Within

By Peter Gribble

Purdu, the barbarian invader, has arrived! How can the pacifist, nonviolent City of the Magicians contain him when one faction appeals to his heart, the other to his ambitions?
Sas and Lalya are envoys of opposing camps, but Purdu throws them together to isolate them from their enclaves and assert his own authority. Yet two others decide to oppose him their way. Hyur, foremost metallurgist, secretly forges a magical weapon to tempt and subvert him. Gleswea, an astronomer, flees south to view skies she has never seen, but is swept into a culture that judges women of ability as necromancing witches deserving death.
Shoan, City strategist, reconstructing his wrecked plans, is unaware these four have slipped his calculations. Sas, Lalya, Hyur and Gleswea are unknowingly inching the City toward an unseen, perilous fate. Will anyone catch it in time?
Within, the second book in The City of the Magicians series, exposes how even as the City's old dream of a rebirth in Magic seems to be happening, traditional institutions are failing. With Purdu spearheading the revival, some Citizens fear the purposes their Magic may soon be turned to.
Praise for Threat, the first book in The City of the Magicians series.
"An exquisitely crafted, richly textured world of magic and mystery, with settings and mood so exceptionally well visualized that fans of science fiction and fantasy should not pass up the chance to walk inside." – IndieReader
"Apart from the beautiful writing, the robustly written characters, and the strong setting, Peter Gribble has the ability to immerse readers in a world that is well-imagined and sculpted. Having enjoyed Threat immensely, I am looking forward to the next installment in the series." - Readers' Favorite

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tellwell Talent
• Release date: Jan 31, 2022
• ISBN: 9780228826460

Peter Gribble

Peter Gribble has written for NUVO and other magazines in British Columbia. He currently writes a monthly gardening column for a local, online Vancouver journal. This is his first published novel.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Just Another Pilgrim

The barbarians are here!

No surprise, no panic, just leisurely, informal reports of the barbarian advance, from the tiny, dusty smudge on the northwestern horizon in the morning (first sighted by observers on the Temple roof) to the stretched procession of innumerable men and—it was presumed—horses throughout the rest of the day. Yes, the barbarians had arrived, but impending threat was rendered negligible due to the flood.

The River Messig had risen the day before, swelling into an expansive lake transforming the City mountain into an inaccessible island. Exquisite timing and the glorious view from Temple Ridge’s wall fed a giddy superiority for those savoring the sight of barbarians stymied at the Messig’s new northwestern shore.

Morning euphoria subsided into languid nonchalance. The majority of Citizens did not care to join those on Temple Ridge—too crowded—and went about their day as usual.

There was not much to do. The Bureautica, the City’s administrative body, was quiet, the last pilgrims having fled days earlier, and a premature Spring Fasting was in effect due to the invasion.

As light faded on the first day, little cooking fires dotting the plain lent an almost cheery, even inviting aspect to the encampment. Almost, but not quite.

Before dawn, raucous musical blasts startled the City from its slumbers and Citizens dashed out to see what was happening.

Spectators filled Temple Ridge right to the Temple steps—a poor place to watch from, as only those nearest the Temple Ridge wall could see everything below. Others ran down Pilgrims Way beyond the Wall, which separated the inner and outer City, in hopes of finding a better view, but the entire lower length of the path was crowded down to the water’s edge.

The camp had vanished. In progress was a procession around the plain. After one completed tour, drums and wind instruments changed their brash noises and the procession broke into sections, dispersing into smaller parties in abbreviated drills crisscrossing the plain.

A new order from the musicians formed four great conglomerations. Banner-flags unfurled in a bewildering language of colorful designs and led diverse sections of each group in dazzling, complex maneuvers.

It’s like a spheres game of talent at the Salon of Watchers, remarked someone at the Temple Ridge wall.

Agreement spread the comment.

Like a game at the salon, connoisseurs and critics were eager to offer opinion, expertise and analysis. Patterns developed, affiliations among banner-flags were revealed and musical directives predicted maneuvers.

Oh, look! Blue and black zigzags and red and white stripeys have joined up again.

Several units of green-square-on-pink and three-orange-dots were competing to see who could encircle groupings of purple-with-three-yellow-top-lines. Red-triangles-with-streamers rode to purple’s aid and prevented it from happening, scattering both green-square and three-orange in the process while blue-and-black-zigzags and red-and-white-stripeys contended with three other banner-flag groups.

Such organization. Such discipline.

It’s a moving tapestry!

Yes, but without design or glyphs.

Which should remind us all: They’re still barbarians.

So? It’s still gorgeous!

A noon break brought the swirling activity on the plain to a temporary halt. The horses were linked by long ropes allowing them to drink from the river while barbarians kept a strict distance from shore.

On Temple Ridge, the break brought relief. The warm weather was unseasonable, though cannier Citizens had brought wide-brimmed hats against the sun. Food vendors rolled in their trundlers carrying low-cost snacks and beverages, transforming the afternoon viewing into a picnic. Refreshments sold out quickly and needed replenishing several times, making the comings and goings of trundle-carts through the packed snarl a nuisance.

The following dawn, crowds were ready and restive for entertainment but startup was late compared to yesterday. Eventually, musicians initiated the procession, followed by the drills, though today the conglomerations divided along different lines.

After an elaborate horn blast, someone said, They’re going to do that favorite of mine: the feint to the right then correcting their trajectory—there they go! Now they’ll come about to the middle again to cut off the others.

We’ve seen that too often. The better one’s where they separate into two groups turning off in separate directions then close in, one behind, the other scooping in from the side, then both approach—

"You two are easily pleased. The double feint with the split combines both those elements. But I might agree with you: it is getting repetitive."

By mid-morning the barbarians had lost their focus. Accordingly, commentary was more critical.

Around noon, a snaking line of bulky horse-drawn carts crawling out of the northwest ended the games.

Flimsy, low houses of cloth—square, round, rectangular—were erected in a wide encirclement of the plain where the games had taken place. Banner-flags fluttered from every roof peak. The largest house, displaying colorful designs on its walls, was so grand a group of men was busy well into the evening setting it up. It was thought odd no women could be seen anywhere in the camp.

The third morning, the instrumentation changed. Not seen before, a series of great drums pounded out scaled reverberations to start the procession.

Wouldn’t want to stand close to one of those! laughed someone. Be deaf by the end of a single tour around the plain!

