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Chapter Thirty-one


When half-gods go,
The gods arrive.

Ralph Waldo Emerson
“Give All to Love”


He—if Evergray was in fact a man—was tall, close to seven feet. He wore loose robes that broke different colors from their highlights, and a complicated metal headgear, half crown, half helmet, with loops, spires and projections; it seemed just a bit loose.

His face was long and inexpressive, a smooth face without wrinkles or creases, a mannequin’s face. Eeriest of all were the eyes, red-pupiled, with whites showing all around them, as if their owner were in a constant state of fascination.

The American muttered, “What have we got here?” Flaycraft made an irritated guttural sound, starting forward with club raised. Gil backed away hastily.

Evergray waved the beast-man aside. “Stay your hand, good Flaycraft.” His voice resonated in the room, immediate to the ear, but without the bass pitch Gil would have expected from a giant. When he moved to inspect the American more closely, Gil decided to stand and see what was going to happen.

Flaycraft snarled. “He should be on his ugly face before you, great Evergray.”

The giant stopped a few feet from Gil, examining him. “Of what value is his obeisance to me, faithful one?” The torturer shot Gil a look of sizzling hatred. Evergray went on. “Is it true, what has been said? Are you, in fact, from a place outside this line of Reality?”

Gil hedged. Information looked like his only commodity of life right now, and he wanted the best rate of exchange he could wangle. “Why should I tell you?”

“Flaycraft can make you tell. He would enjoy it; he detests you.”

“Then yeah, I come from another Cosmos.”

“But you have free will?”

“Uh, I guess so. Why, don’t you?”

Flaycraft yelped, “You are here to answer, not ask!” He charged forward and rammed the tip of the club into Gil’s belly, too fast and strong to avoid. The American folded and groveled on his knees, distantly registering Dunstan’s words.

“Matchless Evergray,” the Horseblooded said, “please understand: He is a stranger, unfamiliar with proper decorum. I shall explain, and he will mend his ways.”

Evergray wasn’t paying attention, though. His face was half turned, as if he were listening to something from the passageway. The others heard nothing. “The Masters summon me,” the giant said. “This discussion will wait.” He exited.

Flaycraft, who’d been hoping for the command to continue his work, relaxed now. Panting, Gil sat back on his heels, holding his stomach. He gasped, “This isn’t . . . over yet, ass-face . . . You and me are . . . gonna go round and round, one day.”

Flaycraft chortled, and followed his Lord. The passageway thundered shut Gil grabbed a corner of the stone slab and hauled himself up. He staggered back to Dunstan. “Thanks for talking up. Flaycraft was about to put a monumental hurting on me.”

“He enjoys pain, and hates you.”

“What for?”

“He knows you are Yardiff Bey’s enemy, and he is Bey’s servant as well as Evergray’s personal attendant. And he is jealous, I think. He resents the Scion’s interest in you.”

“Well, they’re welcome to each other, for all I care.”

“Are you feeling better?”

“A bit. I picked up assorted dents and dings, getting here.” He fingered the swollen injury on his head, from his fall aboard Osprey. “Listen, what’s that nut talking about, this ‘free will’ stuff?”

Dunstan explained. Evergray had held long, questioning conversations with him about the nature of Choice, and volition, and whether men truly possessed them. He was obsessed with the topic. The Horseblooded told Gil, “For him, all things center upon Evergray; he has been taught to think that way. Notwithstanding, he has also been taught it is the nature of Reality to limit free will. Our fates are all determined for us, or so the Masters hold it. Evergray has begun to doubt that, though, and wants to know if free will exists. When he heard that you come from outside this Cosmos entirely, he pressured Yardiff Bey to awaken you.”

“That doesn’t sound like Bey. He might want to keep me around for a hostage, but he’d leave me on ice.”

“But he is Evergray’s father; you are now in Yardiff Bey’s mansion.”

“Evergray is Bey’s third child? The one in the prophesy?”

