Cadderly sat before his open window, watching the dawn and feeding Percival cacasa-nut-and-butter biscuits. The Shining Plains lived up to their name this morning, with dew-speckled grass catching the morning sunlight and throwing it back to the sky in a dazzling dance. The sun climbed higher and the line of brightness moved up into the foothills of the Snowflake Mountains. Pockets of darkness, valleys, dotted the region and a wispy mist rose to the south, from the valley of the Impresk River, feeding the wide lake to the east.
“Ow!” Cadderly cried, pulling his hand away from the hungry squirrel. Percival had gotten a bit too eager, nipping through the biscuit and into Cadderly’s palm. Cadderly pinched the wound between his thumb and forefinger to stem the blood flow.
Busily licking the last of the cacasa-nut from his paws, Percival hardly seemed to notice Cadderly’s discomfort.
“It is my own fault, I suppose,” Cadderly admitted. “I cannot expect you to behave rationally when there is cacasa-nut and butter to be won!”
Percival’s tail twitched excitedly, but that was the only indication Cadderly had that the squirrel was even listening. The young man turned his attention again to the world outside. The daylight had reached the library, and though Cadderly had to squint against its fresh brightness, it felt warm and wonderful upon his face.
“It will be another beautiful day,” he remarked, and even as he spoke the words, he realized that he probably would spend the whole of it in the dark and dreary wine cellar, or in some other hole that Headmaster Avery found for him.
“Perhaps I can trick him into letting me tend the grounds this morning,” Cadderly said to the squirrel. “I could help old Mullivy.”
Percival chattered excitedly at the mention of the groundskeeper.
“I know,” Cadderly offered comfortingly. “You do not like Mullivy.” Cadderly shrugged and smiled, remembering the time he had seen the crooked old groundskeeper waving a rake and spitting threats at the tree that Percival and other squirrels were sitting in, complaining about the mess of acorn husks all over his freshly raked ground.
“Here you go, Percival,” Cadderly said, pushing the rest of the biscuit to the windowsill. “I have many things to attend to before Avery catches up with me.” He left Percival sitting on the sill, and the squirrel went on munching and crunching and licking his paws, and basking in the warm daylight, apparently having already dismissed any uneasiness at the mention of Mullivy.
* * * * *
“Ye’re bats!” Ivan yelled. “Ye can’t be one of them!”
“Doo-dad!” Pikel replied indignantly.
“Ye think they’d have ye?” Ivan roared. “Tell him, boy!” he cried at Cadderly, who had just entered the kitchen. “Tell the fool that dwarves can’t be druids!”
“You want to be a druid?” Cadderly asked with interest.
“Oo oi!” piped a happy Pikel. “Doo-dad!”
Ivan had heard enough. He hoisted a frying pan-dumping its half-cooked eggs on the floor-and heaved it at his brother. Pikel wasn’t quick enough to get out of the way of the missile, but he managed to bow into it, taking the blow on the top of his head and suffering no serious damage.
Still fuming, Ivan reached for another pan, but Cadderly grabbed his arm to stop him. “Wait!” Cadderly pleaded.
Ivan paused for just a moment, even whistled to show his patience, then cried, “Long enough!” and pushed Cadderly to the floor. The dwarf hoisted the pan and charged, but Pikel, now similarly armed, was ready for him.
Cadderly had read many tales of valor describing the ring of iron on iron, but he had never imagined the sound attributed to two dwarves sparring with frying pans.
Ivan got the first strike in, a wicked smash to Pikel’s forearm. Pikel grunted and retaliated, slamming his pan straight down on top of Ivan’s head.
Ivan backed up a step, trying to stop his eyes from spinning. He looked to the side, to a littered table, and was struck with a sudden inspiration, no doubt from the head blow. Pikel returned his smile. “Pots?” Ivan asked.
Pikel nodded eagerly and the two rushed to the table to find one that fit properly. Food went flying everywhere, followed by pots that had proven too small or too big. Then Ivan and Pikel faced off again, wielding their trusty pans and helmeted in the cookware of last night’s stew.
Cadderly watched it all in blank amazement, not quite certain of how to take the actions. It seemed a comedy at times, but the growing welts and bruises on Ivan and Pikel’s arms and faces told a different tale. Cadderly had seen the brothers argue before, and certainly he had come to expect all sorts of strange things from dwarves, but this was too wild, even for Ivan and Pikel.
“Stop it!” Cadderly yelled at them. Pikel’s answer came in the form of a hurled cleaver that narrowly missed Cadderly’s head and buried itself an inch deep in the oaken door beside him. Cadderly stared in disbelief at the deadly instrument, still shuddering from the force of Pikel’s throw, and knew that something was terribly wrong here, and terribly dangerous.
The young priest didn’t give up, though. He just redirected his efforts. “I know a better way to fight!” he cried, moving cautiously toward the dwarves.
“Eh?” asked Pikel.
“Better way?” Ivan added. “For fighting?”
Ivan seemed already convinced- Pikel was winning the cookware battle-but Pikel only used Ivan’s ensuing hesitation to press him even harder. Pikel’s pan hummed as it dove in at a wide arc, smashing Ivan’s elbow and knocking the yellow-bearded dwarf off balance. Pikel recognized his dear advantage. His wicked pan went up high again for a follow-up strike.
“Druids do not fight with metal weapons!” Cadderly yelled.
“Oo,” Pikel said, halting in midswing. The brothers looked at each other, shrugged once, and tossed their pots and pans to the ground.
Cadderly had to think quickly. He brushed off a section of the long table. “Sit here,” he instructed Ivan, pulling up a stool. “And you over here,” he said to Pikel, indicating a second seat across from Ivan.