Before the conglomerations were decided, those with the better view at the Temple Ridge wall were first to agree the barbarians’ precision was off.

Formations have gone ragged.

They were getting that way yesterday.

Maybe they didn’t sleep well last night.

Well, we’re not keeping them awake.

You’re right. They’re definitely not as tight as before.

Look! They’re not even holding their banner-flags up as smartly as yesterday.

Ah, when talent fails its promise.

Looks like a field of flax blown every which way by summer gusts and breezes.

Aren’t you the poet.

But it does!

Weren’t you the one who said it was a tapestry day before yesterday?

In the afternoon, a rout of two of the conglomerates surprised even the experts. With a straggly celebratory procession around the field by the successful conglomerations, the games petered out.

Well, so much for today.

There might be something else.

Nope, they’re done. You can tell.

The fourth day brought out the enthusiasts, but crowds had diminished. Just as the procession was about to start, the barbarian camp went quiet.

Wonder what’s keeping them.

Based on yesterday’s efforts, maybe they’re getting bored. Know I am.

Discussion turned to the remarkable timing of the Messig’s flooding.

Lots of people heard chanting from the College of Ritual for nearly a full week before the waters rose.

And remember farmers and their livestock moved in well before any sign of flooding.

My cousin Lefwa is a farmer. She and her family are staying with us. She told me she was advised way back in the fall by some Council representative not to plant the late winter or early spring crops. No reason given.

Last fall?

"Your cousin Lefwa isn’t telling you everything. My uncle’s a member of the Farming Commune. He was informed anyone losing their farms this spring would be exempt from the tithe.¹ Wasn’t told why."

Perhaps it’s why we had the worst winter rains in memory.

Winter rains?

If it rained so badly here, imagine the snowpack up-valley and in the mountains.

You mean it was melted by intent by the College of Ritual?

Froth and foam! No wonder the Messig flooded!

But the timing of it, the day before the barbarians arrived! Magical!

Of course it’s magical! Both the strategy of it and its manifestation!

Didn’t the chanting start right after some Temple roof observer supposedly reported a large smoke rising from the Aristo direction?

Just happenstance. No reason to link those two events.

There was disagreement. The subject was Magic, therefore everything was significant, from the rounding up of the 5th School heretics to the rumor the barbarians had burned the old capital of Aristos to the ground.

It means planning and preparations stretching back half a year.

Of course it does, with the farms warned so far ahead.

Don’t forget the weird rumor late fall of the young Deliberator taking instruction in practice from the telepaths.

A masterstroke by the Deliberator Council!

They’ve known all along what they were doing.

Morale soared, renewing a heady pride: The City of the Magicians could still manifest originalities even after centuries of decline. It was a chapter for the history books. The picnic ripened into a festival.

As nothing was happening on the plain, hungrier Citizens shifted congested paths toward the food vendors for the noon snack. Vendors were certainly doing a brisk business, and it had not gone unnoticed their prices had crept up over the last two days. More people were easing through when someone leaning over the Temple Ridge wall cried out.

"Look! Look!"

What?

Two people are crossing the waters!

The oppressive crush made viewing impossible, except for those first to the wall.

What d’you see?

They’re coming slow, a rider on his horse, dressed fancy. And . . . and it’s a City woman . . . she’s wearing City robes. She’s leading him! They’re making for Lower Pilgrims Way!

Farther away on the shore a mass of barbarians, maintaining their always precise margin from the water’s edge, kept a subdued watch on their progress.

Calmer opinion cooled the excitement. It is only one barbarian, after all. Consensus among more confident Citizens admitted an interesting day, possibly historic, was about to unfold.

A wiser head made a frantic push through the crush to run and warn the Deliberators.

As Purdu and Lalya emerged from the river, shoreline crowds squeezed open a path. Purdu, High Chief of the Legalities of the Great Plateau, Supreme Commander of the Earth-Scorching Wind, and Usurper of the Golden Steps, sat stern and stoic in the saddle to hide yearning aspirations. My Temple! he thought. My beautiful Temple! The dwelling place of the great God Purdu among his Magicians!

Not only aspirations, but anxiety and the drag of guilt—he had to face his friend, Sas the Magician, over the Aristos burn-down.

From the base of the mountain, the Temple, truly gargantuan, appeared too large for the summit.

Before they reached the first switchback, watchers were repositioning in the crowd. Lalya straightened, daring them to take her under Purdu’s eye.

Surprisingly they did. On a signal, they burst through and grabbed her.

This is a 5th School criminal! cried one.

A metallic sling sound, a flash of light and an accented, compelling voice of authority combined: Leave her be! She has our countenance!

The barbarian on the horse had produced, as if from the very air, a long piece of metal mirroring the sun, the pointed end a hand’s span from the nose of the watcher who had spoken. He stared cross-eyed at the tip, wondering if the barbarian expected him to touch it to acknowledge his demand. Murmurs from the crowd solved the puzzle.

It’s a weapon!

The watcher recoiled in revulsion. Put that away! he snapped. You approach the City where these defilements are forbidden.

Release her first!

This was perhaps not the moment to test the unwavering intent radiating from the barbarian or the degree to which the mirror weapon might cause harm. He gave an indignant signal to the other watchers and Lalya was released.

It was a minor marvel how the barbarian slid the length of mirrored metal into a stiff, narrow sleeve at his hip.

Unperturbed, Lalya smoothed her wet robes and resumed her walk up the mountain. Resentful watchers followed close behind.

The first switchback turned away from the Temple, leading the procession up past the Trees of the Dead, where young saplings had been planted over Citizens who had died during the water-lung plague. The upper switchback brought the Temple back into view, but much of it was eclipsed by the bulk of the mountain—only the roof cut into the sky. Leveling at the top end of Lower Pilgrims Way, the looming, circling Wall commanded attention.

The height and girth of the stonework was giants’ play. A walled fortress . . . without the fortress, thought Purdu.

The Wall needed substantial rebuilding where it had fallen away from a precipitous drop on the south side far below the Temple. Any comprehensive repairs with stonework this size would occupy his engineer chief Hakl and his team for some time.

As they neared the City outside the Wall, crowds thickened.

A conquered people’s mood was essential in evaluating the success of a conquest, and it was a unique experience Purdu now felt riding his horse Beku alone, without his men. He had seen fear, depression, anger, ambition, resignation, rebellion, lust, lamentations, obsequious celebration, budding conspiracy and the urge to kill, never this mild curiosity near kin to indifference. He judged them a self-contained, secretive people and wondered how many were Magicians.