“So it is said. Evergray will talk about himself endlessly if he is inclined. He is not a true offspring, in the sense of being born of the body. He seems to be a construct of sorts, brought into existence by Bey’s magic, animated by the Five.”

“A construct? Like a machine?”

“More the product of occult skills and alchemy, as is a golem. I am Horseblooded, Gil; I can’t explain, for I don’t ken it myself. But Evergray is alive by Yardiff Bey’s skills, and looks upon him much in the way of a child toward a father. His thoughts do not operate as ours do, and I find it hard to comprehend him.”

“He wants my advice, sounds like. How do we use that to get out of here?”

“I am at a loss as to that. My plight is less easily remedied than is yours.”

“A lot of people will be gunning for the Masters soon; when I was with the Mariners this Omen appeared, what they called the Trailingsword.”

“The Trailingsword? Peculiar tidings indeed.”

“When he nailed me, Bey said the Trailingsword doesn’t matter. The last piece of the Lifetree was destroyed; nothing can stop the Masters.”

“Only a renewal of the Lifetree can end Salamá’s influence, I understand, but the Five can still be foiled or frustrated.”

“Lifetree, Great Blow, Trailingsword—what have they got to do with Evergray?”

“Of that I am as ignorant as you. Centuries ago the Lifetree bloomed very close to this spot, fed by the one arcane spring whose waters will sustain it. Rooted in the earth, reaching to the sky, it kept the world in harmony. There were celebrated wizards and warriors here in those days, the Unity.

“But some hungered for overlordship. Amon sought them out. They worked treason by night, uprooting the Lifetree and destroying it, striking down the most powerful members of the Unity. Then they began the incantation that would liberate the hordes of the Infernal Plane, the Great Blow. An antithetical spell was shaping in what is now Coramonde. The Bright Lady set the Trailingsword over the place where her supporters gathered. Whoever opposed the new Masters gathered there to defend, while her adherents worked their counter-spell. In seven times seven days, the final contest of magic came to pass. The Great Blow was stopped, but the world was upset and tottered, and changed.”

“And Bey’s afraid a branch of the Lifetree survived. Or was. It would have stopped the Masters for good?”

“And stripped away every strength they have acquired over the centuries.”

“You said the Trailingsword appeared, uh, forty-nine days before the last bout. I must have seen it weeks before I was bagged. I’d give my right arm to know how much time went by while I was out.”

“In any case, the Trailingsword promises momentous events.”

“The problem’s how to use that on Evergray.” The passageway ground open again. This time, Gil stayed put. Flaycraft waddled in, club in one hand and a bucket in the other. He laid the bucket on the stone slab and brandished the club at Gil. “Exalted Evergray will question you later. Therefore, hold yourself ready.” He turned to go.

“Hey, Flaycraft,” Gil called. The torturer paused. “Was your mother really raped by a fur carpet?”

The beast-man growled and raised the club. He saw the American brace himself, and laughed. “You will be most, most unhappy when mighty Evergray has no further questions for you!” He backed into the passageway. Seconds later, it closed.

In the bucket, Gil found a bottle of water and a bowl of cold, gooey stuff like gruel. The purpose of the bucket, m a featureless stone room, was evident. He offered some of the food to Dunstan, but the Horseblooded shook his head. “I’ve no need of it.”

“You’re not missing anything. I’ve squooshed tastier goop out of bugs.” He forced himself to eat a little, and drank greedily. “What do you suppose Evergray’s doing?”

“From time to time he is summoned by the Masters of Shardishku-Salamá.”


Again Yardiff Bey stood in the ring of light. But where he’d been the Accused months before, he was once more the Hand of Shardishku-Salamá. With him stood Evergray. The Masters’ incorporeal voice came once again, speaking to the giant.

“Scion of Salamá, are you prepared to begin your Assumption?”

Evergray’s head remained erect, light splashing from the horns and projections of the crown-helmet. The Masters pursued their point. “Why do you not respond? The subject here is a majestic legacy.”

“Why was I interrupted?” the giant burst out. “I had questions yet to ask the mortal.”

