Perhaps his status was that of a prisoner, but Shann was too tired to
press for an explanation. He was content to be left alone in the unusual
circular, but roofless, room of the structure to which they had brought
him. There was a thick mat-like pallet in one corner, short for the
length of his body, but softer than any bed he had rested on since he
had left the Terran camp before the coming of the Throgs. Above him
glimmered those patches of light symbolizing the lost stars. He blinked
at them until they all ran together in bands like the jeweled coils on
Warlockian bodies; then he slept--dreamlessly.
The Terran awoke with all his senses alert; some silent alarm might have
triggered that instant awareness of himself and his surroundings. There
had been no change in the star pattern still overhead; no one had
entered the round chamber. Shann rolled over on his mat bed, conscious
that all his aches had vanished. Just as his mind was clearly active, so
did his body also respond effortlessly to his demands. He was not aware
of any hunger or thirst, though a considerable length of time must have
passed since he had made his mysteriously contrived exit from the outer
world.
In spite of the humidity of the air, his ragged garments had dried on
his body. Shann got to his feet, trying to order the sorry remnants of
his uniform, eager to be on the move. Though to where and for what
purpose he could not have answered.
The door through which he had entered remained closed, refusing to
yield to his push. Shann stepped back, eyeing the distance to the top of
the partition between the roofless rooms. The walls were smooth with the
gloss of a sea shell's interior, but the exuberant confidence which had
been with him since his awakening refused to accept such a minor
obstacle.
He made two test leaps, both times his fingers striking the wall well
below the top of the partition. Shann gathered himself together as might
a cat and tried the third time, putting into that effort every last
ounce of strength, determination and will. He made it, though his arms
jerked as the weight of his body hung from his hands. Then a scramble, a
knee hooked over the top, and he was perched on the wall, able to study
the rest of the building.
In shape, the structure was unlike anything he had seen on his home
world or reproduced in any of the tri-dee records of Survey accessible
to him. The rooms were either circular or oval, each separated from the
next by a short passage, so that the overall impression was that of ten
strings of beads radiating from a central knot of one large chamber, all
with the uniform nacre walls and a limited amount of furnishings.
As he balanced on the narrow perch, Shann could sight no other movement
in the nearest line of rooms, those connected by corridors with his own.
He got to his feet to walk the tightrope of the upper walls toward that
inner chamber which was the heart of the Warlockian--palace? town?
apartment dwelling? At least it was the only structure on the island,
for he could see the outer rim of that smooth soft sand ringing it
about. The island itself was curiously symmetrical, a perfect oval, too
perfect to be a natural outcrop of sand and rock.
There was no day or night here in the cavern. The light from the roof
patches remained constantly the same, and that flow was abetted within
the building by a soft radiation from the walls. Shann reached the next
room in line, hunkering down to see within it. To all appearances the
chamber was exactly the same as the one he had just left; there were the
same unadorned walls, a thick mat bed against the far side, and no
indication whether it was in use or had not been entered for days.
He was on the next section of corridor wall when he caught that faint
taint in the air, the very familiar scent of wolverines. Now it provided
Shann with a guide as well as a promise of allies.
The next bead-room gave him what he wanted. Below him Taggi and Togi
paced back and forth. They had already torn to bits the sleeping mat
which had been the chamber's single furnishing, and their temper was
none too certain. As Shann squatted well above their range of vision,
Taggi reared against the opposite wall, his claws finding no hold on the
smooth coating of its surface. They were as competently imprisoned as if
they had been dropped into a huge fishbowl, and they were not taking to
it kindly.
How had the animals been brought here? Down that water tunnel by the
same unknown method he himself had been transported until that almost
disastrous awakening in the center of the flood? The Terran did not
doubt that the doors of the room were as securely fastened as those of
his own further down the corridor. For the moment the wolverines were
safe; he could not free them. And he was growing increasingly certain
that if he found any of his native jailers, it would be at the center of
that wheel of rooms and corridors.