Just another pilgrim, commented someone as Purdu rode by.

He smelled them first, then saw ducks, geese and goats housed and cooped in makeshift pens out in the streets. They’re fortified for the longest siege . . . like the brave city of Alsimura.

Raised on the Great Plateau, Purdu disliked cities, with their close streets and buildings, yet as he scanned the narrow, twisting lanes beyond the pens, an unexpected protectiveness moved him. This lone, low mountain in the middle of a river-fed plain and its city—soon to be his city—would become a place of rest and reflection with his friend, Sas the Magician—if he would see him.

At the Break in the Wall, the entrance to the inner City, a hurriedly assembled Council of Deliberators, Shoan, Elder Strategist, at the front, stopped Purdu and Lalya. Ingall, Elder of the Guild of Telepaths, beside Shoan, muttered from the side of his mouth, It is Purdu.

My opponents, thought Purdu as he surveyed the seven who stood apart. He noted the woman, dressed as a shaman-priestess. The rest were the usual type: Administrators. Center front, the two old men standing together carried the power. His attention lingered over the striking beauty of the young woman among them. Her aloof, preoccupied pose checked further interest, as it was probably meant to. What is her role? What authority do women have here? Even in the crowd, the unusual equality between men and women was emphasized by the simple robes worn by all, regardless of gender.

For once fearless, Lalya cried out for everyone to hear, Approach and be attentive! My name is Lalya. Only we of the 5th School can determine whether the holy force and dictate, known as Purdu, the Earth-Scorching Wind is, in truth . . . a god!

Shock whistled through the crowd, spiced by scattered laughter. Purdu, in stony silence, thought, No gate or guardhouse at this single entrance to the city. Something else to rectify when I’m in possession of the place.

"A god? Shoan’s astonishment turned to scorn. Only the sorcerer-kings of aeons past thought themselves so and brought about the ruin of their age and themselves. A god? This last 5th School heretic is merely a nomenclaturist! A liberator of the foam, are you? Where are your numbers now? Your cries against the tyranny of secrecy?"

We are no more nomenclaturists than the Deliberators, countered Lalya, but we stand back from our definitions where it appears you do not.

The opening salvo was wonderfully contrary to City discretion and the crowd was eager for more. Purdu’s annoyed frown over the argument prompted Ingall to raise his voice to end it.

Lord Purdu, your friend Sas awaits you. Because of the burning of Aristos he is gravely ill and may not last much longer. You must see him before all else. Do not delay.

With everyone’s attention, he continued, The Temple of Life’s High Priestess Bhekla and I, Ingall, Elder of the Telepaths, will conduct you to him.

We have a law— started a voice in the crowd, but it was shushed. It seemed the ancient dictate prohibiting any animal larger than a goat, goose, dog or cat from entering the inner City would be waived on this occasion.

As Purdu slowly rode Beku through the Break, the crowd, following as best it could, jammed. Pilgrims Way was never so congested, not even during New Year’s or Jubilation festivals. Ingall’s choice of route exacerbated the crush. He turned off Pilgrims Way, progressing north through steep, narrow streets, where the enormous horse took up almost the entire space between buildings, forcing the crowd to press and filter through side lanes to keep up.

Just another pilgrim climbed with them. Titters and quiet laughter leavened the conceit of godship.

Comments bantered back and forth. The barbarian—what had Elder Ingall called him? Lord Purdu? A handsome fellow, what could be seen of him. Not at all what one expected. He seemed well aware of it, too. His costume, whatever one might call it, was outlandish with contoured metal coverings encasing his torso, each arm and leg, and footwear extending well beyond the calf, while cumbersome attachments hung from an embroidered belt. The matching gold headpiece, unlike any City hat, contained much of his head and continued down the nape of his neck. It was excessive and looked uncomfortable. Squeaky leather and the clinking of various bits of metal as the gigantic horse clopped along were additional amusing proofs of his barbarism.

More fascinating, since he had never been to the City before, was he already had a friend here and linked to the burning of Aristos. So it had burned! What was his name again—Sas? Most peculiar. Ah, well, gossip would fill the gaps soon enough.

And Purdu’s mount? Those Citizens keeping up maintained a cautious distance from it. Few had seen a horse before, and those who had, never one this big. The outer City had its familiar pack and market animals, donkeys and ponies, but nothing like this giant pony with the short, sharp ears. The large, alert eyes and spirit of the being revealed intelligence and awareness, a personage of clear sentience . . .

As intriguing was the young woman, Lalya. A Citizen and 5th School! At liberty! Not writhing in any horrendous drug withdrawal explained away by watchers over the last week as influenza. She appeared like any Citizen, except barefoot and carrying a staff, and her robes clingy wet from her breasts down from her river crossing.

Lalya’s confidence collapsed at Ingall’s pronouncement. No alternative—Purdu had decided. This friend, Sas, she thought, he’s the Sender! A true practitioner of Magic! The Deliberators would position this fulcrum under Purdu, and in an instant she could lose him and her tenuous moment of leverage forever.

As they ascended the path, Shoan caught up with Ingall and Bhekla, realizing, I have to be closely associated with Sas. Thank you, he whispered to Ingall. Thank you from the depths of my heart.

Lalya shot a questioning look up at Purdu.

You! yelled Purdu. Follow behind!

Unaware of her signal, Shoan bowed back. She kept her features free of triumph.

Purdu saw at once why his scouts recommended the place be mapped. Contrasting the grand avenues and spacious streets of Aristos, the inner City’s narrow pathways seldom traveled more than a house or two without jogging out of alignment. Houses, built of better materials than the outer City, were taller with additional stories, enlarged with wings, overhangs and extensions, yet no building shared a wall with another—all stood alone, evoking privacy and mystery. It reminded him of a camp of irregularly shaped tents pitched side by side without touching. With the limited area of a walled mountaintop, it was a careless use of space. Uneven terrain of the mountain did not explain it. Effective street patrols would be impossible without maps. Only those born and raised here would know every twist, jog and turn.

As they made the last stiff climb to Upper Ridge, the Temple’s northern aspect rose as a backdrop against the sunlit orangey roof tiles of the other buildings.

Up onto the more generous pathways of Upper Ridge, structures were mostly larger.

They arrived at an unremarkable house, where Elder Ingall and High Priestess Bhekla stopped. Elder Ingall waited severe until Purdu decided to dismount. Only then did he knock on the doors.