The collective voice of the Five betrayed cold irritation. “Mortals will wait, but the affairs of the ages will not. Soon, now, you must be filled like a water vessel with Our great power, to wield it over the earth at Our command.”

“But that moment is not yet come, when you Five will Ascend to the godhead.”

“Neither is it far off. Transference of our energies will be done by portions, for to do it all at the once would overtax even you. The first portion will be done now. Go to the chapel that is appointed for you and await it.”

Evergray didn’t budge. “Tarry not,” the Masters told him. “Submit to Our will, as you were created to do.” The giant stared into the blackness with wide, red-pupiled eyes.

At last he said, “The Masters’ wish has always been law in Salamá.” He left the ring of light. Bey waited patiently, head thrown back in thought, the ocular gleaming. When he was sure his progeny had gone, he spoke.

“Have no misgivings. All is well with Your great plan.”

“Our Scion becomes truculent. It must not come to disobedience.”

“And shan’t; I have arranged against that. The mortal will be the key. Through MacDonald I will insure Evergray’s hatred of free-will creatures. The Scion will yield himself up to your designs.”

“We tolerate no miss-moves. We will be endowing Evergray with great forces for safekeeping, forces of which we must divest ourselves in the final moments of our Ascension.”

Bey nodded impatiently. And when They had Ascended to godhead, Evergray must accede to them. “It will be so. The Lifetree is perished,” he reminded them, “and there is no counterforce.”

“There is no counterforce. The alien will behave as you plan?”

“He may do any of several things, but all are foreseen, and serve my purpose. I perceive that the Rage has passed from the Horseblooded into this one, and that makes him altogether more suitable. Far better Evergray believes he has chosen to obey, rather than risk injuring him with Compulsions.”

“He must bend to Our will, and turn others to his. Your part in this will not be forgotten.”

Bey bowed deeply. “As you new gods shall serve Amon and his infernal deity, so Yardiff Bey will serve you, and so shall Evergray rule the Crescent and Southwastelands by your command.” He bowed again, ecstatic, on the brink of every ambition.


Gil spent an unknown period waiting for Evergray to show up. He ate, slept, had marathon talks with Dunstan, and began the cycle again. His sleep time changed, in circadian adjustment, into naps, and the tension of imprisonment penetrated his dreams. His vitality came back and he began to exercise, though he felt guilty that Dunstan couldn’t.

Flaycraft, when he came, told them nothing. Gil baited him, but stopped short of provoking a fight. Reacher could have taken the beast-man apart; Hightower would certainly have broken him over one knee; but Gil was nowhere near their class, and had been drained by the things he’d undergone. The torturer would bare his canines and make ominous threats, then leave a new bucket, taking the old one away. Afterward, Gil would find his hair on end, his hands shaking.

Finally, the Scion of Salamá appeared. The passageway rumbled open and, backlighted by the orange radiance, Evergray beckoned to Gil from beyond it. The American came haltingly, not quite believing he was permitted a small taste of freedom. He had a moment’s indecision about leaving Dunstan alone, but figured he’d have to play Evergray along.

Outside, Gil blinked in the light of a corridor as wide as a city boulevard. The cell-side of it was solid rock; the other wall was opaque glass or crystal, lit from the exterior by a molten orange luminance, rearing up hundreds of feet.

The passageway shut, and Gil could see no opening where it had been. But indicating its position was a glowing rune, suspended in air by the stone wall of the corridor.

“We will speak elsewhere,” Evergray said. “The confines of your chamber are not pleasing to me.”

“Dunstan and me don’t think much of it either.”

The giant had already started off. “We will not discuss that; it has no importance to me.” He was more imposing now, with a more distant air. His red pupils had shrunk to mere pinheads, and he radiated strength. The crown-helmet was steadier on his head.

They passed through a series of galleries filled with curious and odd objects the American couldn’t identify, some like abstract sculptures, others like small icons that stood in niches in the walls or on stands. Perspective and the sizes and shapes of the objects and the rooms had been tampered with, distorted.

