Free Echoes of the Goddess: Tales of Terror and Wonder from the End of Time by Darrell Schweitzer Page A

terror, but obeyed, barely able to control his hands, when the magician bade him take the boy’s measurements and make him a suit of clothing like his own, only without ornamentation.
    Then he left, taking Tamliade with him. The tailor would know where to deliver.
    That day at noon, he carved a horse out of air. Toward evening the clothing arrived. At midnight, he carved another horse. Shortly after dawn the next day, he left the city through the Sunrise Gate, which was firmly locked. The guards did not see him. He made the wagon so thin it slipped through the crack.
    The street urchins had a lot to talk about.
    * * * *
    Near mid-morning, Emdo Wesa pulled the wagon over to the side of the road, got down, went around to the back, and looked in over the tailgate. The interior of the wagon was divided into two compartments by leather curtains tied firmly shut. The boy was sitting with his back to them, surrounded by wicker crates.
    “Are you awake?”
    Tamliade stirred.
    “Then get out of there.”
    The boy climbed down, walking unsteadily, looking down at his clothing. He felt himself gingerly, unsure he was really healed. The magician led him a few yards back the way they had come, to a bend in the road.
    Far away, across tilled fields, the golden dome of Ai Hanlo shone on the horizon like a sunset.
    “It is a custom of travelers,” said Emdo Wesa, “to take one last look and pray that they might one day see this sight again.”
    “Master, when I was little I heard of the holy city, and like everyone else I wanted to visit it, but when I was brought there in chains to be sold, I saw it differently. I don’t know if I want to see it again, ever.”
    “Either you will pray or you will not, as the river flows and the bank gives way.”
    Tamliade did not pray.
    * * * *
    A week passed. To Emdo Wesa, Tamliade was more puzzling than many of the mysteries of magic. He observed the boy as he would some new creature kept in a cage. In the end, he confessed to himself that he simply did not understand him. And yet, he had been young once, too, and had been alone in the world more often than not, and he knew what it was to be frightened, to be mistreated. More than that, he knew what it was to have a vision so overpowering that it drives away all other concerns. Yet he had been isolated so long, with his art for lover, for kin, for master, that he felt nothing. He knew this was not good, but there wasn’t even a struggle toward emotion. He was hollow inside. Therefore he merely noted things:
    Tamliade was always eager to please, and distinctly unhappy when there was nothing for him to do. So the magician let him prepare the camp at night and perform whatever chores he could, whether necessary or not.
    When they came to a town, he bought the boy a book, a long romance “filled with magicians, wizards, heroes, monsters, and all sorts of extravagant things,” the storekeeper had said. Tamliade read it slowly, with apparent difficulty, but without asking for help. He seldom spoke.
    In another town, he left the boy to mind the wagon while he went for supplies. When he came back, he found him cowering in the seat, surrounded by a flock of young girls who would reach out to touch him, then dart away in a storm of giggles. One of them stood a distance away, blew several kisses, and began to unlace her blouse. The boy gaped and blushed, frozen where he sat. All of them shrieked in merriment.
    When they saw the magician, they ran off.
    Wesa noted all this. It occurred to him upon reflection that it was very sad how the boy did not seem to know how to express himself, to feel, to reach out and touch the world. Perhaps his spirit was broken. Or else it was the dreaming. Still he did not understand.
    * * * *
    “Tamliade, do you like music?” the magician asked one night as they made camp.
    “Yes…I suppose so.”
    “Then play this.” He gave the boy a flute.
    Tamliade played, every third or fourth note a false one, and the magician