Not expecting the multitude, the servant-cousin froze just inside the threshold.

Good day to you, Zaya, said Ingall. Is the Lady Eiasa within?

She withdrew, leaving the doors ajar.

A little flustered when she appeared, Lady Eiasa could only say, Why, Elder Ingall!

Apologies for the impromptu call, said Ingall, but is your nephew, Sas, receiving? We have brought a visitor from away who wishes to see him.

Lady Eiasa, casting an uncertain eye at all the Deliberators, bowed with restraint and opened both doors wide. The crowd craned for a glimpse inside.

Lalya stays untouched, ordered Purdu, staring hard at Shoan. No interference with her.

At Shoan’s stiff gesture, watchers near her stepped back a pace.

Lalya did not disguise her annoyance being left to stand alongside Beku.

It’s a great honor among my people to guard the horses, a cold Purdu said. Be proud of it.

Deep breaths salvaged no courage. Never had she been close to an animal of size—any move by this living, breathing dark wall on improbably high legs was alarming. Glaring watchers were no comfort either, despite Purdu’s orders. Only her cry of the womb instilled a queasy calm: Purdu, father of my child. The father of my child. It has to happen somehow. It must. She would turn it into a magical pushing, if only she knew how.

Purdu entered Eiasa House with Ingall and the Deliberators, and her heart sank as the doors closed behind him.

Chapter 2

Getting Acquainted

Utter social burglary, having this many uninvited gaining access to the private suites, thought Lady Eiasa, leading the Deliberators and the handsome, bizarrely dressed visitor from away up the stairs to her grandnephew Sas’s rooms. Despite the burglary, she was already composing the detailed entry for the Eiasa Family history-saga to record the honor and importance of it.

On the second-floor landing, the Deliberators’ eager air gave Purdu pause. They wanted to see . . . what? His reaction to meeting Sas at last? Ingall had said Sas was gravely ill—the Aristos mess—and may not last much longer. Unknowns spurred the customary stance. The fight was on, his guard was up. I’ll be no sacrifice for your blood sport! Purdu hung back as Lady Eiasa made to open the twin doors to Sas’s suite. We see him alone, he announced. All you remain outside until we have our say with him.

Their disappointment vindicated his decision.

Miffed, Lady Eiasa opened the doors for him and said, His sleeping chamber is the first door to your right.

He stepped in and waited until he heard the doors click shut behind him. An ample, comfortable, yet unpretentious central room fit his expectations. There were so many . . . they could only be books, different in construction from those at the Golden Palace.

I’m about to behold my Sas! Yet, after Aristos, are we even friends? Elder Ingall said we were . . .

Uneasy, Purdu stalled at the door. Sword and scabbard hung from his weapons belt—his Magician had declared a dislike of violence. Best take it off, he thought, and held the belt and scabbard tight to silence them as he laid both on the floor. Removing his helmet felt obligatory too, and he placed it beside the belt.

After an agitated raking of fingers through his hair, he tugged and fussed at his kit, his teeth on edge over the remaining armor. Nothing countered rising guilt. One last halting hesitation and he rapped twice on the door and entered.

He swung the door wide to see an emaciated Sas sleeping on a low, wide bed.

Devastating.

That this skeletal specter at the entrance flap of Death’s Dark Tent was the noble, beloved Sas.

A bloody head wound would have been easier to accept than . . . this. Not even the withering reduced its victims to this state.

His heart lodged in his throat; tears stung eyes.

I’ve done this to him!

That catastrophic botch-up at Aristos: his fault. His fault! An agony of shame and remorse clawed at his chest.

Oh, my Sas! he said, his shaking voice a whisper.

He shut his eyes against the dying figure on the bed and, as if primed, the recollections started up.

Luminous and haunting, vivid and inexorable.

In his tent the first time, so many months ago, the mysterious, inviting apparition wearing an antique Sun’s Eye, words otherworldly yet intimate . . . Purdu, I name you friend. Come and drink with me at the Holy Spring That Never Fails . . .

The second: the wondrous appearance on the plain, his men witnessing; the miraculous gift of spheres; the intimate secret brush of contact followed by the sweet, heated caress of Sas’s hand against his cheek that blew away loneliness . . . Come to the City and let us throw some rounds together . . .

The cruel third: a permanent cancerous memory of a sad, wasting Sas floating over a burning Aristos. A blighting curse of his own making, scarring him forever . . .

The recollections concluded, leaving him bereft. He had done this. He had destroyed the trust and hope Sas held . . . he had been warned, yet he had done this to his friend . . . his failure; his irreparable loss; his long, friendless life, perpetuated forever . . .

Silent, choking sobs pummeled him.

Moments passed before he registered the tentative hand on his shoulder.

Pardon me, lord sir, came a voice from an enormous distance away.

How dare anyone intrude on this private moment! He whirled, a vicious cuff destined for whomever had snuck up on him and he stopped, barely in time.

Behind the door, a tall manservant, worried concern in his eyes, had been standing all along.

Not someone to inflict his angry, guilty grief upon.

Amazingly, a weak, breathy whisper came from the bed. Purdu? Is it . . . truly . . . you?

Instantly, the servant was at Sas’s side. Yes, Sas, he said, squatting on his haunches. He’s come. The man looked back, beckoning Purdu to approach.

He struggled for composure. He straightened his kit once more, sighed in great resignation and made the long walk to the bed, unable to look at Sas.

The servant rose, backing away, encouraging him with a smile.

He sat heavily on the edge of the low bed and stared at the floor.

Dear Purdu, came the exhausted whisper, so glad . . . you . . . have come . . .

This from someone he had ruined unto death. He would break down if he did not somehow take charge of himself and the situation.

He looked at last with sorrow upon Sas, so close now and truly present. This, his more than, closer than, a brother. Those sweet, familiar eyes gazed up in contentment, but the whites were a fatal gray.

Yet what a blessing: Sas loved him!

He grabbed Sas’s thin, bony hand and was startled by a wave of intimate closeness, as if they were hugging.

He dropped the hand and the feeling faded.

What was this? Was he forgiven already? Would Sas’s prophecy of the river claiming three of your best be repealed?

Sas’s eyes closed in immense fatigue. He was near death. If the feeling was forgiveness, it was the forgiveness of the dying—poor solace for the guilty left behind, the one responsible. Purdu glanced at the manservant, who had stirred.

