Scanned by gojukai
From Tales of Fantasy, Elsewhere Vol. II
Edited by Terri Windling &
Mark Alan Arnold

Junction's Pleasure
	
Richard Englehart

"I'm ready to die."

"You can't," the cave said.

He was old. His long hair, curled and silvered, burnished
now with the sun, flounced in a gentle breeze. His face was
an etching of his experiences. His eyes were glittering blue
jewels, deeply set, twinkling in the catching of the brilliant
morning.

"You know too much," the cave said.

Yellow smoke fumed thickly, pulsing with the energy of
a cut artery. "You have taken," the cave said. "Now you
must give."

The magician coiled his pride and his dusty robes
around him- "I have given," was all he said, though his
face shadowed.

The hole, time-hewn out of a purple granite skrag,
belched sulphurous fumes around the kneeling man. It
rumbled again. "You have given," the cave spoke clearly
to the man, "of your energies, given to aid and thwart."

"So, I have given. Then what?"

The rock around the cave entrance seemed to flex and
form as a mouth speaking. "You must hand your knowl-
edge on."

The magician stood in frustration and anger. "I have no
successor."

"Are you not a powerful mage?"

"You know I am."

"Then where, old man, is your progeny?"

"I have a child," he mumbled, leaning against a dead,
ancient pine.

"A girl," the cave said.

' 'Where is my son? I am weary now of this life and want
to leave. Yet I may not go without passing on my knowl-
edge. I am tired. Listen hole, this grey hair has been
earned. There are none who can match my power." The
man touched the ground at the base of the tree. Above, a
raven watched as the scant humus caught in the rocky
folds shifted and the fresh tip of a new pine shrugged
through the dirt.

"I am so impressed," said the cave, its sarcasm lost on
the raven hut not on the man. "So," the rumbling contin-
ued, "where is your progeny?"

"When first I stood here and we pacted," the old man
said, his nails absently flaking bark from the dead tree,
"you said you would give me a son."

"When we pacted, I said that I would be a source of
power and knowledge for you; that I believed in you; and
that, if you learned well, if you learned the ultimate, I
would give you progeny to whom you would pass your
knowledge."

"A magician may pass knowledge only to first born
males."

"And the penalty?"

"Immortality. Doomed to live with superior knowledge.
different from all, forever alienated."

"Conclusions—with your limited ability?"

"We pacted. You promised progeny. I have waited."

"How is your daughter?"

"Vermillion?"

"You have more than she?"

"I suppose she is well," said the old man.

"You suppose?"

"Since she is not to be my successor, I have spent little
time with her. Magicians must not be involved. Our powers
are paid for with loneliness, for none can understand us."

"Yes ... I have heard so. Do tell me more."

"Must you always be so condescending?"

"No," this time the rumble seemed to be a laugh and the
smoke puffed jauntily.' 'But, at times, it is difficult not to be.
Consider the circumstances."

The old man began to pace nervously, kicking at the
dust. "We cannot really touch even our wives—for they
are women and can understand even less.".

"Indeed!"

"So, why have you broken our pact?" the Mage dared.

Silence.

The magician challenged: "Well?"

More silence.

The magician's eyes lost patience with this smoking
hole, but wisely he held his emotions.

"Well, yourself," the cave echoed—a statement that
boomed across the high pine valleys, vibrating the distant
peaks and shaking the raven from his lethargy.

The old man's shadowed face ebbed and the tide of his
mind prodded him. "You're saying that I have something
yet to learn."

"How deeply perceptive. I knew my time was not to be
wasted on you. Oh, great mage, you who create pine trees,
why don't you create your own successor?"

"This power is not given to me." It was as close to
bitterness as he could allow.

"Does it keep you humble?"

"Yes."

"Good. Remember always of powers greater than your-
self.

"Junction!"

The use of his name set the importance of what was to
follow and he allowed his emotions to dissipate like but-
terflies in the mountain air.

"Yes."

The mountain thundered as the ochre smoke churned.
The cloud enfolded the man and he stood bathed and
listening.

* function, you know more than any man. But be aware
there will always be contenders for your position. Nothing
is as sweet to youth as the fall of an old man. There are
many who would happily dance on your grave.

"Especially," the cave seemed to drop to a confidential
tone, "beware of Castigo."

"Castigo?" The old man blinked, surprised- "How can
he be a danger? He was my student, the best. Yet, he
doesn't possess near the necessary knowledge . . ."

"You taught him enough. What he has learned from
darker sources is what makes him dangerous."

Junction clouded. "I will be prepared, but 1 assume
there is more."

"Continual brilliance. When we pacted, I said that you
must learn the ultimate. You have learned all that men
have to give you, now you must learn one tiling more. This
last is an occult from the dawn, from before thought, from
a time of Eden. Yet the answer has never been hidden. It
has always been around you. It is, indeed, the most fear-
some, the most difficult lesson." The cave puffed and
seemed to smile. "Old man, you need a teacher. This one
does not know what he is to teach; take him with you now.
Learn from him and be companion to each other."

Junction looked around as the enfolding cloud diffused
to a trickling puff and sunlight fell upon him. He could see
no one. A shadow spiralled down from the height of me
dead pine; the raven flapped to the man and grasped
his shoulder through maroon robes as though shaking
hands.

Hello, Junction. There was no sound. The words
formed intelligibly, deep within the man's mind.

"Junction, this is Agapis. Until this moment, when I bid
he do otherwise, he had no interest in things human—just
as you had no interest in things raven. Agapis will be a
guide in your learning. Neither he nor you now under-
stands how. Be of care lest the lesson slip by."

And a wind sprang up pushing the smoke and drifting
through the man's robes as he looked at the bird on his
shoulder. The raven seemed to shrug.

Don't look at me. I know less of this than you. But I'll do
it.

"I will also," said the old man. "I've been equally
perplexed before, but in the end all made sense."

"1 am glad," the cave said,' 'that we are all in agreement.
Well, Junction, Agapis, you had better get started."

"Where?"

"That will take care of itself. You certainly are not going
to learn any more here. I suggest home. Home is always a
good place to start."

The raven pulled from the man's shoulder and settled
onto the canyon updrafts, a flower opening, rising out over
the valley.

I will see you at the valley entrance, Junction. Enjoy
your climb.

The man started down, feeling the exfoliations of granite
crumble and slither from under his feet. "I really wonder
who gets the best part of all this," the magician muttered.
"Somehow none of this seems fair."

"Nobody ever said it was supposed to be," said the
cave.

Junction reached the foot of the mountain, he retrieved
the items that he had stored there prior to his climb: his
cloak—collared, sheening black; his shoulder-strapped
pouch—leather, containing herbs, potions and talismans;
and finally, his heavy staff— black, smooth, a deep natural
grain. He strode through the valley, towards the hidden
entrance; sifting through the dwarfed shrubbery at the
edge, he seemed to fade into the face of a cliff as he
entered a niche which became a narrow, twisting canyon.
It emptied the magician into a scrubbed wood. From this
outer entrance, he looked across low, rolling hills and
could see the dusty road to his home looping through the
low areas.

Junction! The raven's voice floated softly through his
mind and the old man scanned the stunted trees, finally
discerning the space in shadows filled with the bird.
   "Agapis?"

Would you care to assist a peasant being robbed or is
your way home of more importance?

"I'd prefer to continue home; but I suppose I must."

Must? Agapis cocked his head. My new instincts tell me
that you do only what you want and call it 'must'.

"Do your instincts speak of a magician's duty? 'Power is
a double-edged responsibility.' No matter. Philosophy
later, Heroics now. Where?"
Watch me and follow. His sheen glided among the
mushrooms of trees, a black fan wafting.