“Put the elbows of your right arms on the table,” Cadderly explained.
“Arm-pulling?” Ivan scoffed incredulously. “Get me back me pan!”
“No!” Cadderly shouted. “No. This is a better way, a true test of strength.”
“Bah!” snorted Ivan. “I’ll clobber him!”
“Oh?” said Pikel.
They clasped hands roughly and started pulling before Cadderly could give any signal, or even line them up. He considered them for a moment, wanting to stay and see things through to conclusion, but the brothers were evenly matched, Cadderly realized, and their contest might last a while. Cadderly heard other priests shuffling by outside the open kitchen door; it was time for the midday canticle. Whatever the emergency, Cadderly simply could not be late for the required ceremony again. He watched the struggle a moment longer, to ensure that the dwarves were fully engaged, then shook his head in confusion and walked away. He had known Ivan and Pikel for more than a decade, since his childhood days, and had never seen either one of them lift a fist at the other. If that had not been bad enough, the cleaver, still wobbling in the door, vividly proved that something was terribly out of sorts.
* * * * *
Brother Chaunticleer’s voice rang out with its usual quality, filling the great hall with perfect notes and filling the gathering of priests and scholars with sincere pleasure, but those most observant among the group, Cadderly included, glanced around at the crowd’s reaction, as if they noticed something missing in Chaunticleer’s delivery. The key was perfect and the words correct, but there seemed to be a lacking in the strength of the song.
Chaunticleer didn’t notice them. He performed as always, the same songs he had sung at midday for several years. This time, though, unlike any of the others, Chaunticleer was indeed distracted. His thoughts drifted down to the rivers in the mountain foothills, still swollen from the winter melt and teeming with trout and silver perch. It had always been said that fishing was second only to singing in Brother Chaunticleer’s heart. The priest was learning now that the perceived order of his desires might not be so correct.
Then it happened.
Brother Chaunticleer forgot the words.
He stood at the podium of the great hall, perplexed, as undeniable images of rushing water and leaping fish added to his confusion and put the song farther from his thoughts.
Whispers sprang up throughout the hall; mouths dropped open in disbelief. Dean Thobicus, never an excitable man, calmly moved up toward the podium. “Do go on. Brother Chaunticleer,” he said softly, soothingly.
Chaunticleer could not continue. The song of Deneir was no match for the joyful sound of leaping trout.
The whispers turned to quiet giggles. Dean Thobicus waited a few moments, then whispered into Headmaster Avery’s ear, and Avery, obviously more shaken than his superior, dismissed the gathering. He turned back to question Chaunticleer, but the singing priest was already gone, running for his hook and line.
* * * * *
Cadderly used the confusion in the great hall to get out from under Avery’s watchful eye. He had spent a dreary morning scrubbing floors, but had completed the tasks and was free, at least until Avery found him idle and issued new orders. Avery was busy now, trying to figure out what had happened to Brother Chaunticleer. If Cadderly correctly understood the gravity of Chaunticleer’s misfortunes, the headmaster would be busy with him for some time. Chaunticleer was considered among the most devout priests in the order of Deneir, and his highest duty, his only real priority, was the midday canticle.
Cadderly, too, was concerned by the events at the ceremony, especially after his visit with the dwarves that morning. More disturbing than Chaunticleer’s problems with the songs, Danica had not been at the canticle. She was not associated with either the Oghman or Deneir sects and therefore not required to attend, but she rarely missed the event, and never before without telling Cadderly that she would not attend.
Even more disquieting, Kierkan Rufo had not been in attendance.
Since the main library was on the first floor and not far from the great hall, Cadderly decided to begin his search there. He skipped along briskly, his pace quickening as his suspicions continued to gnaw at him. A moaning sound from a side corridor stopped him abruptly.
Cadderly peeked around the corner to see Kierkan Rufo coming down the stairs, leaning heavily on the wall. Rufo seemed barely coherent; his face was covered in blood and he nearly toppled with each step.
“What happened?” Cadderly asked, rushing to help the man.
A wild light came into Rufo’s eyes and he slapped Cadderly’s reaching hands away. The action cost the disoriented man his balance and he tumbled down the last few steps to the floor.
The manner in which Rufo fell revealed much to Cadderly. Rufo had reached out to catch himself with one arm, the same arm he had used to slap at Cadderly, but his other arm remained limp at his side, useless.
“Where is she?” Cadderly demanded, suddenly very afraid. He grabbed Rufo by the collar, despite the man’s protests, and pulled him to his feet, viewing up close the damage to his face. Blood continued to flow from Rufo’s obviously broken nose, and one of his eyes was swollen and purple and nearly closed. The man had numerous other bruises, and the way he flinched when Cadderly straightened him indicated other wounds in his abdomen or just a little bit lower.
“Where is she?” Cadderly said again.
Rufo gritted his teeth and turned away.
Cadderly forcibly turned him back. “What is wrong with you?” he demanded.
Rufo spat in his face.
Cadderly resisted the urge to strike out. There had always been tension in his friendship with Rufo, an element of rivalry that had only heightened when Danica came to the library. Cadderly, usually getting the upper hand with Danica and the headmasters, realized that he often upset Rufo, but never before had the tall man shown him any open hostility.
“If you hurt Danica, I will come back to find you,” Cadderly warned, though he thought that highly improbable. He let go of Rufo’s wet tunic and ran up the stairs.
Rufo’s blood trail led him to the south wing of the third floor, the library’s guest quarters. Despite his urgency, Cadderly stopped his tracking as he neared Histra’s room, for he heard cries emanating from within. At first Cadderly thought the priestess of Sune to be in peril, but as he reached for the door handle, he recognized the sounds as something other than pain.
