The Delusionist's Son Page 6

  Father strode over to the fire and Silva threw an absorption shield over him. Instead of fighting the shield, he let out an exasperated sigh and dropped the scroll on the floor. “I was only going to poke up the embers so we can see properly, not burn it.”

  The cool air felt like predawn. Silva kept the shield up as he turned his cot right side up, poked the fire himself, and added a log.

  After Silva dropped the shield, Father picked up the scroll slowly and held it out to him. “Is that what you think of me?”

  Silva rubbed his eyes with one hand and waved away the question and the scroll with the other. “What’s wrong with the scroll?”

  Father unrolled the scroll. Rote spells generally showed a single rote sigil along with an explanation of what the spell did. This was a mage spell, so didn't contain any explanations, but did show the element components which made up the completed rote symbol, allowing the mage who understood to modify the spell in ways the designer never intended.

  “The heart of the spell is the identifier you showed me earlier,” Father explained, pointing to the prober bug sigil. He pointed to the other sigils in turn. “It identifies the animal, and infuses him with a charge which kills him. This connection here supports my guess this sigil is a flying bug — the limits on this type of connection would break on something as big as a mouse.”

  “A prober.” Silva supplied. “What Kate calls a ‘mosquito’.”

  Father nodded. “So, when the nearest prober dies, the spell seeks out the next closest one and kills him too. And then the next, until it runs out of energy.”

  Silva rubbed his eyes again. His elbow and his head hurt from dropping to the hard floor, and his power levels were painfully low. He needed something — anything — warm to drink. Preferably caffeinated. “So it's an insecticide. I don’t see what you’re so mad about.”

  “After the initial bug, where does the power come from?” Father held out the scroll.

  Silva took it from him, eyes going back and forth between the element sigils and the completed rote, puzzling out the connections and relationships.

  “You've got to be wrong about some of these elements.” Silva finally said. “If that’s a power sigil, then this loops in on itself when it hits this bit. It shouldn't do anything. I guess that’s what I’m supposed to do - repair the flawed spell.”

  “The spell works fine, as-is. It draws the power to kill the second two bugs from the first one. And the released energy from those two — if they are reasonably close — should kill four more.”

  “A cascade,” Silva said, the word not sounding quite correct despite his half-awake state.

  “Necromancy.” The damp log in the fireplace was smoking but not yet alight. Father jabbed the coals with a poker until it caught and flickering flames illuminated his face from below, throwing light on his gaunt cheekbones and burying his eyes in shadow. A beetle crawled out of the log’s bark and flew away from a burning death. “Your professor asked you to learn a necromancy spell.”

  Father had to be wrong. Dr. Delan was Silva’s friend. He'd spoken up for him in front of the other professors. Silva rubbed the blue band on his sleeve. After his late night conversation with Kate, the cool evening air took him to bed in everything except boots and socks. He set aside the scroll on his bed and pulled those on. What should I do?

  “Lock it away,” Father answered, although the thought had not been voiced. “I have another scroll which should serve for your exam and Delan would be forced to incriminate himself if he pointed out the switch.” He shook his head, the confusion on his face mirroring Silva’s own. “It’s been years, but I thought he was my friend.”

  Silva finished buttoning his boots and picked up the scroll again.

  Father gestured but nothing happened. “Best we hide what that scroll really says, in case somebody else finds it.”

  Just when they were communicating like two sane adults, Silva was reminded who he was talking to. “Nothing changed, Father.”

  “It didn’t? I must be lower on power than I thought. Let’s go up to the roof. The sun should be up soon.”

  Silva rolled up his scroll, placed it on a shelf, and followed his father up the stairs.

  Father had already stripped and laid down, naked on the dew-wet chaise lounge, by the time Silva arrived on the roof. Silva grabbed the robe where it had been dropped, heard a noise, and walked to the edge of the parapet to look down.