Shann made no attempt to attract the animals' attention, but kept on
along his tightrope path. He passed two more rooms, both empty, both
differing in no way from those he had already inspected; and then he
came to the central chamber, four times as big as any of the rest and
with a much brighter wall light.
The Terran crouched, one hand on the surface of the partition top as an
additional balance, the other gripping his stunner. For some reason his
captors had not disarmed him. Perhaps they believed they had no
necessity to fear his off-world weapon.
"Have you grown wings?"
The words formed in his brain, bringing with them a sense of calm
amusement to reduce all his bold exploration to the level of a child's
first staggering steps. Shann fought his first answering flare of pure
irritation. To lose even a fraction of control was to open a door for
them. He remained where he was as if he had never "heard" that question,
surveying the room below with all the impassiveness he could summon.
Here the walls were no smooth barrier, but honeycombed with niches in a
regular pattern. And in each of the niches rested a polished skull, a
nonhuman skull. Only the outlines of those ranked bones were familiar;
for just so had looked the great purple-red rock where the wheeling
flyers issued from the eye sockets. A rock island had been fashioned
into a skull--by design or nature?
And upon closer observation the Terran could see that there was a
difference among these ranked skulls, a mutation of coloring from row to
row, a softening of outline, perhaps by the wearing of time.
There was also a table of dull black, rising from the flooring on legs
which were not more than a very few inches high, so that from his
present perch the board appeared to rest on the pavement itself. Behind
the table in a row, as shopkeepers might await a customer, three of the
Warlockians, seated cross-legged on mats, their hands folded primly
before them. And at the side a fourth, the one whom he had trapped on
the island.
Not one of those spiked heads rose to view him. But they knew that he
was there; perhaps they had known the very instant he had left the room
or cell in which they had shut him. And they were so very sure of
themselves.... Once again Shann subdued a spark of anger. That same
patience with its core of stubborn determination which had brought him
to Warlock backed his moves now. The Terran swung down, landing lightly
on his feet, facing the three behind the table, towering well over them
as he stood erect, yet gaining no sense of satisfaction from that merely
physical fact.
"You have come." The words sounded as if they might be a part of some
polite formula. So he replied in kind and aloud.
"I have come." Without waiting for their bidding, he dropped into the
same cross-legged pose, fronting them now on a more equal level across
their dead black table.
"And why have you come, star voyager?" That thought seemed to be a
concentrated effort from all three rather than any individual
questioning.
"And why did you bring me?" He hesitated, trying to think of some polite
form of address. Those he knew which were appropriate to their sex on
other worlds seemed incongruous when applied to the bizarre figures now
facing him. "Wise ones," he finally chose.
Those unblinking yellow eyes conveyed no emotion; certainly his human
gaze could detect no change of expression on their nonhuman faces.
"You are a male."
"I am," he agreed, not seeing just what that fact had to do with either
diplomatic fencing or his experiences of the immediate past.
"Where then is your thoughtguider?"
Shann puzzled over that conception, guessed at its meaning.
"I am my own thoughtguider," he returned stoutly, with all the
conviction he could manage to put into that reply.
Again he met a yellow-green stare, but he sensed a change in them. Some
of their complacency had ebbed; his reply had been as a stone dropped
into a quiet pool, sending ripples out afar to disturb the customary
mirror surface of smooth serenity.
"The star-born one speaks the truth!" That came from the Warlockian who
had been his first contact.
"It would appear that he does." The agreement was measured, and Shann
knew that he was meant to "overhear" that.
"It would seem, Readers-of-the-rods"--the middle one of the triumvirate
at the table spoke now--"that all living things do not follow our
pattern of life. But that is possible. A male who thinks for himself ...
unguided, who dreams perhaps! Or who can understand the truth of
dreaming! Strange indeed must be his people. Sharers-of-my-visions, let
us consult the Old Ones concerning this." For the first time one of
those crested heads moved, the gaze shifted from Shann to the ranks of
the skulls, pausing at one.