The peasant, terrified, speechless, stood cringing against
a rock, held by one of the toughs who had twisted the poor
man's tattered chemise against his throat The other stood,
laughing, holding a cocked crossbow, relaxed. The bow-
man spoke, his voice like straw burning. "Fargus. stop
playing with him. Take his poke and stand aside so I can
put him out of his misery." He gestured casually, but
meaningfully, with his crossbow.

"Fargus, rather, just stand aside. Leave his poke and
leave the territory. Also, take what's—his—name with
you."

At me foreign sound, the two turned and the one called
Fargus released the peasant who crumpled to his knees,
bonnet askew. The robber reached into the Mousing of his
cote, producing a small, broad-bladed dirk- He laughed
amiably. "San San, how lucky it is we are! Here we are,
two poor wayfarers, contenting ourselves with meagre
pickings from a poor worker. And now, see what has been
sent us: an old man, to be sure, but his robes have a
richness."

The bowman flipped his rough surcote over his shoul-
der, freeing his arm. He laughed, "True, Fargus; pickings
from him should be good. Shall 1 shoot him first or the one
sniveling by your feet?"
"Ifs a long time since I've slit the throat of an old man.

You take me cryer there, 1 want this pleasure."

The evening sun deepened the shadows to a purple.
Somewhere a thrush bounced through a hidden tangle
and warbled sweetly. Fargus held the knife carelessly as he
moved with mock respect towards Junction.

"I am compelled by unwritten law to warn you. I am
Junction, and I would strongly suggest mat you let the
peasant go. I dread the taking of lives. Even two such as
yours."
Fargus' grin, beard-hidden, lifted his voice and he
laughed, "Well, old one, I do not have difficulty in that
area. So watch me. I'll give you a lesson."

The old man unclasped his cloak and allowed it to drop.
He spoke quietly, "I dread it, but I can and will do it. Let
him go and we will part alive."

As Fargus approached and the banter continued, the
peasant scrambled like a mole around a rock, gained his
feet and ran. Before San San could raise his bow, Fargus
said, "We'll get him later. He can't outdistance us. He'll
only prolong his miserable life. Watch the fun here."

The magician leaned easily on his heavy staff as me
robber sauntered in, humming a light madrigal, his knife
conducting the tune. The rotted-tooth grin stumbled into a
startled grunt of surprise as the staff flicked like a frog's
tongue. It snapped bruisingly from its resting place into his
groin with a dull thwacking sound. Junction shifted, deli-
cate as a dove, and the shaft spun like a disc, breaking me
wrist bone, the knife clattering into the pebbles.

Junction raised his staff. The next swing would break me
man's neck. The magician's pivot saved his life as the
squared shaft thudded into him. He spilled backwards, the
impact and jolt of pain rolling him into a sprawl. San San's
hand, proficient as a striking snake, leapt to his belt quiver
and he began to nock the quarrel. Junction, dazed, at-
tempted to clear his head. Fargus. holding his broken arm
across his body, had retrieved the dirk and was skulking
towards the fallen magician. Through the gauze of shock,
Junction saw a black blur fall out of the trees and scramble
among the bowman's arms; -hands waving, San San
swung viciously at the churning feathers but grabbed only
air as the bird arched and worried him from a different
direction.

The magician rolled, dust clouding. Fargus was only a
few feet from him, spitting curses mat became his last
words as the end of Junction's staff caught him, a slam-
ming piston between the eyes. His head dropped, eyes
staring, blood spurting from his bitter tongue. San San
cleared for a shot and me Mage, on his back, made a
gesture with his hand coupled with a slurred word that did
not come from earth. The bowman pressed the trigger
and, impossibly, the arrow shot backwards, bluntly tearing
through the man's throat.

The maglcian sat on the ground, the arrow's shaft pro-
truding like a driven stake from his left shoulder. That there
was pain was obvious. Yet, as he sat, eyes closed, his mind
going somewhere, doing something, the expression deep
in his face changed to the softness of silk as he gained
control. He grasped the wood shaft and, as though he
could see the wound's channel, slid the arrow out

Agapis understood pain and winced in his fashion as he
fried to follow the magician's cool objectivity. The man slid
the robe open, baring the bloody pucker. He reached into
his pouch and, with the dexterity of a surgeon, cleaned the
wound and inserted a thick white ointment on the tip of a
probe.

Your bag is a provider.
"I've had enough experience to know what I'll need
most."

Will you be well?

"Soon- It will heal rapidly and I can control the stiff-
ness." He returned the items to his bag, organizing them.
"This is far from the worst I've had—though it was all
easier when I was younger. I am aware that you saved me
from worse harm. You have my thanks and I owe you a
life."

I did only what seemed sensible. Since we are now
companions and I'm finding the experience interesting, I
could not bring myself to watch it terminate.

Junction shifted his robe over the wound and wrapped
his cape around himself. He smiled. "Of that, I'm glad. I
wondered why the cave gave me you. This was a good
start. Though I'm supposed to learn something through
you—I can't fathom it. Do you know what the lesson is?"

Iam a stronger here myself, the raven cackled. I had no
interest in any of this. I just do what I'm told. A breeze
trundled through the clumped trees and the black bird's
feathers frayed. In annoyance, it ruffled them into place
and modified its position. You almost gave your life for that
peasant. Yet, at the first opportunity, he ran. That is hardly
a mode of thanks. Humans can't be trusted much, can
they?

"They can be trusted to be human. We must all admit to
a weakness. He owed me nothing."

You saved his life. That's nothing?

"If I can help, then I must. My knowledge gives me
responsibility,"

He had none?

"His ignorance forgives him."

Ravens consider natural instinct—aiding one who has
aided you as mandatory.

"Humans have drifted-far from what is 'natural'. Once,
perhaps—but now—"

And you? Does your knowledge put you in touch with
what is natural?

The old man tested his shoulder, gave an honest
grimace but felt his strength and said:

"We should continue. I have an uneasiness concerning
my home and something the cave said about a one-time
student of mine."

The bird stretched two black silk fans and lofted to an
easy hover. Junction pulled himself up on his staff, a
maroon vine bursting a silver flower. Though Agapis was
overhead, Junction heard him as if the bird were perched
on his shoulder.

So ignorance absolves responsibility in humans?

"Perhaps not, but knowledge tolerates ignorance better
than ignorance tolerates knowledge."

The umber dust exploded with each of his sandaled
steps and he followed his staff feeling a strange urgency,
one that he had felt before, one that had demonstrated its
validity many times.

Before me sun pinked the highest peaks, Junction stood
at the crest of a long slope. His home nestled near the
bottom, around several looping bends. He paused only a
moment—as he always did at this hill. His childhood was in
this valley, and he allowed himself the nostalgia. The black
bird rolled out ahead of him, disappearing in the direction
of the cottage.' I will announce your arrival and be back
soon to allay your fears.

The magician could not disperse his apprehension, and
as he came into sight of the white stone cabin he could see
a window broken, no one in sight, and the bird reaching

towards him.

Stop, Junction! The bird flapped in a braking arc.

The magician, breathing hard, paused.

Prepare yourself.

At this, the old man brushed at the air and moved
towards the house, the bird lining and following. The
threshhold, heaped with the shattered remains of the door,
gaped at him. He struggled over the splintered wood.
Inside, Junction recognized the trademark of Castigo: the
odour of charred timbers, sandlewood and an edge of
death. He used it, the magician remembered, the way an
animal uses urine.

A window had been blasted and its beam hung across
the opening, blocking the sun. Light leaked across the
threshhold into the dark, ruined room and, in the shaft, lay
a body, female, dishevelled, sprawled,

"Mara." The old man knelt, gently gathering his robes,
and raised her head. settling it on his knee.