  Several workmen were digging a long trench through the low hill in the front yard while others fit together long lengths of threaded metal pipe behind them. A man in a summer-weight gabardine suit supervised the jacketless workmen and made measurements with a surveyor’s theodolite on a tripod.

  “No,” Father said from behind Silva’s shoulder. “No, no, no, no,” he repeated as he sprinted for the stairs, ignoring the robe Silva held out for him.

  “What are they doing?” Silva yelled, running to follow.

  “That damn intruder is tearing down the dome!”

  Silva almost stumbled on the stair. Tearing down the dome? A crew of people were trying to free Kate and his naked father was running to stop them? It didn't make sense. Father had lost it completely.

  When Silva cleared the door at the base of the tower, the man in the suit slapped a horse's rump, sending horse and rider galloping beside the pipe, out the estate gate and up the gentle slope beyond. Soon, he was a dust cloud in the distance. How long was the pipe? A half mile? A mile?

  The man in the suit turned. “Come now, Mister Vatic,” he yelled loud enough to be heard over the intervening distance. “We discussed this two weeks ago.”

  Three large men moved to block Father’s path. He stopped and gestured at them. Nothing happened. Father made a swiping gesture in front of his face and gestured again. A white beam of crackling energy leapt from his hand and knocked the center man back five feet. The two other men dove out of the way.

  A stun bolt. The unconscious man lay twitching on the ground, the victim of real magic. From his father, the Delusionist.

  Father swayed as if the stun bolt had used some of his life force for power, allowing Silva to catch up and throw the purple robe over his head.

  Father clawed at the robe blocking his vision and Silva held on with both hands, falling backward in the loose soil, but maintaining his bear hug on his father’s head. He tried to wrap his legs around Father’s waist, but they were tangled in his own robes.

  The two large men jumped on Father, holding him down with their bodies. Father cried out and for a moment Silva feared he was choking him, then realized the men were pummeling his father with fists and knees.

  “Don’t hurt him!” Silva yelled, but didn’t release his own grip on the frail wizard on top of him. Father slumped, but blows continued to rain down on him. “Stop! He’s my father! You’re killing him!”

  Silva rolled and threw his own body on top of his father. The men continued to attack, but most of their blows landed on Silva.

  “Father cast a stun bolt," Silva yelled. "Your friend’s fine.” The blows slowed down, then other workmen pulled the attackers away.

  In the center of a circle of workmen, Silva untangled his father’s head and confirmed he was breathing. He, himself, felt like he’d been kicked by a horse. Multiple times.

  “I know what to do,” the man in the suit said. “Your father’s not a bad man, just sick. He’ll get the care he needs at a hospital trained to deal with people like him.”

  Silva sat up on his knees and wiped his wet and muddy face. “No hospitals. He hates hospitals.”

  “What other choice do we have?”

  The question hung in the air. What other choice did he have? Dr. Tobias Vatic, the villain in stories told to children about irresponsible magic use, had attacked someone with magic. For a lot of people, like the Abernathys back in Winterhaven, this incident would be all the proof they needed. Father was now, officially, a danger to society. As bad as they were, a hospital would be a mercy.
He nodded.

  The stranger pulled a flask out of the inner pocket of his jacket and poured out a capful of dark amber liquid. “After our last meeting, I thought I might need this. Make him drink it. It’s a tranquilizer which will calm him and impair his ability to concentrate.”

  Father stirred and Silva shifted him until he was mostly upright, and the back of his head was in the crook of Silva’s arm. When his eyes fluttered open, Silva held up the flask cap.

  “Here, Father. Drink this. The medicine will help with the pain.”

  Father glanced at the cap, then up at his son. A smile twitched the corner of his mouth. “One of my doctorates is in medicine. And you are a poor liar.”

  “Your doctorates are in ley bending, telecommunications, and theoretical magic. Drink anyway.”

  “When I’m gone,” Father whispered, “you need to go to your mother and get her sigil. You need to finish my work.”

  “Muriel’s Sigil is a legend,” Silva said, refusing to whisper.

