all who have come before. I thought I would come see for myself. A number of my cohorts have no use for you.”
I was not going mad. The demon was toying with me . . . or perhaps I had already fought and was injured. What to do? Retreat? Kill it? It wouldn’t leave, therefore I was required to kill it. But it was inordinately strange. Every sense I used to search out demons must be dead. No demon music, no creeping dread, no smell of rot, of corruption, of secret foulness that could be detected behind the fair appearance. No wonder he could get inside my head; he displayed nothing that would trigger my defenses. Yet he was a demon. There was no other possibility. The Searcher had detected it through the signs of possession. Twenty-six tests they used to judge. And what else could he be?
“Contemplation. Surely that’s a good sign. Shall I tell you how I come to be here? If you would sheathe that ugly weapon, or lay it out as I’ve done, then we could share a tale or two. I want to know why the scourge of demons wants to send me back with my mind shredded, when I’ve only just come and have done no harm.”
Only one way to be sure. Dangerous to expose one’s own soul when beyond the portal. The protective barriers one built through long training were already precariously thin when walking the landscape of another’s soul. But I needed something to bring me back to my purpose. An anchor. Surety. And so I crouched down in the dirt in front of the slender figure, and I looked in its eyes . . . and with every scrap of melydda I could gather, I saw true. The fair and pleasant gentleman who sat in front of me with his head cocked and his brow drawn up in puzzled curiosity was indeed the manifestation of a rai-kirah. But in all the truth of my seeing, there was no evil in him.
Impossible! Now surely I ought to kill it. Any rai-kirah that could so confuse a Warden’s senses signified such a change . . . such danger that I could not even calculate it. Yet I had come upon other impossibilities in my life. What could be more unlikely than the mark of the gods I had found in Aleksander?
“Why are you here?” I said, sitting down in front of him. “What are you?”
The bearded man, who was not a man, smiled in delight. “Much better. Those you send back are always so dull. Gastai brutes. Never quite get over it. Not that they don’t deserve whatever you deal them. They’re useful, but I truly don’t want to be like that. But, of course, it’s better than having you poke that nasty slicer into me. And I have no desire to chop off any of your parts or have you screaming at me for mercy or any of that sort of thing. I just want to learn of you and see a bit more of this world. My own is a bit frosty, though it improves.”
“Just want to see . . . ?” My head was swimming with his prattling. What was a Gastai?
“Gracious, you are hard to convince. Yes, I came hunting just like a regular Gastai, and I found this fellow who was so crunched up . . . squeezed, as to say, with his woman partner and all these screaming little creatures around him, and all he wants to do is slather colored messes on papers . . . canvas, he calls it. So I came along and gave him the wherewithal . . . the ‘manhood,’ he says . . . to do it. I’m only here for the fun, and I’m not going to have him do terrible things, as you seem to believe. He does indeed have a good eye for interesting sights. We’ve had a fine romp, and I’m not quite ready to end it, but someone—one of your cohorts, not mine—came poking around. My friend here, my host, my vessel, is mightily afraid you’re going to get rid of me, because then he won’t have the manhood anymore. I don’t quite understand it, because I never learned that a human could change from manhood to womanhood or anything else, and I don’t quite see that it has anything to do with this splattering on canvas business, anyway, but whatever . . . I don’t want to leave quite yet, and I
I was not going mad. The demon was toying with me . . . or perhaps I had already fought and was injured. What to do? Retreat? Kill it? It wouldn’t leave, therefore I was required to kill it. But it was inordinately strange. Every sense I used to search out demons must be dead. No demon music, no creeping dread, no smell of rot, of corruption, of secret foulness that could be detected behind the fair appearance. No wonder he could get inside my head; he displayed nothing that would trigger my defenses. Yet he was a demon. There was no other possibility. The Searcher had detected it through the signs of possession. Twenty-six tests they used to judge. And what else could he be?
“Contemplation. Surely that’s a good sign. Shall I tell you how I come to be here? If you would sheathe that ugly weapon, or lay it out as I’ve done, then we could share a tale or two. I want to know why the scourge of demons wants to send me back with my mind shredded, when I’ve only just come and have done no harm.”
Only one way to be sure. Dangerous to expose one’s own soul when beyond the portal. The protective barriers one built through long training were already precariously thin when walking the landscape of another’s soul. But I needed something to bring me back to my purpose. An anchor. Surety. And so I crouched down in the dirt in front of the slender figure, and I looked in its eyes . . . and with every scrap of melydda I could gather, I saw true. The fair and pleasant gentleman who sat in front of me with his head cocked and his brow drawn up in puzzled curiosity was indeed the manifestation of a rai-kirah. But in all the truth of my seeing, there was no evil in him.
Impossible! Now surely I ought to kill it. Any rai-kirah that could so confuse a Warden’s senses signified such a change . . . such danger that I could not even calculate it. Yet I had come upon other impossibilities in my life. What could be more unlikely than the mark of the gods I had found in Aleksander?
“Why are you here?” I said, sitting down in front of him. “What are you?”
The bearded man, who was not a man, smiled in delight. “Much better. Those you send back are always so dull. Gastai brutes. Never quite get over it. Not that they don’t deserve whatever you deal them. They’re useful, but I truly don’t want to be like that. But, of course, it’s better than having you poke that nasty slicer into me. And I have no desire to chop off any of your parts or have you screaming at me for mercy or any of that sort of thing. I just want to learn of you and see a bit more of this world. My own is a bit frosty, though it improves.”
“Just want to see . . . ?” My head was swimming with his prattling. What was a Gastai?
“Gracious, you are hard to convince. Yes, I came hunting just like a regular Gastai, and I found this fellow who was so crunched up . . . squeezed, as to say, with his woman partner and all these screaming little creatures around him, and all he wants to do is slather colored messes on papers . . . canvas, he calls it. So I came along and gave him the wherewithal . . . the ‘manhood,’ he says . . . to do it. I’m only here for the fun, and I’m not going to have him do terrible things, as you seem to believe. He does indeed have a good eye for interesting sights. We’ve had a fine romp, and I’m not quite ready to end it, but someone—one of your cohorts, not mine—came poking around. My friend here, my host, my vessel, is mightily afraid you’re going to get rid of me, because then he won’t have the manhood anymore. I don’t quite understand it, because I never learned that a human could change from manhood to womanhood or anything else, and I don’t quite see that it has anything to do with this splattering on canvas business, anyway, but whatever . . . I don’t want to leave quite yet, and I
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