The raven fastened himself to the darkness near me
collapsed window beam and studied with curiosity this
superior man reduced to a tremble.

"Mara." He reached a weathered hand into his pouch
and removed from the clutter two phials of amber liquid.
He unstopped one and, tilting the container, wet his fin-
ger. Forcing her mouth open, he touched his finger to
the woman's tongue. The other liquid he daubed under
her nose. She coughed, stirred and squirmed. Seeing
him, she folded him to her, biting her tips to keep from cry-
tog.

When she calmed, he made a pass at an oil lamp which
flickered into life, bouncing a bit of the darkness back. She
looked at him. "I thought we agreed—" she said through
swollen lips,"—no magic in the house."

He shrugged. "It seemed expedient," he said, and he
carried her to the bed, softly nestling her into the heavy
furs.

"Mara, was it Castigo?"

"Castigo. A rather brash young fellow, don't you
think?" Her voice shook and she punctuated it with an
attempt at a smile but ended by biting the knuckles of her
fisted hand.

"He's an infant"

"Hardly."

"Did he ... harm you?"

Her blood and her bruises made the question rhetorical.
She looked away, then gazed directly into his eyes, watch-
ing for his reaction to her words. (She was disappointed,
but his lack of concern wasn't unexpected.)

"He is fierce. He raped me. Do you consider rape harm,
my husband?"

"Where is Vermillion?"

"He raped me."

"You spoke dearly. I heard. What would you have me
say?"

"Speak, Magician, of your concern for me,"

"You know of my concern."

"I would hear it."

"Then damn, woman, hear. He has forced you. He will
pay. But to speak on it further is futile, what has been done
cannot be undone by sympathy."

"Sympathy will not harm me."

"It will, however, consume time. Tell me of Vermillion."

She paused, frustrated, her fingers digging into the furs.
"H was she for whom he came. He came with his necras-
ses, black flapping forms. They held Verm while he forced
himself on me. I called you. You did not hear. The while,
he muttered in my ear that she would be superior stock."

At her pause, he stood and moved away towards the
lamp, staring at its subtle shifting, "Stock," he said.

She lifted her head.' 'He Is going to use her with his son,
Mordant. Castigo assumes your daughter will give him a
powerful grandson."

"Indeed, he is correct. If there were such a union, the
offspring would be awesome."

"There will be."

"There will not be."

"How will you prevent it?"

"I just will."

"Does she mean that much to you?" The words were
molten lead, dropped slowly from a crucible.

The old man could not hold her eyes. He moved from
the bed to the canted beam, assessing its repair.

"She is my daughter," he said with his back to her. His

voice was heavy.

"She has been such for twelve years. It seemed little
concern till now.'*

He faced her and saw her beauty, black hair sprayed
over the white fur pillow. Her face was wrinkle-free, her
age indeterminable. He fought back his human emotions
and merely said: "Till now."

The magician, her husband, sat at the edge of the bed to
explain that he would stay long enough to seek aid from a
couple in a near cabin. And, using his magic, he undid the
damage Castigo had inflicted on the cottage. It stood white
and sweet again, all trace of Castigo gone. When she was
cared for, the magician kissed her. "I will return," he said.
"I will bring your daughter. She will be safe."

"This time," she answered him, looking at him through
swollen eyes. "She is beautiful and—with her
bloodline—she will be a prize. How will a magician's
daughter protect herself? Especially when her father is
never here."

He grunted, gestured to the raven and they started
towards a mountain peak that was several ranges and days
away.

"Castigo's mountain," said Junction.

The terrain had shifted several times, becoming more
dismal as they travelled. They were perhaps a week into
their venture and resting in a desert region with deepening
night no comfort in the desolation. The breeze fanned the
sand in a dry spume over the lips of dunes and the grit
penetrated everything. They sat uncomfortably before a
fire culled from the straining shrubs.

The magician sat staring into the fire, watching the
flames gambol like young orange deer, Agapis had been
speaking for some time before his words nuzzled into
Junction's fantasy web,

... so disturbed?

"What?"

Your intensity and anxiety is disproportionate to your
personality and your beliefs. All that you have told me of
yourself does not add up to this deep concern.

He gestured to his chest. "Much is carried here. I have a
tremendous decision to make. To be involved causes only
difficulty and pain,"

Your concern for your daughter surprises you.

"It is dangerous."

The bird bounced a bit away from a fire that had grown
too hot. Junction turned his attention from the flames and
looked at the raven- "Do you understand any of this?"

The more I am acquainted with humans, the less I
understand. You are amusing in the ways you deceive
yourselves. And if you, a magician, a man close to the
understanding of nature, are an example, it will be hilari-
ous to meet others.

"Must you insult? You sound so like the cave."

The bird bounced to Junction's knee and fanned its tail
towards the warmth. He cocked his head sideways.

Perhaps I've been around the cave too much. Never-
theless, inconsistency seems to be your only constant.

"I don't need your chiding. I can't expect you to under-
stand, but I have a true human quandary."

It has to do with your daughter?

The magician stood and shook his leg, which had fallen
asleep, and the raven squawked its surprise and flapped to
the ground. "I have," Junction said "ignored her for
twelve years. When she was born, I had expected a boy—
someone to whom I could pass my knowledge."

What of parental love?

"I cannot involve myself with human frailties. It is a
price that one pays as a magician. You gain the knowl-
edge, the ability to help others; but to be proficient, you
must stay apart."

The raven mustered his most sarcastic tone. /s that to say
that you are nom objective?

"I am now confused,"

Agapis chuckled and hopped a few feet beyond the rim
of the firelight, his blackness melting into the night. The
raven looked up at the sky and thought that a flight prior to
sleep would be invigorating and soothing. As his muscles
tensed, and his wings spread, the sand beneath him sud-
denly gave way and something slithered and wrapped
vise-like around him. He had only time for a brief squawk
before he disappeared beneath the surface.

Junction. I don't know what has me, but I'm in trouble.
You'd better hurry.

The magician rushed to the depression in the sand,
lighting the area with a flickering firebrand. He asked,
"Are you being pulled deeper?"

No, I've stopped. It's hurting. Hurry! Please!

Junction said "I haven't done this one for a while. . ."

He shoved the brand into the sand, and concentrating
on the small crater he held his hands above his head,
fingers pointing towards the sand . . . Junction—Help
me! . . .' a vicious downward thrust and sparks leapt
arching into the ground. A burst of sound and a cloud of
sand blasted into the air. Twisting in a feathered frenzy, the
bird was catapaulted into the darkness and shook pieces of
brown stringy substances from it. The black flapping wings
stopped their panicked beating and the bird settled to earth

a respectful distance from the crater. In the centre of the
hole something heaved and pulsed. Liquid spilled into the
sand. The something seemed to draw into itself and it
pulled into the depths and was gone, leaving pieces be-
hind, twisting and curling.

Agapis alighted on Junction's shoulder, cradling tightly
against his neck. He was shaken. There was no bravado.
He looked at the bare patches on his body and said, Was
that the best you could do?

"It seemed expedient."

If you would have blasted a foot closer, there would
have been pieces of me lying there instead of that thing.

"Don't worry. I don't eat crow."

Now who's insulting?

"Don't call kettles black."

Thank you, Junction. What was that thing?

"I have no idea. There are many such things here."

Before, I was playing with your weakness. I am sorry—
truly so. I guess that makes us even?

"I've never been good at keeping account. Lets just say
that we're always even."

You were talking about your confusion...

The magician held the raven on his forearm and dose to
his chest, stroking the soft feathers, soothing. "When a
magician dies, alt his magic dies with him, unless he passes
it on to his first born son.”