  Father shook his head. “Kate refused to give it to me, but it exists. It’s the last sigil I need to fix this. I even left you notes.”

  “Drink the medicine.”

  Father’s hand shot up, grabbed Silva’s forehead and a spike of pain lanced into him. As Silva rolled away, clutching his head, the onlookers leapt onto his father and hit him, then forced the tranquilizer down his throat — gagging and spitting — straight from the flask.

  Just then, the pipe made several loud thumping noises and stiffened straight, before shooting out a stream of water with such force five men had to hold the pipe down. The water tossed aside a boulder in its way and impacted the absorption field. The force of the blow pounded the dome, while at the same time the water eroded it away.

  Silva wobbled to his feet and clutched his head. Something was wrong with his vision. Everything appeared … clean.

  Not only clean, but well-cared for and new. The meadow was mowed and trimmed. The holes in the outer wall were repaired. A breeze from the apple orchard smelled like spring instead of midsummer. In the center of this complicated illusion, the absorption field appeared the same, but was covered with glowing writing in a multitude of colors. And over the roar of water, he heard a phonograph. It was like some kind of surreal dream.

  Following the sound, Silva climbed the tower stairs and admired the artwork on the walls. Inside the stone building, the yelling workmen were muted and the phonograph, somewhere above, was clearer. Stepping on the roof, he saw the chaise lounge his father favored — new and comfortable instead of threadbare — surrounded by a bower of sweet smelling flowers. Off to the side, a phonograph played his mother’s favorite record.

  Gently, he reached out to lift the needle off the record, but — although he could feel the record arm as clearly as if it were solid — he couldn’t interact with the illusion. He was an observer in his father’s delusion, not a participant.

  A cheer erupted below and Silva moved to the edge of the parapet slowly, uncertain if any stone below his feet was real or not. Silva knew the dome covered in sigils, which he now saw, was only the illusion Father had planted in his head. The powerful jet of water passed though the illusion and arced all the way to the lake. Absorption shields didn't get holes: when they broke, they shattered like glass under a sledge hammer.

  Kate dashed through the wall of the prison like it was no longer there. She hugged the man in the suit passionately, and he responded to her kisses with equal ardor. Workmen slapped each other on the back in congratulations for the feat of tearing down the world's greatest absorption shield with only a pipe full of water. A feat which — thanks to his father — Silva couldn't see.

  Silva stepped back and kicked at the phonograph. The blow hurt his shin as if the furniture was solid, but the music continued to play. It was too much. The flowers, the music, the expensive furniture and gorgeous tapestries … it was all too much. For eight years he had thought of his father as a victim: trapped in a silent prison from which he could not escape. Suffering. Instead, he lived in a palace — a creation of his own making — living a life of luxury. And the worst of it was Silva couldn't tell anybody.

  What father had done to him was a crime. A crime nearly as serious as necromancy. And if Silva told anyone, what remained of his father would be killed.

  Back at ground level, Silva walked around a topiary shaped like a unicorn and approached Kate. Someone had given her a blanket to cover her scraps of clothing and she was grinning. The grin faded when Silva approached.

  “You walked around the unicorn,” she said as Silva drew close.

  “You can see it?”

  She shook her head. “No, your father said he planted something for me and walked around that spot every time he approached the dome. Before today, you walked through that spot without noticing. What changed?”

  Silva shook his head and glanced around to see who might be within earshot. “Not now. And nobody can know, so don’t ask me again. I'll explain when we're alone.”

  She laid a hand on his arm and Silva’s gaze dropped to stare at it. She was here. Touching him.

  Out of the corner of his vision, Silva could still see the illusionary dome. His ears could still hear the phonograph playing his mother's favorite record. “You’re real, aren't you?”

  Kate's hand squeezed him. “I’m real.”

  “Kate!” the leader of the workmen yelled as he stepped out of Kate’s underground hovel. He waved a white kerchief as he approached.