Down the hall he rushed, too worried to be embarrassed. The blood trail led to Danica’s door, as he had feared it would. He knocked loudly on the door and called out, “Danica?”
No answer.
Cadderly banged more urgently. “Danica?” he yelled. “Are you in there?”
Still no answer.
Cadderly lowered his shoulder and easily plowed through the unlocked door.
Danica stood perfectly still in the middle of the small room on the thick carpet she used for exercising. She held her open hands out in front of her, a meditative pose, and she did not even acknowledge that someone had entered the room. Her concentration was straight ahead, on a solid block of stone supported between two sawhorses.
“Danica?” Cadderly asked again. “Are you all right?” He moved over to her tentatively.
Danica turned her head, and her blank stare fell over him. “Of course,” she said. “Why would I not be?”
Her blond locks were matted with sweat and her hands were caked in drying blood.
“I just saw Kierkan Rufo,” Cadderly remarked.
“As did I,” Danica said calmly.
“What happened to him?”
“He tried to put his hands where they did not belong,” Danica said casually, turning to stare back at the stone block. “I stopped him.”
None of it made any sense to Cadderly; Rufo had leered and stared, but had never been foolish enough to make a move toward Danica. “Rufo attacked you?” he asked.
Danica laughed hysterically, and that, too, unnerved the young priest. “He tried to touch me, I said.”
Cadderly scratched his head and looked around the room for some further clues as to what had transpired. He still couldn’t believe that Rufo would make an open advance toward Danica, but even more remarkable had been Danica’s response. She was a controlled and disciplined warrior. Cadderly would never expect such overkill as the beating she had apparently given Rufo.
“You hurt him badly,” Cadderly said, needing to hear Danica’s explanation.
“He will recover,” was all that the woman replied.
Cadderly grabbed her arm, meaning to turn her about to face him. Danica was too quick. Her arm flicked back and forth, breaking the hold, then she snapped her hand onto Cadderly’s thumb and bent it backward, nearly driving him to his knees. Her ensuing glare alone would have backed Cadderly away, and he honestly believed that she would break his finger.
Then Danica’s look softened, as if she suddenly recognized the man at her side. She released her grip on his thumb and grabbed around his head instead, pulling him close. “Oh Cadderly!” she cried between kisses. “Did I hurt you?”
Cadderly pushed her back to arm’s length and stared at her for a long while. She appeared fine, except for Rufo’s blood on her hands and a curious, urgent look in her eyes.
“Have you been drinking any wine?” Cadderly asked.
“Of course not,” Danica replied, surprised by the question. “You know that I am allowed only one glass ...” Her voice trailed off as the hard glare returned.
“Are you doubting my loyalty to oath?” she asked sharply.
Cadderly’s face crinkled in confusion.
“Let go of me.”
Her tone was serious, and when the stunned Cadderly did not immediately respond, she accentuated her point. She and Cadderly were only standing about two feet apart, but the limber monk kicked with her foot, up between them, and waved it threateningly in Cadderly’s face.
Cadderly released her and fell back. “What is wrong with you?” he demanded.
Danica’s visage softened again.
“You beat Rufo badly,” Cadderly said. “If he made inappropriate advances-“
“He interrupted me!” Danica cut him off. “He ...” she looked to the block of stone, then back to Cadderly, again glowering. “And now you are interrupting me.”
Cadderly wisely backed away. “I will go,” he promised, studying the block, “if you tell me what I am interrupting.”
“I am a true disciple of Grandmaster Penpahg D’Ahn!” Danica cried as though that answered everything.
“Of course you are,” said Cadderly.
His agreement calmed Danica. “The time has come for Gigel Nugel,” she said, “Iron Skull, but I must not be interrupted in my concentration!”
Cadderly regarded the solid block for a moment-a block far larger than the one in the sketch of Penpahg D’Ahn-then eyed Danica’s delicate face, trying unsuccessfully to digest the news. “You plan to smash that block with your head?”
“I am a true disciple,” Danica reiterated.
Cadderly nearly swooned. “Do not,” he begged, reaching for Danica.
Seeing her impending reaction, Cadderly pulled his arms back and qualified his statement. “Not yet,” he pleaded. “This is a great event in the history of the library. Dean Thobicus should be informed. We could make it a public showing.”
“This is a private matter,” Danica replied. “It is not a curiosity show for the pleasures of unbelievers!”
“Unbelievers?” Cadderly whispered, and at this strange moment he knew that the label fit him, but for more reasons than his and Danica’s differing faiths. He had to think quickly. “But,” he improvised, “surely the event must be properly witnessed and recorded.”
Danica looked at him curiously.
“For future disciples,” Cadderly explained. “Who will come to study Grandmaster Penpahg D’Ahn in a hundred years? Would that disciple not also benefit from the practices and successes of Grandmistress Danica? You cannot be selfish with this achievement. Surely that would not be in accord with Penpahg D’Ahn’s teachings.”
Danica mulled over his words. “It would be selfish,” she admitted.
Even her acquiescence reinforced Cadderly’s fears that something was terribly wrong. Danica was sharp thinking and never before so easily manipulated.
“I will wait for you to make the arrangements,” she agreed, “but not for long! The time has come for Iron Skull. This I know is true. I am a true disciple of Grandmaster Penpahg D’Ahn.”
Cadderly did not know how to proceed. He sensed that if he left Danica, she would go right back to her attempt. He looked all around, his gaze finally settling on Danica’s bed. “It would be well for you to rest,” he offered.