And you have but a daughter.

“If he does otherwise, he is condemned to immortality."

The bird spoke, calmer now; / thought humans enjoyed
long lives.

"To-live forever, superior in knowledge and powers,
unable to be close to another human, unable to regress
and be like them—condemned to continue to learn, to
continue to grow. My pact was that I would learn what the
cave would teach, use it for the betterment of people and
pass it on. Before I can die, I must have a son that I do not
have and must learn something from a bird and I do not
know what that something is."

Well, I don't either. Don't stop, by the way, that feels
good. If I had any idea, I'd let you know.

Junction smiled.' 'How alike we are. Who will judge the
Judge and to whom does a magician go for strokes?"

That night passed, and two more, with Agapis complain-
ing of stiffness from his encounter. What sun there was
faded like roses wasting on a windowsill and the sky
slipped to a dull white. They climbed into a rocky, treeless
realm, deprived of their shadows. As they rounded a jag-
ged shoulder, the stony path pitched into open space.
Below, far below, they could see pines, green fields, an
emerald lake, in stark contrast to the gargoyle barrenness
around them. Jutting from the centre of the lake, a rock
spine Island struggled until it reached their height It
shrugged solidly as though it were some decapitated beast;
and sitting, hunched on the flat top: Castigo's castle.

The structure was linked with the path by a 'narrow
swinging bridge, a thread between two worlds. Neither of
them worth much, was Junction's thought Rather fort-
like in appearance, was the raven's thought. Earthen in
colour, bulky and powerful, it challenged all to penetrate its
squatting coldness.

It seems, thought the bird. that a magician could do
better; more charm, grace, magic-like, you know. It's not
ominous, just isolated and daring somehow.

"That's Castigo. Should he continue along this bent, he
will be very dangerous."

Might he change?

"Change is always possible as long as the soul is green.
When the bark hardens, even then it's possible, but much
more difficult. I don't want to kill him,"

How do we meet him?

"We just walk across this suspension bridge and into the
web. He knows we're here . . . has known for some
time."

You're going to walk across that abyss knowing that he
knows?

Junction took two steps up to the wooden ties that
stretched intricately woven into the rough hemp-like rope
that formed the only path to the castle. He started across
and the bridge began a trembling sway. As he walked,
concentrating on balance, he continued, "No student is
content just believing that he is better than his teacher. He
has to prove it" Nearing the castle. Junction scanned me
structure. Its front walls and battlements leaned forward
like a toad supported by flying buttresses shaped like
dragons.

What are those. Magician?

At the far side he could see several elongated, flattened
black beings, something like an eel with appendages,
standing beside the bridge's support ropes. "Those are
necrasses—creatures of this area that Castigo has taken a
liking to. They have some intelligence and he's trained
them."

They have knives. They could cut the support ropes.
"They will. Those are their orders. The imp has sent
some underlings to test me, for his amusement They
won't cut the ropes until I get close, and that will be their
mistake."

Agapis flew near the creatures. They paid no attention to
him; their small, hard eyes were fixed on the magician
approaching. Moving almost in unison, as he drew near,
their knives sliced at the ropes. Junction waved his staff,
shouting three words that sounded like barking. Again he
waved the staff over his head, discharging a pulsing wind-
like sound. The noise whipped through the air and
wrapped the black things in it like an invisible shroud,
pulsing and vibrating against them. They squirmed and
emitted a white slimy fluid, a natural protection. Their
vacant mourns opened and a dismal wail oozed into the
sunless air. Yet, the pulsations continued, compacting the
sound into pressure, and the necrasses were squeezed,
their insides popping from their mouths- As the noise
faded, they lay wrung, wasted, their body Juices dribbling
over the edge of the cliff.

The old man gained the ledge and was met with a
booming voice from the main turret to the left of the closed
doors. "Nicely done, Noble Master. A simple enough
technique. One that expends little energy. It took you
some time to get here. You are slowing down."

"Speed, Castigo, is not always essential. At times pro-
priety, class, a certain impeccability of manner, something

that comes with wisdom ..."

"No more lectures, Old Man. I have all of your wis-
dom."

"You have some of my knowledge and none of my
wisdom. The two aren't the same. Mara was right; you
have grown quite brash."

"Ah, Mara. And how is your wife?"

Junction chose not to respond.

Castigo gestured behind him and two necrasses wrig-
gled out, dragging Vermillion. She stood there, his daugh-
ter, in a thin white chemise, her head up, hair—amber as
mead—whipped by the colourless breeze. Junction was
struck by her beauty. Perhaps it was the contrast. Perhaps
(he stress had touched the inner magic power that would
be natural in his offspring- Yet she glowed, radiated a
pride, a defiance, that sparkled in this sunless land.

Next to her stood Mordant, smiling like his father, slight-
er In build, obviously not as athletic as the dark powerful
man, his teacher. The son smiled, but there was a ner-
vousness there. He glanced at his father.

Castigo swung his legs over the edge. of the turret and
sat, his legs dangling some distance above Junction. His
grin danced, framed by shoulder length coal hair swirling
like a shattered spider web- "It's not brash to want one's
due. Look, Old Man, let's set this straight. I don't want to
take over the world. I am not an evil magician." He
smoothed his shimmering black surcoat. "I have my
mountain. This is all I want"

"All you want now," Junction interrupted.
"Well, now is what is important, isn't it? Somebody
taught me that. Anyway, now is enough." He reached
back and brought the girl to the edge, his arm around her.
"She is a fine gin, Junction, beautiful, strong. She carries
your bloodline. I wish her to be my son's wife. She will bear
us both fine grandchildren, don't you think?" He caught
her chin between his thumb and forefinger and tilted her
head, appraisingly.

Junction leaned against the main buttress directly under
Castigo's dangling legs. "What of her wishes?" Junction
said, nodding to the girl in the thin white chemise.

"What of them? You didn't seem to care much about
them for twelve years. What of Mara's wishes? How many
of them did you cast off? Come on, Old Teacher. I know
you. We've talked- How is this so much different? You
really lose nothing and gain a fine grandson. We don't
have to fight."

"Your problem, young one, is that you don't ask, you
take. While my own responsibilities may not have been
fully met, as you've noted, I've never taken by force. I've
never coerced."

"But, Junction, you're forgetting that that's the way
nature's set up." Castigo laughed gleefully. "The fittest
survive."

The old man grew calm, trying to fathom his adversary's
strategy. He noticed mat the buttress he was leaning
against was supporting the turret which overhung me wall.
"You've forgotten the final step of nature- There is sur-
vival, yes—but the goal is harmony. Without harmony,
nature doesn't exist You know nothing of nature, little
man." As he spoke, he felt mat the turret was tied into the
wall. He traced his finger along the dragon's tail. He said,
"Vermillion, are you well?"

"Father," her voice flowed there in that cold place like
sunlight and she was calm. "I have not been harmed and
have been provided for. I do not want to be here but I do
not wish you to endanger yourself."

Junction threw a sudden, vicious pass at the stone dra-
gon,. swept the flying buttress over the precipice, and the
turret, itself, began to crumble. Castigo shouted and
scrambled back into the turret Chunks of dark mortar and
chinking dropped out as cracks ripped through the wall like
the branches of some stone tree and hewed rocks fell, the
face of the castle beginning to crumble.

Castigo and Mordant leaped to an adjacent battlement
while the turret fell forward, carrying the girl with it. The
two necrasses disappeared into the rumble of dust mat
spewed from the churning stones. Vermillion was falling
forward with the wall, with the turret, and Junction, danc-
ing from the tumbling chunks of granite bouncing around
him, pushed at the ground—and he levitated, meeting the
plummeting tower, picking his daughter from its crumbling
floor and, guiding his movements, alighted in front of the
palace gate.

