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CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Arta Myrdhyn

What though the field be lost?
All is not lost; th' unconquerable will,
And study of revenge, immortal hate,
And courage never to submit or yield. 

—John Milton

For a long time, there was nothing. Nobody was there . . . and no body was there.

And then there was a spark, and the spark thought: So this is what being dead feels like. 

"I doubt that you have nearly enough information to decide that yet, Karl," an airy tenor voice out of his past said. "Although if you ever do find out for certain, I would be most grateful if you would let me know. If you can let me know, that is. It's something I have wondered about for . . . for a long time." Deighton chuckled thinly, a hollow sound.

There was no question; the voice was Deighton's. Professor Arthur Simpson Deighton, Ph.D. Lecturer in, though not practitioner of, ethics; gamemaster, wizard.

The bastard who sent us all across.  

"My parentage is not at issue here. And I won't accept the blame for the second time, Karl. As I recall, you had a knife to my throat." A thin chuckle echoed through the empty universe. "Although I would gladly have done it simply for the asking . . . as you may have surmised by now."

Where are you, Deighton? Hell, where am I, for that matter?  

"Matter, Karl, has rather little to do with it. Would you settle for illusion? It will be quite persuasive, I can promise you that."

What the—  

"I'll take that as an assent."

There were no loud sounds or bright lights. The universe simply came back, until Karl Cullinane was sitting in a wooden chair at the battered mahogany table in Room 109 of the Student Union.

The room was as they'd left it on that long-ago night: books and coats piled against the wall and on the extra chairs; pens, pencils, paper, and dice scattered around the battered surface of the old mahogany table. He looked up at the overhead lights. Strange, so strange to see fluorescent lights again. No flicker, just a steady light.

Slowly, gingerly, he got to his feet, waiting for his wounds to start hurting.

But they didn't. He felt fine, except that he wasn't himself, not the self he should have been, not here. While he was wearing jeans and a slightly tight plaid shirt—just as he had way back then—he was still himself from the Other Side, not the skinny Karl Cullinane of This Side.

He flexed his right biceps in the sleeve; the fabric split along the seam.

"And yes, if you prick yourself, you will bleed," the directionless voice said. "But it is all illusion. Have an illusionary cup of coffee, and perhaps a phantom cigarette. You may feel better."

He looked down at the table. A white porcelain mug of coffee sat steaming next to a battered half-empty pack of Camel Filters.

"Drink up, Karl."

He shrugged and picked up the coffee cup, then took a cautious sip.

Good Colombian beans, gently roasted, well laced with rich cream and sugar. Karl had once thought coffee an acquired addiction, but one that could be broken with a bit of abstinence. He now knew he was wrong: This was absolutely delicious. He picked up the cellophane-wrapped pack of cigarettes and extracted one, snickering at the Surgeon General's warning.

I don't suppose us dead folks have to worry about whether something is hazardous to our health. He stuck the filter between his lips. "Light?"

"As I told you, you are not dead. Still, an illusory cigarette is harmless. Enjoy." The end of the cigarette flared into flame.

Karl inhaled the rich smoke . . .

 . . . and doubled over in a spasm of coughing. He threw the cigarette away.

"I said it was harmless, not unirritating."

"Fine." He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Deighton—or should I call you Arta Myrdhyn?"

"Either will serve."

"Why don't you show yourself?"

"If you'd like." Across the table from him, the air shimmered momentarily, and there he sat, just as Karl had seen him on a night more than seven years before. A thin, stoop-shouldered man in a tan wool suit, puffing on the bulldog briar pipe that was responsible for the burns that marked the pockets and arms of the suit.

Deighton removed the pipe from his mouth and touched it to his lined forehead in a brief, mocking salute.

"How have you been, Karl?" He puffed a cloud of smoke into the air.

Karl considered lunging across the table for Deighton, but decided against it. This was either some sort of very real dream or it was Deighton's turf. Either way, jumping Deighton was unlikely to get any results.

"I've had friends die because of you, Arta Myrdhyn," he said.

"True." Deighton nodded slowly, gravely. "True enough. And I assure you that I'm as aware of that as you are. Including Jason Parker, by the way. It was rather nice of Andrea to name your son after him." His face grew pensive for a moment. "I . . . truly didn't mean any of you any harm. And I truly would tell you everything, Karl, if there weren't sufficient reasons not to."

"What do you want?"

"We had an agreement, Karl Cullinane." The pleasant demeanor vanished, as Deighton's eyes turned icy. "You agreed to keep my sword for your son, hold it for him until he was ready to use it. In return for that promise, you were allowed to use it against that young fool Thyren. But you didn't keep your promise, Karl."

Karl pushed himself to his feet. "Not my son, bastard. You keep your filthy hands off of him."

"Sit down."

Karl gathered himself for a leap—

—but found himself sitting in the chair.

"Illusion, remember? My illusion, not yours." Deighton puffed at the pipe for several seconds. "I'll offer you another deal: Fetch the sword for Jason, hold it for him until he's ready for it, and I'll send you back."

Karl dialed for a calm voice. "I thought you said this was an illusion," he said, pleased to find that he could talk calmly. "How can you send me back?"