Danica looked to the bed, then back to Cadderly, a sly look on her face. “I know something better than rest,” she purred, moving much closer. The urgency of her unexpected kiss weakened Cadderly in the knees and promised him many wonderful things.
But not like this. He reminded himself that something was wrong with Danica, that something was apparently wrong with almost everything around him.
“I have to go,” he said, pulling away. “To Dean Thobicus to make the arrangements. You rest now. Surely you will need your strength.”
Danica reluctantly let him go, honestly torn between her perception of duty and the needs of love.
* * * * *
Cadderly stumbled back down to the first level. The hallways were unnervingly empty and quiet, and Cadderly wasn’t certain of where he should turn. He had few close friends in the library-he wasn’t about to go to Kierkan Rufo with this problem, and he wanted to keep far away from the living and working quarters of Dean Thobicus and the headmasters, fearing an encounter with Avery.
In the end, he went back to the kitchen and found Pikel and Ivan, nearly collapsed with exhaustion, still stubbornly arm wrestling at the table. Cadderly knew that the dwarves were headstrong, but more than an hour had passed since they had begun their match.
When Cadderly approached, shaking his head in disbelief, he saw just how headstrong the Bouldershoulder brothers could be. Purplish bruises from popped veins lined their arms and their entire bodies trembled violently under the continuing strain, but their visages were unyieldingly locked.
“I’ll put ye down!” Ivan snarled.
Pikel growled back and strained harder at the pull.
“Stop it!” Cadderly demanded. Both dwarves looked up from the match, realizing only then that someone had entered the kitchen.
“I can take him,” Ivan assured Cadderly.
“Why are you fighting?” Cadderly asked, guessing that the dwarves would not remember.
“Yerself was here,” Ivan replied. “Ye saw he was the one what started it.”
“Oh?” Pikel piped in sarcastically.
“What did he start?” Cadderly asked.
“The fight!” growled an exasperated Ivan.
“How?”
Ivan had run out of answers. He looked at Pikel, who only shrugged in reply.
“Then why are you fighting?” Cadderly asked again with no answer forthcoming.
Both dwarves stopped at the same time and sat looking across the table at each other.
“Me brother!” Ivan cried suddenly, springing over the table. Pikel caught him in midnight and their hugs and pats on the back were nearly as vicious as the arm wrestling had been.
Ivan turned happily on Cadderly. “He’s me brother!” the dwarf announced.
Cadderly strained a smile and figured that it might be best to divert the dwarves as he had diverted Danica. “It is not so far from suppertime,” was all he had to say.
“Supper?” Ivan bellowed.
“Oo oi!” added Pikel, and they were off, whirling like little bearded tornados, sweeping the kitchen into order in preparation of the evening meal. Cadderly waited just a few minutes, to make sure that the dwarves wouldn’t get back to their fighting, then he slipped out and headed back to check on Danica.
He found her in her room, sleeping contentedly. He pulled her blankets up over her, then went to the stone to see if he could find some way to remove it.
“How did you ever get this up here?” he asked, staring at the heavy block. It would take at least two strong men to move it, and even then, or even with three men, the stairs would not be easily negotiated. For now, Cadderly figured that he could just drop the block down from the sawhorses, put it on the floor to stop Danica from making her Iron Skull attempt. He went back to the bed and took the heaviest blankets. He tied them together and wrapped them about the block, then threw both ends over a rafter in the low room.
Cadderly grabbed the dangling ends and hoisted himself right off the floor to tack at the block. The sawhorses leaned, then toppled and the rafter creaked in protest, but Cadderly’s counterbalancing weight brought the blanketed block down slowly and quietly.
Using the sawhorse legs as levers, he managed to wiggle the blankets out from under the stone. Then he tucked Danica back in and headed away, his mind racing to find some logical reason for all the illogical events of the day.
* * * * *
It was a wondrous oak, a most excellent tree indeed, and Newander gently stroked each of its spreading branches as he made his way higher. The view from the uppermost branches was splendid, a scene that sent shivers of delight along the druid’s spine.
When he turned about to regard the mountains to the south-west, though, Newander’s smile disappeared.
There sat the Edificant Library, a barely seen square block far in the distance. Newander hadn’t meant to be gone this long; for all the freedom and individuality their order offered, he knew that Arcite would not be pleased.
A bird flitted down and landed not far from the druid’s head.
“I should be getting back,” the druid said to it, though he wanted to remain out here in the wilderness, away from the temptations of civilization.
Newander started reluctantly down the tree. With the distant library removed from sight, he nearly headed off again in the opposite direction. He didn’t, though. Chastising himself for his fears and weaknesses, he grudgingly started back toward the library, back to his duties.
* * * * *
Cadderly meant to lie down and rest for only a short while when he returned to his room. The afternoon was barely half over, but it already had been an exhausting day. Soon the young priest was snoring loudly.
But not contentedly. From the depths of his mist-filled dreams came the walking dead, skeletons and gruesome ghouls, reaching for him with sharp, bony hands and rotting fingers.
He sat up in pitch blackness. Cold trails of sweat lined his face, and his blankets were moist and clammy. He heard a noise to the side of the bed. He hadn’t undressed when he lay down, and he fumbled about, finding his spindle-disks and then his light tube.
Something was close.
The end cap popped off and the light streamed out. Cadderly nearly flicked his spindle-disks out of sheer terror, but he managed to forego his attack when he recognized the white fur of a friend.
As startled as Cadderly, Percival rushed across the room, upsetting all sorts of things, and darted under the bed. The squirrel came up tentatively a moment later at Cadderly’s feet and slowly moved up to nestle in the pit of the man’s arm.