The wall of the castle wavered and Castigo and Mordant
ran for the stairs, the wall collapsing behind them. Though
the rumbling roar clouded his vision, Junction could see
Mordant scrambling down the shaking stone steps; behind
him, his father slipped as the stairs gave way. The boy
turned and looked up as the wall pushed Castigo out from
the edge and away. He watched as his father fell on one
leg. The splintering sound could be heard even where the
old man stood. Castigo rolled on the ground, the rocks
crashing, shattering, dust burying him. He lay still, pinned
by several stones, his leg splintered, the pain great. He
shouted to his son, "Mor, call the necrasses on him."

Mordant ran to the side of the gate, turned and
screamed, "Father, they can't. They're trapped. They're
behind the gate but the courtyard has collapsed behind
them. They're penned in."

Junction had gathered Vermillion to him and was back-
ing towards the bridge as Castigo gestured and the great
gates buckled and splintered- Freed, the necrasses surged
forward, slithering, a high-pitched moan from a thousand
black throats. Almost mindless, the leech-like things wrig-
gled, thousands of webbed feet scraping, dust clouding.
Junction roared and threw his staff into their midst as the
tide stumbled towards him. The old man backed onto the
bridge, keeping himself between me necrasses and Ver-
million.

For an instant the staff lay there, kicked by hundreds of
slithering feet. Then it shuddered and began to belch
clouds of blue smoke and its shaking grew more violent
and the ground under it wavered, jaggedly splitting. A
growling, grinding sound began building and me gap grew
violently, grating the rock, shattering and pitching huge
boulders into the air and the crack grew deeper with
stumbling black forms falling through the blue smoke,
down, lost in the darkness. The gap grew into a chasm and
from its bowels a brimstone sound and a blast of heat
spewed from the released entrails of the mountain.

Mordant, seared in the red fire glare, had freed his father
and was dragging him under an overhanging ledge. Cas-
tigo shouted,' 'Junction, you'll pay for this, pay highly. Old
Man, you will die! Both of us cannot live in this world!" He
threw several passes at the magician; they spattered aim-
lessly Into the gorge behind Junction and his daughter.
"We'll meet again. Soon. There is no use in hiding from
me."

"I have no intention of hiding," said the old man. The
inner blasts of the mountain were splitting it In two, the
palace crumbling in on Itself, the flames scorching the
necrasses, driving them over the lip of the gorge. A
thousand burned and dying wails pummelled the moun-
tain.

You haven't much time old man. You'll never get
across.

"Well, where have you been?"

Watching. You didn't seem to need much help. This, I
assume, is the fabled Vermillion. The bird alighted deli-
cately on the girl's shoulder and there was a pause.

"Father, he's beautiful. Who is he? Where did he come
from?"

"Daughter, this is hardly the time for introductions,"
said the magician, and he made a gesture, knocking two
other black creatures into the lake far below. "We are not
out of tills yet I don't know how many necrasses are left.
We have to re-group; Castigo still possesses a deadly
energy pass and he's not finished."

What’s your plan?

"I'm going to cut this end of the bridge loose, ride it
down and drop into the lake. I can break most of the fall
with levitation. It will still be rough. If I can't kill him now, I
will have to meet him again. Listen, Agapis, I'll be most
vulnerable as I swing out. Do you understand?"

Completely. You will not be vulnerable. I will see to it.

The magician pushed his daughter down, urging her to
hold tightly. Sparks jumped from both hands and he cut
the two ropes simultaneously. The bridge shook precari-
ously, its stability gone. Castigo realized the strategy and
dragged himself out into the open, the rumbling, the glare,
flashing around him. He watched, shielding his eyes, as
Junction cut the final base rope and the bridge dragged
from me edge and swung free- The old man pivoted and
held both himself and Vermillion against the swinging
bridge as it seemed to hang for an instant and then started
its long, wavering loop, "When I yell, let go!" he shouted
into his daughter's ear. Her obedience was crucial.

The slow, swinging target was an easy one for Castigo
and he took his time. He smiled in spite of his pain and
extended his index finger—pointing at the magician's back
as it drifted away from him. He laughed and was about to
release the energy just as Agapis dove in a long looping
arc.

Be of care. Junction. I'll take care of him. Your daughter
is beautiful and worth any price—as are you.

The black blur hit the young magician just as he heard
his son's shouted warning. He yelled in pain as he moved
his leg and his energy blast splintered the boards near
Junction's head, singeing his hair, driving slivers into his
cheek. Vermillion whispered in his ear, "Father?"

"No matter. Get ready to drop."

The pendulum, swinging in a graceful arc, gaining
momentum, reached its nadir and Castigo was set for
another try. Again, Agapis swooped in. Castigo, annoyed,
blurred a pass at him and the bird struck me energy wall
that was waiting for him. The shock threw him violently
into the air and he bounced back to the earth.
Good bye. Junction.

Junction heard me words as he released his grip and
called for his daughter. As they plummeted towards the
lake, the old man pointed at Vermillion and their fall
became a flutter. They dropped into the cold blue of the
lake as two snowflakes.

Mordant stood at me cliffs edge, watching. "They sur-
vived, Father. All because of this," and he kicked the black
heap of frazzeled feathers over the lip, watching it bounce
from ledge to outcrop, finally to splash softly and sink.

"It's all right, Son. We will have our chance again. God,
what a master! What power!"

"I don't understand, Father. You admire the man, yet
you fight him."

"That enmity has anything to do with admiration is a
fallacy. He is a beautiful man. It is too bad that I must kill
him."

It was a green place where he carried her; a cavern of
trees, heavy-moist, the roof leaf-layered, interlocked fil"
igrees of Thujas, Sassafras, Quassia and Balsam- Humid
purple shadows hung like hovering birds, beaten back to
. niched recesses by shafts of sunlight. Filtered, it cast a
delicate green on everything. On the quaggy floor, vervain
and orchids dappled me fragrance of hyacinths.

He laid her on a flourish of feathered moss, heavy green.
He undressed her gently at the edge of a pool that was
turquoise, placid, and pure. The magician looked at his
daughter and his heart jumped, aware, perhaps for the first
time, that twelve years had indeed passed—that she was a
little girl no longer. The soft beauty was muted by bruises
and contusions. With care, he applied an amber balsam
and a thicker white cerate. His hand cradled her head and
he pressed a crystal cordial to her lips, the tonic vitalizing.

He watched the rose creep under the skin and as her eyes
began to flicker, he draped the chemise modestly over her.

"Father, are you all right?" She looked into his eyes,
concern first for him and only a slight wince as she shifted
her position.

"Better now. And you?"
"A bit tired, but very. well. We won, did we not?"

"In a battle, there are no winners, only survivors. We
lost Agapis." His voice was heavy.

"I am sorry. He was so beautiful." Her eyes shone and
the tears were dew on roses, her innocence jolted by the
raven's sacrifice.

"He chose to die."

"Why? Why would he do such a thing?"

"For me to learn and for you to live. I was a stranger to
him, as different from him as possible, yet he had no
hesitation in doing what he knew was necessary."

Her brows knitted. "I don't understand."

"No matter. I do."

"You say that he died for me to live. I don't feel that

important."

"In his decision, you were—are. You must not minimize
his action- He was beautiful. So now you have a gift of life
and you are responsible."

Tears streamed and her body trembled. "It's a frighten-
ing gift."

He allowed his ancient hands to melt through the shin-
ing gold of her hair. "Responsibility is indeed so."