"Right . . . now, I guess you would call it?—right now, Karl, your body is lying on the battlefield, a knife's edge from death. Normally, I couldn't communicate with you across the barrier between This Side and the Other Side, but this is . . . a special circumstance. While you're not on This Side at all, you're not fully on the Other Side. Does that make sense to you?"

Deighton cocked his head to one side as he steepled his fingers in front of his chin. "I couldn't bring you back from the dead, and I wouldn't push you over the precipice, but I will . . . use my best efforts to hold you on the side of life, for the time being. If, that is, we have an agreement."

"No deals." Karl shook his head. "No deals, Art. You're not going to play around with my son's life the way you have with mine," he said, instantly resolute. He was surprised at himself. There had been a time when he had had difficulty with commitment, even when it was only a matter of committing himself to a course of study.

But that had been long, long ago.

"Yes," Deighton said, studying him closely, "there have been some changes. It is clear nothing I would be willing to do would make you change your mind." He rose to his feet. "Well, I suppose that is that," he said matter-of-factly, tossing his pipe aside. It vanished.

The room started to melt away, the colors running together. Karl braced himself for the final darkness. Goodbye, Andy . . . 

"Oh, don't be so melodramatic." The room solidified again. "You may dispense with the heroics for now. Save them for when they're appropriate. As they will be. I still have to send you back," Deighton said, shaking a finger at him, "although you really ought to be more careful. It's unlikely I'll be able to do even this little for you next time we meet."

"Next time?"

Deighton nodded. "Once more, Karl Cullinane. Once more."

Suddenly, Deighton stood at his side. The old man stuck out a hand. "Be well, Karl Cullinane. Take good care of that son of yours. He's awfully important, as you've suspected."

Karl didn't take the hand. "I will take care of my son, Deighton, whether you want me to or not."

"I'd expect no less."

"Just tell me one thing, please—why?"

"I can't tell you. Not now."

"Will you ever?"

"No." Deighton caught his lip between his teeth. "I'm sorry, Karl. I can't explain it to you right now, and I doubt I'll have the opportunity the next time we meet." He clapped his hand to Karl's shoulder. "Be well, my friend."

"You're no friend of mine!"

Deighton looked surprised. "Of course not. But you are one of mine. It is my fond hope that you will do me a great favor, the next time we meet. Until then, be well."

"Wait—"

"One more thing: Ahrmin isn't dead. He got away again. While I can't blame you for this one, you really ought to have been more thorough in Melawei, Karl."

Deighton smiled genially. "Be well."

The room melted away.

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Framed

Back | Next
Contents

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Arta Myrdhyn

What though the field be lost?
All is not lost; th' unconquerable will,
And study of revenge, immortal hate,
And courage never to submit or yield. 

—John Milton

For a long time, there was nothing. Nobody was there . . . and no body was there.

And then there was a spark, and the spark thought: So this is what being dead feels like. 

"I doubt that you have nearly enough information to decide that yet, Karl," an airy tenor voice out of his past said. "Although if you ever do find out for certain, I would be most grateful if you would let me know. If you can let me know, that is. It's something I have wondered about for . . . for a long time." Deighton chuckled thinly, a hollow sound.

There was no question; the voice was Deighton's. Professor Arthur Simpson Deighton, Ph.D. Lecturer in, though not practitioner of, ethics; gamemaster, wizard.

The bastard who sent us all across.  

"My parentage is not at issue here. And I won't accept the blame for the second time, Karl. As I recall, you had a knife to my throat." A thin chuckle echoed through the empty universe. "Although I would gladly have done it simply for the asking . . . as you may have surmised by now."

Where are you, Deighton? Hell, where am I, for that matter?  

"Matter, Karl, has rather little to do with it. Would you settle for illusion? It will be quite persuasive, I can promise you that."

What the—  

"I'll take that as an assent."

There were no loud sounds or bright lights. The universe simply came back, until Karl Cullinane was sitting in a wooden chair at the battered mahogany table in Room 109 of the Student Union.

The room was as they'd left it on that long-ago night: books and coats piled against the wall and on the extra chairs; pens, pencils, paper, and dice scattered around the battered surface of the old mahogany table. He looked up at the overhead lights. Strange, so strange to see fluorescent lights again. No flicker, just a steady light.

Slowly, gingerly, he got to his feet, waiting for his wounds to start hurting.

But they didn't. He felt fine, except that he wasn't himself, not the self he should have been, not here. While he was wearing jeans and a slightly tight plaid shirt—just as he had way back then—he was still himself from the Other Side, not the skinny Karl Cullinane of This Side.

He flexed his right biceps in the sleeve; the fabric split along the seam.

"And yes, if you prick yourself, you will bleed," the directionless voice said. "But it is all illusion. Have an illusionary cup of coffee, and perhaps a phantom cigarette. You may feel better."

He looked down at the table. A white porcelain mug of coffee sat steaming next to a battered half-empty pack of Camel Filters.

"Drink up, Karl."

He shrugged and picked up the coffee cup, then took a cautious sip.