Cadderly was glad for the company. He recapped his light, but kept it in his hand, and soon was fast asleep.
The walking dead were waiting for him.
Barjin is preparing to open the gate,” Dorigen told Aballister. “My contacts on the lower planes sense the beginnings of the portal.” “How long?” the wizard asked grimly. Aballister was glad that Druzil soon would be close to Barjin, keeping an eye on the dangerous man, but he was not pleased that Barjin had so quickly advanced to this level of preparedness. If Barjin meant to open a gate, then his plans were probably in full swing.
Dorigen shrugged. “An hour or two,” she replied. “I cannot know which methods of sorcery the priest will employ.” She looked over to Druzil, sitting comfortably atop Aballister’s desk, appearing impassive, though both wizards knew better than to think that. “Do you really believe it’s necessary to send the imp?”
“Do you trust Barjin?” Aballister answered.
“Talona would not have allowed him to take the elixir if he was not loyal to our cause,” Dorigen replied.
“Do not presume that the goddess is so directly interested in our cause,” warned Aballister, rising from and walking nervously about his oaken chair. “The Time of Troubles has passed and much has changed. Talona’s avatar was pleased to bring me into her dark fold, but I am not her only concern, and I do not presume to be her chief concern. She directed me to Druzil, and he provided the chaos curse. Its fate is in my... in our hands now.”
“But if Barjin was not of Talona’s clergy ...” Dorigen argued, shifting tentatively from foot to foot and letting her companion complete the warning for himself.
Aballister considered Dorigen for a long moment, surprised that she was as fearful as he about Barjin. She was a middle-aged wizard, thin and drawn, with darting eyes and a tangle of graying black hair that she never bothered to brush.
“Perhaps he is of Talona’s clergy,” Aballister replied. “I believe that he is.” Aballister had played these possible scenarios through his thoughts a hundred times over the last few days. “Do not let that fact comfort you. If Barjin stuck a poisoned dagger into my heart, Talona would not be pleased, but neither would she seek vengeance on the priest. That is the price of serving a goddess such as ours.”
Dorigen considered those words for a few moments, then nodded her agreement.
“We vie for power with the priests,” Aballister went on. “It has been that way since the beginning of Castle Trinity, and that contest intensified with Barjin’s arrival. He gained control of the elixir from me. I admit my own failure in not anticipating his cunning, but I have not conceded defeat, I promise you. Now, go back to your chambers and converse with your contacts. Inform me at once if there is any change in Barjin’s gate.”
Aballister looked over to his magical mirror and considered whether he should scry into Barjin’s altar room to confirm what Dorigen had told him. He decided against it, though, knowing that Barjin would easily sense the scrying and recognize its source. Aballister did not want Barjin to know how concerned he was, did not want the priest to understand how great an advantage he was gaining in their competition.
The wizard looked over his shoulder and nodded to Druzil.
“The priest is a daring one,” Druzil remarked, “to open a gate right below so many enemies of magical power. Bene tellemara. If the priests of the library discover the gate ...”
“It was not unexpected,” Aballister retorted defensively. “We knew that Barjin was taking materials for sorcery.”
“If he is opening the gate already,” Druzil put in, “then perhaps the curse has begun!” The imp rubbed his pudgy, leathery hands eagerly at that prospect.
“Or perhaps Barjin’s situation has become desperate,” Aballister quickly replied.
Druzil wisely disguised his excitement.
“We must get the brazier prepared,” Aballister said, “and quickly. We must be ready before Barjin begins his summoning.” He moved over to his own burning brazier and picked up the closest bag, checking to ensure that the powder inside was blue.
“I will provide you with two powders,” the wizard explained. “One to close Barjin’s gate behind you as you pass through to join him, another to reopen it so that you may return to me.”
“To ensure that I am his only catch?” Druzil asked, cocking his dog-faced head curiously.
“I am not as confident of Barjin’s powers as he appears to be,” Aballister replied. “If he summons too many denizens, even minor creatures, of the lower planes through to serve him, his control will be sorely taxed. No doubt he is bringing in undead to serve him as well. That type of an army could be beyond him when the priests of the Edificant Library strike back. I fear Barjin may be reaching too far. It all could crumble around him.”
“Fear?” Druzil asked slyly. “Or hope?”
Aballister’s hollowed eyes narrowed dangerously. “Examine the situation from another point of view, my dear Druzil,” he purred. “From your own. Do you wish to find competitors from your filthy home at Barjin’s side. Might not another imp, or a midge perhaps, know you and know that you have been in service to me?”
The wizard enjoyed the way the imp’s features suddenly seemed to droop.
“Barjin would know you as my agent then,” Aballister went on. “If you were fortunate, he would only banish you.”
Druzil looked over to Aballister’s brazier and nodded his agreement.
“Get through as soon as Barjin opens his gate,” Aballister instructed, dumping the blue powder into the burning brazier. The flames roared and shifted through the colors of the spectrum. Druzil walked by the wizard, taking the two tiny bags and looping them over the foreclaws on his wing.
“Close Barjin’s gate as you step out of the flames,” Aballister continued. “He will not understand the sudden shift in his fire’s hue. He will think it is the result of your passing.”
Again Druzil nodded and then, eager to be away from Aballister, and even more eager to see exactly what was going on at the library, he jumped into the brazier and was gone.
