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Chapter 33: Prisoner of Magic

Ar could find no way to break through the barrier to Jael. Even before that demonic imposter of an iffling had enveloped her in a cocoon of energy, he'd been able to manage only glimpses of her presence in the net. And then he'd been dragged along, helpless to intervene, as she and the false-iffling had carried them to this cavern, apparently a prison for captured rigger-spirits. No one had paid much attention to him, or to Ed—and probably for good reason. They seemed unable to take any action whatever to help Jael. He had no idea what had become of the true-iffling.

Now he could only gaze in horror at his shipmate, encased in a block of ice. Ironically, he could see her more clearly now, though the barrier between them was stronger than ever. If only he could at least take some action to move the ship. But in the fragmented net, it seemed that Jael effectively had ship-control; and she was now completely immobilized, apparently unable even to see him. Could she hear him, though? Ar had tried to get a shout through—to alert her to what this being, Hodakai, was saying—that he was the former shipmate of Kan-Kon. What a terrible irony: that they had found a potential friend here, and he was a prisoner too!

Never in his life had Ar felt so frustrated. He kept pushing and tugging at his end of the net, trying to jostle the ship loose, trying to alter the image. But the Flux resisted his every effort; the trap was too strong.

The only hope he could find—and he was determined to find hope, no matter what—was in the chance that this Hodakai could help them, perhaps by calling Windrush or other dragons. It would require winning Hodakai to their side, and Hodakai clearly disliked the dragons a great deal. Ar could well empathize—he remembered the terror of the Tar-skel dragons—but Hodakai needed to be shown that not all dragons were like that.

Shall I tell you? Jael was asking.

Yes! Ar cried frantically. Whether Jael heard or not, he couldn't tell, but in any event, she began to tell her story.

As he listened, it seemed to Ar that Hodakai was coming around. But that still left the question: What could be done from here? Was there anything that he hadn't yet thought of, Ar wondered, anything that he and Ed could do? It seemed hopeless; and yet he remembered a time, years ago, en route to Vela Oasis, when he and Jael had been off course, kept from their proper heading by a barrier of ice; and it was Ed who had found the solution, Ed who had broken through. Ed! he whispered, trying to reach the parrot without interrupting the rapport that was growing between Jael and Hodakai. Ed!

Urrrrrawk! muttered the parrot, from another fragment of the net. He looked crumpled and discouraged.

Ed—do you have any ideas? Any at all?

The parrot rustled listlessly, with a flutter of scarlet and green. Ar imagined he could hear the bird's thoughts grinding like a spinning wheel, trying to generate hope. But in this case, Ed seemed to have no answer, and no hope.

 

* * *

 

Jarvorus listened, entranced by Jael's story.

. . . I didn't think we could hold Highwing in the air, he was so weak from almost falling into that sun—but Windrush took the weight and slowed him—and gave him a chance to fly one last time, and speak to us before he died. And when he died, he seemed to be rejoicing, Hodakai! He was back in his own realm, among his own people! He turned to blazing glass in the sun, and vanished, and his voice was like a chime, laughter on the air. . . .

Jarvorus wept at the end, moved by the unexpected beauty of her tale, and stunned by the emotion it stirred in him. He'd not intended to listen; in fact, he'd been on the verge of leaving to report to his master. But he'd been drawn back by her words, by the power of her memory. He'd found himself touching her thoughts again, not to control them but to marvel at her daring, risking her life to save her friend. Jarvorus felt her joy in the rescue, and the grief that followed as her friend passed from the realm.

Jarvorus was astonished and overwhelmed by this notion of friendship, by the willingness to raise friendship over self. He knew, even as he reacted to it, that he should not be moved by this, that it had nothing to do with his mission; and yet, he found its power irresistible. He felt drawn to her story and her feelings as a cavern sprite to an upwelling of warm, nourishing heat from the underrealm. It was irrational; it was foolish; it contradicted the training of his master. And Jael, he reminded himself, was his prisoner. But what, in his training by Rent, had prepared him for emotions of such power?

He had told himself that by listening to her story, he could more clearly identify and excise that troubling knot of sympathy that had grown in him for her. But instead, he found himself saddened and moved, and liking Jael, and even her friends. There were qualities about them that he was discovering he admired: compassion; mercy. Had he known those qualities before, in another time? He saw a few sprites floating about this Cavern of Spirits, and he felt a trembling knowledge that he had once been one of them . . .

A hazy memory was surfacing from the dimly recollected past . . . of a fellow cavern sprite dying, when it put itself in the path of an underrealm snare, one of Master Rent's weavings, which was about to engulf several young sprites. At the time, Jarvorus hadn't thought much about it; if anything, he'd thought it a foolish thing to do. Now, though, he wondered.

He started back from the memory, shaken a little. He thought perhaps he liked those sprites more than he liked the creatures made from them, the aggressive warrior-spirits hovering around under his own command. He even felt a grudging respect for the iffling, which in spite of everything, still remained hunkered in the shards of the rigger-net, trying to encourage Jael. It was a pity that they had to be adversaries. Rightly or wrongly, he felt a little ashamed for having caught Jael in this trap . . . even if his cause had been the right one.

It didn't matter, of course. Nothing could change what he had done—or had yet to do. He'd bound and sealed the One, using the powers that Rent had bestowed upon him. His presence and attention were no longer needed to hold her; in fact, he couldn't free her now even if he wanted to. In a while, her purpose would be fulfilled. That was a destiny that couldn't be changed.