Shann, ready for any wonder, did not betray his amazement when the ivory
inhabitant of that particular niche moved, lifted from its small
compartment, and drifted buoyantly through the air to settle at the
right-hand corner of the table. Only when it had safely grounded did the
eyes of the Warlockian move to another niche on the other side of the
curving room, this time bringing up from close to floor level a
time-darkened skull to occupy the left corner of the table.
There was a third shifting from the weird storehouse, a last skull to
place between the other two. And now the youngest native arose from her
mat to bring a bowl of green crystal. One of her seniors took it in both
hands, making a gesture of offering it to all three skulls, and then
gazed over its rim at the Terran.
"We shall cast the rods, man-who-thinks-without-a-guide. Perhaps then we
shall see how strong _your_ dreams are--to be bent to your using, or to
break you for your impudence."
Her hands swayed the bowl from side to side, and there was an answering
whisper from its interior as if the contents slid loosely there. Then
one of her companions reached forward and gave a quick tap to the bottom
of that container, spilling out upon the table a shower of brightly
colored slivers each an inch or so long.
Shann, staring at the display in bewilderment, saw that in spite of the
seeming carelessness of that toss the small needles had spread out on
the blank surface to form a design in arrangement and color. And he
wondered how that skillful trick had been accomplished.
All three of the Warlockians bent their heads to study the grouping of
the tiny sticks, their young subordinate leaning forward also, her
eagerness less well controlled than her elders'. And now it was as if a
curtain had fallen between the Terran and the aliens, all sense of
communication which had been with him since he had entered the
skull-lined chamber was summarily cut off.
A hand moved, making the jeweled pattern--braceleting wrist and
extending up the arm--flash subdued fire. Fingers swept the sticks back
into the bowl; four pairs of yellow eyes raised to regard Shann once
more, but the blanket of their withdrawal still held.
The youngest Warlockian took the bowl from the elder who held it, stood
for a long moment with it resting between her palms, fixing Shann with
an unreadable stare. Then she came toward him. One of those at the table
put out a restraining hand.
This time Shann did _not_ master his start as he heard the first audible
voice which had not been his own. The skull at the left hand on the
table, by its yellowed color the oldest of those summoned from the
niches, was moving, moving because its jaws gaped and then snapped,
emitting a faint bleat which might have been a word or two.
She who would have halted the young Warlockian's advance, withdrew her
hand. Then her fingers curled in an unmistakable beckoning gesture.
Shann came to the table, but he could not quite force himself near that
chattering skull, even though it had stopped its jig of speech.
The bowl of sticks was offered to him. Still no message from mind to
mind, but he could guess at what they wanted of him. The crystal
substance was not cool to the touch as he had expected; rather it was
warm, as living flesh might feel. And the colored sticks filled about
two thirds of the interior, lying all mixed together without any order.
Shann concentrated on recalling the ceremony the Warlockian had used
before the first toss. She had offered the bowl to the skulls in turn.
The skulls! But he was no consulter of skulls. Still holding the bowl
close to his chest, Shann looked up over the roofless walls at the star
map on the roof of the cavern. There, that was Rama; and to its left,
just a little above, was Tyr's system where swung the stark world of his
birth, and of which he had only few good memories, but of which he was a
part. The Terran raised the bowl to that spot of light which marked
Tyr's pale sun.
Smiling with a wry twist, he lowered the bowl, and on impulse of pure
defiance he offered it to the skull that had chattered. Immediately he
realized that the move had had an electric effect upon the aliens.
Slowly at first, and then faster, he began to swing the bowl from side
to side, the needles slipping, mixing within. And as he swung it, Shann
held it out over the expanse of the table.
The Warlockian who had given him the bowl was the one who struck it on
the bottom, causing a rain of splinters. To Shann's astonishment, mixed
as they had been in the container, they once more formed a pattern, and
not the same pattern the Warlockians had consulted earlier. The
dampening curtain between them vanished; he was in touch mind to mind
once again.