“Aballister’s plans serve everyone,” Druzil muttered to himself a few minutes later, as he floated in the black void at the edge of the material plane, just waiting for Barjin’s gate to open. The imp realized, too, that other things-jealousy and fear-guided the wizard’s actions. Barjin had shown no signs of weakness throughout and Aballister knew as well as Druzil did that a gate to the lower planes would not seriously threaten the priest’s successes. Still, Druzil was more than happy when he looked down at the magical powders Aballister had provided. The imp remained intrigued by Barjin’s brashness and confidence. The priest’s preliminary victories, both at Castle Trinity, against Aballister, and possibly in the dungeons of the library, could not easily be dismissed. While Aballister might fear for his own position, Druzil’s only concern was the chaos curse, the recipe he had waited so very long to exploit.
Where the chaos curse was concerned, Barjin deserved some serious attention.
* * * * *
The terrible, clawed hand grabbed at Cadderly’s heart. He dove to the side wildly, his arms flailing in futile defense.
He woke up when he hit the floor and spent several long moments trying to orient himself. It was morning, and Cadderly’s nightmares faded fast under the sun’s enlightening rays. Cadderly tried to hold on to them so that he might better decipher any hidden meaning, but they could not withstand the light of day.
With a resigned shrug, Cadderly focused his thoughts back to the previous afternoon, remembering the events before he had come for some rest.
Some rest! How much time had passed? he wondered frantically, looking at his clocking measurements on the floor. Fifteen hours?
Percival was still in the room but apparently had been up and about for some time. The squirrel sat on Cadderly’s desk just inside the window, contentedly munching on an acorn. Below him lay the discarded husks of a dozen appetizers.
Cadderly sat up beside the bed and tried again to recover the fading blur of his dreams, seeking some due to the confusion that had so suddenly come into his life. His light tube, opened and glowing faintly, lay under the thick jumble of bed covers.
“There is something here” Cadderly remarked to Percival, absently grabbing and recapping the tube. “Something I cannot yet understand.” There was more confusion than determination in Cadderly’s voice. Yesterday seemed a long time ago, and he seriously wondered where his memories ended and his dreams began. How unusual had yesterday’s events really been? How much of the apparent strangeness was no more than Cadderly’s own fear? Danica could be a stubborn one, after all, he reminded himself, and who could predict the actions of dwarves?
Unconsciously, Cadderly rubbed the deep bruise on the side of his head. The daylight streaming into his room made everything seem in order. They made all of his fears that something had gone awry in the secure library seem almost childish.
A moment later, he realized a new fear, one based surely in reality. There came a knock on his door and the call of a familiar voice. “Cadderly? Cadderly, boy, are you in there?”
Headmaster Avery.
Percival popped the acorn into a chubby cheek and skittered out the window. Cadderly hadn’t gotten to his feet when the headmaster entered.
“Cadderly!” Avery cried, rushing to him. “Are you all right, my boy?”
“It is nothing,” Cadderly replied tentatively, keeping out of Avery’s reaching hands. “I just fell out of bed.”
Avery’s distress did not diminish. “That is terrible!” the headmaster cried. “We cannot have that, oh, no!” Avery’s eyes darted about frantically, then he snapped his fingers and smiled widely. “We will get the dwarves to put up a railing. Yes, that is it! We cannot have you falling out of bed and injuring yourself. You are much too valuable an asset to the Order of Deneir for us to allow such potential tragedy!”
The young scholar looked at him blankly, uncertain whether this was sarcasm or strange reality.
“It is nothing,” Cadderly replied timidly.
“Oh, yes,” Avery spouted, “you would say that. Such a fine lad! Never concerned for your own safety!” Avery’s exuberant pat on the back hurt Cadderly more than the fall.
“You have come to give me my list of duties,” Cadderly reasoned, eager to change the subject. Somehow he liked Avery better when the headmaster was screaming at him. At least then he could be certain of Avery’s intent.
“Duties?” Avery asked, seeming sincerely confused. “Why, I do not believe that you have any this day. Or, if you do, ignore them. We cannot have one of your potential busied by menial tasks. Make your own routines. Certainly you know better than any where you might be of greatest value.”
Cadderly didn’t believe a word of it. Or if he did allow himself to believe Avery’s sincerity, he couldn’t quite comprehend it anyway. “Then why are you here?” he asked.
“Do I need a reason to look in on my most-prized acolyte?” Avery answered, giving Cadderly a second rough pat. “No, no reason. I just came to say good morning, and I say it now. Good morning!” He started away, then stopped abruptly, spun about and wrapped a bear hug on Cadderly. “Good morning indeed!”
Avery, his eyes suddenly misted, put him out at arm’s length. “I knew that you would grow to be a fine lad when first you came to us,” he said.
Cadderly expected him to abruptly change the subject, as he always did when speaking of Cadderly’s early days at the Edificant Library, but Avery rambled on.
“We feared that you would become just like your father-he was an intelligent one, just like you! But he had no guidance, you see.” Avery’s laughter erupted straight from his belly. “I called him a Gondsman!” the priest roared, slapping Cadderly’s shoulder.
Cadderly failed to see the humor, but he was truly intrigued to hear about his father. That subject had always been avoided at the library, and Cadderly, with no recollections at all before his arrival, had never pressed it seriously.
“And indeed he was,” Avery continued, becoming calm and grim. “Or worse, I fear. He could not remain here, you see. We could not allow him to take our knowledge and put it to destructive practice.”
“Where did he go?” Cadderly asked.
“I know not. That was twenty years ago!” Avery replied. “We saw him only once after that, the day he presented Dean Thobicus with his son. Do you understand, then, my boy, why I am always chasing after you, why I fear that your course might lead you astray?”
Cadderly didn’t even try to find a voice to respond with, though he would have liked to learn more while he had the headmaster in so talkative a mood.
He quickly reminded himself that these actions were out of sorts for Avery, and just further confirmation that something was going wrong.
