under Winslow's very nose. It was
a good joke; now that I'm free, I must let Winslow know about it. He
has a fine sense of the ironic."
"Where did you stay?" Kesley prodded.
"I lived in the ghetto."
"Among the _mutants_?"
"I _was_ a mutant. You knew me as Lomark Dawnspear."
For a moment Kesley rocked crazily in his chair; things seemed to wheel
in a dizzy arc around him.
"What?" he finally asked, recovering himself.
"Mental projection, complete; constant hypnosis."
"Dawnspear was blind, too," Kesley recalled suddenly.
"Yes. It pleased me to retain the image of the blind man who saw so
well. Dawnspear was blind. Otherwise, he was a complete fabrication.
I invented a false background for him, persuaded people that he had
always lived in that house in that part of Chicago. And they believed
it. Unable to do anything else, I lived camouflaged, not knowing how
urgently I was sought."
"And then I came to Chicago."
"Then you came. And stumbled into Winslow's grasp exactly as you
had done before. And once again reached the dungeons. Again, it was
necessary for me to rescue you."
"I did it once before, as Daveen. Five years ago. You came to Winslow's
court, and he delivered you to the headsman. I intervened."
"Why? How?"
"You loved my daughter. Furthermore, I thought you should not die."
"I loved her even then?" Kesley asked, astonished.
"Yes. She does not remember, nor do you--but you loved each other. When
Winslow ordered you killed, I determined to save you. I hypnotized your
jailers, slipped into the dungeon, freed you, led you out. It was a
gross violation of my oath to Winslow."
Daveen paused, and Kesley stared intently at him, waiting for him to
go on. There was something grotesque about this calm, matter-of-fact
relation of actions he had been involved in and yet remembered nothing
about. Reality seemed to slide yawingly from moment to moment. He had
loved Narella five years ago? He had been at Winslow's court, and been
sentenced to death?
Possibly. But it was as if those things had happened to someone else.
"Go on," Kesley said hoarsely. "What was I doing at Winslow's court?
For God's sake, Daveen, _who am I_?"
The singer shook his head slowly. "No. Not yet. Let me go on, and
you'll learn the rest in proper time."
"Very well," Kesley said, mollified.
"I took you from the prison, as 'Dawnspear' did just recently. I
attempted to contact those who would receive you safely, but could not.
Failing this, I had to make provision for your safety. I therefore
placed you in full hypnosis, wiped out all knowledge of your past
background, and substituted a pseudo-biography in which you had been
born in--Kansas Province, I believe. It was a slipshod job, but I was
in a hurry. Were there inconsistencies?"
"Yes," Kesley said. "There were."
"I feared as much. But it was the best I could do, at the time. I took
the precaution of webbing in a pain-threshold that would keep you from
probing your own past too deeply. Then I had you transported to Iowa
Province, safely out of Winslow's way, and established you as a farmer
there. It was a secure, rhythmic life; tied to the soil, you would
remain healthy and unmolested. Later, perhaps, I would be able to take
you from the farm and restore your identity.
"I returned to Chicago. My daughter asked where you were; I found it
necessary to block her memories of you to prevent unhappiness. They can
be restored as well, when the time comes. Curiously, you and she came
together again later, neither knowing who the other was--and the result
of the meeting was the same as before." Daveen smiled. "This, I think,
should amply prove the strength of your love, at any rate."
Kesley coughed. Nervously he said: "So you left me in Iowa. You never
came to get me--or were you van Alen, too?"
"No. I was not van Alen. My plans were interrupted; Winslow discovered
how you had been freed, and in anger ordered my execution. I fled;
Narella was given to Miguel as a plaything."
"He calls her his daughter," Kesley pointed out.
"Fortunately. Miguel is going through a paternal cycle; for the
moment, he no longer feels fleshly desires. Narella was sent to be his
mistress--but became his adopted daughter instead. Dukes are difficult
to fathom in advance."
"I know that well."
"To continue: I fled. You remained in Iowa Province. Those who loved
you sought you, finally found you."
"You mean van Alen? He tried to bring me here--to Antarctica."
"Yes. He failed; you and he were separated. Once again you drifted into
dealings with the Dukes--and when they realized who you were, they
immediately desired your death, both Miguel and Winslow."
"_Why?_ Why'd they turn on me like that?"
"For that," Daveen said, "the simplest answer involves the lifting of
the first of the psychic blocks I laid upon you. Are you ready?"
"I've been waiting for this since you started talking."
Again Daveen chuckled melodiously. "In all your wanderings you've
learned but little patience. Now you will begin to understand."
He held forth the object he had been holding. Kesley now saw that it
was a musical instrument of some kind, fashioned of a dark-hued, glossy
plastic. It had three hair-fine strings running its length; at the top,
above the bridge, were three white buttons.
"My music-maker," Daveen said. "My constant companion always. It holds
the keys to your mind, my friend."
"What do you mean?"
"Listen."
Daveen touched the three buttons lightly with his long fingers, and
a tone appeared, shimmering delicately, followed by a second and a
third. They hung in the air, meshing their subharmonics, quivering and
blending. It was, thought Kesley, like no music he had ever heard.
Daveen began to play--a slow, mournful, lingeringly lovely melody.
Melodic lines intertwined in complex polyphony; Kesley found himself
following the music with breathless excitement. It soothed and tensed
him at the same time.
Daveen sang a deep, lulling, wordless chant. Beneath his voice the
music swept to a gentle crest of subdued excitement, and Kesley felt
his nerves quivering with expectation.
The music, strange, atonal now, shifting keys with impossible rapidity
of modulation, held suddenly.
Daveen stopped.
There was complete silence.