Lord sir, my name is Marwil. I see to his needs, he said. But Sas has become very ill attending to your interests.

My interests?

Now, Marwil . . . came the quiet voice again. It was disconcerting to hear Sas with the same peculiar accent as everyone else. Each time they had communed during the sendings it was in perfect plateau idiom, as if they had been raised in the same tent.

Sick eyes open again, Sas spoke, barely above breathing, Dear Purdu, the sendings . . . made to you . . . have done this to me. Until you . . . I had never practiced before. But they knew . . . we would be drawn to each other . . . and so I was chosen. This I have done most willingly. Sas’s exhausted blink was shy. Am pleased and . . . and . . . honored you . . . have come . . .

A pause for breath and he continued. But each sending . . . needs vitality. This last one took too much . . . only way to stop . . . stop the fighting. Sas’s eyes fell shut, his voice so faint Purdu had to lean in close. Even with help . . . too much for someone . . . without training. Seeing you is . . . enough . . .

With a near inaudible sigh, Sas was asleep.

Or had he just died?

Trembling, Purdu saw that the shallow breathing persisted. He exhaled in relief. He turned to Marwil for explanation.

Lord Purdu, beseeched Marwil, "it’s Spring Fasting, when the food he needs is scarce. He needs so much and often if he’s to live. With all the outlying people moved into the City this spring, we’re rationed more than usual. After the last sending, Sas’s needs were so great, ah, and were . . . um, unexpected, and started too late. My own food goes to help. Lady Eiasa, his aunt, contributes too, as does an old friend, but it isn’t enough. Magi—ah . . . practitioners have huge appetites after magical pushings. It’s the only way for them to return to health. Sas’s’ll take at least a month, maybe two. As it is—Marwil, tearing up, bit his lower lip—he’ll die soon. He’s dying now and needs your help."

Scarcely believing it, Purdu thought, Sas’s problem is food, not the Aristos mess! Revelation burned away guilt—he could stare, drink in the sight of Sas, a living cadaver, with impunity. You’ll live. You’ll live! You must! You’ll live even if I have to send food up regardless how many men the river takes. You’ll live. You’ll live! They knew we would be drawn together. Yet they didn’t expect me so soon. Ha!

Opportunities always sprang up from unguarded talk. Entrapments likely lay everywhere, though advantages were enough to seize hold of. A fresh advantage: Marwil, a new weapon for his arsenal. Plotters and schemers tended to undervalue slaves and servants. His mother loved to remind him, Neglect no one in your plans, Purdu. Recall my beginnings: I was a young girl bargained away in a marriage as a third wife, a trifling bonus in a horse swap between plateau legalities. Because I neglected no one, you, my son, now sit on the Golden Steps of our old enemies.

Purdu struggled up from the bed. Whom do you serve?

Lord Purdu, said Marwil, wiping away tears on his sleeves, I was an attendant in the Temple of Life but was lent out to serve Master Sas in his recovery after the second sending.

Lent out. Not a servant after all. He’s a plant! Early winter. Layers’ve been added since. So who else do you spy for? Softening his tone, Purdu asked, You are devoted to him?

Would give my life for him, asserted Marwil.

Purdu heard his truth. This would be easy. Spies seldom had such warm, brown eyes.

You won’t have to, if you help me protect him. As if wary of listeners, he leaned in, lowering his voice and placing an arm around Marwil’s shoulder to embolden collaboration. Our aims are the same. See how they alone put his life at risk? Not enough food? Thoughtless! Dangerous! We need to protect him against any more of their killing neglect. Agreed?

Doubt wavered, then was gone. Marwil was made to be commanded. A lesson or two to bind him then an open recruitment would complete him.

A calmer Marwil bobbed his head. Yes, my Lord Purdu.

Purdu removed his arm. Who trained him in this, this sending exer—ur, practice?

The Sender Ingall, Elder of the Telepaths, is his instructor. As concerned for his welfare as you, my lord. Though I believe it was Elder Shoan, Deliberator Council Strategist, who, ah . . . arranged it.

I see. Purdu caught his rare slip into first-person singular and quickly corrected himself. We see. Shoan, the arguer with Lalya. Strategist—revealing title. And Ingall: a sender too, and Elder of the Telepaths! Another Magician to conscript into the Earth-Scorching Wind as soon as possible. There must be others. And? he invited. There was always an and—his favorite word.

As far as I know, Master Sas still has a divan on the Council but hasn’t been to any meetings, except maybe one, because of his weakness since the second sending.

On the Council! Purdu could not prevent his huff. They are tight, these people. I’ll reserve judgment—Sas is not yet reliable. I’ll use him as a bargaining wedge, after all. Get rid of your lake first, you Deliberators, then I’ll see what I can do for him.

Though I know he’s been cautious about their intents and purposes, Marwil added.

Who? Sas? Of the Deliberators? said Purdu, controlling his tone.

Yes, my Lord Purdu. I’ve heard him wondering out loud sometimes . . . oh, like, ‘Why have they done it this way?’ and, ‘What were they thinking of?’ and such as that.

That’s my Sas. Thank Lord Father Sun. Purdu heaved a sigh of relief. He reached down to stroke Sas’s tousled hair and sharp cheek, reveling in the sense of embrace stealing over him again. Were it not for Marwil’s presence, he might have lain down beside him.

Who else has seen him since the last sending?

Only Elder Ingall and myself.

His parents?

Jarred some years ago . . . I mean, they died some years ago.

Not even his aunt’s seen him? After all this time? Purdu thought, My poor Sas! Surrounded by people, yet all alone! Loneliness scars both our lives.

No, my lord.

That’s why the Deliberators wanted to come up and see him! Strange they don’t know . . . these gaps in understanding. We shall grant their wish. Their curiosity shall unmask them. Now, Marwil, here’s the overriding question . . . Purdu stood tall and asked, Now, what is this 5th School I’ve heard about?

Those heretics? They’ve been rounded up.

And?

They were sick for a time, and now, I guess, they’re being corrected.

"What does corrected mean?"

N-not sure, my lord. There’s never been a whole group like this before. Perhaps, when they are being ad-admonished for their errors of . . . of thievery and mischief, they have to confess their faults in a ge-genuine and contrite manner, and promise not to do it again?

Who corrects them?

Oh, Deliberators and Adjudicators, I guess.