“Well, then,” the headmaster said. He slammed Cadderly with one more hug, then pushed the young man away, spinning briskly for the door. “Do not waste too much of this glorious day!” he roared as he entered the hall.
Percival came back to the window, working on a new acorn.
“Do not even ask,” Cadderly warned him, but if the squirrel cared at all, he did not show it.
“So much for dreams,” Cadderly remarked grimly. If ever he doubted his memories of the previous day, he did not now, not in light of Avery’s outburst. Cadderly dressed quickly. He would have to check on Ivan and Pikel, to make sure they were not back at their fighting, and on Kierkan Rufo, to make sure the man had no designs against Danica.
The hallway was strangely quiet, though the morning was in full swing. Cadderly started for the kitchen but changed his direction suddenly when he got to the spiral stairway. The only change in the daily routines, the only unusual occurrence at the library before this inexplicable weirdness, had been the arrival of the druids.
They had been housed on the fourth floor. Normally that level was reserved for the novice priests of the host sects, the servants, and for storage, but the druids had expressed a desire to be away from the rest of the gathered scholars. Not without reservations, for he did not want to disturb the xenophobic group, Cadderly started up the stairs instead of down. He didn’t really believe that Arcite, Newander, and Cleo were the source of the problems, but they were wise and experienced and might have some insight about what was going on.
The first sign Cadderly noticed that something up here, too, was amiss, was a growl and a scraping noise. He stood outside the door to the druids’ quarters in a remote corner of the north wing, uncertain of whether to continue, wondering whether the woodland priests might be engaged in some private ritual.
Memories of Danica and Avery and Brother Chaunticleer spurred him on. He knocked lightly on the door.
No answer.
Cadderly turned the handle and opened the door a crack. The room was a mess, the work of an obviously agitated brown bear. The creature squatted on the bed, which had broken under its great weight, and was now casually tearing apart a down-filled pillow. Shuffling slowly across the floor in front of it was a huge tortoise.
The bear seemed to pay little attention to him, so Cadderly boldly opened the door a bit wider. Newander sat on the windowsill, staring despairingly out at the wide mountains, his blond hair hanging limply about his shoulders.
“Arcite and Cleo,” the druid remarked offhandedly. “Arcite is the bear.”
“A ritual?” Cadderly asked. He remembered when the druid named Shannon had enacted such physical changes before his eyes years ago, and he knew that the shape-changing ability was common for the most powerful druids. Actually witnessing it again amazed him nonetheless.
Newander shrugged, not really knowing the answer. He looked at Cadderly, a saddened expression on his face.
Cadderly started to go to him, but Arcite, the bear, didn’t seem to like that idea. He stood high and issued a growl that turned Cadderly right around.
“Keep yourself safely back from him,” Newander explained. “I am not yet certain of his intentions.”
“Have you asked?”
“He does not answer,” Newander replied.
“Then can you be sure it is really Arcite?” Cadderly asked. Shannon had explained that the druidic shape change was purely physical, with retention of the woodland priest’s mental facilities. Shape-changed druids could even converse in the common tongue.
“It was,” Newander replied, “and is. I recognize the animal. Perhaps it is Arcite now, more truly Arcite than Arcite ever was.”
Cadderly could not exactly decipher those words, but he thought he understood the druid’s basic meaning. “The turtle, then, is Cleo?” he asked. “Or is Cleo really the turtle?”
“Yes,” Newander answered. “Both ways, as far as I can discern.”
“Why is Newander still Newander?” Cadderly pressed, guessing the source of Newander’s despair.
He saw that his question greatly wounded the still-human druid, and he figured that he had his answers. He bowed quickly, exited, and closed the door. He started to walk away, but changed his mind and ran instead.
Newander sat back against the windowsill and looked at his animal companions. Something had happened here, while he was gone, though he still wasn’t certain whether it had been a good or a bad thing. Newander feared for his comrades, but he envied them, too. Had they found some secret while he was away, some measure by which they could slip fully into the natural order? He had seen Arcite in bear form before, and clearly recognized the druid, but never had it been like this. This bear resisted Newander’s every attempt to communicate; Arcite was fully a bear, in body and mind. The same held true of Cleo, the turtle.
Newander remained a human, alone now in a house of tempting civilization. He hoped that his friends would return soon; he feared he would lose his way without their guidance.
Newander looked back out the window, back to the mountains majestic and the world that he so loved. For all of that love, though, the druid still did not know where he fit in.
* * * * *
When he arrived at the kitchen, Cadderly found that the dwarves had resumed their fighting. Pots, pans, and kitchen knives hummed about the room, smashing ceramic items, clanging against iron ones, and knocking holes in the walls.
“Ivan!” Cadderly screamed, and the desperation in his voice actually stopped the barrage.
Ivan looked at Cadderly blankly and, from across the room, Pikel added, “Oo.”
“What are you fighting about now?” Cadderly asked.
“That one’s fault!” Ivan growled. “He spoiled me soup. Put in roots and leaves and grass and things. Says it’s druidlike that way. Bah! A dwarven druid!”
“Put your desires on hold, Pikel,” Cadderly advised solemnly. “Now is not the time to be thinking of joining a druidic order.”
Pikel’s big, round eyes narrowed dangerously.
“The druids are not in the mood for visitors,” Cadderly explained, “even for aspiring druids. I just came from them.” Cadderly shook his head. “Something very wrong is going on,” he said to Ivan. “Look at you two, fighting. Never have you done that in all the years I have known you.”
“Never before did me stupid brother claim that he’s a druid!” Ivan replied.
“Doo-dad,” Pikel pointedly added.