Good Colombian beans, gently roasted, well laced with rich cream and sugar. Karl had once thought coffee an acquired addiction, but one that could be broken with a bit of abstinence. He now knew he was wrong: This was absolutely delicious. He picked up the cellophane-wrapped pack of cigarettes and extracted one, snickering at the Surgeon General's warning.

I don't suppose us dead folks have to worry about whether something is hazardous to our health. He stuck the filter between his lips. "Light?"

"As I told you, you are not dead. Still, an illusory cigarette is harmless. Enjoy." The end of the cigarette flared into flame.

Karl inhaled the rich smoke . . .

 . . . and doubled over in a spasm of coughing. He threw the cigarette away.

"I said it was harmless, not unirritating."

"Fine." He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Deighton—or should I call you Arta Myrdhyn?"

"Either will serve."

"Why don't you show yourself?"

"If you'd like." Across the table from him, the air shimmered momentarily, and there he sat, just as Karl had seen him on a night more than seven years before. A thin, stoop-shouldered man in a tan wool suit, puffing on the bulldog briar pipe that was responsible for the burns that marked the pockets and arms of the suit.

Deighton removed the pipe from his mouth and touched it to his lined forehead in a brief, mocking salute.

"How have you been, Karl?" He puffed a cloud of smoke into the air.

Karl considered lunging across the table for Deighton, but decided against it. This was either some sort of very real dream or it was Deighton's turf. Either way, jumping Deighton was unlikely to get any results.

"I've had friends die because of you, Arta Myrdhyn," he said.

"True." Deighton nodded slowly, gravely. "True enough. And I assure you that I'm as aware of that as you are. Including Jason Parker, by the way. It was rather nice of Andrea to name your son after him." His face grew pensive for a moment. "I . . . truly didn't mean any of you any harm. And I truly would tell you everything, Karl, if there weren't sufficient reasons not to."

"What do you want?"

"We had an agreement, Karl Cullinane." The pleasant demeanor vanished, as Deighton's eyes turned icy. "You agreed to keep my sword for your son, hold it for him until he was ready to use it. In return for that promise, you were allowed to use it against that young fool Thyren. But you didn't keep your promise, Karl."

Karl pushed himself to his feet. "Not my son, bastard. You keep your filthy hands off of him."

"Sit down."

Karl gathered himself for a leap—

—but found himself sitting in the chair.

"Illusion, remember? My illusion, not yours." Deighton puffed at the pipe for several seconds. "I'll offer you another deal: Fetch the sword for Jason, hold it for him until he's ready for it, and I'll send you back."

Karl dialed for a calm voice. "I thought you said this was an illusion," he said, pleased to find that he could talk calmly. "How can you send me back?"

"Right . . . now, I guess you would call it?—right now, Karl, your body is lying on the battlefield, a knife's edge from death. Normally, I couldn't communicate with you across the barrier between This Side and the Other Side, but this is . . . a special circumstance. While you're not on This Side at all, you're not fully on the Other Side. Does that make sense to you?"

Deighton cocked his head to one side as he steepled his fingers in front of his chin. "I couldn't bring you back from the dead, and I wouldn't push you over the precipice, but I will . . . use my best efforts to hold you on the side of life, for the time being. If, that is, we have an agreement."

"No deals." Karl shook his head. "No deals, Art. You're not going to play around with my son's life the way you have with mine," he said, instantly resolute. He was surprised at himself. There had been a time when he had had difficulty with commitment, even when it was only a matter of committing himself to a course of study.

But that had been long, long ago.

"Yes," Deighton said, studying him closely, "there have been some changes. It is clear nothing I would be willing to do would make you change your mind." He rose to his feet. "Well, I suppose that is that," he said matter-of-factly, tossing his pipe aside. It vanished.

The room started to melt away, the colors running together. Karl braced himself for the final darkness. Goodbye, Andy . . . 

"Oh, don't be so melodramatic." The room solidified again. "You may dispense with the heroics for now. Save them for when they're appropriate. As they will be. I still have to send you back," Deighton said, shaking a finger at him, "although you really ought to be more careful. It's unlikely I'll be able to do even this little for you next time we meet."

"Next time?"

Deighton nodded. "Once more, Karl Cullinane. Once more."

Suddenly, Deighton stood at his side. The old man stuck out a hand. "Be well, Karl Cullinane. Take good care of that son of yours. He's awfully important, as you've suspected."

Karl didn't take the hand. "I will take care of my son, Deighton, whether you want me to or not."

"I'd expect no less."

"Just tell me one thing, please—why?"

"I can't tell you. Not now."

"Will you ever?"

"No." Deighton caught his lip between his teeth. "I'm sorry, Karl. I can't explain it to you right now, and I doubt I'll have the opportunity the next time we meet." He clapped his hand to Karl's shoulder. "Be well, my friend."

"You're no friend of mine!"

Deighton looked surprised. "Of course not. But you are one of mine. It is my fond hope that you will do me a great favor, the next time we meet. Until then, be well."

"Wait—"

"One more thing: Ahrmin isn't dead. He got away again. While I can't blame you for this one, you really ought to have been more thorough in Melawei, Karl."

Deighton smiled genially. "Be well."

The room melted away.

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Framed