Again, what if these Deliberators and Adjudicators are mistaken themselves? Look what they caused to happen to poor Sas. Not enough food? For someone untrained? They were in error over his needs!

Yes, my lord.

How then can they correct others when they deny their own need for it themselves?

D-don’t know.

Now, Marwil, can we trust you with a secret?

Yes, my Lord Purdu.

We have plans for this 5th School and the Deliberators. Each is necessary to correct the other’s error—while protecting Sas—and bring balance to this our City. You see this now?

Y-yes. So witnessed, my lord.

Good. We entrust you with an important role. If you find out something such as, say, who’s positioning themselves near Sas, or want to do him a service or favor, and if you need to tell us when others are present, make this sign in a casual way once you have our attention. Purdu made a motion of covering his mouth to cough, but extended his forefinger while doing so. Show me.

Marwil complied.

"No. Wait until you have m—our eye first. Again. That’s better. If the situation is secure, we’ll approach you to ask how Sas is doing; you’ll tell us your information. We’ll teach you other signals later. Everyone who sees Sas, and what they want from him, we must know. For now, tell the others out there, since they’ll ask—Purdu nodded toward the door—that the time we’ve been in here, we’re angry they let Sas suffer. This Spring Fasting foolishness is not for him and his feeding is now the highest priority. End discussion and take immediate charge of his needs. No hints of anything else. Understand?"

Yes, my Lord Purdu. So witnessed. You honor me and I will live up to the trust my lord places in me.

You’d better, thought Purdu, giving the quick, critical glance to reinforce orders and saying, Marwil, have rooms prepared for us beside these of our Sas. We wish to dwell here for a time. Or at least I will let them think so. They knew we would be drawn to each other, did they? See a trap and spring it!

Yes, my lord.

Purdu returned to the central room, buckled on his weapons belt, scooped up his helmet and strode to the outer hall to a huddle of expectant faces.

We have spoken with him, he announced with cool disdain. Since you wish to see how you made Sas suffer, come gaze upon your ravages. Purdu turned and re-entered Sas’s sleeping chamber.

Everyone entered and gasped.

Each was unmasked. An example of the correction you are in need of, Purdu thought. The attractive woman’s chilly pose melted away, empathy improving her beauty. Sas’s aunt’s shock was vivid: fist to her mouth, face scrunched ugly with grief. Expressions from the others were as gratifying—even Shoan, Strategist, stood rigid at the sight, betraying the poverty of his arsenal. Two were unsurprised yet concerned: the priestess and scrawny old Ingall, who had an irascible told-you-so attitude about him. A Sender like Sas. What weapons for a god!

Now why were Sas’s food requirements not dealt with at once? Purdu demanded.

He did not expect a quick answer, yet the hierarchy was exposed when Ingall’s accusing eyebrow rose at Shoan the arguer, who seemed incapable of speech.

We are not pleased, Purdu said to no one in particular. See to it Sas is fed according to his needs and conditions. If he dies: consequences.

But Master Pur—Lord Purdu, croaked Lady Eiasa, her cheeks wet with tears. The City is overcrowded, there’s little food at this time of year he can safely eat and the fields are flooded.

Since today’s Magicians no longer live on light and air, they can remove their own lake and their own difficulty, remarked Purdu casually, using a phrase he had heard recently. He did not allow himself a farewell glance in Sas’s direction as he walked out onto the landing and toward the stairs. Easier than I thought.

Shushing robes behind him struggling to keep up were an irritant. Waste of cloth! He sensed Shoan was close.

Purdu whirled, surprising the robes into an uncertain stop. We need a private room to speak to you, Shoan the arguer. Best talk with this one, survey the horizons of his expectations right off, begin playing Deliberators and 5th School off against each other. He had a special attack honed sharp for this word mincer.

More resolute now, Lady Eiasa advanced, gestured to the stairs and led the way down. Relieved to have everyone back on the socially permissible ground floor, she displayed self-deprecating pride as she guided the two into her spacious, elegant reception salon. It was sumptuous: appointed with the better divans, tableboards, plush cushions and bolsters with several large carpets on the floors. On the walls hung intricately woven glyph banners and tapestries, centuries-old possessions of the Family. Here was the proper place to receive visitors. Strangers had no business being upstairs, nor anyone else, unless expressly and personally invited by a member of the Family. Or unless they were paying pilgrims. She was affronted this barbarian person did not remove his . . . whatever they were—boots before entering the salon. She was more annoyed at Elder Shoan, who knew better, for not removing his sandals.

The doors were closed. There was no move to recline or sit down. Shoan and Purdu locked into as uncompromising a glare as either had ever encountered.

His forehead looks like a plowed field, thought Purdu. Time to test the cutting edges of the weapons Maxon, Lalya and Marwil have given me. Let the fight begin!

She of the 5th School is trying to tempt you with the antiquated notion of godship, said Shoan at once, sharpening the fulcrum’s pivot point, clearly satisfied by it. Purdu had not expected this. Shoan pressed the advantage. "Deification is not unfamiliar to us from legend and fable, but such a declaration in this age and aeon? At most it will provide a brief season of amusement. No more. You will accrue no following from us by it. From The Panmageon taught to us in school, we have an extensive range of stories for the instruction of the young which teach morals and impart example-lessons resulting from the inadequate judgments, mistakes and errors of the old deities, Magicians and other sentients who are mastered by their vanity. The tales of their vengeance, favoritism and other follies of arrogance and pride illustrate how they were only marginally removed from ourselves and our own insufficiencies. Shoan paused in his lofty address, then, since an unmoved Purdu did not respond, added, In conclusion to which, while speaking of their supposed abilities and suchlike, it is clear that godship, presumed at this level, has never conferred immortality."

There are gods and there are gods, said Purdu, wrong-footed by Shoan’s openness on the subject. He had assumed there would be recognition, then powers made manifest, acknowledged, or something. He surprised himself by blurting, "You speak of the old gods, well, I—we are a new one!"

And you think that she—Shoan jerked his head with fresh scorn toward the front of the house—the last of her heresy not under the confines of contemplative correction, will verify that for you? You have chosen a heinous criminal as intermediary. It certainly compromises whatever else you think you are!

Since you have incapacitated Sas, she is my choice.

Come now! It was your behavior at Aristos that jeopardized his life! You were welcomed as a friend and yet Aristos was burned to the ground.

No, not to the ground, not all of it, admitted Purdu. We are surprised you, being a Magician, do not know the manner of it. The flames were lit by their own hands.