“Granted,” said Cadderly, glancing curiously at Pikel, “but look around at the destruction in this kitchen. Do you not believe this is a bit out of hand?”
Tears flooded both Ivan and Pikel’s eyes when they took a moment to survey their prized kitchen. Every pot had been upset; the spice rack was thoroughly smashed and all spices lost; their oven, Pikel’s own design, was damaged so brutally that it could not possibly be repaired.
Cadderly was glad that his appeal had not gone unnoticed, but the dwarven tears made him shake his head in continued disbelief. “Everyone has gone mad,” he said. “The druids are up in their room, pretending to be animals. Headmaster Avery acts as if I am his favorite protege. Even Danica is out of sorts. She nearly crippled Rufo yesterday and has it in her mind to try this Iron-skull maneuver.”
“That’d explain the block,” remarked Ivan.
“You know about that?” Cadderly asked.
“Brought it up yesterday,” Ivan explained. “Solid and heavy, that one! Yer lady was here this morning, needing to put the thing back up on the sawhorses.”
“You didn’t. . .’
“Course we did,” Ivan replied, puffing out his barrellike chest. “Who else’d be able to lift the thing ... ?” The dwarf stopped abruptly. Cadderly was already gone.
The renewed clamor from Histra’s room haunted Cadderly when he got back to the third level. The priestess of Sune’s cries had only intensified, taking on a primordial urgency that truly frightened Cadderly and made every running stride toward Danica’s room seem a futile, dream-weighted step.
He burst through Danica’s door, not even slowing to knock. He knew in his heart what he would find.
Danica lay on her back in the center of the floor, her forehead covered in blood. The stone block was not broken, but her pounding had moved the sawhorses back a few feet. Like Danica, the block was caked in blood in several places, indicating that the monk had slammed it repeatedly, even after splitting open her head.
“Danica,” Cadderly breathed, moving to her. He tilted her head back and stroked her face, still delicate beneath her swollen and battered forehead.
Danica stirred just a bit, managing to drape one arm weakly over Cadderly’s shoulder. One of her almond eyes cracked open, but Cadderly did not think she saw anything.
“What have you done to her?” came a cry from the doorway. Cadderly turned to see Newander glaring at him, quarterstaff leveled at the ready.
“I did nothing “ Cadderly retorted. “Danica did it to herself. Against that block.” He pointed to the bloodied stone, and the druid relaxed his grip on the staff. “What is happening?” Cadderly demanded. “With your friends, with Danica? With everyone, Newander? Something is wrong!”
Newander shook his head helplessly. “This is a cursed place,” he agreed, dropping his gaze to the floor. “I have sensed it since my return.”
“It?” Cadderly asked, wondering what Newander knew that he did not.
“A perversion,” the druid tried to explain, though he stuttered over the words, as though he, himself, had not yet come to understand his fears. “Something out of the natural order, something ...”
“Yes,” Cadderly agreed. “Something not as it should be.”
“A cursed place,” Newander said again.
“We must figure out how it is cursed,” reasoned Cadderly, “and why.”
“Not we,” Newander corrected. “I am a failure, good lad. You must find your own answers.”
Cadderly wasn’t even surprised anymore at the unexpected and uncharacteristic response, nor did he try to argue. He gently lifted Danica in his arms and carried her over to the bed, where Newander joined them.
“Her wounds are not too serious,” the druid announced after a quick inspection. “I have some healing herbs.” He reached into a belt pouch.
Cadderly grabbed his wrist. “What is happening?” he asked again, quietly. “Have all the priests gone mad?”
Newander pulled away and sniffled. “I care nothing for your priests,” he said. “It is for my own order that I fear, and for myself!”
“Arcite and Cleo,” Cadderly remarked grimly. “Can you help them?”
“Help them?” Newander replied. “Surely it is not they who need help. It is me. They are of the order. Their hearts lie with the animals. Pity Newander, I say. He has found his voice and it is not the bay nor the growl, nor even the cackle of a bird!”
Cadderly’s face crinkled at the absurd words. The druid considered himself a failure because he had not changed into some beast and crawled about on the floor!
“Newander, the druid,” Newander went on, fully absorbed in self-pity. “Not so, I say. Not a druid by my own measure.”
Cadderly had a definite feeling that time was running out for all of them. He had awakened that morning full of hope, but things certainly had not improved.
He looked closely at Newander. The druid considered himself a failure, but by Cadderly’s observation, he remained the most rational person at the library. Cadderly needed some help now, desperately. “Then be Newander, the healer,” he said. “Tend to Danica-on your word.”
Newander nodded.
“Heal her, and do not let her back to that block!” As if in response to his own words, Cadderly rushed across the room and pushed the stone over, not even caring about the resounding crash or the damage to the floor.
“Do not let her do anything,” Cadderly went on firmly.
“Would you put your trust in a failure?” the pitiful Newander asked.
Cadderly did not hesitate. “Self-pity does not become you,” he scolded. He grabbed the druid roughly by the front of his green cloak. “Danica is the most important person in all the world to me,” he said sincerely, “but I have some things I must do, though I fear I do not yet understand what they might be. Newander will care for Danica-there is no one else-on his word and with my trust.”
Newander nodded gravely and put his hand back into his pouch.
Cadderly moved swiftly to the door, paused, and looked back at the druid. He didn’t feel comfortable leaving Danica, even with Newander, whom he trusted despite the druid’s self-doubts. Cadderly dismissed his protective urges. If he really wanted to help Danica, to help everyone in the library, he would have to find out what was going on, find the source of the infection that had apparently come over the place, and not merely bandage its symptoms. It was up to him, he decided. He nodded to Newander and headed for his room.