The old man looked up through me holts canopy at the
fractional white of sunlight, holding her for a long time, for
a very long time. She stopped sobbing and there was a
silence: no wind, no animal rustle scuttling under the be-
tony, not even the sonorous insect purl. He listened to her
bruises and the murmur of her wounds. Something un-
tangled inside him and the old man felt his lips lilt into a

gentle smile.
"Father, how long will we stay here?"

"Soon, you will be well. You are young and are mend-
ing quickly. We are here because you will need the
strength from this place when we once again deal with
Castigo. And because I want you to meet someone—
someone important."

She looked up, a delicate shudder wafted through her,
like a seagull. "Must we meet Castigo again?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Castigo doesn't know how to let anything go. It's why
he was my best student. He teamed well and he's at a
crossroads. At another time, his brilliance would have
made him my successor. Well, even Mages make mistakes
and Castigo was mine. Castigo did that human thing—he
made a choice. One that I cannot live with. It's going to be
such a waste."

She looked down at the water and saw herself reflected
mere in a shimmer.' 'My feelings towards him disturb me."

"You are entitled to your feelings. Mine, too, are disturb-
ing. I've token any number of lives—never without cause-
Rarely, though, have I looked forward to it. It is difficult
with Castigo for me. I do not want his death, for I under-
stand him too well. I know what he wants, and, from his
stance, its not evil. . .

"Yet, I will do what must be done. With him and you."

She brightened and asked, "You said, Father, that there
was someone I was to meet?"

"He is near now. He has been aware of and watching us
since we've been here. This place is his. Over there, the
other side of the pool—that's where he is,"

She glanced over at the green jumble and, through the
graced vines of the white jasmine, Vermillion saw him
appear. He stepped through a coppice drape and stood
near the slender white camphor trunks at the edge of the
pool. He was watching. His whiteness was different from
the flower-white that dappled the covert. His whiteness did
not hold the green cast that all else here held, rather, it
flouresced in a primitive purity, a glow that came from
within.

He was not very large, perhaps slightly bigger than a
pony. In him, though, was a rippling strength, a leanness of
defined muscles; that separated him from other animals.
His mane and tail were longer than Vermillion would have
thought, flowing silk, sheened like the iridescence of
milkweed pod flax. And though his fetlocks were sunk into
the betony and camomile, she could see that the hair
there was longer and tufted. The horn, though, was right.
Golden, ribbed, delicately arched, gently proportioned, it
exuded a strength that demonstrated this animal to be
formidable. The awesome power of the horn gleamed its
statement in silence.

Her father interrupted her assessment when he said,
"He docs not speak. He does not communicate his
thoughts as did Agapis. He just is. He accepts or rejects. If
he rejects, he is never seen again. He has accepted me and
we have ventured together many times. I have never
brought another human here, to his home. I had hoped,
by bringing you, that he would understand my urgency."

Junction waited, anxious, barely breathing. This was
one of those times where his magic had no place; whatever
happened would depend on the will, on the needs, de-
sires, of two independent beings.

The unicorn still watched. It tossed its head and the
mane swirled like the curling eddies of a deep river. It took
a few steps around the pool.

Vermillion's attention shifted from the awesome beauty
of the animal to its eyes. She was startled- The glitter of
knowledge that danced there was incongruous with its
setting. She read eternity there, a song that trilled in an
unknown key. He was a lion, an antelope; he was an eagle.
Vermillion realized then that the descriptions she had
heard of unicorns were not built from physical actuality but
from an amalgamation of the essence of animals, birds,
even plants. He seemed, somehow, to be everything; to be
combined extremes without being reduced to a median; to
be beauty, joy, ugliness, suspicion. He was male, but his
intuition, grace and beauty had the flowerhead of female-
ness. No description seemed adequate.

Vermillion smiled and the unicorn snorted gruffly. He
approached her where she sat battled in the incense of
jasmine and hyacinth, sunk in the heavy green of the moss.

He lowered his head to nuzzle the aroma that honeyed
her hair.

Vermillion stood, her fingertips tracing a pattern on the
unicorn's muzzle, and she whispered, "You are so beauti-
ful." She touched the golden spike with one finger. It was
as the susurrus of a gentle rain and the animal, soundless,
gave himself to her. It was a forever thing.

Junction inhaled deeply, his relief tangible. He thought
to himself: She has the magic of the unicorn; the magic and
the fury, the grace, the love, the power, the myth—But is it
enough?

He knew it wasn't.

"Father, does he stay here always?"

"This place, this pool, is his. It exists only because of
him. He came down from the mountain for me one time
and created it. Here he stays." Junction stroked the lean
neck, his hand soft on the white. "Unicorns do what they
will for their own reasons. Every unicorn must have a pool
of pure water or be near purity. Without purity, unicorns
die."

Vermillion drifted to the edge of the turquoise pool, her
young legs long and slender. Her bare feet sank deeply
into the moss. She looked to the animal as if for permission
and touched the water with her toe. The unicorn watched,
but it made no move. She waded delicately into the cool,
perfect pool.

The unicorn looked at the magician.

"She is beautiful, isn't she?"

The unicorn looked at him.

"You are aware that she is in danger?"

The unicorn looked at him.

"It’s not right that she be in danger simply because I
helped to bring her into this world, . .You think that I've
gotten soft, that I've lost my detachment."

The unicorn looked at him.

"Well, that's not it. It may seem like that, but. . . you
see . . .it's merely a matter of practicality. After all, I do
have some responsibility."
The unicorn looked at him and nibbled a comfrey leaf.

"I have to maintain my status as a magician. . .I'm not
going to show her everything—just enough to protect her.
Still, I don't believe that the cave will see it my way."

The unicorn paused. He seemed to smile.

And so, there, among the citrus scent of the bergamot
trees in the drifting humid haze, the girl sat draped in her
chemise; the unicorn lay on the deep piled moss, eyes
dosed, content, his delicate head resting softly in her lap.

Her father began in detail, touching first the very basic
levels of magic; the apparent split of man from nature, the
sympathy of nature for man and his needs, the develop-
ment of individual strengths—not to the control of nature
by supernatural forces but blending the respect of the two
powers.

"Father, I don't know if I can remember all of this," she
said frankly.
He turned to her and rested his hands on her slender

shoulders. His eyes were intense, bluer than she remem-
bered them.

' 'Venn, I' m so proud of you. You know, it took me years

of mistakes before I was able to do even some of me
simplest things."

"Really? Somehow, 1 guess I thought you could do it all
from the start. I can't picture you confused like this."

"Ha! I'll tell you some stories as we go along. Mistakes
are awfully important. They give us measuring sticks - . .
show how much we're growing . . . see? Here, try this
. . .get this comfrey to bend away from the sun. Watch."

He touched the angular hairy stem, pushing it towards
the shadows. It stayed.

Gently, she moved another the same way and it sprang
back, some pale purple flowers dropping. She looked at
him, disappointed.

"Sometimes," he laughed, "the cave would get so
angry with me, I thought it would give up. Often, I wanted
to quit. Here. just keep trying—talk to it."

Again, with a touch light as a moth, she coaxed the
plant—and this time, it obeyed.

Junction stood, laughing, and took her hand in his and
they walked through that magic place. He explained and
demonstrated subtle, almost obvious concepts. He told
her that it was the will of the magician more than the
correct secret words that caused things to happen—that it
was the magician's wisdom and not the proper ritual that
was important. "Yet," he said, "linking will and words—
wisdom and ritual—we're able to tap into the forces of
eternity.'' His look and smile swung back to tile past, a lone
bird flying, and his throat tightened. There was a welling in
his chest- He said, "When you were born and were only
this big, I never thought I' d see you working with the forces
of eternity . . ."