While I am no Magician, replied a smug Shoan, I do know your hand was the deciding factor.

Purdu reappraised him before replying. Here stood a superior strategic mind, almost kindred in spirit and unafraid, a refreshing challenge to tease, play, contend and do battle with for a while, after which . . . essential to co-opt. A man of subtlety and boldness, someone to break not destroy, properly handled and trained like an exceptional yet recalcitrant horse. A special crisis or two to whip him obedient . . . the 5th School was the handiest. Yet for all Shoan’s boldness and subtlety there was a suspicion he had just exhausted his entire offense. Easy enough to discover.

Perhaps it was, Purdu said with a shrug. Yet the deciding hand is now here, capable of spurring similar events, depending on what you choose. He spoke quietly, his little smile malicious. We need to speak with the persons Drejeli and Thasyn. You know who they are. Bring them to us. Lalya had told him, before they crossed the river, what she thought were the least requirements for the Ritual of Recognition to proceed—two key 5th School operatives who had been sufficiently well-placed: Drejeli, Sub-Adjudicator within the upper salons of the Temple Offices, and Thasyn, Deputy Priest.

A glorious moment: Shoan’s mouth fell open as if he had been slapped.

Absolutely not! he growled, quickly restored. Why should we do this? Shoan mimicked an Adjudicator’s magisterial stance. You do not understand the City nor its functioning. This 5th School nonsense is at an end. You would not let traitors and subversives loose among your forces, would you now? Well, neither do we.

We do, replied Purdu. For they’re known and marked and know better than to risk severer punishments. Think of the opportunity to have an experienced eye—ours—observe what motivates your subversives, see how they think and act. Is that not something of value to you? Or are you just going to execute them? He already knew the answer.

Shoan bristled. Of course not! What a suggestion!

What do you do then? asked Purdu in friendly interest.

They are placed in contemplative correction, re-Citizenized and reincorporated back into society when they have made the appropriate adjustments.

And?

Shoan scowled. And? And nothing!

His and had not worked. Then this correction is an easy thing for you Magicians to do?

In the current circumstance, I expect many hard and stubborn cases. Some may well take years to successfully rehabilitate themselves back to a worthy Citizenship. But it shall be done, said Shoan, intense in his delivery.

We would be interested in watching your techniques. You obviously use an artful, imaginative torture to accomplish this correction of yours, said Purdu.

Certainly not! Again, Shoan was rattled by the callous assumption, but even as he reacted, suspicions stirred.

Purdu saw quick reassessment as Shoan paused for a moment’s breath. A slow smile prefaced Shoan’s chuckle. Briefly, tension eased. Well done, Shoan said with a twinkle in his eye.

Purdu, smiling back, slightly lowered his head. His eyes warming to Shoan’s helped create the impression of intimate understanding between close friends. Most found it difficult not to be swayed when he projected this wash of appreciative warmth. The former duchess of Ritashra-Aristos had lifted the crown from her head and given it to him under similar circumstances. He allowed the warmth to fade. "We, on the other hand, do use torture and executions. There’s nothing we will not use, where and when required, he affirmed with gentle emphasis. We assume other options are preferable, but we do not stand back blood-shy when action is called for."

Such was your unacceptable conduct at Aristos.

The charismatic trick had not taken. This Shoan would have to be brutalized in some precise way. You will not take that tone with us, you who claim to see the sacredness in all things.

That sacredness is there. It is others who, in their impaired vision and inadequate understanding, need the teaching and training in seeing it properly so they do not mistakenly apply it to their subjectiva and its demands of vanity. Archaic deification is not one of the prerequisites.

The 5th School doesn’t think so.

Explains why they saw fit, among other reprehensible behaviors, to resort to murder and addictive drugs, and through sexual orgies break down emotional and civic loyalty. They are in the direst need in the reeducation of the sacredness of all.

Are they? asked Purdu mildly, betraying no concern.

From their own lips. Without the torture you value so highly.

Living in the City where this sacredness is presumed and taught, why did they turn away from it in the first place? If that’s what happened.

Thrown by the observation, Shoan faltered. You . . . you would not understand. You are one foreigner in a city of unequalled complexity.

Our invasion force of the Earth-Scorching Wind consists of many foreigners. That alone can clear away every complexity. Purdu’s mildness only emphasized his meaning.

But they have to cross our river of prophecy.

Yes, we admit, your lake was impressive. Yet the waters will subside, sooner or later. After all, it’s just an early spring runoff, isn’t it? When it does, whether you want us to or not, we shall enter your City to relieve you of your complexities. Every last one of them. Purdu paused to let the threat saddle up. For the moment, we shall be generous. Since you favor complexities, we shall restate ours again. Unless we observe and question these two 5th School men Drejeli and Thasyn to our satisfaction, you will have to wait for the waters to subside to have everything you value swept away. Each day your lake makes us wait makes us less and less . . . compassionate.

The reason you wait, Lord Purdu, is the time it takes you to fully appreciate this City.

Oh, we do appreciate it. Very much. Yet it’s your 5th School alone who has presented us with the divine recognition you’re unwilling to accept.

That ludicrous notion! exclaimed Shoan. Have you given a single thought to what Sas will think of it?

Purdu’s flicker of alarm was duly noted, but it passed and he said, We have plans for Sas, if he survives. Which he must, if you value your complexities. Does your clever mind need instruction? If he dies due to your recent care, nothing will hold back our deciding hand. Nothing. The deadly look in his eye belied his quiet delivery.

Shoan had to take a deep breath. This is scarcely the barbarian I thought I’d be dealing with. Ingall never warned me of this sophistication. Lord Purdu, he said, softening his voice in hopes of mitigating Purdu’s intent, it was we who knew you were coming and we who sent Sas out to greet you. We welcome you as we welcome all pilgrims who come to our sacred City. But the issue of the 5th School is an internal matter, which is dangerous and does not concern you.

"It wouldn`t concern me if your Council recognizes me—us as a god. Will they?"

No. It is against every premise and principle we hold sacred. It is called the descent into vanity, something the 5th School hopes to play upon and gain great advantage over you. A god? Heretics have no authority to bestow such a title! None! But they have been most assiduously striving for their selfish aims behind the common view, said Shoan, "and doing so in secrecy for centuries. They are skillful. Like you, they have stooped to murder and addictive poisons to gain their small and selfish ends. Where did it get them? With courtesy, Lord Purdu, I say this again: They wish to use you as just another one of their means and machinations to garner influence for themselves alone. It has taken me years to determine their nature and divine their methodology. My greatest suc—rather, I should say, our City’s greatest success has been the final discovery and roundup of these heretic-criminals. And all recently, during the last ten days."