"So be it." The center Warlockian spread out her four-fingered thumbless
hands above the scattered needles. "What is read, is read."
Again a formula. He caught a chorus of answer from the others.
"What is read, is read. To the dreamer the dream. Let the dream be known
for what it is, and there is life. Let the dream encompass the dreamer
falsely, and all is lost."
"Who can question the wisdom of the Old Ones?" asked their leader. "We
are those who read the messages they send, out of their mercy. This is a
strange thing they bid us do, man--open for you our own initiates' road
to the veil of illusion. That way has never been for males, who dream
without set purpose and have not the ability to know true from false,
have not the courage to face their dreams to the truth. Do so--if you
can!" There was a flash of mockery in that, combined with something
else--stronger than distaste, not as strong as hatred, but certainly not
friendly.
She held out her hands and Shann saw now, lying on a slowly closing
palm, a disk such as the one Thorvald had shown him. The Terran had only
one moment of fear and then came blackness, more absolute than the dark
of any night he had ever known.
Light once more, green light with an odd shimmering quality to it. The
skull-lined walls were gone; there were no walls, no building held him.
Shann strode forward, and his boots sank in sand, that smooth, satin
sand which had ringed the island in the cavern. But he was certain he
was no longer on that island, even within that cavern, though far above
him there was still a dome of roof.
The source of the green shimmer lay to his left. Somehow he found
himself reluctant to turn and face it. That would commit him to action.
But Shann turned.
A veil, a veil of rippling green. Material? No, rather mist or light. A
veil depending from some source so far over his head that its origin was
hidden in the upper gloom, a veil which was a barrier he must cross.
With every nerve protesting, Shann walked forward, unable to keep back.
He flung up his arm to protect his face as he marched into that stuff.
It was warm, and the gas--if gas it was--left no slick of moisture on
his skin in spite of its foggy consistency. And it was no veil or
curtain, for although he was already well into the murk, he saw no end
to it. Blindly he trudged on, unable to sight anything but the rolling
billows of green, pausing now and again to go down on one knee and pat
the sand underfoot, reassured at the reality of that footing.
And when he met nothing menacing, Shann began to relax. His heart no
longer labored; he made no move to draw the stunner or knife. Where he
was and for what purpose, he had no idea. But there _was_ a purpose in
this and that the Warlockians were behind it, he did not doubt. The
"initiates' road," the leader had said, and the conviction was steady in
his mind that he faced some test of alien devising.
A cavern with a green veil--his memory awoke. Thorvald's dream! Shann
paused, trying to remember how the other had described this place. So he
was enacting Thorvald's dream! And could the Survey officer now be
caught in Shann's dream in turn, climbing up somewhere into the nose
slit of a skull-shaped mountain?
Green fog without end, and Shann lost in it. How long had he been here?
Shann tried to reckon time, the time since his coming into the
water-world of the starred cavern. He realized that he had not eaten,
nor drank, nor desired to do so either--nor did he now. Yet he was not
weak; in fact, he had never felt such tireless energy as possessed his
spare body.
Was this _all_ a dream? His threatened drowning in the underground
stream a nightmare? Yet there was a pattern in this, just as there had
been a pattern in the needles he had spilled across the table. One even
led to another with discernible logic; because he had tossed that
particular pattern he had come here.
According to the ambiguous instructions or warnings of the Warlockian
witch, his safety in this place would depend upon his ability to tell
true dreams from false. But how ... why? So far he had done nothing
except walk through a green fog, and for all he knew, he might well be
traveling in circles.
Because there was nothing else to do, Shann walked on, his boots
pressing sand, rising from each step with a small sucking sound. Then,
as he stooped to search for some indication of a path or road which
might guide him, his ears caught the slightest of noises--other small
sucking whispers. He was not the only wayfarer in this place!