One day Junction said, "We have to leave now."

She asked, "May we return?"

"Your question will be answered by the result of our
confrontation. Castigo and Mordant are nearing and I
want to face them away from this place. They are coming
over the ridge. We will make haste and meet them in me
mountains above the timberline."

"We will win—I mean, we will be the survivors . . .
won't we?"

"That, indeed," said the teacher, packing his simple
goods skilfully, "is my intention. However, Castigo is no
fool. He has strengthened himself since our meeting.
When two magic’s contact, the outcome cannot be
predicted—only assumed. And assumption is the staple of
fools. Come, let us go quickly."

"Father, what of him?"

"What of him?"

"Will he come with us?"

"Unicorns do what they do. They remain unattached—
like magicians,"

She donned the purple surcoat of a mage mat he had
brought for her. He appraised her sharply and nodded his
approval. "As we leave here, the weather wilt change.
Come now."

The unicorn stood watching as they crossed the small
stream and waded through the flimsy threads of ferns and
nasturtiums. The girl glanced back. "Good bye," she said
simply.

The unicorn watched. They left the bowered region and
hiked through a galaxy of green springing grass, waist high.
The vibrant blue of the sky was tufted with patches of fluff
and they could see the dark peak ahead of them sheathed
in heavy strata, layered with ominous greys, and, from
there, the jagged silver threads of lightning glared at them,
warning like a pointing finger. Junction paused and ges-
tured, ' 'It is from there that he comes. We'll meet him near
the top." From that darkness, thunder—muffled by
distance—rolled at them, a giant ball forcing a path
through the gentle fields. And still they climbed.

The meadows wound through pines and the pines,
grudgingly, gave up; the ground became rocky, jagged.
Vermillion looked up, watching the clouds meet, fold, lock
in a glowering canopy. They rolled, colliding with the sheer
granite face towering above, and the wind^ spilled out,
tumbling down on them. She followed her father, watch-
ing his cloak swirl and lash, his stride powerful.

The grey, soft underbellies of the clouds swelled and
spewed a burst of rain. The wind warped across the strewn
boulders, glancing off them like shattering ice, whipping
their soaked clothing, the rain streaming across their faces,
Vermillion's golden hair poured butter-like down her back
and she, aware that her father had halted, looked
ahead—past him.

The shifting curtain of water parted and she could see
mat Castigo stood above them on a flattened bare rock
crest. Mordant by his side.

Three necrasses weaved near, the black slack skin
rippling and glistening. Castigo laughed, water dribbling
from his beard. "Hah! Old friend, good to see you again.
" It gives me happiness to sec your daughter looking so
well. If I had any part in your injuries, little lady, I do
apologize."

The old man squinted against the drilling of the driving
rain. "Apologize? Fool! Are you prepared to die?"

"Die? Old man, does that mean that you haven't
brought your daughter for my son?"

Junction stood, legs braced, twenty yards from his stu-
dent. He couldn't look at this man he had known for so
long and wish him dead. "I do not desire to kill you. I win
yet give you room to leave ... if you leave with prom-
ises."

"I will leave only with what I came for.” Castigo’s words
were soft, deadly. As the two men stood, face to face, the
darkness gathered deeper. The rain pelted. Junction fo-
cused his complete attention on Castigo who began to step
sideways like a crab, moving in a closing arc. "Junction,"
he said, “this is not necessary. Let it be over. Let it end. It is
not so big a thing; my son is good. It will be good for them."

"It was not my permission you had neglected to ask, but
my daughter's," replied the old man. Junction stood with
his back to a rock face. "To get to the end," he said, "one
must pass through the middle and learn as one passes. Are
you ready to die without learning?"

As Junction slid along me wet rock, a black loop encir-
cled him- Another loop, and then one around his throat,
and with a garbled moan that mixed with the wind's keen
whine the necrass oozed from me rock crevasse, throwing
its weight against the man. They tumbled, splashing,
lashed together, tangled, thrashing on the granite surface.
On scurrying, webbed feet the three black things squirmed
from Castigo's side and swarmed over the man.

Rain blinded, Vermillion glanced to her father as Mor-
dant leapt from the rock ledge and grabbed her from
behind, pinning her arms to her sides. He was very strong.
He slung his left arm around her chest, locking onto her
shoulder, pinning her to him. The boy whispered harshly
above the thunder and wind into her ear, "It is my father's
doing. This is not mine. Don't hate me."

"Then let me go. It can't work. Not this way."

She watched, fixed on the thrashing black beings that
enveloped her father, as somehow a black head
screamed and tore loose of the squirming pile, bounc-
ing across the rock shelf. The body jerked to its feet gush-
ing a dark substance and ran in a macabre dancing shuttle,
seeming to be looking for its missing part,

Mordant spoke in pain and urgency, his words almost
blown away by the slashing wind, punctuated by the gar-
bled thunder, "He is my father. I have no choice." He
looked at the man who stood above them, dark hair
streaming, casual in his confidence.

Castigo laughed, "You have no more to teach me, old
man. There is more magic than yours. I will give you a
demonstration."

The dark, fetid bodies parted and Junction, on his back,
could see his student sweep his arm in a circular motion.
Sparks flew, hissing in the driving rain, and the flashes built
into flames that encircled the man in a churning firewheel.
Blinding clouds of steam built and rolled, torn by the wind.

Mordant tightened his grip, shifting his arm to the girl's
throat. He said, "Junction will be injured. My father will
send the fire on him. I've seen it. Tell him. Please. Ask your
father to stop, because mine won't."

In his urging, the boy tightened his arm across her throat
and she gasped. She couldn't breathe. She struggled cs
she felt darkness coming, aware of the rain on her face,
aware of his frantic voice in her ear. His sounds faded as
she fell into the gathering darkness. Suddenly he stiffened;

his grip loosened. Gulping air, she slid to the ground,
looking up at him. Mordant stood, reflecting the glow of his
father's fire; his expression was of surprise rather than pain
and he held his position sculpted, as though afraid to
move. He lowered his eyes to his chest Protruding from
his brown jerkin: a ribbed, golden spike, itself stained red,
the colour spreading across the material His legs
weakened, and his body, gently arched backwards, laid
soft against the head of the unicorn. The animal flipped its
neck and the boy was tossed through the air, thudding
dully against a rocky outcrop. He slid into a crumple, a
marionette, leaving a smear on the cliffs face.

The unicorn trotted to the girl and lowered his head- She
looped her arm around the radiant white neck and gained
her feet. Castigo, intent on Junction, was oblivious to his
son's still form. Tongues of fire were flipping from the
spinning wheel, hissing near the old man's head. The
necrasses were shifting him to expose his body to the
flames. Still the old mage did nothing and Vermillion didn't
understand. She stood shakily, supported by the unicorn,
its head pink-stained, the pastel dribbling in a spreading
feather-edged fan across its chest. Her father was waiting.
Either he did not want to kill Castigo—or he was waiting for
her to use what he had taught her. He was held securely by
the necrasses; she moved her hand at them but no words
would come. Her mind was a jumble. She couldn't do it

She knew it. It was in her mind. The word. A fire spurt
rolled across her father's chest and sizzled against his wet
garments, leaving his robe singed and steaming. Panicked,
the girl fought the child of her mind but still the word
wouldn't come.

Something flowed. She felt a warmth. Something was
building inside her. Not the word. Not this time. But these
words: Not the words but the will; the wisdom, not the
ritual... She is worth anything, as are you.

This time her gesture was firm and there was no word;

only intent. The rocks blasted and sprayed a black thing
into the air. It squirmed, heaved, and lay still. Junction
rolled as a second necrass released him, writhing, charred

Into a sizzling mass. The third grasped at him and died as
both father and daughter turned on it.