Interesting timing, Purdu murmured. It’s a divine attribute I can make even the wise talk too much.

You must be familiar by now how your presence and the news of its approach accelerates events, remarked Shoan.

A faint smile floated over Purdu’s impassivity. Nicely said. Yet it’s only his try at friendliness. An intriguing mind here. Mother would be fascinated by him. Time to end this, it’s gone on long enough—he’s repeating himself. We were raised to anticipate schemers and plotters, whether in a palace, city, tent or beneath the Great Skies . . . and from an early age.

You reassure me, Lord Purdu. So you understand my concerns abou—

We are pleased you’re reassured at last, Elder Shoan. Purdu straightened his kit, readying for departure, his voice authoritative. No difficulty then in releasing the two 5th School men for our inspection. We’ll be lenient. We give you until sunset tomorrow to have them here at Sas’s house.

Making unwelcome orders stick was to state them clearly, firmly, without opportunity for discussion or protest. The usual hard stare to confirm compliance and, as if pressed for time, he was at the doors. Opening one of them, Purdu glanced over his shoulder without looking at him. There are those consequences otherwise. Then he was gone.

Shoan was dumbfounded.

Consequences? Consequences? All this effort, and for what? He shut the door to prevent the others out in the hall from seeing his defeat.

Stomping across the floor, he ground his teeth, his nails digging into his palms. Foam, smoke and dust! All this time struggling against an invisible enemy—he’s going to undo it all! First it will be two and then it’ll be all. The 5th School will be freed and I shall fail . . . the plans of the last two years have lost their fulcrum. I haven’t a moment to lose. The interrogations must be intensified before the 5th School is removed from my grasp. Every last detail must be wrung out of them before it’s too late!

Chapter 3

Incarcerated

He had been in terrible condition when first brought here but knew where he was.

Any Citizen would.

There were no other rooms like this in the City. High, unreachable, shuttered windows if you were lucky; if not, no windows at all, and a door bolted from the outside. A small, bare room, stark in its rectangularity with the only furnishings—aside from a small, lidded jar for necessities—a high, inaccessible lamp-niche and an ever-present odor of decay. Warm by mid-morning, cooling and darkening by late afternoon—a place shaded by the eastern edge of Upper Ridge.

An unknown cell in the House of Quarantine, a large, rambling building with two extensive wings where pilgrims or Citizens were held if suspected of being infected with the water-lung plague or the fatal sweating fevers sweeping through the past few years. Many had died here . . . likely in this very room.

If he perished here from some lingering miasma, he hoped for a quick, painless end. Life was over anyway. The withdrawal from the smoke had been a nightmare introduction to dying. At its height, a horrible ripping asunder by tidal waves of desperate, insane craving, coupled with uncontrollable spasms akin to seizures. Periods of profuse sweating had made him look as if he had been caught in a downpour, always followed by raging thirst.

The episodes diminished in their intensity, but bruises from the last of the violent shakes were only just beginning to yellow.

At last, mercifully, there was exhausted calm.

Death would be anticlimactic.

What does the Liturgia say? Death, only one of the branchings on the Paths of Being, only one of the Doors in the Houses of Existence. And after last week, not the most significant either.

Thasyn, former Deputy Priest, had time to philosophize and ponder questions of largeness these days—a pilgrimage from responsibilities and expectations. Welcome, really. Enjoyable in its way, especially after the only minor variation, not even an annoyance, when an infrequent interrogation came along. It was disappointing they were fewer of late, for they relieved the tedium.

Puzzling he had not been carted off to some hermitage up-valley for contemplative correction, the usual next stage when Citizenship was deemed compromised. Ah, well, perhaps they’re doing us one at a time. Still . . .

Each questioning session indicated they were stitching items together one by one. Others were talking. So, no point in denying what they already knew, but no reason to make it easier for them either. Being covertly uncooperative had developed into a mildly pleasant pastime.

Every time his watcher came in, new questions revealed another fact in the centuries-long secrecy had eroded away. He let nothing slip, of course. But he knew if someone with a talent to probe came along, they would read half a library’s worth from his silences—questions tricking you into betraying all types of information, despite defenses.

Well, unless you had been magically trained. But who was magically trained these days? There were rumors of a reputed probe at the Guild of Telepaths, but hadn’t she died? Rehelea had let drop an occasional hint that at the highest level of the 5th School, several intents were being pushed. Were they truly magical pushings or merely political maneuverings?

Wonder what’s happening to her. Thasyn chuckled. Rehelea possessed daunting defenses, magical or not. He could see her—steadfast and defiant, making her too obvious a subject for a probe. But the puzzle remained: No high-level questions had come his way. Had he truly been so talented in evading their questions or had she . . . had she committed suicide in order to preserve the deepest secrets?

No fear in his case—it was an easy game with the watcher assigned to him. She had no curiosity, no ability except possibly in her dedication to procedure. She recited off her given list of questions and then mnemonicked his responses, limited as they were. Not once had she posed a follow-up question. Not that he would have provided any direct answers, but at least with her, he and his knowledge were safe for the moment. From her limited range of questions, he assumed the upper levels of information remained secure and intact. They must think I’m one of the Eyes and Ears and nothing more! It may not last.

Someone like Shoan would have been another matter. Thasyn had seen him once briefly in the hall while being transferred to his current cell. High Priestess Bhekla had accompanied Shoan, spotted him, and glared a vindicated judgement in his direction. She had been the one to turn down his candidature for high priest two years ago, and was why, as a reward, they had planted someone close to her for observation. Shasta, Temple Acolyte, was by now long exposed and picked up. He chuckled again. The surprise and dismay the Deliberators must be feeling, discovering how close the 5th School had been to everything. Ah, well. Such are the dispositions . . .

Hearing approaching activity down the hall, instinct warned they were coming for him and the muffled difference to the usual bustling sounds outside fed a nervous fear. When the door was unbolted, his spirit fell.

This was not his favorite watcher incapable of cracking his veneer of silence.

It was a premonition . . . only moments before, he had been thinking of him: Elder Shoan, Strategist of the Deliberator Council himself! Breathing heavily, he looked possessed by