The Enchantress of World's End
- Автор: Картер Лин Спрэг
- Серия: Gondwane Epic #2
- Год: 101
- Язык: английский
- Год: DAW
- Жанр: Научная фантастика
Электронная книга - «The Enchantress of World's End». Краткое содержание книги:
Gondwane... When all the kingdoms of all the peoples of Earth had come and gone and new ones arose, it was on Gondwane they created their ephemeral glories.
On Gondwane, amid the turmoil of the last wars and the last quests and the last efforts of scientists and alchemists, there arose one final hero, the mighty Ganelon Silvermane.
The saga of Ganelon is the telling of master fantasist Lin Carter. And it is in the story of the Scarlet Enchantress that Ganelon first found the meaning of manhood.
The Bazonga regarded them fondly in her rear-vision mirror; then, flying smoothly so as not to jolt her sleeping passengers into wakefulness, she cruised up into the middle air and pointed her beak in the direction of the Land of Red Magic*
Or in what she thought was the direction, that is.
For in all her circlings and searchings, the poor Bird had become turned about, so she was headed directly north.
The Land of Red Magic, of course, lay due east. But the Bazonga had flown over Horx and eastern Ldand and was well beyond Yombok, before she had the slightest inkling of the fact that she was flying in exactly the wrong direction.
16. THE MIND-PROBE
Stripped and bound to the gleaming metal table under strong lights, Ganelon Silvermane lay helpless. Over him brooded the hunched form of the Mentalist, Varesco, his fierce blue robes exchanged for laboratory whites. Atop the bare skull of the Mind Worshipper sat a peculiar helmet of glittering metal parts, connected by flashing glassy tubes and winking bulbs, a device which augmented and channeled the focused mental power of the wearer.
Already, the Ningevite had inserted his mentality into the surface layers of the giant’s sleeping mind. He watched, if that’s the word I want, the ebb and flicker of surface thoughts. These were chiefly concerned with people whom Varesco did not know—with names like “master”, “Xarda” and “the Bird.” Riffling through these thoughts, the residue left by a suddenly anaesthetized consciousness, the Mind Worshipper found nothing of particular interest. He began to probe deeper.
To the unique telepathic sense of the Mentalist, the mind of a being such as Ganelon Silvermane resembles a sphere composed of innumerable layers. Beneath the surface flow of thoughts and memories lie the centers of consciousness and of will, character and personality. Within these, yet deeper down, lies the Unconscious itself, the home of powerful instinctive drives and hungers. Deeper yet, at the very core of the human mind, are found the innermost citadels of identity where lie vast, seldom-tapped reservoirs ~of dormant strengths, vitalities, and the secret recesses of the soul.
Varesco hated the giant with every iota of his warped and withered self. Hated him for being young, strong and handsome, in a craggy, heavy-jawed way (handsomer than sallow, lank-jawed Varesco, at any rate!); -hated him for being brave and gallant, generous, faithful and good. In brief, for being everything that Varesco was not, had never been, and never would be. This hatred was deep and instinctive: Varesco himself was conscious only that he resented the young giant for catching the eye of Zelmarine, for whom the Mentalist had long ago conceived a helpless, overwhelming passion.
Sliding down into the centers of consciousness, Varesco inserted tendrils of thought deep into the centers of Ganelon’s being. It was now completely within his power to destroy the youth he loathed with a hatred that was completely visceral. One savage slashing of those tendrils, and Silvermane would be reduced to a slobbering cretin, a mindless vegetable hulk, or a roaring maniac. A deeper thrust, to sever the connections of the soul, and the giant would be a cooling, lifeless cadaver.
But Varesco was not insane, despite his cruelty and rabid fervors. He was, in truth, very sane; sane enough to realize that should he once give way to the urge to rip and destroy the mind of Silvermane, his own death would soon follow. The Enchantress desired Silvermane with every particle of her being. She would not hesitate to destroy Varesco, ‘should he murder the object of her passion.
Entering the region of the instinctive drives, Varesco traced cricuits and nodes with practiced skill. Silvermane’s sexuality, he discovered, did not lie in the dominion of the greater or lesser perversions. It was, quite simply, dormant. At the sexual level, Silvermane was less than twelve years old—prepubescent—although on the physical level he was fully mature, and his emotional and intellectual growth was not far behind.
Below the centers of instinct, Varesco was surprised to discover nine centers previously unmapped by the Mentalists of Ning. He had no idea of their role in the makeup of the giant: they were mysterious, unheard-of. Curious as to their purpose, he inserted a probe. The nodes and circuits in this deep region were intensely peculiar; he could trace them with ease, but knew not what impulses they were designed to carry. He probed on, increasingly enthralled.
Phadia knew where the mind laboratory was located, of course, as he knew every nook and cranny of the palace of red glass. The bright, inquisitive boy had long ago explored the palace from top to bottom on one pretext or another, reasoning that the more he knew of his captors and this place, the better he would be prepared for the moment when a chance to strike for escape and freedom came. He had always known it “would someday come”, and had long prepared himself for it.
He went to Varesco’s suite simply because he could think of nothing else to do. If discovered, he could always pretend to be carrying a message, or could wheedle his way past the friendly, indulgent guards who had long since made a pet of him. He was a familiar fixture in the palace of Red Magic, knew all of the palace guards by first name and built a relationship of joking flirtation with most of them. He trusted this to get him out of trouble, should he be caught.
Varesco’s suite was never locked. Few doors in the Palace of Red Magic were ever locked, because Zelmarine was always suspicious of what might be brewing behind locked doors, and her courtiers quickly learned to disarm her suspicions early on. Thus, the boy found it easy to steal within, gliding stealthily from room to darkened room, until he entered the laboratory itself.
The room was scrupulously clean and brilliantly lit by tall standards, which supported fiercely luminous globes. The walls and floor were covered with tiles, immaculately white. Long marble benches supported ranks of flasks, trays of stoppered tubes, and other chemical apparatus. Banks of curious instruments loomed in the corners of the room: meters whirled, dials ticked, lights flickered on and off. The remnants of a forgotten age of science lingered, it would seem, among the savants of Ning.
Directly in the center of the room, Ganelon Silvermane lay strapped to a reclining table, his nude bronze torso gleaming with perspiration. Over him, with his back turned to the door where Phadia lurked, Varesco stood bending over the giant. His peculiar helm caught the boy’s fascinated eye. Obviously, the Mind Probe was in progress. Phadia, his heart hammering against the cage of his ribs, crept forward on furtive feet.
He wondered if he were in time …
Or too late?
Clenching his teeth, the boy glided across the laboratory. For a weapon, he dug into the pocket sewn on the inner lining of his tunic and found a long steel hairpin which ended in a cluster of twinkling gems.
Something alerted Varesco, perhaps the scrape of sandal-leather against the tiles. He started to straighten up, but it was too late. Phadia struck like a darting serpent, and the steel needle entered the nape of his neck and transfixed his brain.
Ganelon bunked slowly awake to find slender arms wound around his neck and a weeping boy clinging to his chest, cheek pillowed upon his heart. For a moment the bronze giant did not know where he was; then, turning his head about, he saw Varesco lying on his back in a pool of blood. The sour, sallow face, usually tight and thin-lipped, was for once relaxed and at peace.