Gaelinar strode around Silme and entered the room first. Larson crossed the scrying chamber in time to step around the curtain with Silme. Behind a writing desk and before a simple cot, a pallid body sprawled, face downward, on the floor.
Red hair spread about the narrow shoulders and waist in a mass of tangles.
"No," said Silme softly.
Gaelinar eased the corpse to its back. The oracle's single eye was closed tight beside the massively scarred empty socket. Her breasts, thighs, and torso were violet with pooled blood. Though more familiar with rapid decomposition in the heat of Vietnam, Larson knew the oracle had been dead for several hours at least. The thought left him with a head-pounding certainty. The woman who had answered Silme's question and sanctioned their quest was not the oracle of Hargatyr.
Gaelinar ushered his grieving companions back into the scrying room and pulled the curtain closed, leaving the oracle what little decency remained in death. Silme pressed her back to the marble table, laid her staff at her feet, and buried her face in her palms. Exhaustion from wasted enchantments and frustration preyed heavily on her remaining strength. She looked as vulnerable as a child.
Larson lowered himself beside Silme and rested his arm across her sagging shoulders. "What now?"
Silme sighed. "All I dare believe of the false oracle's prophecy is the value of time. We still don't know how to free Vidarr. I'm certain only that we mustn't surrender him to the Helspring." She fell silent and still. Just as Larson convinced himself she had fallen asleep, she rallied internal energy and leaped to her feet.
Silme knocked Larson aside and paced with the steady tred of a caged tiger. "If Fates or gods know the method of breaking Loki's spell, the answer lies in the stone of Hargatyr." She indicated the crystal. "Anyone who understands its enchantments can tap its knowledge."
"And you?" asked Larson hopefully.
Silme paused, hands against the marble. She shook her head. "Dragonrank magic taps its caster's life energy. That's what makes it so powerful and desirable, and also dangerous. Devices like the gemstone are of no more use to me than crossbow bolts to a longbowman . I have the basic knowledge, but too many gaps exist to correctly glean information."
"Try, at least." Larson rose.
Silme caught his hands. Her palms left sweaty prints on the edge of the marble table. "I can do better than try. Another in this room may have some of the knowledge I need. Allerum, did Vidarr tell you why he can communicate only with you?"
Larson tried to recall. "He said people from my world lack mind barriers."
Silme dropped his hands, eyes widening incredulously. "None?"
Larson shrugged. "I suppose. I don't even know what it means."
"For now, it means a way to link myself with Vidarr." Silme's gaze dropped to the sword at Larson's hip. "Together, we may fathom the workings of the oracle's stone." Her cheeks colored slightly, but she continued eagerly. " Allerum, can you hold your mind blank?"
"My mind? Blank? No!" He flinched back as the sorceress' request became clear. The thought that Silme might access his memories of murder made him light-headed. "My mind runs and lapses without my control. From moment to moment, I don't know if I'll find myself here or home, whether I'm experiencing reality, memory, or the inspired illusions of trapped gods and vicious warlocks. For me, Silme, blank is not a state of mind."
Larson had quite forgotten Gaelinar stood behind him. The Kensei's husky voice made him jump. "It is now, hero. Would you have us damn the world for your reluctance?"
Silme finished the appeal more gently. "I require only that you keep people and places from your consciousness. Concentrate on naming foods or counting twigs, anything repetitive which requires channeling thought. Will you try it?"
"I've no choice." Larson swallowed around a lump which grew in his throat. "What do I have to do?"
"Sit." Silme waved him to the floor.
Larson sat, knees pressed to his chest. His hands trembled as he watched Silme reach for the crystal of Hargatyr. "Wait!"
Silme paused.
"How do you know Bramin hasn't tampered with the stone or replaced it with something evil?"
Silme seized the eye-like gem with an impatient toss of her head. "This is Odin's temple. The oracle's scrying stone must be warded by Law. A simple touch would maim or even kill Bramin. It would reflect his destructive magics. Any other attempt to remove it from the temple would require him to work it past a room full of priests." Silme lowered herself to the floor before Larson and placed the stone between them. "Lay the sword across your legs."
Larson complied reluctantly. Valvitnir buzzed slightly against him, glowing with blue light. "Silme. Shouldn't we wait until you've had some rest. "
Silme locked her fingers between Larson's. Her voice became a low drone. "No time. Bramin can trace us through the gaps in your mind. We don't want him to know we discovered his treachery."
Silme let her eyes fall shut. Her head lolled forward.
"Silme?"
"What!" Impatience made her curt.
"What if I can't control my thoughts?"
Her voice assumed a hiss of dry warning. "Let's just hope you can."
Her reply did nothing to reassure Larson. Near panic, he chose to conjugate verbs from his high school French lessons. Je suis, tu es, il est: Twin presences pressed against his mind with the banding grip of a headache. Vidarr and Silme scuttled without direction, silent as mice in the jarring loops of Larson's flawed thought pattern. God and sorceress probed blindly for one another, and Larson felt all too aware of their locations.
Nous sommes, vous etes, ils: ils sont: Gradually, Silme and Vidarr closed the distance between their mental presences. Their union broke to a dazzling explosion of light, sparking one of Larson's frayed memories like a dried piece of kindling. Hurled into flashback, Larson stared at a mine crater the size of his bedroom back in the States. Then a barrier snapped into place with a force which broke the illusion. Threat carved into focus. Hold your thoughts! I've no power to rescue you again.
J'ai, tu as, il a, nous avons: Larson plunged into his studies with desperate passion. The combined essence of Vidarr and Silme wove drunkenly through his brain. A flurry of enchantments battered through consciousness unsteady as fever.
VOUS AVEZ Will hurling Valvitnir in the Hel spring of Hvergelmir bring rescue or ruin to the gods of law and men? Silme's question echoed through
Larson's mind, pulling him from his furious attempts at conjugations.
Smoke eddied like car exhaust. The fused presence gasped in triumph, then hissed in fury as the haze peeled away, like scalded wax, without answer. Je vais, tu: Frustration settled in Larson's mind, dimmed to resolution. Silme/Vidarr gathered energy, unwittingly tapping him in the process.
Reference folded in nightmare as magics enwrapped him in drugged awareness. Fog thick as earth warped vision. Another alien presence winked to life in Larson's already overcrowded mind. Destroying the sword heralds Vidarr's death. Beware! Such an action will doom the world to Chaos.
Sanity flickered. Tu vas, il va, nous allons, vous allez, ils allont! Emotion pervaded him in a perfect mixture of outrage and concern. Silme/Vidarr coiled like a cat prepared to spring. Magic formed a tense ball in Larson's mind, crushing aside fragile circuits of memory. Pain blurred thought to blackness. Jefais, tufais, ilfait : Rationality exploded to madness.
A painted forest replaced the emptiness of Larson's eye-closed world. He walked between Silme and Vidarr beneath a mercilessly hot sun. Blue haze ringed the sorceress, and the god shone with a golden glory. Where the hell? thought Larson. Oh: a: nous faisons. The syllables warped to nonsense. Suddenly, a woman tall as a watchtower stepped from the brush, directly in his path.