Junction shifted to his feet, ready, turning to face his
student. But the .younger man was kneeling at the crum-
pled body of his son, his own body limp, anger and pride
gone, the fire gone. His face was pain. The tears blended
with the rain, with the agony of a father. He held his boy
tightly, rocking gently. Slowly, he lifted his face to look at
his old teacher.

"This wasn't the way."

"No," Junction said. "Most likely, it never is. But we do
1^-and enjoy it—most of the time," He gestured in the
rain to the fallen necrasses. The old man walked slowly to
his daughter. She stood, her hand resting on the glistening
flanks of the unicorn.

Looking at Castigo she said, "You were right, Father.
There are no winners."

"I am afraid that you are learning. It's time for us to go.
There's no danger here anymore." He touched a necrass
with his toe.

She said, "Should we not aid him? He seems so . . ."

"There is nothing that can be done for him." Junction
surveyed the desolate land. "Nothing will heal his wound-
No ointment, no words, not even time will let this go from
him. At his best moments, he can hope for a certain
numbness, a deadness of mind that allows rest."

The three of them turned and started down the moun-
tain. The thunder had stopped; rain reduced to a trickle.

"Junction."

The old man halted and turned. His daughter and her
companion stepped back, curiosity studding the air.

"Yes?" The old man asked.

"It's not done."

"Ifs done."

"It is not finished. Don't walk away from me."

"Castigo, let it drop. You have no more son. You have
no need of my daughter."

"Master, did you really think that was what it was all
about? There is always more. Somebody wise told me
that. 'Always look deeper,' he told me. Have you looked?"

Junction felt weary. He stood between his, daughter and
the unicorn. "I've looked. Give yourself to your grief. You
can yet have other children- Mordant need not be your
last"

Castigo shook his head almost sadly, his cloak hung
damply from him like a hatched cocoon. He raised his
arms. They swirled. The fire burst, forming in a circle,
butterflies of flame licking around him. The younger man
said, "Don't you know that the student must always test
the teacher—that's what this is really about."

"I know," the old man said, "that the death of the
teacher is the only way for a student to transform. I would
like to remind you that the death is usually symbolic."

"Not this time. Good bye, Junction. We do what we
must."

"Don't, Castigo."

The flames whirled into a seething mass, a churning,
starving monster, flashing in heat in the clear air. Quickly,
Junction's hand flashed silver like a trout, striking, and its
movement scribed a strange symbol. Light leapt from
somewhere enveloping the magician and his group in a
globed, swirling mist. Roaring, the fireball smashed against
the glow, shattering, shards clattering across the damp
rocks. The molten mass caromed from the protective
light and ricocheted back towards Castigo, who stood,
watching calmly, his hands at his sides. He was still stand-
ing that way as the hungry creature swept, swirling over
him, gorging its fill, the heat so intense that, as the flames
faded, only ash remained, blowing across the shelf, drifting
into crevasses.
. The protective globe dissipated.

"Father," Vermillion began", . , he didn't really have
to do that, did he?" She turned her head from the charred
spot.

"Perhaps, in a way, he did."

The unicorn nudged Junction and took a few steps back
down the mountain.

"Yes, old friend, it's time to go home." He shook his
head, thinking of his teaching, thinking of the cave. "I've
got to talk to someone." Then he thought of Mara. It was a
new thought. He turned to look at his daughter and ges-
tured at the unicorn that trotted at her side. "You know,
Verm, you'll never get rid of him now. I do believe he's
taken a liking to you."

The unicorn nickered. He seemed to smile.

"You did what?"

"You heard me." He sat on a rock in front of the cave.
The rumble from the cloudy mouth seemed indignant with
smoke huffing like a straining engine. "I've taught Vermil-
lion some basic magic. Besides, you know it. You knew it
when I did it"

"Of course I know. What I'd like to know is why,"

The magician slouched, digging his toe into a little earth-
This whole thing seemed futile. "Does it make any differ-
ence?"

"Why not satisfy my curiosity?" the cave said. "Indulge
me—after all, what do you have to lose? It isn't as though
you don't have the time."

“Certainly, no—it wouldn't be that. I have all the time in
the world."

"Well. . ."

"Well ... It seemed the only practical answer to a
problem."

"A girl."

"My daughter."

"Oh. . . Do I detect a note of indignation," the cave
said. "Just because she is your daughter?" It belched a
smoke ring that wrapped around the old man.

"I'm in no mood for your games," Junction said, waving
his arm and dissipating the cloud. "So she's a girl. So
what? It was necessary. It was practical. I owed her that
much at least."

The old man shifted to his feet and walked over to the
small pine tree already grown waist high. Fingering me
creamy new green at its tips, he continued, "You have
only yourself to blame. I mean, I stand the responsibility,
but had you not given me Agapis, had he not shown me
something beyond duty . . ."

"Oh?" the cave seemed interested. "What did he show
you beyond duty?"

"He showed me sacrifice."

"Very good. Now, mage, tell me what" me cave asked,
"is beyond sacrifice?"

Junction knelt by the pine, breathing its scent. "Beyond
sacrifice? Beyond dying for another?"

"Try," the cave said. "You can do it. What is the im-
petus for such an act?"

"To die for another? - , , Love."

"Ah. . ."

"That's what this is all about? Love?"

"Love," the cave mulled. "Actually, dying for another is
relatively easy. Living for another is much more difficult
and requires even more love. When we pacted, I said that
when you learned the ultimate I would give you progeny to
whom you would pass your knowledge; then you could
stop. Did I ever say it must be a son?"

"You never said mat I could teach a daughter." The
magician was groping, something was being said but it was
tangled.

"I never said you couldn't. You were the one mat
attached all that importance to a foolish tradition. Besides,
it was something you had to come to. One has to learn
love. It can't be taught. You're a beautiful man,
Junction—you've been a fine student and, at last, a good
father.

"Junction, you can rest now. Come home."

The magician stood, realizing that his legs were shaky
and cramped. The cave puffed.

"Isn't this what you want?" the cave said. "Have you
not pined for release?"

"Yes. . -Only'. . ."

"Only . . .?"

The old man looked out over the valley. The purple
mountains threw fingers of shadows across the woven
tapestry of pines. He looked up at the dead pine where
Agapis had perched and he touched the silkiness of the
new tree. He said:

"God, it's beautiful."

"It is that. Haven't you noticed it before?"

"Noticed? Yes," replied the mage. "But I've never re-
ally enjoyed it."

The smoke became a swirl of thoughtfulness. "I thought
you wanted out? Humans are so fickle."

Junction's hand came up in protest. "Oh, no, no ...
don't misunderstand, I'm still ready. . .Its just. . .that
. . .”

"That. . .?"

"Mara."

"What of your wife?"

"I've not given her much."

"True," the cave said.

Junction walked along the edge of the precipice. A
breeze warmed by the lower valley skittered up the cliff
face and danced with his robes. "I can give her something
now that I didn't know how to give before. . . something I
think she has been waiting for. She's never complained.
She hasn't many years left here."

"True," the cave said.

"It would be enjoyable to spend that little time with her
and Verm ... to give them both this new thing."

"It would be very enjoyable," the cave said.

' "The earth is a beautiful place.'' The mage began to pick
his way down the shifting scree. "Don't go away. I'll be
back."

"Take your time, Junction. Enjoy yourself."

The magician paused and turned. He smiled and his
eyes sparked with the freshness of new buds. His smile
widened into a grin and he laughed. It was a new sound
that played, ringing, across the valley.

And the mountain tremored as the cave laughed with
him.