  Kate’s hand dropped away from Silva’s arm as she turned away from him and smiled. “Drudge, may I introduce you to Silva Vatic. Silva, this is Drudge Delan.”

  “Drudge?” Silva asked, rubbing his other hand on the tingling spot on his forearm.

  Drudge grinned sheepishly. “A nickname. The rest of my family are all mages.”

  “I knew a Dr. Delan at university,” Silva admitted.

  “My father, but my brothers all have doctorates too.”

  Silva carefully schooled his expression. He hated this man already, but he’d be damned if he let it show. “What have you found?”

  Drudge held up his kerchief, which had a sigil written clearly on it in black charcoal. “Muriel’s Sigil.”

  Kate smiled thinly. “When I was trapped, thinking I was a prisoner instead of … what’s the word?”

  “Collateral damage,” Silva supplied. He’d been called collateral damage too, usually by people more interested in what had happened to him and his family than in treating the victims like actual people.

  Kate nodded. “When I thought I was a prisoner, people asked me about this and I always refused. I thought once they had the sigil, they would abandon me entirely.”

  Drudge laid a comforting hand on Kate’s shoulder. “Knowing or not knowing the sigil wouldn't have helped release you.” Kate leaned into Drudge’s touch.

  Drudge was right. Muriel's sigil was a foundation sigil, not a rote. More specifically, it was supposed to be an identifier sigil for the yellow diatoms, like the the identifier sigil for 'mosquito' within his master scroll. Silva shivered. Think about something other than lies and necromancy. He shoved his hands into the robe’s pockets and turned away from the couple to contemplate the stream of water which was shooting through the shield only he could see. “I've never seen anything like that.”

  “I call it a Janos drill,” Drudge said. “After the woman who invented it.”

  Kate laughed. “I don’t know if invented is the right word. Something like this was used on my world about a hundred and fifty years ago for mining gold.”

  “What kind of spells power it?”

  “None,” Drudge and Kate chorused.

  Kate giggled and Drudge added, “In Kate’s world, people can fly with no magic at all.”

  Silva glanced back and the couple were holding hands, shoulders touching. “I can see how attractive that would be for you.” He turned and walked back to his tower. He closed his eyes when he reached the topiary unicorn an
d walked straight ahead into the bush. Branches scratched his face and body, but didn't impair his movement when he pressed forward. Somebody needed to pack his father’s things.

  Inside his father’s room, Silva found a scroll laid out on the table. The spell was complex, easily master level, but his father had annotated every sigil, explaining the sigil's use and interrelationships in defiance of the law. With a growl of anger, Silva snatched the scroll off the table, only to discover the high quality vellum and ink was nothing but another illusion. He snatched the purple robe with the tri-colored sleeve bands out of his father's wardrobe and threw that in the fire instead.

  Watching the last symbol of the man his father had been burn, he suddenly sobbed. Silva was supposed to be the hero. He was the one who was supposed to make everything right and get the girl. Now, he was the broken man: a delusionist like his father. Pitiable. Worthless.

  The yellow band on his father’s sleeve caught light and the flame on the band turned bluish-green as some chemical in the dye burned. What was left for him now? How much lower could he sink?

  Necromancy. He could save everybody by sinking into necromancy. He suddenly understood Dr. Delan’s plan.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Drudge's crew was large enough the wagon train out of the valley could keep moving at a slow walking pace as workmen unscrewed a length of pipe, loaded it on a wagon, and jogged ahead to retrieve the next one. Although Silva didn't like Drudge, he agreed with what the older man had said about getting his father somewhere safe and traveled with them.

  Once he was away from the Winterhaven Estate, his vision largely returned to normal. The spell was still running — his father was far too healthy to his modified sight — but the bulk of the illusory alterations were restricted to within the estate’s walls.

  Silva carefully schooled his facial expressions to one of thoughtful contemplation, especially when he was around Drudge Delan. In return, Drudge was gregarious and friendly, entirely unaware of Silva's loathing.