But perhaps her understanding of it could be. Perhaps he could give her that much—as a gift—an understanding of what was to come. An understanding of the necessity, and the beauty.

He moved closer, to speak with her again. He noted the two riggers that shared her net, and satisfied himself that they were well secured by the spell-weaving and could cause no difficulties. Then he slipped back into the rigger's thoughts.

(Jael,) he whispered, (I perceive that you are troubled. But do you not understand your part in the struggle? If you could escape and join with the dragons, you could do no good! You could only endanger the greatest work of power in all the universe!)

(What . . . ?) She sounded fatigued, and confused.

Jarvorus spoke softly, aware of the Hodakai spirit watching Jael, and not wanting him to hear. He perceived that the grip of his persuasion spell on Hodakai had loosened, and he didn't want to involve Hodakai in this. He whispered to Jael, (Don't you know what is being made here? You are a part of it!)

She seemed to be returning to alertness. (What . . . thing . . . being made?)

The warrior-spirit hesitated. He wanted to share with her the vision he had been given by his master, but he wasn't sure how to do it. (Look,) he said, at last. (I will try to show you.) And he did something he had never tried before: he touched the net that surrounded her and wove an image there for her to see.

Jael gasped in surprise.

He slowly drew it into focus: a great web stretching across the sky, enveloping mountain and sky and space. (You saw this at the Pool of Visions, but there was no time then to explain it. This is the work of my masters. It is the greatest work of power since the beginning of creation! It will bring the realms together, all of the realms. And this is how it will grow.) He drew the web reaching deep into the darkness of the sky, penetrating the very stuff that formed the foundations of the sky, of other realms, of other universes. He showed it flashing with deep, violent power, reaching out to embrace Jael's own universe with its strength and its beauty.

(NOOOOOOOO—!)

(What? Jael—?)

Her inner voice had failed, but she was shaking with grief—and rage, upwelling like a volcano. Her fear reverberated like a drum in the binding spell. He tried to draw the image clearer, but that just made her cry out again, softly: (No . . . no . . . never! . . . I swear, never . . . !)

Jarvorus could not comprehend her reaction. Why did this not move her to joy? She seemed appalled by the violent forces that flickered through the web, giving it strength—the strength of pain and death. She remembered the vision from the pool, of dragons dying in battle. And it was true: violent deaths would pass before the structure was complete. But wasn't that life—contests separating the strong from the weak? And even the weak were given their part: the intensity of their emotion, their despair and their shame, was woven into the very fiber of the work. Without the violence and the despair, none of the beauty was possible.

(Never!) she whispered. (I will not be a part—!)

(But there is no other way!)

He realized, as he spoke, that the other riggers in the net were able to see the image, as well; and they were as frightened by it as Jael. What was wrong, that he could not persuade them of the beauty and the truth?

(You have imprisoned me for THIS?) she cried, her thoughts aflame with anger and hatred. (For this abomination?)

He fell back from her in dismay, stunned by her anger. He'd thought that she would see. (I have imprisoned you for what must be,) he whispered sadly. (And now that it is done, there really is no other way out for you.)

No way out, he thought silently, as she wept inwardly. No way except death. You have been trapped by Rent's magic, and unless the Master himself frees you, nothing but death can release you from this prison. I grieve for you, Jael, my captive.

The thought of the Master brought him back to the present with a start. It was time he reported back to Rent on his success. Gathering himself silently, and regretfully, he sank into the underrealm away from the Cavern of Spirits.

 

* * *

 

Once the false-iffling was gone, the true-iffling stirred from its hiding place. There were still servants of the Enemy around, but they appeared to be keeping watch from a distance. The iffling didn't know what, if anything, it could do. It could not release Jael; the weaving had solidified around her like rock-hard ice. Obviously, though the spell had been triggered by the false-one, it was the work of someone far more powerful. That was hardly surprising; both the iffling and the false-one were servants of greater powers. But what was that uncertainty that the iffling had observed in the false-one, just before its departure? It almost looked like doubt.

The false-one was gone now, probably to visit its master. But where, the true one wondered, were its masters, its iffling-parents? Was it alone in the world, alone in the realm? The iffling probed outward from the cavern, stretching its senses along certain layers of the underrealm where perhaps only ifflings could reach. It felt something . . . a distant glimmer of life. That touch sent a shiver of recognition through the iffling. Was someone out there? Someone who would recognize an iffling, and welcome it home?

With the false-one gone, perhaps it was time to seek help—for Jael, and for itself. It had not dared to try earlier, both for fear of the false-one and for fear of losing Jael. But Jael was bound now, and would not be moving.

The iffling gently touched the glowing surface of Jael's mind, and found her agitated and despairing. (Remember,) it whispered. (Remember. And keep hope. Always keep hope.)

(How can I hope?) Jael cried back to it, perhaps recognizing it and perhaps not.

The iffling probed helplessly at the sorcery that bound her—and found no weakness, no hope. But the false-one had leaked one thought, one possibility, one inkling of a way in which Jael's cry for freedom might be fulfilled. The iffling didn't dare voice the possibility; it was too drastic, too uncertain. But it might be the only way.

To Jael, it said, (You must. The realm needs you.) And in afterthought, it added, (Your friend needs you. Windrush.) It was aware of Jael's sharp intake of breath, but there was nothing more that it could say. It drew apart from her.

The sorcery could hold the riggers—but not the iffling. It was time. The iffling slipped out of the riggers' presence, slipped away down the long, rippling silence of the place where only its kind might tread . . . slipped away, whispering and crying for anyone who might know its voice, and answer in kind. For anyone who might help.

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