They came onto a broad terrace, looking out over Shardishku-Salamá. It was built of towers and monoliths, pylons, obelisks, bizarre palaces and structures inexplicable. One was a building constructed in the image of a spread-winged bird of metal, its feet planted among the other structures, its mouth opened to show a forked tongue. Next to that, a tower rose, fashioned from what looked like colossal bones. The building beside that had hundreds of minarets, showing different colored lights in each. Beyond was a titanic globe of basaltic rock, iron, ivory, gold, jade, and chalcedony; from its top a crown of flame roared into the air, the orange fire that had lit Bey’s glass-walled corridor. On the wall of another, Gil saw a heroic bas-relief, hundreds of yards on a side. In it, figures swarmed and soared around a tree that grasped and clutched at them like a malign octopus. The figures were striking at it with thunderbolts, tearing at its roots, fighting bravely. This was the Masters’ depiction of their treason to the Lifetree.

Bey’s mansion itself was a single block of stone, a gigantic cube set down in the middle of the city. Farther along the vast balcony, Cloud Ruler sat, its fires cooled. “Where is everybody?” Dunstan had told him the few citizens of Salamá hadn’t many mortal servants, or much use for them, according to Evergray. But Gil hadn’t expected the place to look so empty.

Evergray pointed to the flaming globe. “There, in their Fane, the Masters called me, and I must go again soon. Yet I have more questions about free will.”

Gil said he’d try to answer. Evergray sat on a wide bench of flint, chiseled to his proportions. “What has your free will done for you? Has it answered enigmas, ennobled you, extended your spirit or increased your powers?”

“I . . . it doesn’t work that way. It’s only doing what you want. It’s only about being able to pick.”

“One does anything at all, on impulse?”

Gil held up his hands helplessly. “In theory, I guess. Evergray, I can’t see what it is you’re leading to. Are you telling me you never made up your own mind about anything?

“Only in the smallest sense of choice among preselected alternatives. Never in the greater sense of invoking change of my own.”

“But you want to?”

“I am unsure. It is a capacity I have, but will not be permitted, when the Masters rule. Yet it is a part of me, of my greatness, I think. I have the ability; it seems undesirable for any aspect of me to go unused. My every facet is the function of perfection; why, then, must part of me be suppressed or ignored? It is inappropriate.”

“How’ll you lose it?” Gil was amazed; this wasn’t ego Evergray was displaying, it was psychosis.

“The Masters will accomplish their spell soon, and their powers will be remanded to me. Then, untainted by earthly ties, or energies of earthly origins, they will rise and fill themselves with the might of the Cosmos. They will reshape the face of the Crescent Lands and the Southwastelands, and rule their new domain. Over them will be Amon, who will control all planes, serving his Infernal Deity, our ultimate Lord. And I will control all mundane things in the name of the Five.”

Gil was dumfounded, and his thoughts became dense, trying to cope with what Evergray had said. The red haze he’d known came down over his vision. In the storm of his emotion, the Berserkergang began to take hold.

Evergray noticed. “Ah, is this some seizure of the free will? But no, I see: It is simple, unmonitored Rage. Uninteresting.” He waved a hand; the Rage was snuffed out like a candle.

The American stood, gaping as if he’d gotten a bucket of ice water in the face. He rocked back on his heels.

Evergray made no summons, but Flaycraft had come up to them. “Take him back to his chamber,” the giant said, “for I must go to receive more of the legacy of the Masters.” Flaycraft stepped toward Gil, who brought his hands up.

“Evergray, at least take Bey’s spell off Dunstan, won’t you? He’s been helpful to you.”

The giant sounded angry for the first time. “Submit! Offer no resistance to my faithful friend.” The torturer gave the Scion a look somewhere between gratitude and adoration. “He is my cherished, steadfast Flaycraft,” the giant went on, more calmly. “I will speak to you again when I have more questions. The Horseblooded is of no importance to me.”

As Flaycraft herded Gil away with glee, Evergray stood and gazed at the Fane of the Masters, fingering the crown-helmet on his head.



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